A Bride of Allah

“I can’t live like this anymore,” Gennady Sviridov decided firmly.

In the lieutenant colonel’s head, a plan to liberate himself from bonds of fear began to form.

Chapter 13

August 31, 9:40 PM

Vlasov’s Apartment

Andrei Vlasov opened the door of his apartment with one hand, while using the other to hold the exhausted body of the Chechen suicide bomber. Were it not for his help, the girl wouldn’t be able to walk. She was shaking; large drops of sweat rolled off her hollow-cheeked face; her hair was stuck to her forehead, as if she got wet in the rain.

“Come in, we’re here,” Andrei helped the girl to come in and sat her down on a stool. He took a deep breath and shouted into the apartment, “Mom, it’s me!”

Yekaterina Fedorovna walked into the hallway shuffling her slippers. A well-worn house robe enveloped her full shapeless figure; under the robe, there was a T-shirt, which she wore around the house for years. She got out of her good clothes as soon as she returned home from work.

The woman looked at her son’s hands gloomily. “Have you brought bread?”

“I forgot, Mom, sorry.”

“Like always; whatever I ask, he does nothing! Can’t buy a piece of bread for his own mother.”

“Calm down, Mom. Do you have any idea what’s happening in the city?”

“Ten reminders, and he still forgets! What kind of life is that?”

“Mom, we’ll have to do without today. Let me come in. The girl’s hurt.”

Yekaterina Fedorovna stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking the narrow passage. She moved her stare to the girl, as if she just noticed her. Her eyebrows shifted toward each other; the lines on her forehead deepened.

“Who’s she? You didn’t say anything about her.”

“Mom, I’ll explain later. We have to help her out.”

“I haven’t seen her before. What’s her name?”

Andrei looked at the girl, perplexed; he still hadn’t asked her name. The girl looked up and whispered, “Aiza”.

“What a name has God given you. You’re not Russian, are you?”

Andrei gently pushed Yekaterina Fedorovna aside.

“Mom, questions can wait. Let us through.”

“Where did we get such wonder?”

“Mom, later!” Andrei said firmly.

He led Aiza into a small room, sat her down on a couch, and closed the door to block his mother’s curious stare.

“Sit still. I’ll figure something out. Name’s Andrei, by the way.”

“I am sick,” the girl whispered, her eyes closed. “Very sick.”

“What’s wrong with you? Can I get you a medication?”

“Pill.”

“What?”

“Get me a pill,” the girl whispered.

From the hallway, Yekaterina Fedorovna’s deliberately loud grumbling was head.

“Forgot his mother altogether! Only thinks of himself. Brings home who knows whom, God forgive me. Where did he find this tramp? In the farmer’s market?”

Andrei made a calming gesture for Aiza.

“Don’t pay attention, okay? She doesn’t mean it… I’ll get you water and find some meds.” He stepped out of the room and face his mother, gradually displacing her into the kitchen. “Where do we keep the meds?”

Yekaterina Fedorovna retreated, but continued to grumble, “I can’t even get bread from my own son.”

“I’ll get you bread, okay? I will!” Andrei lost it. “Borrow from the neighbor! Just be quiet.”

“What am I being punished for? Others have normal kids, and mine… He even yells. Yells at his mother!”

Andrei decided to ignore his mother’s nagging. It was completely impossible to win a verbal confrontation with her. He found the meds and came back into the room with a glass of water. The girl, curled up into a ball, shivered in the armchair.

“Here. I found aspirin and dimedrol. You’re probably stressed out. Nerves. A couple of tablets should help. Take them.”

The girl obediently picked up the pills.

“Can you do it yourself? Here’s water. I’ll be right back.”

Andrei stepped outside the apartment and rang the doorbell of the apartment next door. The door was answered by a chubby disheveled guy wearing a faded T-shirt and rumpled gym pants.

“Hey, Andryukha!” he barked, blowing a heavy dose of vodka vapors into his neighbor’s face.

“Hi, Vityok,” Vlasov cringed and took half a step back. “Can I borrow some rye bread?”

“Andryukha! Have you heard what kind of shit’s going on?” Viktor Chervyakov waved his hand over his shoulder. Inside his apartment, a TV was blaring. “The Chechens blew up another bomb. Near Rizhskaya. Dropped a whole bunch of people. You know what I would do to those bastards?”

“Why do you think it’s the Chechens?”

“Who else?”

“Maybe bandits’ turf war?”

“By blowing up bombs near metro stations? Nah, those guys are no more. The TV says, a female suicide bomber.”