As the army stormed the hospital building, a helpless Yeltsin promised Basaev immunity and agreed to all of the terrorists’ demands. The Alpha Group of Russian Special Forces had already secured the first floor of the hospital, but the assault was called off. After killing thirty soldiers and policemen, and over a hundred civilians, Shamil Basaev and his butchers simply walked away. Back to Chechnya. Moving behind a human shield of another 140 hostages.
After the hospital massacre, Sadaev ascended to the ranks of terrorist elite. But his fame also exposed him, stripped him of his safety. His moment of glory entailed a manhunt by the vindictive Russians. Most of all, Sadaev was afraid of the Cossacks who would not stop until they had his head. It would be a matter of time before he was found inside Chechnya. Sadaev returned to Kazakhstan through Georgia, with Oleg Radchuk at his side.
Shortly after they came to Kazakhstan in 1996, Timur Kasymov employed their services. Under President Nazarbayev, the Kazakhstani security service KNB conducted national purges in its ranks, sacking Russian personnel. As a result, the force was understaffed, most notably the operations division. The then-head of that division, Kasymov, did not miss the important cadres arriving into the country, and he quickly hired both Radchuk and Sadaev, giving them new identities, making them disappear from the radar of the Russians. The Chechen and the Ukrainian proved their worth against the regime’s political opposition. Kasymov never asked what they did to the bodies. Only the result mattered.
A growing bond of crimes drew them closer together. It was cemented by mutual fear that spawned a perverse kind of absolute trust: each of them knew that betrayal would equal self-destruction. And so their status quo endured the years — the boss and his henchmen, always together. Ultimately, they became the praetorians of the country’s ruler.
Neither Sadaev nor Radchuk held any official capacity in the President’s staff, but their positions in Kasymov’s personal hierarchy were so high that none was required, their actions beyond anyone’s control but the President’s.
They were trusted with something far more important than even Timur Kasymov’s life.
They overlooked the Project.
3
Ahmed Sadaev’s boots crunched with each step as he walked down the road amid a gray sea of sand. He still thought of the desert around him as the sea, for it had once been that. Not anymore. There was dust and salt under his feet. What once gave life had become parched, eroded — dead. Not a living thing within a hundred miles.
The military complex had been rebuilt in the middle of this wasteland, able to withstand any dust storm, but the day was cloudless, and there was no motion in the acrid air. According to the forecast from the meteorological station, fair weather would last all week, but the lethal winds usually defied prediction.
Sadaev was proud of the complex. It was his fiefdom, and at times he permitted himself to think that he was the master of it. But indeed he was not. He was merely the keeper. The real master — the khan — was arriving to inspect his property, his achievement.
And what an achievement that was! The complex was the core of their project, its very reason. Without it, nothing would have been possible. And it had been restored from ashes, given new life that would bring death! Death to the infidels who had conceived the complex in the beginning, and who had killed the sea, turning it into desert! Renaissance. The name was so appropriate. The cycles of life and death, revolving in one place.
Air rippled with the heat, distorting the faraway outline of a white private jet as it descended for landing.
With the sun scorching, perspiration drenched him, and he was glad that he’d left the car’s engine idling. He climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes Geländewagen and drove away from the compact cluster of buildings, to the airfield, two kilometers northwest.
Originally intended for use by the Iranian armed forces before elevation to cult luxury status, the G-wagen was not at all incongruous with the backdrop of dunes and withered shrubs that formed the desert terrain. As part of the reconstruction, the road to the airfield had been restored. The gravel airstrip, previously good enough for Antonov An-2 aircraft, had also been rebuilt up to the President’s high standards.
But the airstrip’s unorthodox shape could not be helped. Built on what was now a plateau, with a limited patch of level ground, it was a star shape of four runways intersecting in the middle. Between 2,000 to 2,500 metres in length, each was more than adequate for a private jet, and acceptable for most passenger liners.
It had taken a minute for the salt dust to settle after the Learjet had touched down. When it did, Sadaev pulled up the G-Wagen to the opening door.
Two passengers emerged. The first one was Oleg Radchuk. The other was their khan. Timur Kasymov. Sadaev praised Allah for giving vision to this great man. The destruction of the Olympia, Sadaev’s personal triumph, was but a small step in his master’s grand design.
Radchuk opened the rear passenger door for Kasymov and joined Sadaev in front. Sadaev put the G-Wagen in motion, turning around for a return run to the complex.
Sadaev did not need to look in the rearview mirror to know Kasymov was gazing at him.
“Is everything going as planned, Ahmed?” Kasymov asked.
“Like clockwork, Mr. President,” Sadaev said. “After the successful trial, we are ready to take the project to the next level.”
“I’m afraid we must put the second phase on hold, Ahmed. We have a change of plans.”
“Bad news from our diaspora in Moscow?”
“Couldn’t be worse,” said Radchuk. “They have failed to eliminate the targets. We presume that Asiyah is now in the clutches of the FSB.”
Sadaev tried to keep his hands steady on the wheel.
“The FSB? How?”
“It’s the EMERCOM man, Eugene Sokolov,” Radchuk replied. “She’s hiding with him now. He was the one who led the rescue team in Sochi. And his brother turned out to be Malinin’s courier in Europe.”
“I don’t believe in such coincidences,” Kasymov said. “Both of those men are deep-cover FSB agents on a mission against me. I am certain they are not even siblings. It’s impossible that one man could be partial to both of our recent failures. Now the entire project is teetering on the brink of collapse. Now Asiyah is off limits. I have called off the search for her. We must prepare for uninvited guests. I want you to increase security of the complex, Ahmed.”
“How long will you be staying, Mr. President?”
“For as long as it takes to defeat the enemy.”
4
The night deserved to be named such only due to a dark smudge passing over the sky. Though Moscow was too far south to qualify for the notorious “white nights” of Russian summers, the brief interval between sunset and sunrise was a frustrating prank of nature. Asiyah noticed that past eleven p.m. the sky retained its brightness. Then, shortly before three a.m., she saw the glint of a new dawn etching the eastern horizon. Staring through the window, she watched the yellow beam of light thicken across the horizon, setting ablaze the dark blue of the sky, growing steadily in proximity to the wisps of clouds. A perfect reversal of the sunset she witnessed aboard the Olympia. Muttering a curse under her breath, she got up. In the bathroom, she stood over the basin and looked at her gaunt face in the mirror. Asiyah opened the tap, cupped water and splashed it on her face, feeling strength return to her body.
Her fresh clothes were EMERCOM surplus, simple and effective. She could not remember being so comfortable in a long while.