The Hunted

14

Colonel Volevodz had a crooked sense of humor; or, at the very least, a wicked conception of irony. Checkpoint Charlie, for four troubled decades, had been the fabled symbol of a divided world-socialism versus capitalism, the free world versus the chained one. This was where hooded prisoners had been exchanged between East and West, where tense, shadowy bargains had been fashioned that kept both sides from blowing each other into overradiated rubble.

Alex and Elena had caught an overnight, landed at stately old Tempelhof Airport, and took a fast taxi to a modest gasthaus near the city center, in a nontrendy neighborhood, an anonymous little place off the beaten track. They checked in under false names; they paid with cash.

The recently reunited Berlin was a boomtown. Towering cranes poked at the sky like a thick forest. Construction crews seemed to outnumber the city's population by two to one. Real estate prices in the eastern half of the city were racing to catch up with the inflated prices in the west. The West Germans were stumbling over themselves to gentrify their neglected, prodigal brothers to the east.

Alex stared glumly out the window during the taxi ride and fell ineluctably back into an old habit. Fortunes were being made all around him, new buildings being thrown up at a dizzying pace, a whole city being refashioned before his eyes. He conceived of ten ways he could edge himself into this market and produce millions. He felt like an Olympic sprinter whose legs had been amputated, seated in the bleachers, watching the rookies take their victory laps while he stared on in frustration, hobbled, unable to compete.

At three o'clock, Alex stood alone, at the west end of Checkpoint Charlie. The guardshacks, the lights, the swinging gates were still in place, unmanned though, and all too happily neglected. The long, narrow alley was now little more than a tourist trap, and a very popular one. People of all nationalities and complexions loitered around in herds, snapping pictures of the remains, wandering through the museum of a now dead era, pausing to ogle the graying old photographs of desperate people employing desperate, and often brilliant, means to escape the horrors of communism and make new lives in the West.

Volevodz kept Alex waiting twenty minutes. The message was unmistakable. You're an ex-mogul, a wanted felon, a sorry thief, a loser. I may be only a lowly colonel but I'm your only hope and you'll kiss my boots or else.

Colonel Volevodz finally marched around the corner of a short gray building, a middle-aged, tall, thin man in civilian clothes wrapped in a rumpled trench coat. Two young assistants dressed nearly identically accompanied him, both slightly behind, one to his left, one to his right. They strutted in step, like conquering military men, across Checkpoint Charlie from the east, no doubt attempting to concoct a cinematic entrance. The colonel stopped about two feet from Alex. They eyed each other suspiciously for a moment.

The colonel finally put out a hand. They shook without enthusiasm. Volevodz pointed at his two colleagues, who kept their hands in their pockets and edged a little closer. "Captains Kaputhcuv and Godunov. They're assisting me with this investigation."

"Thank you for coming," said Alex without a trace of warmth. He had dressed carefully for this meeting-the same tailored suit he had escaped in, cleaned and neatly pressed, with a stiffly starched, monogrammed shirt and silk tie completing the ensemble. He looked every bit the big-deal gazillionaire who could roil entire markets with a swipe of his pen.

"So, where is your wife?"

"Around."

"You are alone, then?"

"But you're not," Alex answered without really answering. "I'd like to see your identification."

"I don't believe you should be making demands, Mr. Konevitch. You're a wanted man in Russia."

"Welcome to the new Russia, Colonel. I'm a taxpayer with rights. You're my servant now. Identification, please."

"I can arrest you right now and drag you back to Russia. I'd be a big hero."

"Then welcome to Germany, too. You have no legal authority here."

The colonel's hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. Alex studied him carefully. He had a thin face, thin eyes, thin lips, and close-cropped hair molded to conceal a thinning spot on top. The face was neither mean nor nice, neither handsome nor ugly; the prototypically stonewashed face of a career Soviet functionary. He pushed one hand toward Alex-something round and hard poked forward against his trench coat. "Here's all the authority I need. My assistants are also armed. I can kill you right here." He paused to produce a hard grin. "Maybe I will."

Alex upped him with a tight smile. "A bad idea. For you and for me."

"To the contrary, it would be a great idea. It would solve a lot of problems."

"Look behind me at that big gray apartment building."

Volevodz's gaze left Alex's face.

"Keep going," Alex ordered, following the colonel's roving eyes. "Third window down on the right side. See the barrel pointed out the window?"

Volevodz's mouth nearly fell open when his eyes finally settled on something long, cylindrical, and dark poking out a window.

"Look long and hard, Colonel," Alex said. "That's one of three snipers I hired to protect me. If I lift my right arm, you're dead, all of you. If I die, you're dead. I had hoped not to do this, but…" He cranked his right arm halfway up, nearly to his waist.

Volevodz computed the new situation very quickly, then, in a fast rush of words, said, "Put it down! For godsakes, put your arm down."

"Hands out of your coats. Palms up. Shut up and do as I say. Show me your identification-then, maybe my arm will come down."

The hands popped out and so did the identifications. The hands were trembling. Alex glanced dismissively at the official-looking IDs in the fists of the two captains and snatched the colonel's for a closer inspection. It looked genuine enough, but what did he know? He threw it back.

Volevodz caught it and slipped it back inside his pocket. "You're not behaving like an innocent man, Mr. Konevitch."

"I wasn't treated like an innocent man."

"You've just threatened the lives of three officers of the Ministry of Security. This will be added to the already grave charges against you."

"You won't believe how much that worries me. Are you wired?"

"Why would I be wired?" Volevodz replied with a sneer.

"You wouldn't necessarily. I'd just like to be sure our frequencies don't interfere with each other."

"Oh… I see."

"You threatened to kill me. It's on tape. Who sent you?"

He stared at Alex a moment. Alex had chosen to stand in the middle of the checkpoint, well away from any walls or protective cover of any nature. Why was now clear. Volevodz and his assistants were trapped, out in the open, wildly vulnerable, and he briefly pondered the interesting question of how many bull's-eyes were painted on his forehead at that moment. He tried a smile and said, "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot."

Alex crossed his arms and stopped smiling. "I'm here because you promised to help me. You show up instead with guns and threaten to kill me. You have an interesting definition of a wrong foot."

"All right, all right. I made a mistake, a big one. I'm sorry. Let's start over." He tried to force the smile, and tried his damnedest to make it look friendly and sincere. "Can I call you Alex?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Okay. Alex, as I said yesterday, I'd like you to return with me to Russia. If, as you claim, you're innocent, you can clear this up in court."

"Don't make me laugh. I won't be alive long enough to make it to court."

It was obviously a waste of time for Volevodz to contradict him; he'd just threatened to do the honors, here, now, in Germany, in a supposedly neutral corner. It was even more foolhardy to attempt to worm his way into Alex's confidence. A group of blond-haired, blue-eyed tourists wandered past, gibbering in some strange tongue. The eyes inside the skinny slits danced around a moment, then Volevodz observed, "There's a lady over there filming us with a camera."

"It's about time you started paying attention. Yes, you're being filmed, yes, your voice is being recorded, and yes, a bunch of guns in the hands of seriously nervous people are being pointed at you. At least four of these tourists wandering around are my people. They're all armed to the teeth in the event you have friends lurking nearby. Don't try something stupid; I'm a very frightened, very desperate man. Any second I could maybe forget, and reach up, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and you'll all be dead. Now, why are we here?" Alex suddenly flapped his arms up and down, half slaps on his thighs like a penguin. "Quickly, Colonel."

"Settle down, Alex. I'm not here to kill you. I have a bargain for you."

"I'm listening."

"Stop that with the arms. It makes me nervous."

"Speak faster. My nose itches."

"All right, all right." He rubbed his eyes. Alex's preparations were not a total surprise. After being briefed on his unexpected escape from Hungary and the clever stunts he had pulled off, he had been warned to expect some sort of shenanigans. But Alex's eyes seemed to be boring into his soul, and he was having difficulty trying to maintain his nonchalance. "Certain friends are very impressed with your financial acumen. Frankly, it's a shame you've been chased out. You're a national asset for Russia. We admire what you accomplished."

"Who are your friends?"

"Powerful people."

"Give me some powerful names."

"Don't waste both our time. I don't know all the names, anyway."

"All right, go on."

"They would like to enlist you to manage their finances. The money is parked offshore. You never have to come to Russia. It's work you certainly know how to do."

"And what do I get out of this?"

"Twenty percent of the profit. The fund contains hundreds of millions right now, but eventually will grow to billions. Your take, obviously, will depend on how well you invest it. It will be a reasonable compensation."

"Is the money clean or dirty?" Alex asked, ignoring the offer.

Volevodz shrugged. "What's clean money in Russia these days? Anyway, why should you care?"

"I don't. What about the case against me?"

"As I said, these are powerful people."

"How powerful?"

"Arrangements can be made." His forehead wrinkled and he pretended to think about it awhile. He reached up and massaged his sore neck. Alex towered a good six inches over him and had chosen to stand nose-to-nose. Volevodz was a tall man himself, used to being looked up to, and he hated having the role reversed. "A few witnesses might materialize and clear your name. The state prosecutor assigned to your case is a very reasonable sort. For a judgeship and a healthy contribution to his retirement account he might be persuaded to declare the case a dead end."

"Stop lying. My story was spread all over the front pages for weeks. I find it hard to believe it could be easily disposed of."

The colonel enacted a small shrug. "Sadly our police and courts are so overburdened, there is little pressure to close cases. Besides, in Moscow these days, a new scandal always eclipses the last. Such are the times you helped bring about, Alex Konevitch."

"What about my money?"

"Don't think of it that way." He attempted a feeble smile and placed a hand on Alex's arm.

Alex shrugged it off and backed away a step. "I was beaten and nearly killed. My wife was kidnapped and threatened. Three hundred and fifty million dollars were stolen from me. My businesses have been ruined and I've been publicly disgraced. How should I think of it?" Alex asked carefully, coolly, without a trace of rancor-a businessman dispassionately listing the credits and debits from a register.

"Water under a bridge, if you're smart. Or, if you like, a down payment on a new future. You're an exceptionally talented man, Alex. We're offering you the chance to make it all back."

"How kind of you."

"Get over it. In a few years, with a little elbow grease, you'll be right where you started. Maybe richer."

This offer was the last thing Alex had expected, and he needed a pause to consider what he was hearing and learning. It was almost laughable. Almost. Volevodz obviously was another cog in the rapidly growing conspiracy that robbed his life. Now they were offering Alex the chance to take the money they stole from him, to invest and nurture it, and produce fabulous profits that would make them even richer.

In return he would get a fraction of what was already his. It wasn't enough that the sharks took everything from him; they now were offering to make him a slave to their financial interests. And it was slavery. They would own him, a deal with the devil, and once he was in there was no way out.

They had his money, his companies, his homes-they now wanted to own him.

In fact, it was beautiful-for them, anyway. Alex would be the offshore front for their illegal activities, he would launder their money, keep it hidden and growing, and if anyone got wind of it, Alex would be there, the disposable frontman, holding the bag.

"You're a liar and the people who sent you are thieves," Alex said very simply, a fact he managed to express without sentiment. "So why should I trust you?"

"Do we have a deal?"

"Not yet. You're moving a little fast for me."

"I'm offering you a chance to live. Let's say you don't take this deal, okay? We'll hunt you down and kill you."

"I thought we were negotiating. Now you're making threats."

"All right. Negotiate."

"Twenty percent is too cheap," Alex told him. "A deal like this needs to be structured. If I increase the value of the fund ten percent or less, twenty percent is all I deserve. But if I beat that, my percentage needs to increase accordingly. Cap it at thirty percent if the value increases by fifty percent or more."

"What if you lose money?"

"I won't."

"You're quite the optimist, aren't you?"

"I gave you the pessimistic scenario. And any smart businessman builds in incentives to encourage better performance. I'm more than confident that I will easily produce returns surpassing a hundred percent a year. In that case, I'd like a five million bonus on top of the thirty percent."

Volevodz turned and traded surprised looks with his two assistants. "The man has balls."

"If you weren't a fool, you'd know I'm being generous. Find yourself another man with a track record like mine, the terms will be even stiffer. There are people on Wall Street who demand thirty percent even if they don't make you a dime. And if they know the money is tainted, or in any way questionable, they'll demand at least sixty percent. Don't take my word for it, ask around."

Volevodz became fidgety. "I will have to discuss this with my friends."

"Of course you will. You're an errand boy," Alex said, twisting the knife a little deeper. "You and I are through speaking. The next conversation will be with your boss or no one," he added. "If it's another rude flunky I'll hang up and never take another call."

Volevodz's eyes narrowed. Oh, how he was tempted to whip out his gun and blow this impertinent punk back to New York. He would, too, would smile and blast away, except he was at a severe disadvantage with all the guns pointed at him. "I'll bring it up," he mumbled, biting his lip.

"One other matter I'd like to bring to their attention."

"What?"

"Given my history with these people, I want some form of assurance I'll get what I earn."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll think about it." He backed two steps away from Volevodz, then stopped and, treating it like a careless afterthought, warned, "Move two feet or make any effort to follow me-so much as tug a cell phone out of your pocket-and the nervous people with guns have orders to blast you to pieces."

Volevodz's mouth gaped open. A team of five stalkers lurked around the corner, awaiting a call from their boss to jump on Konevitch's trail and track him to his lair, where they would add a little more pressure and help Alex make the right call.

He shifted his feet, suddenly remembered Alex's warning, and froze. He briefly pondered the amazing question of how he had been so thoroughly outwitted by a complete amateur. But before Alex could escape, he remembered to ask, "How do we reach you?"

"Same as before. Tell your boss to call my hotel in New York."

With that Alex turned his back and walked purposefully toward the west and freedom and Elena, who was pacing nervously behind the large gray apartment building, praying they had not overplayed their bluff. They held hands tightly and briskly walked two blocks, caught a taxi, got lost in the traffic, and eventually made their way back to the gasthaus.

Volevodz and his two aides stood in place, nervously wringing their hands. Their eyes never wavered from the window ledge six floors above. As long as the barrel never budged, neither would they. A flock of giggly Japanese tourists mistook them for tired old spies, perhaps sharing a reunion in a place of former glory, swapping lies and inflating old adventures. The tourists spent five minutes snapping pictures of the three scowling men in wrinkled trench coats. A bus arrived delivering a fresh batch of rambunctious tourists, who piled out and were instantly drawn to the attraction. Erupting with laughter, they yanked out the cameras and joined in the fracas. They were third-rate actors hired to lend a little authenticity to the site, one tour leader helpfully explained to his entourage, who laughed louder. "Absolutely third-rate!" one of the crowd yelled back. How badly the three men wanted to yank out the guns and start blowing holes through the crowd.

They felt like boneheads. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, they just gaped at the barrel pointed out the window.

After twenty excruciating minutes, they drew verbal straws. The taller of the two captains lost and gently inched forward, slow, limited scrapes across the cement, before he squeezed his eyes shut, uttered a loud curse, and hopped three rapid bounces. No shots were fired. No bodies bounced off the concrete. They threw caution to the wind and raced toward the base of the apartment house. They drew their guns and pounded heavily up the stairwell to the sixth floor. Puffing from exertion, they found Alex's hired sniper there, directly underneath a hallway window: a mop head rested on an overturned metal trash can, with its rusty metal pole poking out the window.

The three men stared at one another with disbelief that quickly turned into red-faced humiliation. No debate was required or entertained; agreement was quick and unanimous-this petty detail would obviously only add unnecessary clutter in their report to Tatyana Lukin. They were tired of hotel rooms. They wanted to get out and wander around this glorious city that reeked with such historical significance, to venture out and feel the soul of the German people. But they wouldn't. They agreed that it was too dangerous. It made no sense at this point to risk being picked up by Volevodz and his goons. Room service was contacted and they ate a quiet dinner in the room together.

Over dessert and a glass of wine Alex shared the details of the offer. Elena listened and withheld comment. The pros and cons were obvious. They were tired of living on the run, tired of looking over their shoulders, tired of going to bed each night and awakening each morning imagining the worst. And no matter how much Alex exercised, he was a man of restless energy and incredible intellect that needed an outlet. But the offer was humiliating, a disgrace, really. Still, the prospect of neutralizing the bad people trying to kill them had its pluses.

"What will you do if they meet your demands?" she finally asked.

"I may take it."

"Do you think Golitsin is behind the offer?"

"I seriously doubt it. I think he wants me dead."

"Then who?"

"That's the question. There are so many possibilities. I know of only one way to find out."

"So you intend to take the offer to discover who's involved," she suggested.

"That's the idea. If I say yes, I'll look for a way to smoke them out."

"Why you?" she asked, sipping from her wine. Good question.

"Partly because they're still afraid of me. That's why they want me inside and neutralized. Why else are they still working overtime to keep me away from Yeltsin? Bring me in, and they buy my silence."

"What's the other partly?"

"Golitsin has a partner. That's obvious. Somebody inside Yeltsin's inner circle, I'm nearly certain. But think about this, Elena. We know the syndicates are involved. We know Golitsin and his KGB friends are involved. And now this man Volevodz and his deputies show up."

"You think he really is with the ministry?"

"I'm sure of it. I made a call to a friend in Moscow and had him checked out. He's former KGB, but he's now exactly what he claims to be. And he is, in fact, conducting the investigation."

"So this conspiracy is quite big."

"Getting bigger by the day. It would help to know exactly who and what we're up against."

"And then?" Elena asked.

"I find another way to get to Yeltsin. I'll have names and evidence to shove in his face. If they can do this to me, Elena, they can do it to anybody. I'm sure they will. And if that happens, the damage will be immeasurable. Nobody will want to put money in Russia." She was dressed in a long tight dress with a slit that stretched all the way to her waist; it clawed even more provocatively higher when she moved. The dress was not expensive and didn't need to be; she could justify drools in kitchen rags. She entered the restaurant and wound her way through the tables, where her date for the evening awaited impatiently in a long cushioned booth in the back.

Golitsin had arrived ten minutes earlier. He was deep into his third scotch, a fine, imported blend he had acquired a taste for during his years in the KGB.

The restaurant was the most exclusive and most breathtakingly expensive in Moscow. At that moment, anyway: city hot spots fluctuated monthly, and after three weeks of endless lines, of thousand-dollar bribes to the owner for a reserved table, this place was peering at oblivion. The tables were filled with other crooks and entrepreneurs who were choking down caviar by the bushel and gulping enough champagne to float the Russian fleet. Enough cigarette smoke filled the air for an artillery duel. Beautiful women seemed to be littered around every table, hanging lustily on the arms of seriously rich men, laughing at full volume over the slightest ping of humor, generally working hard to ingratiate themselves enough to let the party last another day, another week, another month, before they were replaced by a more eager bimbo with longer legs and a louder, faster quick-draw giggle.

Long live capitalism.

"Nice place. You have good taste," Tatyana said, smiling nicely, not meaning a word of it.

Golitsin did not get up or even acknowledge the phony compliment. She slid into the booth across from him and offered a nice flash of thigh. Her blue blouse was cut precariously low-if she tripped, or stooped even one inch forward, her breasts would flop out.

"How are things in the Kremlin?" Golitsin asked.

"Tense. Always tense. Disaster always lurking around the corner."

The waiter rushed over. She ordered British gin, straight up, no water, no ice. Golitsin tipped his nearly empty glass and signaled for a refill. A small band sat in the corner, dressed as Cossacks, playing old Russian folk songs to an audience playing a new Russian game.

Golitsin informed her, "Let me tell you why we're here. I'm hearing rumors."

"What kind of rumors?"

"Bad ones for the lush."

"How bad?"

"The reactionary forces are going to take him down."

"They've been promising that for years."

"They're beyond promising. They're hiring hooligans off the streets, arming them, and preparing a showdown."

An eyebrow shot up. "How reliable are these rumors?"

"Believe them. My old KGB friends say it will happen any day."

"What about Rutskoi? He involved?" she asked in a low whisper, meaning, of course, Aleksandr Rutskoi, Yeltsin's vice president, a war hero from the Afghanistan debacle Yeltsin had taken aboard in the hope that Rutskoi could calm down the right-wing wackos and former communists who loathed Yeltsin with a passion that bordered on madness. But the marriage was ill-conceived and soured from the start. It sped bitterly downhill from there. They were very different kind of men: one malleable and political down to his underwear; the other the sort of military man who adored absolutes in everything but his own ethics. Aside from a few organs the only thing they shared in common was that they were both legendary blowhards with a bottomless lust for power. The two men now barely talked. Rutskoi schemed and plotted with his friends and allies in the Russian version of a Congress, undermining Yeltsin and his reforms at every turn. And Yeltsin worked hard to return the favor. Stealing a note from his American friends, he pushed his vice president into the shadows, and shoved him out the door every time there was a funeral anywhere in the world. "The Pallbearer," Yeltsin called him with considerable malice.

"In it up to his hips," Golitsin confirmed, finishing off his scotch.

Her gin arrived. She took a long, careful sip. "I know you hate him, but it would be bad luck for us and our plans if Yeltsin was toppled right now."

Barely paying attention, he now was looking over her shoulder at a man who had just swaggered through the entrance. Six leggy women of identical height and approximate weight and anorexic build were hanging off his arms, all with their hair died bright red, all dressed in identical red evening gowns. He thought at first he was seeing double, or triple, and it was time to cut back on the hooch. What a glorious time to be ridiculously rich and Russian.

"Maybe there's an opportunity in this for us," she suggested.

That got his attention. He shifted his rear and bent forward. "Like what?"

"Your old KGB friends now run the Ministry of Security and the security services. If there's bloodshed, they'll be Yeltsin's only hope."

"Yes, they will. What do we get in return?"

She was about to throw out an unconsidered answer when what had been a loud argument at the next table turned dangerously louder. Two millionaires were enjoying a heated argument over a business deal gone sour, both in full throttle about who had outcheated whom. One leaped from his chair and drew a gun. The two lovely blonde bimbos who were their evening entertainment screeched and hit the floor. The gunman was red-faced and howling curses, aiming the pistol in the face of the man across from him. It was such an everyday mess in Moscow business circles that the other patrons mostly ignored the fracas. They went about their meals, the girls laughed, the champagne flowed. Fortunately, like nearly every business in this raucous, crooked town, the restaurant had a protection contract with a crime syndicate. Two burly men hustled over, blackjacked the gun wielder into unconsciousness, kicked and pummeled him a few times out of habit, and dragged him out by the legs. Tatyana exploited the brief entertainment to ponder Golitsin's question more deeply.

The moment things settled down, she suggested, "How about this? In return we name the new attorney general."

It was a brilliant idea, of course. Golitsin saw the possibilities immediately. If they owned the attorney general, any potential Alex problems would go away. Nor, as they gobbled up other companies, would they have to look over their shoulders; they wouldn't worry about the legal authorities because they owned the head honcho. He bent farther forward and asked, "You think Yeltsin will bite?"

"If we time it just right, what choice will he have?"

He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat. "Wait till the blood is running, till the standoff reaches full pitch. Till he's absolutely desperate and has no choice. Great idea."

"Exactly. Can you deliver the Ministry of Security?"

He chuckled. Stupid question. "I'll appeal to their patriotism and I'll spread money around like there's no tomorrow. They may have demands of their own. I'll tell them to make a list."

The waiter arrived. It was nearly midnight, so they both went for the special, boar au gratin, which materialized almost instantly. Large slabs of it, buried under a ton of gooey white cheese and thick gravy. She drank measured sips of champagne with her meal, he stuck with scotch and drank without letup. She nibbled carefully and economically from the feast on her plate, he stuffed everything into his mouth and chewed with noisy vigor.

She stayed on small talk, but had another topic to discuss. A delicate one, and she wanted his stomach full and his incredible intelligence watered down with liquor before she made her move.

After desserts were delivered, she asked, "How do you like your new house?"

"It's wonderful." He tried to keep the nasty smile off his face, but couldn't help it. "I love sleeping in Konevitch's bed, knowing I took it from him. I hope he and his lovely brat are sleeping on a hard, bug-ridden bunk in a flophouse, surrounded by smelly winos and hacking dopers, and thinking about me."

"And how is business these days?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. She was sure he would lie.

As she guessed he would, he said, "Fine. Money's pouring through the doors."

She looked down and played with the silverware beside her plate. "I heard three of the subsidiaries are already bankrupt."

"Small setbacks," he replied smugly, waving for the waiter to haul over another glass of hooch. "We didn't want to be in hotels or restaurants, anyway. Lousy businesses. I'm getting rid of the bloat Konevitch left behind."

"Two more banks were just granted state licenses to exchange foreign currencies. You now have serious competition."

"They'll have to catch up to me. I won't make it easy."

"You kicked your price up to five percent for every ruble exchanged. They're offering two percent."

"Well, I give better service."

Better service, my ass, she wanted to say. Golitsin's posse of former KGB morons were ripping the guts out of Konevitch's business empire. The speed and efficiency was frightening. One of the twits had made the deplorable decision to shift the tourist company to a lower-fare airline. The first load of paying customers died horribly in a fiery plane crash. Worse, the passengers thought they were traveling to a sex vacation in Thailand; the plane was headed for a run-down health clinic in Poland.

The construction business was an unfolding disaster. Without Alex's name on the letterhead, no new contracts had come in. Nor, after the latest stumble, were they likely to. A huge high-rise under construction on the outer ring had collapsed in a spectacular heap. Ten workers crushed to death, twenty more in the hospital. The cause was an incredible decision by another of the twits to use less expensive wood beams in place of the thick metal ones clearly stipulated by the now enraged architects. Tatyana managed to pull a few strings and have the investigation squelched. The damage was done, though. Half the construction workforce quit on the spot; the other half were making ugly sounds about a strike.

Another twit, this one in charge of the bank, ignored the growing spread between government bonds and interest rates. A small, momentary blip on a computer screen and, like that, a hundred million, gone. Amazing.

The list of problems was endless, horrible, and growing. The car importing company shipped five hundred Mercedes sedans to the wrong cities, then hiked up the prices so high that the inventory was rusting on the lots. The hundred Mercedes convertibles that ended up in Yakutsk, a frigid penal colony near the Arctic Circle, were going to be a bitch to move at any price. The complicated computer program confused him, that twit whined afterward. And another idiot, this one in the arbitrage business, had purchased two thousand tons of the most expensive iron ore in history. He misread the code, thought it was silver at a great price, he insisted after he annihilated any possibility of the arbitrage business having a profitable year.

Another few months at this hideous pace and there'd be nothing left.

As per the original deal, Tatyana was a partner in Golitsin Enterprises-a hidden partner, of course-and she was quietly seething. From the beginning Golitsin had demanded Konevitch's cash for himself. His idea, his brilliant plan, his inspirational leadership; the instant gratification was rightfully his, every bit of it, he insisted. She had neither objected nor debated that point-she hadn't seen a reason to-and now she sorely regretted it. Looking back, it seemed so naive. Stupid. But by any reasonable measure, at the time her take was around fifty million in stock in companies that were wildly flourishing and threatening to double or triple in a few brief years. At the time, that struck her as ample restitution for her part in the heist.

She doubted she could unload her shares now at any price. The smart money had already sprinted out of the banks; even the dumb money was pawing the exits. Lawsuits were piling up over shoddy workmanship, false promises, missed deliveries, slipped deadlines, and of course the furiously grieving families of the people slaughtered by that fly-by-night excuse for an airline booked by Golitsin's twits. Who knew what awful disaster would happen next? She had no legal friends, but plenty of attorney acquaintances, all of whom were eyeing Golitsin Enterprises with considerable intensity. They were salivating to get a piece of the action.

But Tatyana was a realist. Nothing she could say would change things. Golitsin, for all his brilliance and canniness, had no interest or talent for commerce. And his thugs had as much business running a company as three-year-olds playing with nuclear warheads. Tugging fingernails out of helpless prisoners was one thing; squeezing profit out of finicky customers quite another.

"I contacted Konevitch," she said, almost in a whisper.

"You what?"

She bent forward. "You heard me, Sergei. Konevitch. I dispatched an officer of the Security Ministry to make him an offer."

"You must have a death wish. You have no business free-lancing."

"Well… then forgive me. I'm looking out for both our interests." Even she couldn't make that sound authentic. Golitsin's face reddened, his eyes narrowed into angry slits.

"Answer me this, Sergei. How much interest are you getting from the bank where the money is stashed?"

"None of your business."

"It won't hurt to tell me. How much?"

"It's a big pile of money. A mountain, really. A little interest goes a long way."

"If it's a Swiss bank, about one percent, am I right?"

"Around there," he snarled-not that one percent of 250 million was anything to be ashamed of. Besides, one didn't go to the Swiss for the interest.

"What if Konevitch could double it every few years? He's a genius. It will be easy to build in a few safeguards. He'll never actually touch the money. For a small share in the profits we'll be buying his golden touch."

"Not interested."

"Why aren't you? Because you're making a fortune from Golitsin Enterprises?" she asked with a constricted smile.

Since it was a privately owned company there was no financial reporting or formalized information flowing to the shareholders. He briefly wondered how much she knew. Too much, judging by the shrewd tone of her voice. He pulled a long sip of scotch, then admitted, "There have been a few small setbacks."

"Does Nicky know yet?" she asked, thrusting the knife a little deeper. "He's also a partner, last time I checked."

Golitsin flicked a hand through the air as if it didn't bother him in the least. He wasn't happy that she brought it up, though. Nicky definitely was not the sort of partner you wanted to disappoint with bad news. "What's your point?" he asked nastily.

"Two points. One, Konevitch is very good at making money," she said, and the insinuation was clear and painful-Golitsin and his band of fools would alchemize gold into Silly Putty. "Two, if we employ him," she continued, "we own him. He won't run and tattle, because it won't be in his interest. And he'll be a co-conspirator."

"Where is he?"

"New York City."

"A big place. Where in New York?"

"I don't know exactly."

He knew she was lying. Her lips were moving, so of course she was lying. "If you don't know, how did you reach him?"

"Why does it matter? Are you in or out?"

"What do you get out of it?"

"A reasonable share of the profits. Nothing exorbitant, say thirty percent. It's my idea, after all."

Golitsin knew damn well what she was up to. She wanted to get her fingers on the money, the cash. His millions. She would set up this arrangement with Konevitch, then figure out a scheme to rob him blind.

Well, he knew damn well what he wanted, too. More than ever, more than anything, he wanted that boy dead. Just dead. That he was running Konevitch's companies into the ground-he was too painfully aware of the snickers and rumors roaring around the city-only made him detest the man all the more.

He sat back, drew a few heavy breaths, and struggled to clear his brain. Maybe killing him was the wrong approach. Maybe he was being impetuous and shortsighted. In fact, enlisting Konevitch in this scheme might be a great idea. It felt better by the moment-let the genius double or triple his money, get the boy's fingers nice and dirty, and if Konevitch made one wrong move, then find a way to blow the whistle and humiliate him once again. Why not?

He could always kill him.

He asked, innocently enough, but without commitment, "And how did he sound about the offer?"

"Interested. He made a few demands. Don't worry, I'll grind him down."

"All right," he growled, playing at phony reluctance. "Go ahead. Make the deal. See where it goes."