One Child by Jeff Buick Page B

people. One boy who lived near the Old City and walked with a limp wanted to kill the soldiers. He hated them and wished he had a gun every time they walked past, rifles on their chests. He took the candy they offered, but swore behind their backs that when he was old enough he would perform his own jihad and take as many heads as he could before they killed him. Halima steered clear of him as best she could, but he always came running to talk with her. Being near him made her nervous.
    She didn't mind the soldiers. Her father told her that until they came, the Taliban were monsters. They still were. Halima could sense the fear in his voice when he spoke their name.
    She was nearing the market now and there were more people on the street. A group of soldiers passed her, single file and spaced far apart. Even she knew why they walked like that. One of them smiled at her and she smiled back. Something twigged in his eyes and inexplicitly she wondered whether he had children. She looked around and noticed that most Afghans who were on the street were busy with their daily activities and ignored the soldiers. Everyone ignored her. The soldiers filed past and disappeared around the corner. A dark-skinned man in a deep burgundy turban stared at her as he passed, a hundred meters behind the soldiers. His eyes were black and intense. She sunk back into the wall, trying to make herself small. He turned the corner, still following the soldiers. Halima wondered if he was Taliban. It was hard to tell.
    She pulled herself away from the rough stone wall and wove through the people to the edge of the market. Maybe her favorite merchant would be working his stall today and she would get an extra tomato. But he still had to earn her business. She only had so much money and she needed the best deal possible. No friendships here, this was business.
    She entered the market, clutching the ratty cluster of bank notes tightly in her tiny hand.
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Chapter
    20
    Moscow, Russia
    Friday afternoon and Moscow was teeming with life. Traffic was impossible and the heat was stifling. It almost made Trey Miller wish that U2 had booked their concert during the winter. Almost. Until he remembered Russia in the dead of winter - bone-chilling cold and everything frozen. It shocked him back to reality. August was just fine.
    Alexi Androv had secured moderately accurate drawings of the stadium, showing some of the conduits that housed the electrical wiring and most of the water mains entering the structure and the sewers leaving. His contact inside the local office at MosEnergo had promised him more detailed drawings of the electrical system by the following Wednesday. That was five days away - too long to sit and wait. They needed to make significant progress in the next week if they hoped to be successful. Which meant they had to start with what was at hand.
    Androv laid the plans on the table in Miller's suite in the Korston Hotel. All four members of the team were comfortably seated with a clear view of the schematics. Laid alongside the new plans were the ones Trey had brought with him from Paris that showed the structural components of the stadium.
    "Luzhniki was built in 1956, so its basic infrastructure is getting old," Androv said. "There have been six major upgrades to the services over the last fifty-four years. Four of these were to bring the electrical systems up to date with the latest advancements in technology. The events in the stadium these days draw more power than they use to, so they've upped the voltage coming in and have used numerous incoming lines to ensure the power can't fail simultaneously across the stadium."
    Trey leaned back in his chair. "Does that make it easier or harder for us?"
    Androv shrugged. "A bit of both, I think. I don't know if we can knock out everything at the same time. A lot of