STANDING ON THE REMAINS of the roof, Fraera was no longer holding a gun but a camera, photographing the destruction: images that would soon be printed around the world. If this, her last reel of film, didn’t survive, it didn’t matter. She’d already accumulated many hundreds of photographs, smuggling them out of the city, using the families of the dissidents and insurgents as well as the international press. Her images of dead citizens, buildings destroyed, would be published for years to come under the title: source anonymous.
Perhaps for the first time since her son had been taken from her nearly seven years ago, she was alone, no Malysh by her side, no men ready when she called. The gang that she’d spent years putting together had broken apart. The few remaining vory had fled. The band of insurgents had been broken. In the first wave of attacks this morning many had died. She’d photographed their bodies. Zsolt Polgar, her translator, had remained by her side. She’d been wrong about him. He’d died for his cause. As he lay dying, she’d photographed him with particular care.
She had only three photographs left. In the distance a fighter jet circled, coming toward her. She raised the camera, bringing the jet into focus. The MIG dropped into an attack position. Tiles around her began to shatter. She waited until the jet was almost directly overhead. As the roof exploded, fragments of slate burning into her arms and face, she had no doubt her last photograph would be her greatest of all.