The Hunted

19

The loud knock on the door came that night, slightly after midnight. Elena was sleeping with a pillow over her head, and never budged. Alex tried to ignore it, but the hammering grew more obnoxiously insistent, until he could stand it no longer. He slipped on his bathrobe and tiptoed quietly to the door.

He peered through the peephole. A middle-aged stranger in a cheap blue suit stood there, nervously looking around. Definitely FBI, Alex thought, though the demeanor was flagrantly different than the agents who tumbled their apartment on Saturday. This man appeared tentative, actually afraid. Alex opened the door.

The man inspected Alex's face, then asked in a low, raspy whisper, "You're Konevitch, right?"

"You know that or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, guess I do."

"Should I invite you in or would you rather just burst inside like your comrades? There's not much left to damage. A few chairs in the dining room. Two pictures we put back on the walls. I'll point them out for you. Take your pick."

"Lower your voice, all right? Step into the hall. Please."

"I'd rather make you come inside and drag me out."

The mysterious man leaned closer and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "Trust me. We can't talk… not here, definitely not inside your apartment." His hand did something funny with his left ear, apparently trying to signal something.

Alex took a chance and stepped out. The agent reached over and gently eased the door shut behind him. He walked about ten steps and Alex followed. He turned around and they faced each other less than a foot apart. "Who are you?" Alex demanded.

"Hold your voice down. I'd rather not say. Did you do what they say you did?"

"Why ask? Your people already convicted me."

"Because I'm asking, okay?" The sour odor of a recently smoked cigar was on the man's breath. It mixed badly with the cheap aftershave.

"All right. No, I'm being framed. I swear it."

The agent almost smiled. Right, how pitiful. Why couldn't anybody come up with something original? "Tell you what. I really don't care if you did, or you didn't. I just don't like what's going down."

"Which is what?"

He played with the top button on his jacket and appeared indecisive for a moment. Then he apparently resigned himself to tell Alex everything. "A bunch of Russkis working in our headquarters. Tromble, the director, arranged it. I worked counterintelligence for ten years, right? I can smell it. These guys have former KGB written all over them."

"Colonel Volevodz?"

"Yeah… him and about three of his guys. Your apartment's bugged, you know."

"No… I… I had no idea."

"Probably your phones, too. Be careful."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm a career guy, okay."

"So what? Volevodz is also a career guy."

"Yeah, but it's different." He wiped a hand across his forehead in frustration, apparently annoyed by being compared with some cold-eyed KGB thug. "Look, I'm taking a big risk coming here. But whatever you did back there don't justify what's happening here. I'm just warning you, be real careful."

"All right, I'm warned."

If anything, the agent suddenly became more agitated. He glanced down the long hallway, a long, searching look that indicated a high level of paranoia. He avoided Alex's eyes. After a moment he whispered, "One last thing."

"I'm listening."

"The Russian mob's got a contract on you. Don't ask how I know, I just know."

Alex should not have been surprised by this unwelcome news, but he was. Surprised and deeply unnerved. A long day of disasters was just capped by the Mount Vesuvius of bad news. He leaned against the wall and stared down at the red-and-black carpet.

"It's a serious contract," the agent continued, shuffling his feet and avoiding Alex's eyes. "Over a million bucks," he claimed, looking up. "These guys usually get people whacked for about five thousand. Apparently, you're quite valuable to them."

"Should I feel honored?"

"Scared shitless is how you should feel, Konevitch."

"All right, I do."

"Best we can tell, three teams flew in over the past week. That don't even account for the local players, of which there are too many to count."

"Your people know this for a fact?"

"Wouldn't be telling you otherwise."

"Where did this information come from? Do you have a source inside the syndicates?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's real, okay? Believe me or not, it's your ass."

"If your people know, why don't you protect us?"

"Because people high up don't believe you deserve it. They figure you did something to piss off the mob. It's your problem, not ours."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

"Thank you."

A few seconds passed. The agent seemed to be arguing with himself before he blurted, "Look, forget about it. If things get tough, though, if you want advice or help, call me. Just not from your apartment. This is our little secret, okay?" He pressed a business card into Alex's palm. Special Agent Terrence Hanrahan, it read, with the usual array of office, cell, and fax numbers. "Remember, anytime you step outside, look both ways before you cross the street."

Alex nodded. The hand dropped and Special Agent Hanrahan walked quickly back down the hall, straight to the elevator. Alex returned to the apartment, stopped momentarily in his office, and rushed directly to the bedroom. Gently shaking her, he quietly awoke Elena. Placing a forefinger to his lip he handed her a notepad and pencil, keeping another of each for himself.

They spent the rest of the night writing each other notes. Agent Terrence Hanrahan stepped off the elevator on the ground floor. The Watergate doorman watched as he was quickly surrounded by five agents of the Bureau; they pinned his arms behind his back and roughly hustled him out through the door. No words were exchanged. A shiny black limo idled beside the curb.

A rear door opened and Hanrahan was shoved inside. A lean figure was slumped on the other side of the seat. The overhead reading lamp was on: the figure was paging through a stack of documents with blistering speed. Hanrahan found it hard to believe the man understood a tenth of what he was reading.

Tromble finally looked up. "Well?"

"Went down perfect. He's scared out of his wits."

"And he trusts you?"

"He's a smart guy, so I doubt it."

"But he at least believed you?"

"No question about that."

"And you think he'll call you?"

"Maybe. Depends, I guess, on how desperate he gets."

"You warned him about the contracts?"

"I did. Is it true?"

"Absolutely. My Russian friends say he not only embezzled from his own bank, he also stole millions more, from the mob. As if he didn't have enough enemies already. They want him as badly as the Russian government." He scratched his nose. "You remembered to mention the bugs?"

Hanrahan nodded. "His face turned white as a baby's ass. Why let him in on that, though?"

A slight smile. "We don't want Volevodz and his people to have an unfair advantage, do we?"

"Jesus, his own government, and now the Russian mob. I guess the only question is who'll get him first."

"Not really," Tromble said, glancing out the darkened window. "We'll beat them to him. Your job's to make that happen, Terrence. Don't let me down."

"He and that wife are going to be paranoid."

"Yes, I believe they will. That's the idea. You just make sure they realize America is more dangerous for them than Russia. I want them so hopeless they'll be more than ready for our offer, when it comes. We'll be their only help."

Hanrahan thought about it a moment. He had been an agent for eighteen years; Tromble was the fifth director he had served. By far, he was the toughest and most heavy-handed, but there was no question he got results. "And if they don't fold?"

"No problem. We'll turn up the heat. Pull out the stops and ship them back."