The Hunted

13

The black limo idled in an otherwise empty parking lot that overlooked the ice-cold Moskva River. Mid-October. The sky was gray, overcast, and dreary; another winter that threatened to be long and harsh had produced its first cold snap. The driver had been ordered out of the car. He stood some twenty feet away in the bone-aching darkness, smoking, shivering, stamping his feet, and eyeing the heated car with considerable bitterness.

Three people sat in the rear.

They had agreed to meet like this, one or two days each week. They were bound together by the money and the single enduring emotion that thieves hold for one another: poisonous distrust. For obvious reasons, the three could not be seen together in public under any circumstances, so Golitsin took the initiative and arranged the inconspicuous rendezvous.

Tatyana Lukin sat in the middle, her splendid legs skillfully folded, impossible to miss or ignore. The men who were seated on each side of her-Golitsin to her left, Nicky her right-could barely stand the sight of each other. Golitsin hated to have his authority questioned. Nicky detested authority generally, and loathed Golitsin's prickly brand of it particularly.

Both men were arrogant, selfish, pushy, ill-tempered, and crooked to the core. They had so much in common it was scary. One was brains, one brawn, and for this to work they had to remain together. She was a woman; she could handle them. Without her to referee, they would have their hands around each other's throats in seconds flat. Tatyana liked to be needed.

She was saying, "I lost count of how many times he called. More than a hundred, probably. We're running an office pool. The operators in the basement are given a daily tag sheet of who to put the calls through to. Yeltsin still has no idea Konevitch is trying to reach him. He's seen the summaries of the news accounts, and heard-"

"And what was his response?" Golitsin interrupted.

"He called in my boss… the chief of staff," she added for Nicky's edification. "Said this did not sound like Alex. He wanted Konevitch tracked down so he could hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Asked my boss what he thought."

Golitsin smiled and rubbed his hands. "I'm sure you had already explained to him what he thought."

The answer was too obvious to merit a response. "He told Yeltsin he always considered Konevitch a conniving crook. Charming and likable, perhaps. But for sure, nobody earns that kind of money, they steal it. Warned him that he always believed Yeltsin allowed Konevitch to get too close. Whatever emotional or political bonds they shared, the only tangible connection was money. Konevitch didn't contribute all that cash out of the goodness of his heart. Plus, the Congress is filled with mutinous former communists who want to cut Yeltsin's balls off. He's walking a tightrope between trying to placate them and the frustrated reformers in his camp. They're always threatening to impeach him, and here's Konevitch, making a huge splash on the front pages. Exactly the kind of connection Yeltsin doesn't need."

Nicky yawned. Politics bored him to death. It made absolutely no difference to him whether commies or democrats or pansies in birthday suits were in charge. His business was bulletproof regardless of whichever idiots ruled the land.

"Did Yeltsin buy it?" asked Golitsin.

"He wasn't not buying it. He knows he's got enough problems already. There are dirty rumors regarding his daughter flying all over the city. She has almost literally hung out a sign saying, I'm daddy's little girl-leave your bags of cash here and I'll twist old poppa around my pinkie and bring home the goods."

Nicky perked up at this hint of corruption in high places. "Is it true?"

"Yes, and stay away from her," Tatyana warned with a knowing wink. "She doesn't know it, but she's already being investigated by the chief prosecutor. Bugs and undercover cops surround her everywhere she goes."

Nicky laughed and slapped his thighs with a loud thump. At least his brand of crook made no pretenses.

Golitsin merely grunted. He already knew about Yeltsin's daughter, of course. He could in fact educate Tatyana about how much little Miss Piggy had stashed in a Swiss bank, the account numbers, who gave her the money, and why. It was invaluable knowledge he had no intention of sharing.

"Tell you what, babe," Nicky announced. He leaned toward her and his left hand landed with a lecher's grip high on Tatyana's right thigh. "You still gotta get Konevitch. Put up all the roadblocks you want, eventually he's gonna find a way to get through. You thought about that?"

A twitch of irritation crossed Golitsin's face. "We'll take care of it," he sneered in Nicky's direction.

"Yeah? Like you took care of him in the first place?" Nicky snapped back.

"Stick to your own business." The two men glared at each other, Golitsin's face glowing with anger, Nicky sneering, as if to say, "You couldn't find a needle if it was sticking in your ass."

Tatyana waited until the men cooled off, then said to Golitsin, "Where's the money?"

"Tucked away in a safe place."

"I know that. Where?"

"None of your business."

"Okay. Will you take a little advice?"

"That depends."

"Don't be that way, Sergei. I'm looking out for all our best interests."

Golitsin sniffed and stared straight ahead. Bullshit. Given half a chance she'd rob him blind. She was smart and beautiful, and utterly without a conscience.

Tatyana plowed on. "You know why Konevitch was so popular with Yeltsin and his people? Money. He bankrolled Yeltsin's election. He bought them all their jobs. Literally. An election is coming in another few years, and believe me, they're scared. Yeltsin is being blamed for the mess we're in. His popularity's in the toilet and it'll take a load of cash to get him out of it. They'll miss Mr. Moneybags."

"You're assuming he'll still be alive in another year."

"I assume nothing. I'm just telling you there's an opportunity for whoever's clever enough and rich enough. Somebody is going to pump cash into the big hole Konevitch left. Why not us?"

Golitsin thought about it a moment. What was there not to like? Nothing, really. A million a year could buy a world's worth of influence; a few million, in the right hands, at the right moments, and who knew? It was a no-brainer, actually-he was only surprised he hadn't thought of it himself. He puffed a few times, stretched out the contemplative pause, then nodded. "Let's do it."

"Good decision," Tatyana said. "Funnel it through me. I'll make sure everybody knows where the money came from." And who inside the Kremlin arranged this infusion as well, though of course there was no need to point that out.

"How much are we talking?" Golitsin asked, suddenly concerned because it was his money.

"Not much. Relax, Sergei. A hundred or two hundred thousand a month, for starters. As the election draws closer, we'll increase it, have a real impact."

She had clearly thought this through and prattled a bit about the details-plans for secret bank accounts, blind contacts, how the money would be laundered, and so forth and so on, the typical architecture for large-scale graft and bribery. The irony that they were using Alex's money to replace Alex was lost on none of them. In fact, Golitsin had arrived at this meeting ready to pitch and hatch his own bright new idea about how to spend more of Alex's hoard of cash, and was waiting impatiently with his hands clasped to pop it. But Tatyana's suggestion fit right in, so he let her rattle on.

As soon as she finished, he said, "Do we all agree this has worked out beautifully?"

Nicky had been staring out the window. But he swallowed his usual nasty cynicism, looked over, and admitted, "Yeah, it's real sweet."

Tatyana merely nodded.

"Then why stop now?" Golitsin asked them, shifting in his seat and facing them. "There's lots of little Konevitches out there, building businesses and creating millions that are just waiting to be taken away."

Tatyana appeared thoughtful, though she had long held the same idea. The only surprise was that it took Golitsin so long to broach this rather obvious inspiration. In her mind, all along Alex Konevitch was just a guinea pig, a test case for them to see if they could pull this off and get away with it. Young millionaires were growing on trees these days, just waiting to be fleeced. But she played dumb and asked, "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"It will even be easier next time, less risky. None of the other rich kids have Konevitch's warm relationship with Yeltsin. We now know how it works, and we've got plenty of money to use for whatever we try. We'll get even better at it."

Nicky replied, predictably, "What's in it for me?"

Tatyana, speaking as the lawyer she was, answered, "Right now, Nicky, you get what our agreement called for, your share of company stock, and Konevitch's banks to launder your money. But you and the rest of your syndicate pals are making a very big impression. You've turned Moscow into a bloody war zone. The Russian people are screaming for law and order. Believe me, it's a sore topic in the Kremlin these days. The world is paying close attention to your fun and games, too. Yeltsin is tired of being lectured by Americans and Germans about getting your ilk under control."

"Talk, talk, talk."

"Not much longer, believe me," she replied, wagging a finger in his face.

"They have to catch us first."

"Adapt to the new rules. People now vote, Nicky. They make their displeasure known at the polls. Yeltsin knows he has to show tangible progress on the law-and-order front, and soon. A big crack-down is around the corner. Believe me, plenty will be caught."

"The dumb ones."

"That's right. The smart ones, like you, will get ahead of the curve."

"I like what I'm doing now."

"How much do you score in a year?" she asked him.

"Plenty."

"Don't play games, Nicky. How much?"

"Millions. I don't know. Thirty, maybe fifty." Twenty was more like it, but with Golitsin in the car he wasn't about to sound like a small fry. He squirmed in his seat and tried to look sincere.

"Not bad," Tatyana commented, arching her eyebrows. "How much did Konevitch make last year?"

"A lot, I guess," Nicky replied through gritted teeth. "I don't know."

"Around two hundred million. And there are others, like him, who will soon be hauling in billions. All of it considered legal, too."

"Billions?"

"Billions," she repeated, with cool enunciation, as if the word picked up velocity the more slowly it was pronounced. "It's time to take your game up a notch, Nicky, climb out of the gutter. Keep your whorehouses and drug business if they amuse you. But the real thievery, the big money, will be in big business. Billions, Nicky, billions."

Nicky adored that word, "billions." It rolled out of her lips so beautifully. She could repeat as often as she liked.

They chatted on a while, and-while the driver's toes turned black-settled on an equitable division of labor and responsibilities. Golitsin would scout the possibilities, determine the targets, and apply his devious talents to designing the takeovers. They had done it once, and the blueprint was perfectly adaptable for the next victim. Tatyana would build the political cover, grease the right palms, and buy their way into the hearts of Yeltsin's people. Nicky would continue to push whores and dope and gray-market cars, and bide his time until he was told who needed to be terrorized, or chased out of the country, or murdered.

The conversation ended right where it started, on the perplexing issue of Alex Konevitch. Nicky wanted him dead-as soon as it could be arranged, however it was arranged. Just dead. In a business with few troublesome principles, Nicky steadfastly adhered to one: the fewer witnesses the better.

Golitsin, too, wanted Konevitch dead. Very, very dead. For a man whose emotions generally veered between heartless dispassion and expressive fury, he had developed a fatal preoccupation with Alex Konevitch. It was unhealthy, he knew, he just couldn't help himself. He enjoyed thinking about how Alex would die.

Also, though nobody needed to mention it, if Konevitch did eventually make contact with his old pal Yeltsin, this whole thing could come apart. The lush owed the boy wizard a huge debt. And no matter how hard Tatyana schemed and conspired, eventually Alex would break through-there were too many loose threads, too many suspicious connections, too many holes that could spring leaks. And as with all criminal conspiracies, they would inevitably be pitted against each other. The three of them knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would gladly hang the other two, if it came to that.

A legitimate investigation conducted by any halfway honest and competent official would be a catastrophe.

Tatyana confidently assured her partners she had a plan for their boy Alex, and ordered them to cool their heels until she told them otherwise. The combination of champagne and sex worked like magic. The past three nights Alex had slumbered a more reasonable six hours. He was eating again, even exercising for two hard hours every morning in the nicely equipped hotel gym.

He was toweling off after a shower, preceded by a fierce early-morning workout. Elena lay on the bed nibbling toast and browsing through the morning paper. A delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh coffee had just been wheeled in for Alex when the phone erupted.

Elena was closest, and she lifted it up, expecting it to be room service. She listened for a moment, then in Russian said, "Yes, he's here," and handed the phone to Alex. "Some officer from the Ministry of Security."

Alex put the phone to his ear and identified himself.

"This is Colonel Leonid Volevodz, special assistant to the minister of security." The voice was deep, with the clipped, irritatingly authoritative bark of a career officer.

"What do you want?" Alex replied in kind, in Russian.

"I have your number because a week ago, the minister asked me to look into your complaint."

"Pass him my thanks." He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a brief moment found it hard to speak. "What have you found?"

"What have I found? Well, there are… shall we say, certain irregularities and incongruities in your story."

"You think I'm lying."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Mr. Konevitch. I think there also happen to be big holes in the reports about what happened."

"Then why don't we discuss those holes?"

"Fine. For starters, on the fifth, you flew on Flight 290 to Budapest. The-"

"Yes, I-"

"Don't interrupt me, Konevitch. I will talk and you listen until I ask you a question. Are we clear?"

The arrogance was so thick the man probably was exactly what he claimed to be, a high-ranking bureaucrat in an important ministry. Alex drew a long breath and said, "No more interruptions."

"One more and I'll hang up. Now, where was I? Ah yes… the flight manifest confirms this. Also, Hungarian customs show you arrived there at 1:05. Nothing shows that you reentered Russia, yet bank records indicate your personal accounts were emptied out the morning of the sixth. A few hours later, fifty million more was stolen from your customers. The terminals that ordered the transactions were traced back to your own headquarters." He paused a moment, then asked, "What am I to make of this?"

This was the first time Alex had heard the precise details of the thievery, and he spent a long painful moment taking it in. Oh, how he would love to have Golitsin seated in a chair in this room, to have his strong hands gripped around the old man's throat. He would squeeze and squeeze harder until every last detail poured out. How did you get into my safe? Where did you send my money? Who's in this with you, and where is it parked now? Alex said, "I was on a plane to New York during that time. If you read my fax, you'd know that. It's easily confirmed."

"I read your fax, Mr. Konevitch. But that's not the only possibility, is it? Maybe you had an accomplice who moved the money."

"But I didn't. Is that all?"

"Not quite. From the Central Bank, I obtained copies of the letters assigning your properties to Sergei Golitsin. One of our handwriting experts gave your signature a look."

"Go on."

"The writing is pinched, nonlinear, and extended. He believes it is your writing. But perhaps scrawled under conditions of discomfort or duress."

"After three hours of beating and torture, it wasn't my best work."

Elena handed Alex a piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee. She raised her eyebrows. He answered with a wavering hand. He took a large bite and washed it down with coffee.

After a long pause, the colonel said, "About the fax you sent the minister, it raises many provocative questions. For instance, you implicate General Golitsin."

"I didn't implicate him, I said very clearly that he was behind this. He had people murdered, he had me kidnapped, he had me tortured, and he stole everything."

"We are talking here about a very distinguished man. A patriot who served this country nobly for many decades. These are serious charges. I need to question you directly."

"Fine. I'm in New York. Come and ask whatever you like."

"Not possible. My jurisdiction ends at the Russian border. My friends in foreign intelligence are understandably territorial. They become quite touchy if I forget my place."

"All right. We'll handle this by phone. Ask whatever you like."

"That is… unacceptable."

"Is it? Why?"

"For one thing, the case is very complicated and implicates some very important people. For a second thing, I like to see the face of the man I'm interrogating. And of course, everything will have to be checked out. Over the phone won't work."

"Neither will coming to Moscow, Colonel. They tried to kill me and they might want to finish the job. I explained that in the fax."

"I will personally provide for your security, Mr. Konevitch. Arrangements will be made. You have my word as an officer."

"I don't even know you."

"Look, the state prosecutor is preparing an indictment. Do you want your name cleared or not?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. I'm not setting foot in Russia until I read in the paper that Golitsin and his people are under arrest."

A long moment passed. It sounded to Alex like Colonel Volevodz had a hand over the mouthpiece while he conferred with somebody. Alex munched toast and drank his coffee.

Volevodz came back on and suggested, "Why don't we meet on neutral ground?"

"Who were you speaking with?"

"Are we having trust issues, Mr. Konevitch?"

"No, no issues. I don't trust you."

A long pause, then, "That was my secretary. Another call has come in that I need to take. Quickly, Mr. Konevitch, do you want to meet or not?"

"Make it a very neutral place, Colonel."

"Berlin. Is that neutral enough for you? You know Checkpoint Charlie?"

"Of course."

"Tomorrow, be there at three. Don't be late."