The Hunted

16

John Tromble was a man in a hurry. He had raced through a few years as a federal prosecutor, then sprinted through five more of a federal judgeship, and now was midway in his third year as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-the youngest ever, he reminded you quickly, in the event you failed to bring it up. He quickly stretched his long legs and speed-read a little more of the thick dossier produced by his staff in preparation for this trip.

He planned to spend another two years in this job, make a big splash, then pole-vault to the next level. A vice presidential candidacy wasn't out of the question; a senatorship should be easy pickings. Or barring that, open a private security firm and quickly haul in millions. With a mountain of cash, he could do whatever he wished. He read quickly, ate quickly, slept in a hurry, even had sex at astonishing speed. Everything he did, full speed ahead.

The plane was thirty minutes out from Sheremetyevo Airport, which apparently was on the outskirts of Moscow. If he were flying this damn thing he'd sure as hell find a way to make it in fifteen minutes.

Having slept since Washington, he had woken up thirty minutes before, showered, shaved, and slapped on a freshly pressed suit. He stole a quick glance in the mirror before he left the special cabin of this very special plane to make his final preparations for this very special trip. The rear of the plane was stuffed with as many American reporters as his aides and cronies could entice or cajole and cram aboard. The press would be shoved off five minutes before him. Oh yes, there they would be, a large, impatient mob at the bottom of the steps, snapping away as he made his majestic descent, capturing shot after shot of his photogenic face. The remains of a low-cal breakfast sat on the tray above his lap. He was sipping quickly and noisily from a bottled water, nose buried in the dossier, straining to avoid conversation.

Across from him sat Laura Tingleman, attorney general, and putatively his boss. She had worked through the entire flight since they lifted off from Andrews Air Force base twelve hours before. She was crumpled into her seat with her nose stuffed in her BlackBerry. She looked wrinkled, tired, and wrung out. She was a large, heavy, unimpressive-looking type, fifty years old, though she appeared a very poorly kept sixty, with a broad face that managed, somehow, always to convey panic.

This first year in her job had been unfortunate. For one thing, she was, quite publicly, the president's fourth choice. This happened only after it was revealed that choice one was doing the bedsheet tango with his underage nanny; Tromble had seen her, and to the man's credit, the nanny did not in fact look at all as if she was only fourteen; more like sixteen. This happened only after it was disclosed that choice two had taken numerous fat bribes from several very crooked oil companies. This happened only after it was discovered that choice three, a superior court judge in California, had spent his misguided youth dodging the draft, calling cops pigs, stuffing all nature of questionable substances up his snout, and barbecuing American flags. Perfect qualifications for a judgeship in California, but the rest of the country did not embrace his background.

After these train wrecks, Laura Tingleman had been found tucked away in a backcountry Montana circuit court, a low-key, competent judge who handled mostly divorces and small-time land disputes. Little to no political experience, no national exposure, zero controversial decisions, no overturned verdicts-all in all, Laura Tingleman was as apt to raise as much controversy as chicken soup. No bad habits, as best they could tell. Never married, thus never divorced; in fact, the lead FBI investigator who rummaged through her background even surmised that she might be a fifty-year-old virgin, if such a thing existed. Best of all, she was a woman! The first ever nominated for attorney general, and feminist leaders around the country growled that whoever opposed her would face a backlash of historic proportions.

It helped that she was a nice person, if deeply out of her depth, polite, respectful, and deeply religious, though not a zealot. Her nomination sailed through without a hitch.

Tromble detested her. There was room for only one legal superstar in this administration, one shining protector of America from the crooks, terrorists, and perverts who lurked in the dark shadows. And he, after all, was the whiz kid who came up the hard way through intellectual brilliance, sharp elbows, and unrelenting work. Yale undergrad, Harvard Law, and he had done his time in the legal trenches; she had been plucked out of Nowhere, Montana, for the plain and simple reason that she had no disputable accomplishments, or indeed any accomplishments at all.

And though it was true he had not been a popular prosecutor or judge, he had been greatly feared. The exception was cops, who adored him because he hammered defense attorneys and meted out terrifying sentences. His record of overturned verdicts was shocking.

In fact, the New York appellate court, tired of an exhausting docket overloaded with his weekly brutality, was about to serve notice of a review hearing when news broke that he was somehow, incredibly, on the president's short list for FBI director. The appellate judges were appalled. They gathered together in a private chamber and considered whether to blow the whistle on a judge they regarded as little short of a Nazi. No, no, one wise, notably liberal senior justice advised with a deep smile; don't shovel manure in a gift horse's mouth; at least John Tromble would be out of their hair. They could look forward again to being home by dinnertime and Friday golf.

In the expiring days of his outgoing presidency, the incumbent's predecessor, normally a moderate who had appointed two mild liberals to the Supreme Court, had spent his last political capital on the Hill to get Tromble this job. He took charge of ushering the appointment personally, called in every chit, used up every threat, and bent elbows until the sound of arms cracking thundered around the Senate. It was his finest hour. Had he poured that kind of energy and spirited determination into running the country, that southern governor who shellacked him at the polls would be back chasing skirts around some small southern town.

He was leaving his successor a poisoned chalice-a bundle of combustible, no-holds-barred, law-and-order ambition who would steamroll anything or anybody in his path, he confided to his chief of staff in a giggly private moment. He intended to sit back in his retirement and laugh at all the trouble John Tromble caused that southern boy. It was going to be horrendous.

And now, after two fairly low-key years in office, two years that were sadly unacclaimed, Judge Tromble had decided the time had come to kick it up a notch. Crime rates had dropped substantially under his watch, but the liberal press loathed him and credited a hundred other causes-from a diminishing appetite for crack, to all the hardened crooks already rotting in prison, to a religious revival in the Deep South and Midwest. He needed something-anything-they could not misinterpret or take away from him. He needed a signature issue, and he turned his fiercely impatient eyes on America's newest threat-international crime, foreign crooks on American soil, or maybe a little off it. First up, the Russian Mafiya.

Unfortunately for Alex and Elena Konevitch, their fates now rested in the hands of an attorney general in search of sea legs, and an FBI director with omnivorous ambitions and a few fairly strange ideas about justice. The long line of limos cruised to a stop on the cobblestone plaza. Tromble's aides and coatholders-the fanny-wiping brigade they were called by the jaded field agents-tumbled out in an unruly mass, took a moment to get organized, then were ushered quickly through the historic Kremlin doors, up two flights of stairs, and directly into the cavernous office of Anatoli Fyodorev, Russia's attorney general.

Introductions were handled briskly in a no-nonsense fashion. Several of Fyodorev's stone-faced assistants were gathered around the office walls, not introduced. Among them stood a very striking young lady in a breathtakingly short skirt who smiled nicely as the procession entered.

Fyodorev sat down on a tall chair behind a desk that looked bigger than Finland. Two chairs-little more than small stools, actually-were positioned before the desk. After a moment of confusion, Tingleman and Tromble edged precariously onto the chairs. Their knees were nearly in their faces, their elbows almost on the floor. They were forced to stare up at Fyodorev.

A representative from the American embassy took a standing position slightly behind them, notepad in one hand, pen poised in the other. They had been assured that Fyodorev's English was exceptional-translation was neither needed nor wanted. The embassy flunky's real job was to take detailed notes, and pay careful attention to anything the professional diplomats would have to clean up afterward. Shovel duty.

Fyodorev was the host and he opened with a long windy soliloquy about how, national differences aside, they were all in the same business. To wit, law enforcement. Spiritual brothers and sisters. Bonded by their common enmity to criminals, and so on, and so forth-etcetera and double etcetera.

Fyodorev eventually wrapped up and Tromble summoned his important face and, before Tingleman could utter a word, quickly announced, "We're here to discuss bilateral cooperation in matters of crime."

"A nice term," Fyodorev noted dryly. "What does it mean?"

"Well… for starters, I'd like to offer you a few slots each year for your people to attend our FBI Academy."

"Why? Is it better than ours?"

The State Department flunky dashed off a few heavy notes on his legal pad. With limited success, he tried to keep the smirk off his face. Boy, this was going to be fun.

"I… well, yes, probably. It has a certain reputation. Also, we think you might want to place some of your people in our profiling center down at Quantico."

Fyodorev's elbows landed heavily on his desk. "Explain this term, 'profiling.'"

"It's, um, well, it refers to specialists who employ psychiatry to get inside criminal minds. We've found it quite effective. Serial killers, for example, tend to exhibit complementary patterns. If you can figure that out, you can stop them and find them."

A dismissive grin. "Russia has no serial killers."

"Works pretty good against serial rapists, also. Or serial arsonists, if you have any of those."

"We have neither. Those are American problems."

The State guy was now composing entire paragraphs.

Who is this guy kidding? Tromble thought. He was sure his leg was being pulled and he laughed. Fyodorev developed a very deep frown.

The hottie in the short skirt suddenly shoved herself off the wall and moved to a position beside Fyodorev's desk. She said to him, "Anatoli, we're being terrible hosts. It's been a long, tiring trip for our American guests. Maybe they would like coffee."

Whoever she was, she had an interesting relationship with Fyodorev, because his demeanor turned on a dime. The angered frown converted instantly into a gracious smile. "Yes… yes, you're right. Coffee, anybody?"

Tromble said yes, black, no sugar, no cream. Laura chose tea, doused with sugar and cream. One of the aides shoved off from the wall and scurried off to retrieve the refreshments.

The young lady with the glorious legs slid around the desk and, with a glowing smile and firm handshake, introduced herself. Tatyana something-or-other-she explained she worked not here, in the attorney general's office, but upstairs, for his boss. She was a lawyer who frequently advised Yeltsin on legal matters. This seemed to justify her presence.

"Why don't we all adjourn to the conference table?" she suggested, quite hospitably.

Why not? For sure, the current arrangement was a bust. They shifted from their stools and desks to comfortable chairs abutting a huge walnut block table by a large window. Tingleman and Tromble sat side by side, in an uncomfortable silence.

Miss Tatyana Whoever sat closely beside Fyodorev on the other side of the long, gleaming table. They made small talk about the flight and weather and a dozen other uninteresting topics. Once the coffees and teas were delivered and the room had cooled to a level of moderate tension, Tatyana said, "Let's not beat around the bush. What is it you'd really like to discuss?"

Tromble's briefing papers, prepared by a bunch of stuffy eggheads over at State, had stipulated that the Russians were consummate horse traders. Never arrive empty-handed: give a little, get a little. In that spirit, he had started-more accurately, he had tried to start-by offering them a few handsome concessions before he got down to his own request.

But if she could come right to the point, so could he. "Your Mafiya," he said very importantly.

"What about them?"

"Since the wall came down, they've become your biggest export. They're crawling all over our cities. They've turned Miami into a free-fire zone. Brighton Beach is a funeral parlor." Tromble worked up a nasty grimace. "They're a very nasty lot."

"Tell me about it," Fyodorev said, shaking his head with disgust. "Total vermin. The most ruthless, brutal criminals in the world."

"Yes, so we're learning," Tingleman replied, slightly irritated, not really clued in to what her FBI director had in mind for this visit. She had been told it was no more than a diplomatic meet-and-greet, part of the required protocol for her office, a chance to get away from the daily grind of Washington. "Our own Italian Mafiosi are civilized gentlemen compared to your guys. With your people, no finesse, no rules, no attractive traditions. They kill over nothing."

"We're not proud of them," Fyodorev replied with an uneven shrug.

"I'm under great pressure from my president to do something about them," Tromble insisted, regaining the initiative.

A lie. His president could care less about anything that didn't register in national polls and outside Hollywood, where a fresh species of frightening brutes was always a welcome addition; the average Joe knew nothing about Russia's Mafiya and could care less.

Fyodorev looked sympathetic.

"I need a favor," Tromble continued with a friendly smile. "As you know, we have a small FBI field station at our embassy here in Moscow. Yeltsin personally signed the agreement. That was two years ago."

Tatyana noted, "And it expires in a few months."

"Exactly. Now I'd like an extension. Say, another five years. And I want to triple the size."

"How many of your people are here now?" Fyodorev asked.

"Four. Four overworked, exhausted agents," Tromble said sourly. "Two broken marriages, one newly minted alcoholic, one attempted suicide. Sad to say, it has become the most unpopular posting in the Bureau."

"Twelve would be a lot," Fyodorev countered, obviously cool to the idea. "This is, after all, Russian soil."

"I know, I know. But your Mafiya is huge, and growing fast. Ambitious, too. They're blasting their way into everything. Dope, whores, kidnapping, extortion. The bodies are piling up. Four agents barely make a dent. Besides, I hoped we would work this problem together."

"Together?"

"Well, yes. Presumably your people have a better handle on your own Mafiya than we do."

"I would hope that's the case."

"What if some of my agents worked full-time with your people?"

"Like liaisons?" Tatyana suggested, nudging Fyodorev with her knee under the table.

"That's the general idea. At our end, we're dealing with Mafiya foot soldiers. That's not working. Take one off the street, and in days he's replaced with two more. We presume that the heads of all these organizations are here, in Russia." Nobody contradicted that obvious point and he pushed ahead. "And you can put some of your people at my headquarters. We'll share intelligence, share everything we learn and tip each other off. Maybe perform a few big busts together."

Tatyana maintained a straight face, but her heart was racing. Oh, what an incredibly great idea: yes, we can share intelligence, the more the better. Wait until Nicky heard what had just landed in her lap. He would know everything the FBI was up to. He would learn the names of every plant, every snitch, every stoolie. Through her, he could set up his opposition and exploit the FBI boys to squash their American operations. It would be a windfall. Nicky's American branch would grow by leaps and bounds.

And it would all depend on little old Tatyana. She liked to be needed. Service like that doesn't come cheap.

A slight nod from Tatyana to Fyodorev, who glanced in her direction every few seconds.

"Of course we'll share the headlines?" Fyodorev asked, showing he and Tromble were kindred spirits.

"Wouldn't dream otherwise," Tromble lied.

"Why only twelve agents?" Tatyana asked. "And why only five years? Our Mafiya have been around for seven decades. They're such an institution, I hardly think we'll defeat them in only five years. Make it twenty agents. Thirty, if you wish. And a ten-year extension strikes me as much more reasonable."

Tromble reached both hands under the table and steadied his knees. This was everything he'd hoped for, times two or three. Ol' J. Edgar may have created the FBI and put it on the map, but he was determined to claw out his own storied place in Bureau legend. He was going to take America's only national police force and turn it into an international juggernaut. It would be twice as big before he was through: maybe more, maybe much more. He intended to have his agents in every damn embassy in every damn country in the world. A bigger operations center would be necessary, a real monster with dozens of lit-up screens constantly flashing the latest updates about Chink Triads, and Jap Yakuzas, French wharf rats, and Tibetan whatever-the-hell-they-weres. He would have a big seat in the middle of it all, a throne from which he could survey his crime-busting kingdom.

He bit his lip. "That all sounds reasonable to me."

"Good," said Tatyana with the great legs. She started to stand, then lightly tapped her forehead. She slid back into her seat, frowning, distracted. "There is, uh, one thing you can do for us, John. A favor. A very, very important one."

"Name it."

It was a gamble, but why not? How much was this worth to Tromble? She said, "There is a certain criminal who fled Russia. Alex Konevitch. He's hiding out in your country. He ran a large bank here that laundered billions of dollars. Mafiya money, in fact. When he learned we were on to him, he absconded with hundreds of millions, in dollars. A real crook."

"And he's in America?"

"That's right. We had a thread on him, but he disappeared over a year ago. We had a lead that he was in Chicago. And maybe he is, but our best people have been unable to locate him."

"No problem. I'll put twenty agents on it tomorrow."

"You have your most wanted list"-she paused and looked him dead in the eye-"well, John, we have ours, too. He's number one on our list. The top dog, the most wanted bad guy in Russia. It's a great embarrassment that he has eluded us this long. He is unquestionably guilty. We want him back. Crooked bankers are a serious problem for us. We intend to make an example of him with a very big, very public trial."

"One week and he'll be in a Moscow slammer. I guarantee it."

The State Department representative coughed. "Uh, that might be a problem."

"Why's that?" Tromble asked, clearly irritated by the interruption.

"We don't share an extradition treaty with our Russian friends, I'm afraid."

"So what?"

That question, emerging from the lips of America's top law enforcement officer, a former federal judge no less, was unnerving. "It would be… well, you know, a big legal problem if Konevitch has diplomatic permission to remain in America. You can't just throw him on an airplane and ship him back here."

Tromble leaned over until their faces were inches apart. "I don't think this is any of your business."

Tatyana calmly watched this exchange. "He might be right," she said, twirling a strand of her gorgeous hair. "But let's be sure we're all clear on our deal. You can maintain your field station only if Alex Konevitch is returned to us. If not, there will be no cooperation. None." The big black limo was parked in the small lot by the Moskva River. It was Tuesday. And they usually met on Tuesdays. The windows were cracked open. Cigar smoke billowed out. The car parked here once or twice a week. Week after week. Month after month.

The sheer sloppiness of it all amazed the man who sat and watched from a small nondescript car half a block away. He understood it, though. Hunters rarely looked back over their own shoulders. The people inside that car had every reason to be over-confident, and they were. He lit up an American Marlboro and cranked up his heater.

Tracking down Miss Tatyana Lukin had proven to be neither easy nor quick. Tracing the phone number Alex gave him to the Kremlin was simple enough-a small bribe to a phone technician was all it took. But the Kremlin was an immense factory of bureaucrats of all manner and forms. They were not a talkative lot. It was such a snakepit of conspiracy and political fratricide that they spoke, even among themselves, in whispers. Outsiders were cold-shouldered as a matter of course.

Month after month of stubborn digging ensued. Six Annas were found and swiftly vetted. Unfortunately, none fit the broader profile and all were quickly rejected as dead ends. Mikhail had other jobs he had to balance with Alex's request, and a long, tiring period of frustration ensued. Dozens of trails opened, then grew cold. Leads looked hot then fizzled into disappointment. The staff at the Kremlin turned over constantly as Yeltsin chewed through prime ministers and assistants like a slaughterhouse. The number of potential suspects alternated almost daily. Was she one of those casualties? Maybe, like so many successful and well-connected political people, she had simply jumped into the private sector for the big bucks.

Mikhail Borosky had first encountered Alex Konevitch years before when Alex's firm had been hit hard by a few in-house embezzlers. A grizzled former cop, now a private investigator, Mikhail had been hired to find the crooks. No problem, they were greedy idiots. They drove up to work in their shiny new BMW 730s, which they stupidly parked in the office lot. Why not just hang out signs that announced: Hey, we're your thieves if you're wondering.

But Alex had been impressed. Only two brief days and Mikhail named the thieves. Steady work followed, nearly all of which involved in-house shenanigans of one sort or another. Mikhail handled it all with brutal efficiency.

Alex had been generous with the bonuses, always paid promptly in cash. The two became fast friends. There were occasional dinners that usually ran late. In his long years as a cop, Mikhail had specialized in combating the Mafiya, part of a handpicked cadre that was vetted and watched constantly for its incorruptibility and ruthlessness. Mikhail's strong suit was gathering intelligence, figuring out the corrupting webs of mob activity, bugging, trailing, and observing, collecting enough dirt on the hoods and thugs to ensure their convictions.

Alex enjoyed hearing tales that had nothing to do with business. But nobody in Konevitch Associates knew of their relationship. This secrecy Mikhail insisted on from the beginning. As long as he stayed hidden in the shadows, they would leave lots of breadcrumbs in their wake and the cat-and-mouse game would be child's play. Pay me personally, never call from the office phone, never mention my name. It made it so much easier for the bloodhound to find their trails.

After over half a year of hard effort, Tatyana had fallen into his lap by a stroke of luck, a complete fluke. He had befriended a pair of lowly assistants to the minister of finance, frequently accompanying them to a bar, a favorite Kremlin hangout where the coatholders schmoozed and networked. He plied them with booze and encouraged them to introduce him to everybody they knew.

One night, a gentleman at the next table was complaining bitterly and, after inhaling his fourth vodka, very loudly, about another Kremlin bureaucrat. Another staffer had knifed him in the back, had gotten him sacked. That sorry bitch, he kept calling her. Mikhail's ears perked up. Yes, but a tasty bitch, his companion noted with a garrulous laugh. The insults and bad jokes poured out and Mikhail's eavesdropping turned serious. No wonder the chief of staff always looked so exhausted, one said. Ha, ha. Yeah, but she's such a ballbuster, it's a miracle he still had his dingaling. More ha, ha.

Mikhail edged over to the table and began buying rounds for everybody. The fired staffer was drunk, and in no time became utterly drunker. The man had a bottomless bladder, but around midnight he ambled off to the men's room. Mikhail trailed two steps behind him. Over side-by-side urinals Mikhail offered him a cool thousand if the man could point out the backstabbing bitch the next morning as she made her way into the Kremlin.

One look, and he knew he had his girl. Everything fit, except the name. Then again, Tatyana to Anna had a certain ring to it. Alex had predicted she probably was attractive; she was that, and then some. Plus, she had a law degree. Over the next two weeks he tailed her everywhere, and it was fun, though not overly productive. Three to four nights a week she and her boss checked into a hotel. They drove into work together, holding hands and smooching like horny newlyweds. But she also took lots of extended lunch breaks in downtown hotels, not with her chubby middle-aged boss but a handsome, fit-looking young lad who apparently offered a little more in the sack. Click, click went Mikhail's camera. A little research and the young lad turned out to be Sasha Komenov, a star striker on the national soccer team. A little more digging revealed a little more dirt. Turned out pretty boy Sasha and lovely Tatyana were from the same town, had flirted and dated and wrestled together in backseats throughout high school. Her Moscow affairs came and went but Sasha was always there, lurking in her locker room after the game.

Late into the third week, he'd watched her disappear into the rear of a long black limo that took off at a gallop. Click, click. He hit the gas and followed. Next stop was a seedy, run-down nightclub on the city outskirts. More click, click, click. A short man with a large bent nose and graying ponytail dashed out of the club and clambered inside.

From his former days as a Mafiya crimebuster, Mikhail instantly put the name Nicky to the furtive figure wrapped in black leather. The limo's license plate told the rest of the story. It was registered as a company car by Golitsin Enterprises.

Usually the meetings by the Moskva lasted no longer than fifteen to twenty minutes. Today's meeting dragged on for over an hour. Big things were afoot, Mikhail guessed. At one point, Nicky climbed out, stumbled uncertainly for a few steps, then he whipped it out and peed in the open. More click, click with Mikhail's long, wide-angled lens. He chuckled to himself.

The most feared thug in Russia, Nicky Kozyrev, had a teenie weenie.

He made his weekly telephonic report to Alex that night. The pictures were bundled into a large envelope and sent off to the Watergate apartment.