members of the St. Petersburg militia and editors and journalists at newspapers and TV stations.
He would also have to deal with an FSB already on high alert for terrorist and criminal activity, scouring the city for the missing bull. The thought of Serov feeling heat from the authorities made Zakayev feel better.
The girl returned and watched while Zakayev changed into a nondescript outfit that made him look like a uchitel—a teacher—perhaps from some small, provincial technical school. He shaved off his pencil mustache, donned a ushanka, and wound a wool scarf around his neck to complete the transformation.
The girl, in boots, leather pants, and bulky sweater, would pose as one of his students.
Zakayev heard the hiss and crackle of a transceiver. The man with the black headband who had savaged the bull entered the shop’s small office that had served as Zakayev’s temporary headquarters.
“Anything?” Zakayev asked.
“Not yet, General,” said the man. “There’s been no sign of Serov or his men. We checked everywhere, even the hospitals. Maybe he’s dead.”
“You’ve done well,” Zakayev said. “But Serov is like a cat with nine lives. I have a feeling we’ll hear from him again.” He looked around the squalid quarters. “Tell the others we’ll be done soon.”
The man and his crackling radio departed. The girl helped Zakayev pack a small black suitcase with wheels and a retractable handle. Inside were outfits he’d wear later. She had packed her own things in a red nylon backpack similar to those favored by college students the world over. When they were finished, Zakayev summoned his men.
His eyes roamed their faces. They had taken a blood oath to avenge the brutal slaughter of their families in Chechnya and to prove their unquestioned loyalty to him. They had fought at his side, shared the hardships and tragedies the war in Chechnya had unleashed, and together had killed scores of Russian soldiers.
Zakayev recalled an incident during which he and his men had seemingly been driven mad by their unquenchable lust for revenge. He had sucked the coppery taste of blood from the stump of a tooth shattered by the butt of an assault rifle slammed against his face. He spat blood in the Russian’s face before driving the butt of his own assault rifle into the soldier’s guts, then watched the man choke to death on his own vomit. Zakayev, bleeding from his mouth, head swimming from the blow to this face, leaped over a crumbled wall that once had been part of a house in a small village outside Grozny and, with the girl at his side, took cover.
Locusts shrilled in the midsummer Chechen heat. The landscape rose and fell in unruly heaps of green around decaying homes and farms. Dilapidated houses lined the town’s deserted main street. He saw punched out windows with torn curtains and, farther on, burned-out buildings and piles of rubble. A fire-blackened Russian truck lay upside down, its undercarriage looking like the exposed belly of a giant scorched bug. Six corpses lay scattered around it.
The Russian Zakayev had just killed brought the total to seven. There were at least five more Russians trapped in the barn. The evidence of their crime was in plain view: On the side of the barn in which the Russians hid were the naked crucified bodies of a young Chechen woman and her infant. The Russian soldiers had raped the mother, then nailed her and the child to the side of the barn, driving long iron spikes through their hands and feet. The pale corpses hung, spread eagle, from the weathered planks.
Zakayev and his men caught the soldiers standing around the barn laughing, smoking, drinking vodka.
Hit by an RPG, their truck had roared into the air and crashed back to earth in a ball of flame. The dead lay where they had fallen, twisted, formless, some headless. The others had put up a brief firefight from inside the barn but knew it was hopeless.
After they surrendered Zakayev, made them take the woman
He would also have to deal with an FSB already on high alert for terrorist and criminal activity, scouring the city for the missing bull. The thought of Serov feeling heat from the authorities made Zakayev feel better.
The girl returned and watched while Zakayev changed into a nondescript outfit that made him look like a uchitel—a teacher—perhaps from some small, provincial technical school. He shaved off his pencil mustache, donned a ushanka, and wound a wool scarf around his neck to complete the transformation.
The girl, in boots, leather pants, and bulky sweater, would pose as one of his students.
Zakayev heard the hiss and crackle of a transceiver. The man with the black headband who had savaged the bull entered the shop’s small office that had served as Zakayev’s temporary headquarters.
“Anything?” Zakayev asked.
“Not yet, General,” said the man. “There’s been no sign of Serov or his men. We checked everywhere, even the hospitals. Maybe he’s dead.”
“You’ve done well,” Zakayev said. “But Serov is like a cat with nine lives. I have a feeling we’ll hear from him again.” He looked around the squalid quarters. “Tell the others we’ll be done soon.”
The man and his crackling radio departed. The girl helped Zakayev pack a small black suitcase with wheels and a retractable handle. Inside were outfits he’d wear later. She had packed her own things in a red nylon backpack similar to those favored by college students the world over. When they were finished, Zakayev summoned his men.
His eyes roamed their faces. They had taken a blood oath to avenge the brutal slaughter of their families in Chechnya and to prove their unquestioned loyalty to him. They had fought at his side, shared the hardships and tragedies the war in Chechnya had unleashed, and together had killed scores of Russian soldiers.
Zakayev recalled an incident during which he and his men had seemingly been driven mad by their unquenchable lust for revenge. He had sucked the coppery taste of blood from the stump of a tooth shattered by the butt of an assault rifle slammed against his face. He spat blood in the Russian’s face before driving the butt of his own assault rifle into the soldier’s guts, then watched the man choke to death on his own vomit. Zakayev, bleeding from his mouth, head swimming from the blow to this face, leaped over a crumbled wall that once had been part of a house in a small village outside Grozny and, with the girl at his side, took cover.
Locusts shrilled in the midsummer Chechen heat. The landscape rose and fell in unruly heaps of green around decaying homes and farms. Dilapidated houses lined the town’s deserted main street. He saw punched out windows with torn curtains and, farther on, burned-out buildings and piles of rubble. A fire-blackened Russian truck lay upside down, its undercarriage looking like the exposed belly of a giant scorched bug. Six corpses lay scattered around it.
The Russian Zakayev had just killed brought the total to seven. There were at least five more Russians trapped in the barn. The evidence of their crime was in plain view: On the side of the barn in which the Russians hid were the naked crucified bodies of a young Chechen woman and her infant. The Russian soldiers had raped the mother, then nailed her and the child to the side of the barn, driving long iron spikes through their hands and feet. The pale corpses hung, spread eagle, from the weathered planks.
Zakayev and his men caught the soldiers standing around the barn laughing, smoking, drinking vodka.
Hit by an RPG, their truck had roared into the air and crashed back to earth in a ball of flame. The dead lay where they had fallen, twisted, formless, some headless. The others had put up a brief firefight from inside the barn but knew it was hopeless.
After they surrendered Zakayev, made them take the woman
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