The Hunted

15

Early October 1993 Midnight, and Elena was lying awake, improving her English by watching an old American western. The tense gunfight was interrupted, midshot, by a tedious toothpaste commercial, so she casually flipped over to CNN for a quick peek at what was happening around the world, late-night. They were back in their suite in the Plaza, counting the days and waiting for whoever sent Volevodz to call.

She reached across the bed and shook her husband awake. "Alex, look what's happening," she said, almost yelling, aiming a finger at the flickering tube across the room.

Alex sat up and stretched, glanced briefly at the tube, and froze. At that instant, a line of tanks was pouring salvo after salvo at the Russian White House, Russia's rather less than elegant equivalent of a parliamentary building. The top floors burned brightly. Fresh shells were striking the sides of the building, sending showers of shattered glass and debris that bounced off the concrete apron.

An unseen male correspondent was providing commentary in a hurried, theatrical voice: "The Supreme Soviet, as the Russian Congress is still known, a week ago voted to impeach Boris Yeltsin and replace him with his hard-line vice president, Aleksandr Rutskoi. A few hours ago, in this very building, Rutskoi signed a decree announcing his own presidency. The fencing that has gone back and forth for months, the largely communist and right-wing deputies voting first to emasculate Yeltsin's reforms and power, and now to replace him, has finally erupted in violence. The past week there have been scattered skirmishes around the capital. Now there are two presidents of Russia. And now… the fate of democracy hangs in the balance."

Elena reached for the phone, called room service, and ordered two pots of coffee, with a fresh pot to be delivered every hour until she notified them otherwise. The drama, with overheated updates, unfolded throughout the night. Alex and Elena never budged. They sipped coffee, munched toast, spoke little, and watched in fascination. The troops surrounding the White House were part of the Ministry of Security. The trigger-happy tanks were courtesy of the army.

Inside the building, Vice President Rutskoi and a band of mutinous deputies, as well as a large clutch of armed thugs, were making their last stand. For the second time in two years, Russia's future hung over a bitter standoff at this same building. This time, though, the roles were reversed. Instead of Yeltsin flipping the bird at the old boys in the Kremlin, he was the one being flipped, the one who dispatched the tanks to flatten his opposition.

At seven the next morning the television showed Rutskoi and his humbled lieutenants waving a desultory white flag and scurrying from the still burning building. They were quickly slapped in handcuffs, forced into waiting vans, and driven off to prison.

The American president immediately issued a statement lauding a great victory of democracy, and a painful but desperately necessary move by his dear, dear friend Boris.

The screen quickly filled with talking heads who, as so often was the case, proceeded with silky conviction and utter certitude to get it all incredibly wrong. One graying authority in oversized horn-rimmed glasses made an analogy to Hitler's failed putsch in Munich. Another crowed that Yeltsin was the Lincoln of this era, a decisive, principled man who had locked horns with the devil and kicked his butt. Russia was saved, democracy triumphed, Yeltsin the hero of the hour, was the common refrain across network world.

Alex watched it all in sheer disgust. "They have no idea what they've just seen," he whispered to Elena, who was nibbling on a piece of cold toast.

"No, they're idiots," she agreed between bites.

"You saw who saved Yeltsin?"

"The Security people and the army."

"Yes, all former KGB people. You know what this means? Yeltsin cut a deal with them."

"How much trouble are we in?" Elena asked, though she knew the answer.

"A lot. This is the end of our Russian experiment in democracy. From here on, the old boys will take back what Yeltsin took from them, and there's nothing to stop them. The people who stole our money now have no fear. Even if I got through to Yeltsin, he's in their pocket. "

"He won't lift a finger to help. He sold his soul," Elena said, finishing the thought. The call came a full two days later. The voice was a woman's, Anna, throaty and sultry, no last name.

Alex cut off her attempt at pleasantries and opened the bidding. "You heard my requirements?"

"Volevodz explained everything."

"Good. What's your answer?"

"Thirty percent might be a reasonable compensation, but it will be structured differently. I'll draw up a contract that pegs your take a little more precisely." And along the way, I'll whack off as many points as I can get away with and add them to my own total, she thought, but didn't explain.

"I won't commit until I see the details," Alex told her very quickly.

"That's understandable. But forget the five million bonus. Out of the question."

"I considered it a reasonable request. Of course, I have no idea how big the base is. Volevodz mentioned several hundred million."

"So you were for shooting for the stars. I don't blame you. But let's say it's in the several hundred million range now. It will be more in the future, considerably more. Down the road, based on your performance, we can talk about a structured bonus. Not until we see how good you are."

"Who are you?" Alex asked.

Anna, actually Tatyana, laughed playfully. "Alex, you're smarter than that."

Yes, he was. Also a painfully good listener. She was playing it close to the vest, but she had already made one serious slip-"I'll draw up a contract." Alex took a moment and added it up. Female by sex, Anna obviously an imaginary name, a lawyer most certainly, from her voice late twenties, early thirties at the outside, and Alex guessed she probably worked in the Kremlin or held a senior government position of some sort. Also arrogant and pushy and sly-of course, that could fit almost any lawyer. From her tone of smug self-assurance, Alex suspected she was very pretty, possibly beautiful.

"Explain how this is supposed to work," Alex asked. "Obviously you have no intention of assigning me direct control over the money."

"Good guess. You'll work through a team of accountants and brokers who report to me. You tell them what you'd like to do, they inform me, not a penny gets moved until I approve it. You'll receive daily updates from them. Satisfactory?"

"It's not ideal, no."

"From your angle, I'm sure it's not. It looks perfect from mine." "Listen to me. The best investments don't give warning. A difference between interest spreads, for instance, can last seconds. The same is true in the arbitrage game. It's a very narrow strike window-miss it, and you can forget about it. If you want spectacular returns, I can't be handicapped by time. How many people have to approve my decisions?"

"Nice try. Next question."

"Where's the money now?"

"Try again."

"How much is it earning?"

"You're starting to bore me."

"Am I? Look, I won't take this job if Golitsin is in the decision loop. I've read what he's done to my companies. What a disaster. He couldn't make two cents if it was raining dollars."

Another very serious mistake on her part. A long, revealing pause before she snapped, "Who and how the decisions are made is my business." Then, after another moment, "You'd better be done with your demands. Let me remind you, you're broke, on the run, and wanted for crimes here in Russia. But you can lose more, a lot more. I'm offering you a chance to make some of your money back."

"Your generosity chokes me up."

"I know. Do you want it or not, Alex?"

Alex glanced carefully at Elena, who was resting on the bed, biting her lip and trying her best to appear noncommittal and supportive of whatever choice he made-and failing miserably.

This was the moment; did he or didn't he? Yes or no?

"Not," he replied without hesitation.

"Don't be foolish. I'm offering you a great deal."

"A great deal for you. It stinks for me."

"Take a minute, Alex. Cool down and think like a businessman, be practical. You really have no clue of how powerful we are, do you? How easily we can reach you."

"I'll take my chances."

"You'll regret it. Believe me, I'll-"

"I'd say nice talking with you, but it wasn't," Alex interrupted and pushed disconnect.

The instant it hit the cradle, Elena lifted up the phone and immediately placed a call to the hotel switch in the basement.

Her friend Amber, the head operator, had a live-in boyfriend who happened to work for the phone service that tied the hotel to the outside world. Amber promised to get right back with the phone number of their recent caller.

Two minutes later, Amber called with the number, which Elena hastily scribbled on the hotel stationery. Alex took it, studied it a moment-he did not recognize it-then stuffed it inside his pant pocket.

Elena sat on the bed, quietly pleased that her husband had refused the offer. An enormously talented genius at business he might be, but she was sure he was over his head with these people. He'd been surprisingly successful to date, and she prayed he didn't delude himself about why. Too much of that success rested on underestimation and beginner's luck. With each success the underestimation wore off. And luck could run out. Also, his plan had relied on Boris Yeltsin, an ambitious man she had never fully trusted. Alex had seen him as an embattled figure struggling to end dictatorship and bring democracy to Russia. Elena was convinced that his own hopes had blinded him to the man's considerable faults. He was a politician, for all the good and bad that implied. Boris had grabbed a tiger by the tail, and the tiger was angry and hungry.

Boris would happily cram Alex into the tiger's jaws if that kept the resentful tiger from eating him.

"So what will we do?" she asked.

"Hire an investigator in Moscow. Mikhail Borosky always did great work for me. He's incredibly competent, and discreet. I trust him completely."

"I know Mikhail's good, but what's the point?"

"We won't know until he digs and finds out a little more. Maybe it'll help, maybe not. At least he'll have a few leads to go on."

"Do you want to get the companies back?"

He shook his head sadly. "You haven't been reading the business news online. What's left isn't worth owning. Golitsin is way over his head. Banking is a business built on confidence. In two short months, he's ruined everything."

"So what's the point of hiring Mikhail?"

"I want to learn more about these people."

"That will take time. Maybe a lot of time. What will we do in the meantime?"

"We're leaving. Right away."

"Are we in trouble again?"

"Big trouble. This sounded very much like a final offer. The lady became very threatening at the end of the call."

"Are you as frightened as I am?" Elena asked.

"Terrified," Alex admitted.

Alex went to the closet, lifted their suitcases and overnight bags, and hauled them over to the bed. Inside thirty seconds, they were cramming clothes and belongings into the bags.

"What's next?" Elena asked.

"Hire a lawyer and apply for political asylum here in America. I have a perfectly legitimate case. They'll kill me if I ever return to Russia."

"So we'll be Americans."

"Why not, it's a land of immigrants. We're young and we can adjust. What do you think?"

Elena was struggling to fold one of her new skirts, a red thing with a thousand pleats that defied her every effort. "It's different… but I think I'll like it," she said, a little tentatively, a little sad. Until this moment, she had never really believed that they had departed Russia for good. The thought of leaving their lives behind, permanently, was deeply unsettling.

"Is there someplace else you'd rather go?"

She shook her head. She would sorely miss her parents and her friends. And okay, sure, it would be difficult to adjust to America's peculiar ways-people here were so flagrantly casual, so obtrusively personal, and their sense of humor was so weird. But she loved Alex, had from the moment she laid eyes on him-and her instincts told her this was the one place in the world where he would be happy, the one place he could be productive, the one place they would be safe. "What will we do for a living?"

"Start over. Build a business of some sort."

"You know, Alex, if you could make a fortune in Russia, there's no reason you won't do the same thing here. I'll help you. In fact, it should be easier. America is a land of laws and respect for property. Rich people aren't despised here."

"We'll need a place to live," he said, and she readily agreed-just definitely not like the old one, she thought. A small, livable home, no servants, and definitely unpretentious enough that nobody made a point of spitting hawkers on their doorstep.

They began listing the requirements. A safe place, she said very firmly, with guards and doormen, where they could sleep without worrying about Golitsin's thugs. Great, but it would have to be in or very near a metropolis, he replied-a bustling, prosperous city where money grew on trees. Not too big a city, she countered, and that swiftly ruled out New York and Chicago and Atlanta. California and Florida, in fact the entire South, and the Southwest, were too hot and miserably humid for their thick Russian blood. The Midwest was too plainly American, too parochial, and they doubted they would fit in. They were quickly running out of real estate.

An idea popped into her brain and, since time was short, and all other options were evaporating, Alex quickly agreed.

Washington. They would settle in that charming city, not too small, not too large, filled with impressive monuments, noisy politicians, and gobs of money. The more they considered it, the better it looked. They would find a nice home, stuff it with furniture, make a normal life, and quickly-and quietly-gather another fortune.

Plus, it was a city of lawyers, after all. It should be easy to locate a good one with loads of experience and contacts in immigration matters and get the paperwork started.

Alex warned, "We'll have to cover our tracks."

That sobering thought brought Elena back from her rosy dreams of the future-to-be to the here and now. "They'll keep hunting for us, won't they?"

"For a while, yes." He paused and looked at the window. "We have to mislead them on our way out. I'll need your help."

"Will this go on forever, Alex?"

"No. Not if we disappear and leave them alone. I think they'll forget about us, eventually. The idea is to be sure we aren't worth their time or effort."

By six, they had rented a car, stocked it with maps, and loaded the trunk with everything they owned. For a former mogul and his wife, it was almost pitiful-Alex's office supplies and what little clothing and toiletries they had gathered since their arrival. Alex checked out, with cash, then, accompanied by Elena, headed for the phone bank in the basement, where they discussed their plan with Elena's friend Amber. Ignoring her protests, Alex stuffed three thousand dollars into her palm with orders to keep a thousand or two for herself and spread the rest around liberally to select members of the hotel staff.

Amber pecked Elena on the cheek, hugged her tightly, and wished them both luck.

Fourteen hours after they departed, the team of killers arrived. They pushed through the door and began prowling the lobby, looking for their prey. There were six of them in all, five men and one lady, Katya, their old tormentor from Budapest, who had arrived only hours before, after being dispatched on a swift overnight from Russia. She was along to brief the new boys about Konevitch's elusiveness and ensure positive confirmation once the deed was done. At least that was the reason Golitsin had offered her and his partners, Tatyana and Nicky. A more truthful reply was that he did not trust Nicky. He wanted some of his own muscle involved.

The other killers were Americanized Russians, immensely talented at murder, citizens of Brighton Beach, connected through two or three shell companies to Nicky's expansive organization.

It had been easy enough to trace the phone number Tatyana handed Nicky after Konevitch told her to piss off; a swift look-see through the Manhattan Yellow Pages led them straight to the Plaza.

Alex was here, they were sure of it. His room number was the one mystery, but they would learn it quickly. Two men would remain downstairs in the lobby, one by each exit to block any attempt at escape. The rest would rush upstairs, employ a crowbar to burst through the doors, and toss the Konevitches through the window down onto the busy street below. If it turned out the room was on a lower level, knives and garrotes would do the trick.

The people at the reception counter refused to offer any information no matter how much Katya pleaded or offered in bribes. Customer confidentiality was an obligation taken quite seriously at the Plaza. Fine. The killers fanned out and began accosting maids and waiters, employees on the lower end of the pay scale, who might, for the right price, entertain a slight breach of hospitality ethics.

Katya, with considerably more experience in assassination matters, had a better idea. She took the elevator to the basement where the phone bank was located. The door was locked, so she knocked. A young woman opened it and Katya agilely stepped inside before she could be stopped. A large black woman who apparently was in charge pushed her rear out of her chair, stepped away from the switch console, and approached her.

"Sorry, you have to leave right now. This is a restricted area," she squawked with a posture that brooked no objections.

Katya spoke flawless English, but she hammed it up a bit, pretending she didn't fully understand. She slathered on the accent and said, "I am for my little sister looking. She is staying here, I am sure."

The black lady squared her heels and crossed her arms. "Then you need to go upstairs. Talk to reception. This is an employee-only room."

"Please, you must help me," Katya said with a long, uncomprehending frown. "She is named Elena. Elena Konevitch. She is here with husband."

Amber's big face retracted into a thousand suspicious wrinkles. "How come you don't know where your sister is?"

"She and her husband, Alex, they fled Russia. Alex does bad things there. Now is hiding."

"Bad things?"

"Yes, very, very bad. But our mother, she is most desperately sick. Dying, I think. I come because Elena must learn this." A long, pleading look. "Please, please, please, you must be of help to me."

Elena's big sister, my big ass. Who the hell did this Russian bitch think she was fooling, Amber thought. Her hands landed on her hips. "You missed 'em. Yep, yesterday they checked out in a hurry. Said they were headed for Chicago."

"Chicago?" Katya repeated, a little stunned.

"Uh-huh, Chicago. Said they were tired of New York and planned to settle there."

"Did they leave a forwarding address? A phone number, maybe?"

Amber's large hand popped out. Katya at first looked befuddled. The hand stayed put and she got the message. She yanked a twenty out of her pocket and slammed it onto the palm. The hand stayed put. Welcome to America, bitch. Not until four more twenties hit the pot did the hand retract.

"Nope," Amber said.

"They left no word? None?"

"That's right, none."

"Did they go by car, train, plane?" Katya was so disturbed at missing them, her concocted accent was melting.

"If I had to guess, he and your sister are gonna make themselves scarce. Be damned hard to find, know what I'm saying?"

Katya stared into her face for a long moment, spun on her heels, and departed. The door shut with a loud, angry bang.

At that moment, Maria Sanchez, an upstairs maid, was fingering the hundred in her pocket and recounting the same lie to two of the men on the hit team. Chicago, she told them with absolute certainty. She had overheard the Konevitches discussing the city as she cleaned their room two days before. Stacks of Chicago maps and travel guides sat on their bedside table; they sounded thrilled and eager to get on the road.

Amber figured she had at least bought the Konevitches a little time. A few weeks, maybe. With luck, a few months. But if the killers were serious, they would eventually track them down.