Chapter Twenty

 

 

Moscow, Russia

December 4, 11:55 a.m.

 

Max used the knock signal: one knock, followed by two quick knocks, then another single knock. The man who unbolted the apartment door had his MP-443 pistol in his right hand and held it high, leveling it with their heads.

“Ilia, it’s all good,” Max said, the first one to step inside. “These are our colleagues.”

Ilia nodded and lowered his gun but focused his attention on Justin.

Max made the introductions in the hall but they did not shake hands. Ilia was jittery and standing just beyond the reach of Justin’s arms.

“This way,” Max said and led them to the right. “Here’s your man,” he said when they entered a small room.

Bashir was sitting on a chair by a small wooden desk. His hands were handcuffed behind his back. He had a round face, a large nose, bushy eyebrows, and a thick four-inch long beard. His short hair was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot, with big, dark circles around them. A bruise covered a part of the left side of his face and a bandage was placed near his right ear. Bashir was dressed in a brown sweater and black woolen pants.

“Remove his handcuffs,” Justin said to Max as he sat across from Bashir and held his eyes.

Bashir gave Justin a disinterested stare but his eyes sparked with a distant glimmer of hope.

Carrie stayed just outside the door with Ilia, while Becca sat on the other chair next to Justin.

“My name is Justin and this is Rebekah. We’re here to help you,” Justin said in English once Bashir’s hands were free.

He rubbed the reddened wrists, then placed his arms on the table. “Like the Russians helped me, by breaking my jaw.” He spoke with difficulty in a low voice, barely audible, and nodded toward Max, who was standing at one of the corners of the room.

“That’s because you refused to speak when ordered to do so,” Max said. “And your jaw’s not broken, only dislocated.” He looked at Justin and added, “The doctor gave him muscle relaxants, and he’ll undergo surgery once we’re convinced of his full cooperation.”

“Let me handle this,” Justin said without looking up at Max. “We have a few questions, and based on your answers we’ll get you to see a doctor.”

Bashir began to shake his head, but then winced, seemingly because of the pain the movement must have caused him. “That wouldn’t be enough,” he said. “I need protection. Protection from these people and the ones out there.” He pointed toward the window behind him with his left hand.

“Militants from the Movement?” Justin asked.

“Yes.”

“How do they know you’re here?”

“They have people everywhere. That’s how the minister was killed. It was an inside job.”

“We can move you to a different, safer location.” Justin looked up at Max, who gave him a reassuring nod.

Bashir leaned forward. “That wouldn’t be enough. They will find me. I want to go to America. You have to take me.”

Justin sighed, then said, “That’s something very difficult, but it can be arranged, depending on what you tell us.”

“You promise me?” Bashir asked with a pleading look in his eyes.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Justin said.

“I know many things, important things. It will be what you call a fair trade.”

“We’ll see about that. Tell us, what is the Movement planning in the States?”

Bashir lifted his eyes up to look at Max, then dropped his gaze to Becca. He delayed his answer for a few moments, and Justin wondered if he had changed his mind. Then Bashir said, “Kaziyev, that’s one of the leaders of the Movement, has dispatched a man to the States. He’s working with a few other people there, organizing a major attack in California.”

“Give us the details. What’s the name of this man? What’s their target?” Justin asked.

“The man’s nom de guerre is Fayez Ahmadi. He’s a Jordanian who fought in Chechnya in the nineties and who’s still active all over the Middle East.”

Becca wrote down the name on her small notepad. Justin committed it to his memory.

“The target?” he asked.

“It hasn’t been determined yet.”

“Or maybe you’re not telling us,” Becca said.

Justin gave her a stern look but said nothing.

“I’m telling you everything I know, and I don’t know the target. But I know Ahmadi is an explosives expert. He can turn pretty much anything into a bomb. And he’s working with two groups of eight people in total. I know their names as well. They work in construction companies in Los Angeles and San Francisco.”

“That’s a good start,” Justin said. “We’ll have you write down those names for us.”

Becca pushed her notepad and pen across the table.

“But this is not enough,” Justin said. “We only know the names of a few terrorists but nothing specific about their plans. Are they planning to set off bombs at LAX? SFO?”

Bashir stopped writing and looked up. “What are those names?”

“Los Angeles and San Francisco Airports. Have you heard any chatter about Chechen terrorists bombing airport terminals in the US like they have done in Moscow?”

“No, but I have a way of learning that.”

“How?” asked Justin.

“E-mail accounts. Kaziyev communicates with Ahmadi through e-mail. They send e-mails occasionally and they have a shared e-mail account where they leave messages to one another in a draft folder. In this way, it’s harder to trace the messages.”

“Very clever,” said Justin. “Add those e-mail accounts to the list.”

Bashir began to write them down when a loud knock came from the apartment’s door.

“Who’s that?” Justin asked quietly.

Max pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Bashir. “Cuff him.” He tossed the handcuffs to Justin.

“Open up, open the door. Now!” came a strong voice in Russian.

“Who’s that?” Justin asked again. He had finished putting the handcuffs on Bashir.

Max pointed his pistol at Justin. “Don’t move.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Justin shouted.

The door burst open with a loud bang. Max’s eyes flicked up for a split second. Justin used that distraction to jump from his chair and rush toward the pistol. Max pulled the trigger. The slug zipped past Justin’s ear, missing him by an inch. He slammed into Max, knocking him off balance as they both hit the wall. Max squeezed another round off his pistol. Justin grabbed Max’s right hand still holding the pistol, and struggled to pry it out of his clenched fingers. Max threw a left fist, landing against Justin’s right ear, then another fist. Justin replied with an elbow to Max’s stomach as both men fought over the pistol.

Gunshots and shouting came from the hall.

“Drop the gun, drop the gun, drop the gun,” one man shouted, first in Russian, then in English.

Justin heard the metallic sound of a pistol dropping against the tiled floor of the hall, then a low scuffle.

“Break it off, stop it,” the same loud voice filled the room.

Justin felt strong arms grabbing him and pulling him away from Max. He made a last-ditch attempt to grab hold of Max’s pistol an inch away from his fingertips. He slid his hand and felt the rubber grip of the handle at the same time that he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head. Justin’s world turned upside down as he struggled to keep his balance. As he began to fall he saw Becca’s bloody face as she lay on the floor. Her eyes were empty. He began to reach for her outstretched hand but another blow landed on the side of his head, knocking him down and out.