Читать книгу A Bride of Allah - Сергей Бакшеев - Страница 7

Colonel Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev of Federal Security Service urged his driver again, “Come on, Sasha, step on it! You’ve got the flasher on.”

“I am trying, Oleg Alexandrovich.”

“Orders are not to be discussed!” The colonel adjusted his impeccably knotted tie and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

The black Volga was driving in the left lane along Butyrskaya Street, waving into the opposing traffic lanes every now and then. Despite the flashing light, drivers were reluctant to make way.

Grigoriev sat in the front. His fingers drummed on a brown leather portfolio, which he invariably carried into the field. His large head with closely cropped dark hair abundantly streaked with grey constantly turned this way and that in abrupt little motions. It seemed Oleg Alexandrovich couldn’t move his eyes and had to use his neck instead. There was a third person in the car, first lieutenant Yuri Vladimirovich Burkov. Everyone was in plain clothes. The strawberry blond Burkov sat behind his supervisor and reflexively followed the motions of his head.

“Ah, now that’s good,” the colonel approved an apt maneuver made by the driver. “We are a respectable organization after all. And we’re not going to Rizhskaya. Over there, it’s a huge traffic jam for sure. We, meanwhile, don’t have an explosion on our hands.”

“Oleg Alexandrovich?” Yuri Burkov made an awkward pause.

“What?”

“Why did Tomilin and his guys get sent to Rizhskaya, and we, here?”

“Why? You wanted to see dead bodies?”

“Over there, it’s serious. An act of terror. And we… Could be a crank call after all.”

“That’s what we’re to figure out,” Grigoriev replied firmly, signifying the end of the conversation.

Oleg Alexandrovich suspected that early next year, if not earlier, he would be asked to retire. That’s why he wasn’t given any complicated cases. On acts of terror, investigations can go on for months, even years. But his subordinates didn’t have to know that. His goal was to handle things in a responsible manner. And teach his workers to do the same.

The Volga rolled up to the Dmitrovskaya station.

“Get to the other side!” Grigoriev commanded. “Where the police are congregating, can you see?”

“Oleg Alexandrovich – » the driver tried to appeal to the supervisor’s reason.

“Come on, I tell you! You’ll have to turn around anyway. Turn on the siren and go ahead!”

The car, with flashing lights and wailing siren, abruptly turned around across several lanes of dense traffic. Grigoriev jumped out of the car to look around.

The metro station worked as usual, but many kiosks were closed. A dozen or so of policemen, including a canine unit, intensely looked into the passing crowds. Some were pulled aside for ID checks. People threw disapproving glances and walked faster.

The screw-ups, the colonel thought about the cops habitually. They can’t think, so they show up in numbers. Standing around like prison guards, that’s all they’re good for.

Near the beer kiosk, two senior policemen talked to witnesses. When the Volga arrived, they got tense.

Grigoriev motioned to Burkov.

“Yura, find the sales clerks from all pavilions and talk to them.” He, meanwhile, started walking toward the waiting policemen and introduced himself. “Colonel Grigoriev. From Lubyanka2.”

“Panteleyev, the head of the local precinct,” the policeman with colonel’s tabs replied, shaking his hand. “This is my deputy, Ignatiev.”

“Where are the prosecutor’s people?”

“On their way. Coming.”

“You mean, crawling? What have you found out?”

“So far, nothing’s definite. Witnesses contradict each other. Looks like someone wanted to incite panic.”

“What the hell? Why incite it here? Just turn on the news.”

“Yes, but – ”

“You reported there was a Shahid woman!”

“We did,” the precinct head agreed. “There was an Eastern woman, looked like a Shahid. She screamed ‘Allah akbar’, but no explosion followed.”

“I can see that no explosion followed!” Grigoriev lost his patience. “Stay on point. Where did the Shahid woman go? What are the witnesses saying?”

“Witnesses… There was panic, people ran away. We only have these,” Panteleyev pointed to the three beer lovers standing nearby, shepherded by two plainclothes operatives.

Grigoriev threw a dirty look into Panteleyev’s face; a verbal chewing-out seemed inevitable, but Oleg Alexandrovich kept his cool and walked over to the witnesses. He picked a fat man with surprised expression on his face and asked him, “What did that suspicious woman look like?”

“A stupid headscarf, ugly, mean. She screamed she’d kill everyone!”

“She screamed about killing?”

“Not exactly. Something about Allah.”

“Going forward, answer precisely.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“That’s up to me to decide. So what exactly was she screaming? Try to recall the exact words.”

“She screamed ‘Allah akbar’! ” the skinny beer lover interjected.

“Yeah, that’s right,” the fat one confirmed.

Oleg Alexandrovich redirected his attention to the skinny one.

“Did she have an explosive device? A large bag or a thick belt under her clothes?”

“She did!” the witness rejoiced. “Something on her stomach. With wires sticking out.”

“Have you actually seen the wires?”

“Yes, she clutched at them. And she had an accomplice, too.”

“An accomplice?” Grigoriev frowned. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he look like? Can you describe him?”

At that point, the witness in a flowery shirt joined the conversation. Waiving his hands, he explained to Grigoriev, “A typical Chechen! Wild eyes! Screaming! And a trigger device in his hand.”

“Nah, he didn’t look like a Chechen,” the fat one was doubtful.

“Who is he, if not a Chechen? Those bastards blow up everything. They should all be booted out of Moscow and not let back in!”

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to look at him closely. Maybe he was a Chechen.”

“I am sure he was! Young, insolent.”

Grigoriev decided to interrupt the argument.

“Tell me about the trigger device.”

“Sir,” the precinct head interjected, “we actually picked it up at the scene.”

He handed out a plastic bag holding a smashed box half the size of a matchbox.

“Is this it?” Grigoriev asked warily, looking at the splintered pieces of plastic.

The three witnesses replied simultaneously.

“Yes.”

“That’s it.”

“He was about to blow us all up. How did we manage to stay alive?”

“Because we stood up to him.”

“Yeah, were it not for us, there would be nothing left here,” the fat one said assuredly. “Everything would be blown up.”

The precinct head could not hold his indignation and said firmly, “The act of terror was prevented by our officer. It was he who stopped the terrorist on her way into the subway. He’s here.”

Panteleyev pointed out a plain-looking sergeant holding a crumpled hat in his hands. Grigoriev was suddenly interested.

“How did it all start?”

“I was checking papers. Stopped the suspicious-looking individuals. So I wanted to check her papers, too.”

“Because she looked like she was from the Caucasus?”

“Um, yeah. She was dressed strangely, eyes shifty. I came up to her, she started screaming. I pulled the trigger from her hand, and then… then the panic started. So she disappeared.”

Oleg Alexandrovich pulled the case of the trigger device apart without taking it out of the bag. A simple design; a power source, a button, and a switch. No remote control.

“Were there two of them?”

“She had a helper,” the policeman nodded assuredly. Otherwise, I would have handled her.

“What kind of car have they driven away in?”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Have you noticed the car?” Grigoriev asked the civilian witnesses.

“No, we haven’t.”

“Everyone was lying face down. There could be an explosion.”

“The Chechen and the Shahid woman ran over there, behind the kiosks,” the guy in the flowered shirt said.

Grigoriev turned to Panteleyev.

“If the presence of an explosive device is confirmed, our office will take over the case. Get the witnesses and the officer to our office for some Identikit work. And have your people canvass the area. Someone might have seen something coming home from work or looking out the window. In other words, the usual. Got it? Any additional information, contact me directly at this number.”

The colonel took a business card from the breast pocked of his impeccable suit.

“We’re working on this already,” Panteleyev replied uncertainly, putting away the card without looking at it. He looked unhappy, staring into the asphalt under his feet. It was clear that the head of the precinct didn’t like being ordered around by the feds.

“That’s good,” Grigoriev smiled condescendingly. “When you’re done, report.”

Oleg Alexandrovich noticed first lieutenant Burkov standing nearby in a tense pose and took him aside.

“What have you got?”

“Broad strokes, Oleg Alexandrovich, it’s like this. There was a Shahid woman, her bomb didn’t go off, and her accomplice helped her escape.”

“Broad strokes I already know myself. Give me the details! What kind of car did they have?”

Burkov, guilty expression on his face, spread his hands. “None of the merchants had seen the escape car. They’re scared out of their minds, some are in shock.”

“Bad business, Yuri,” Grigoriev signed.

Burkov took out a cigarette and a lighter.

“Put it away!” the colonel ordered quietly, but firmly. “You and I represent an important government organization before the ordinary citizens. By our appearance and actions, they judge the entire Service. Look at yourself. Crumpled pants, stained tie, and about to smoke. No smoking in public! Better yet, quit altogether.”

The first lieutenant crushed the cigarette in his hand, embarrassed, and started looking around for a place to toss it. The colonel reassuringly patted him on the shoulder.

“Keep the office’s image in mind. And one more thing. This is a busy place. Someone definitely saw the terrorists leave. Maybe even remembered the license plate number. Keep working the scene, and I’ll head back. Have to look at everything together. I have a feeling that those airplanes and today’s events are links in one chain. And that chain isn’t complete yet. You find out anything, call me.”