bourne legacy | Page 3

More than twelve thousand Chechens had been
killed during the zachistkas; two thousand had simply disappeared, countless others injured, tortured,
maimed and raped. "The Russians murdered my father, my uncles. If you were Russians I would've killed
you all." A spasm of rage and frustration played across his face.
"I believe you would've," Murat said solemnly. He dug in his pocket for some bills. The boy had to tuck
the gun into his waistband in order to take them in his remaining hand. Leaning toward the boy, Murat
said in a collusive whisper, "Now listen to me—I'll tell you where to buy more ammunition for your
Gyurza so you'll be prepared when the next zachistka comes."
"Thank you." Aznor's face cracked open in a smile Khalid Murat whispered a few words, then stepped
back and ruffled the boy's hair. "Allah be with you, little soldier, in everything you do."
The Chechen leader and his second in command watched the small boy as he clambered back over the
rubble, pieces of an unexploded Russian rocket tucked under one arm. Then they returned to their
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vehicle. With agrunt of disgust, Hasan slammed shut the armor-plated door on the world outside, Aznor's
world. "Doesn't it bother you that you're sending a child to his death?"
Murat glanced at him. The snow had melted to trembling droplets on his beard, making him seem in
Arsenov's eyes more like a liturgical imam than a military commander. "I've given this child —who must
feed and clothe and, most important, protect the rest of his family as if he were an adult—I have given
him hope, a specific objective. In short, I've provided him with a reason to live."
Bitterness had turned Arsenov's face hard and pale; his eyes had a baleful look. "Russian bullets will tear
him to ribbons."
"Is that what you truly think, Hasan? That Aznor is stupid or, worse, careless?"
"He's but one child."
"When the seed is planted, the shoots will rise out of even the most inhospitable ground. It's always been
this way, Hasan. The belief and courage of one inevitably grows and spreads, and soon that one is ten,
twenty, a hundred, a thousand!"
"And all the while our people are being murdered, raped, beaten, starved and penned like cattle. It's not
enough, Khalid. Not nearly enough!"
"The impatience of youth hasn't yet left you, Hasan." He gripped the other's shoulder. "Well, I shouldn't
be surprised, yes?"
Arsenov, catching the look of pity in Murat's eyes, clenched his jaw and turned his face away. Curls of
snow made visible wind devils along the street, whirling like Chechen dervishes in ecstatic trance. Murat
took this as a sign of the import of what he had just done, of what he was about to say. "Have faith," he
said in hushed, sacramental tones, "in Allah and in that courageous boy."
Ten minutes later, the convoy stopped in front of Hospital Number Nine. Arsenov looked at his
wristwatch. "Almost time," he said. The two of them were riding in the same vehicle, against standard
security precautions, owing to the extreme importance of the call they were about to receive.
Murat leaned over, pressed a button, and the soundproof barrier rose into place, cutting them off from
the driver and four bodyguards sittingforward. Well-trained, they stared straight ahead through the
bullet-proof windshield.
"Tell me, Khalid, as the moment of truth is upon us, what reservations you have."
Murat raised his bristling eyebrows in a display of incomprehension that Arsenov thought rather
transparent. "Reservations?"
"Don't you want what's rightfully ours, Khalid, what Allah decrees we should have?"
"The blood runs high in you, my friend. I know this only too well. We've fought side by side many
times—we've killed together and we owe each other our very lives, yes? Now, listen to me. I bleed for
our people. Their pain fills me with a rage I can barely contain. You know this better, perhaps, than
anyone. But history warns that one should beware what one wants the most. The consequences of what's
being proposed—" "What we've been planning for!"
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"Yes, planning for," Khalid Murat said. "But the consequences must be considered."
"Caution," Arsenov said bitterly. "Always caution." "My friend." Khalid Murat smiled as he gripped the
other's shoulder. "I don't want to be misled. The reckless foe is easiest to destroy. You must learn to
make patience a virtue."
"Patience!" Arsenov spat. "You didn't tell the boy back there to be patient. You gave him money, told
him where to buy ammunition. You set him against the Russians. Each day we delay is another day that
boy and thousands like him risk being killed. It's the very future of Chechnya that will be decided by our
choice here."
Murat pressed his thumbs into his eyes, rubbing with a circular motion. "There are other ways, Hasan.
There are always