A Bride of Allah

“Got it,” Yuri Burkov mumbled, throwing a sideways look at the clock on his boss’ desk.

“And don’t you even look at the clock!” Grigoriev noticed the look. “The night is young. If you’re done quickly, I’ll let you go see your wife for three hours. I used to be young, I understand.”

“Oleg Alexandrovich – ”

“What, three hours is not enough? Or did you want to catch a nap, too? Pick one, marathon runner.”

“I didn’t – ”

“Stop the gabbing! Proceed with your assignment. I’ll be bunking around here.”

The colonel looked at the well-worn leather couch with round armrests. This antique probably sat there when the office wasn’t even called KGB; it was MGB before. Back in those times, it was customary to stay at work until the mustachioed leader of the world Communism, who preferred night moon to morning sun, turned the lights in his office off for the night.

When he was alone, Oleg Alexandrovich called home. He was worried about his daughter.

“How’s Lena?” he asked when he heard his wife’s voice.

“God, you still remember your daughter’s name!” his wife said sarcastically. “Do you remember she’s got a wedding in two days?”

“I do. But does the groom?”

“What are you talking about?” his wife started getting upset.

“Okay, got it. No joking about the holy. Is Lena home?”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“I tried. Her phone wasn’t answering. Where is she?”

“Home. Just got here. When are you coming?”

“What a silly question,” Grigoriev sighed, relieved. “Are you watching TV?”

“Makes me want to throw up. When is it going to be over?”

“When I am home.”

“So get here already,” his wife tried joking.

“Service first. Rest later.”

“Your daughter is about to get married!”

“We’ll have to wrap it up by then, Valya. I’ll let the terrorists know they have until Saturday to surrender.”

Chapter 15

August 31, 10:00 PM

Vlasov’s Apartment

Viktor Chervyakov stepped into the room and stared at Aiza. Vlasov came in behind him.

“Where are you going? Let’s get out of here!” Andrei literally pushed his neighbor into the hallway and closed the door. “What did you want?”

“I, um – » Viktor brought up the vodka bottle, “think we should have a drink.”

“Some other time.”

“Sure, some other time and now!” Viktor proceeded to the kitchen as if he owned the place. The bottom of the bottle plopped on the kitchen table’s plastic surface. The neighbor smiled. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? With all this terrorism, I am in such a foul mood, I just don’t want to live!”

“You too, huh?” Andrei looked at his neighbor gloomily. “Then strap on some explosives and go see Basaev. A symmetric response.”

“Huh? I mean, what the hell is happening in Moscow? First, an airplane, now the metro. I’ve got to have a drink.”

“And everything will be alright?”

“You can’t blow up a metro station with vodka,” Viktor concluded seriously.

“Okay, let’s drink. Today was a stupid day indeed.”

Andrei pulled out two glasses and put them on both sides of a salad bowl. Forks chinked as he put them on the table, kitchen stools creaked, skillfully measured vodka gurgled.

“Okay, to health?” Viktor offered.

“Yeah.”

The buddies drank and ate some salad. Andrei cut up the bread he brought.

“Now we found a use for the bread,” Viktor smirked.

“Yeah,” Andrei gave another indeterminate answer. The troubled expression on his face made it obvious that his mind was elsewhere.

“Turn on the TV, the news is about to start.”

“Don’t want to; I’ve had enough. I’ve seen it live. Let’s have a quiet time,” Andrei answered quickly, putting away the remote.

Viktor poured another round. When they drank, he smiled slyly and asked, “Who’s that broad you got there?”

“Nobody,” Andrei shrugged. “I just met her today.”

“And right away, you dragged her home? A brave one. But she looks strange.”

“She’s sick.”

“Not in the head, accidentally?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet.”