The Hunted

5

By 3:30, Eugene Daniels was quaffing down the final dregs of his third Bavarian brew, a special, thick dunkel beer produced seasonally without preservatives that was totally unavailable in the States. Across the table, his wife, Maria, was stingily nursing her second wine, a Georgian pinot she had just explained, for the second time, with an excellent bouquet, overly subtle perhaps, but with fine, lingering legs and other insufferable claptrap she had obviously lifted from one of those snobbish wine books. How could anybody make so much of squished grapes? An attractive Hungarian waitress approached the table and, while Eugene wasn't looking, Maria quietly waved her off.

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and reminded her husband, "Business meetings are best conducted sober."

"If Alex wanted me sober, he'd be here on time."

"Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Hundreds of millions are at stake, Eugene. Maybe he wants you loaded and stupid before he arrives." And maybe he's succeeding beyond his wildest dream, she thought and smiled coldly.

"You don't know Alex, obviously."

Rather than risk another squabble, Maria lifted a finely plucked eyebrow and insisted with a disapproving frown, "All the same, switch to coffee."

Eugene ignored this and took a long sip of beer. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time, then repeated the same thing he had said at least twenty times. "I've never known Alex to be late. He's punctual to a fault. Always."

"Maybe he has a Russian watch. I know for a fact, their crafts-manship is awful."

He was tempted to say: How would you know, you stupid spoiled twit? but swallowed the sentiment and instead noted, "No, something's wrong. I smell it."

"Yes, you're right. This whole thing is dreadfully wrong. We flew all the way from New York, he only had to come from Moscow, we're here, and he's not. This is rude and unprofessional. We should leave."

Eugene stared hard at his wife and fought the urge to stuff a napkin down her throat. Wife number four, actually-and without question, the biggest mistake of all. He was still on his third wife and making a decent go of it when Maria, a buxom brunette half his age and with a penchant for tight leather miniskirts, became his secretary. He'd chased her around the desk a few times, but not too many before she hit the brakes and made the pursuit pay off.

When it got out-with more than a little assistance from Maria, he only belatedly and after the fact realized-Wife Three stomped off into the sunset with a fifty million settlement and that big, ostentatious mansion in the Hamptons to quell her hurt pride. Word was she now had a shiny new red Rolls and a good-looking cabana boy to help her through the emotional relapses.

The house and money had been bad enough. What Eugene most sorely regretted was losing the one really capable secretary he ever had. Maria was pushy, curt, and anal, keeping him organized and punctual, and cleaning up behind him-qualities that now made her insufferable as a wife.

And now that she was bound to his money by a marriage license, any pretense of pleasantry had worn off. Even the sex had turned infrequent and limp.

He whipped out his cell and punched the preset for Alex's office in Moscow. The call went straight through to Alex's warm and efficient secretary, Sonja, who picked up on the second ring. Eugene and Alex had done a few very profitable deals together, he lining up American backers and bringing in the American greenbacks, while Alex plowed them into Russian enterprises that minted gold. Though he and Alex's secretary had never met face-to-face, Sonja never forgot a voice. She called him Mr. Daniels before he finished hello.

Eugene quickly explained his problem-Alex had scheduled a meeting with him, here, in the restaurant of the Aquincum Hotel for two hours before. "I know that," replied Sonja, who instantly turned equally perplexed and talkative. Alex was never tardy, she replied with considerable pride. Yes, she had made the travel arrangements herself, and no, Alex had not contacted her regarding delays or problems. They quickly exhausted the possibilities, and she eventually transferred Eugene to Alex's head of security, a former KGB general named Sergei Golitsin.

"What may I do for you?" Golitsin asked in heavily accented, stilted English.

Eugene slammed down his beer and came directly to the point. "Have you heard from Alex?"

"No."

"He's over two hours late for a meeting."

"Two hours?" he asked, only mildly interested.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"So what?"

"Alex is never late. That's the what."

"So maybe he makes an exception this time."

"Maybe he did. But wouldn't you know if he was diverted, or missed his flight, or had a car accident? Maybe he fell down a rabbit hole."

"Probably not."

"But shouldn't you know?"

"No, I should not. At Mr. Konevitch's insistence he employs an outside security company for foreign travel. I have strongly advised him against this dangerous practice many, many times. Outside Mother Russia, his itinerary and security… well, they are out of my hands."

Eugene was dismayed by the too-bored-who-gives-a-damn tone at the other end of the line. If this guy was his chief of security, he thought, Alex better invest in plenty of body armor. He tried to swallow his exasperation and said, "Look, Alex and Elena are supposed to meet me here for a late lunch to discuss a pressing business deal. This deal has to close by tonight. Millions might be lost."

"I believe this is your problem."

"According to your job title, Alex's personal security is your problem."

"No," Golitsin replied with a nasty laugh, "that is Konevitch's problem."

"Can't you at least call the outside firm that handles Alex's security? Better yet, give me the number. I'll call."

"This is inside confidential information that cannot be divulged."

"All right, fine. Surely you won't mind if I call the local police and report Alex's disappearance."

The general's voice suddenly changed from a gruff blow-off to conciliatory. "No… there is no need to do that. Let me handle this."

"I don't think I trust you to handle it."

"I will. Give me your number. I will call the moment I have something."

"Call me even if you don't. I've got twenty million riding, my own cash, and four greedy partners who are throwing in another seventy mil each." He glanced at his watch. "If the deal's not going through, I'll have to cancel the bank order by five at the latest."

"Yes… of course."

Eugene gave him his number and the line went dead. They let him rest for an hour after the branding was finished. A large industrial fan had been brought in and locked into high gear to push out the stench of roasted flesh. The iron had been pressed down hard enough that the best plastic surgeon in the world could not totally eliminate or disguise Vladimir's handiwork. Alex would spend the rest of his life tattooed with the symbol he had done so much to destroy.

At exactly 4:05, Vladimir and Katya reentered the room, herding a harried-looking doctor and a plump, greasy-haired lawyer who reputedly specialized in the rapidly changing Russian business legal codes. Vladimir and Katya stood and waited with indifferent expressions at the end of the gurney. The doctor checked Alex's pulse and monitored his breathing, then spent a while poking and prodding various body parts.

Eventually the doctor looked up and in high native Russian informed Vladimir, "Pulse count's a little high, no doubt the result of the trauma and fear. At least two ribs are broken and there's a terrible contusion on his leg. Without an X-ray I can't determine if it's broken."

The room was unheated and cold, and as nightfall moved in was becoming colder by the minute. Naked but for his underpants, Alex's teeth were chattering. His arms and legs would've been shivering except for the tight restraints. The doctor glanced again at the broken, bleeding body on the gurney, then, after wasting a horrified grimace at Vladimir, scuttled swiftly from the room.

Vladimir and Katya pulled over a long wooden bench and sat beside Alex. They had agreed beforehand they would play out their best imitation of the old good-cop/bad-cop routine.

Vladimir had already done a thoroughly credible job of establishing his credentials as the bad cop. Acting good wasn't exactly Katya's strong suit, either; as long as she sat beside Vladimir, though, she'd look like an angel. Vladimir slowly lit a foul-smelling French cigarette, exhaled loudly, and in his most blase tone said to Alex, "You're probably wondering what this is about."

After toying with the idea of answering him, Alex decided against it. Finally they were getting down to business. They had beaten him to a pulp, branded him, had nearly killed him-at last they were going to tell him how much it would cost not to finish the job.

No use beating around the bush, and Vladimir in a commanding voice came right out with it. "You're going to sign over your money and businesses to us."

"What?" Alex was sure he hadn't heard right. A demand for money had been expected. In fact, given the scale of this operation and the brutal professionalism of his kidnappers, Alex had fully anticipated the initial demand to be huge: in all likelihood preposterous. They would threaten and insist, he would tell them whom to talk with, then the negotiations would begin in earnest. Eventually, the ransom experts at Alex's expensive English security firm would be brought into the game, there would be some haggling, a little give, a little take, threats and counterthreats, but sooner or later a reasonable price would be agreed upon and promptly paid. But sign over his businesses? Ludicrous.

These people were either stupid or crazy. Or both.

"You heard right," Vladimir insisted, very calmly, very seriously. He stood, bent over, and lowered his face within twelve inches of Alex's eyes. "It's simple. You sign a letter we've already prepared. Nothing fancy-you're tired, worn out, and frustrated from the crushing work and responsibilities. Then you sign a simple contract with a blank space for the name of the person we will designate as your successor. You don't touch that-we will later. All you do is sign the bottom of the page."

"That simple?"

"Yes, that's it. My lawyer friend here will notarize it, and you and your wife are free to go." The shyster stood quietly in the corner, and he nodded and smiled energetically, so damned pleased to be of service to both parties.

"And if I say no?" Alex asked.

"Then you and your wife are dead. Think about it. You lose your businesses either way."

Katya butted in and, taking her best stab at playing the good cop, informed him, "Vladimir will happily kill you and your wife. Believe me, he'll enjoy it. Don't be stupid, don't give him the excuse."

Alex took a long look at the dark ceiling. So this was what it was all about. His money and his businesses and his properties, the works-the greedy bastards were demanding everything he'd spent six years creating and building. He drew a heavy breath and, as firmly as he could, insisted, "Money you can have. Plenty of it, enough to live happily ever after. But no, you can't have my businesses."

Vladimir had expected this, in fact was fully prepared for it. He smiled and then turned around and looked at Katya. "Get the wife," he told her.

Katya rushed off. Vladimir sat back down on the wood bench and blew lazy smoke rings while Alex pondered his options. At least now he knew what they wanted. But what would they do to Elena? Had they already harmed her? He had been unconscious for a while and his imagination began playing with all the horrible things they might already have done during that interlude. The man on the bench was a monster, utterly without conscience. Maybe Elena had also been branded. Had she been molested? Tortured? Raped?

Moscow was filled with Vladimirs these days, murderous scum whose depravity and cruelty knew no limits. In the old days they were employed by the state as instruments for spreading terror and submission; they were now as much a part of Russia's free-market economy as potatoes and vodka. They wouldn't think twice about punishing a rich man's wife-they would enjoy it, in fact. Alex's mind filled with the ugly possibilities.

Eventually the door opened and Elena was led in by Katya, dragged along like a dog by a rope tied to her wrists. She was frightened out of her wits, and looked it. But on the surface, at least, she appeared healthy and unmarked. Then she took one long look at Alex on the gurney and lost it. She screamed, "You bastards!" at Vladimir and Katya. She yanked on her rope, trying to break free and move toward her battered husband.

Katya grabbed a large knot of her hair, gave it a hard jerk, and yanked her backward, nearly off her feet. So much for good cop.

Vladimir stood and moved toward Elena. He placed a gag in her mouth and tied it off behind her head.

"Leave her alone," Alex protested weakly.

"After I kill you," Vladimir informed him with cruel nonchalance, "I'll give her to the boys waiting outside. She's a very attractive lady. Imagine how much fun they'll have with her." Eugene, halfway through his seventh beer, took the cell phone call at 4:10. It was Golitsin and he opened in a very reassuring tone, saying, "Good news, I've located Alex."

"Have you?"

"Yes, and he's fine."

"Glad to hear it. Where is he?"

"Apparently a more critically important meeting came up. He asked me to inform you that he needs to reschedule."

"Reschedule?"

"Yes, that's what he said. He suggested tomorrow afternoon. What do you think about tomorrow?"

"Out of the question. He knows that. Are you sure you spoke with Alex?"

"He's my boss. I believe I know his voice."

Eugene studied his fingers a moment. This made no sense. If this deal didn't close by five o'clock, the financing evaporated-by 5:01, there was no deal. Back in New York, a cluster of lawyers and accountants were huddled around a long conference table on a high floor of a massive tower, waiting impatiently for Eugene's call. They had been there all night, drinking stale coffee, munching stale pastries, telling stale jokes, drumming their fingers-and turning surlier with each passing moment.

Three months of sweat and hard work. Three long months of Eugene assuring and reassuring his anxious investors that it was safe to dive into Russia's crooked and rigged markets with Alex Konevitch as their guide. It was the Wild, Wild East, perilous and unruly for sure; but for those audacious few willing to jump in on the ground floor, colossal fortunes were waiting to be plucked. Three months of lengthy business plans, proposals, risk assessments, long boring briefings, and all the other tedious twaddle entailed in due diligence had taken place before this deal could be cobbled together.

Three insufferable months of sucking up to some of the biggest egos in New York.

All about to go down the drain. The thought of it was nauseating. This couldn't be happening. Over three hundred million electronic dollars were loaded and waiting to be fired into Alex's vaults. The investors were anxious and mistrustful, their commitments precarious at best. If one thing went wrong, they had collectively whispered in Eugene's ear-just one infinitesimally tiny thing-they would withdraw their dough and never take another call from him.

"I don't believe Alex told you to reschedule," Eugene spit into his phone in his best New York accusatory tone. "You're lying. I don't know why, but Alex is well aware this deal closes by five or it never closes."

A long silence followed while Golitsin recognized he had clumsily misplayed his hand. This pushy American on the other end was proving to be a big problem. If he alerted the Budapest police about the mysterious disappearance of Alex Konevitch, this whole operation could come unglued. There was the dead bodyguard at the airport to be factored in. The locals had already initiated an investigation, Golitsin had been informed by his well-placed sources. But the Hungarians had no idea of its relevance. And corpses don't complain or become impatient.

Once they learned, though, that Alex had disappeared from Ferihegy Airport at around the same time as the murder, they might put two and two together.

Alex was a rich, seriously important man, a celebrity back home, a big-time FOB-Friend of Boris. For sure, the Hungarians would not welcome the diplomatic noise and ugly publicity his disappearance would almost certainly ignite. A citywide manhunt would undoubtedly be initiated. The police would scour the airport for any witnesses who might have noticed anything. The Konevitches were an attractive couple and quite noticeable. Who knew what the cops might turn up?

His last report from that sicko freak Vladimir indicated he would need another hour to close the deal. Then another hour or two after that to tie up the nasty details like disposing of Alex's and Elena's corpses somewhere they would never be found. They would simply disappear and Golitsin would fuel rumors around Moscow that Konevitch had embezzled money from his own bank and eloped with it into nowhere. A brilliant plan, really, since Golitsin would embezzle the money himself, many, many millions, with dead Alex as his foolproof cover.

His bluff been called, though. Americans! The greediest, pushiest bastards on earth. No, the one on the other end wasn't going to let him off the hook. And too much was at stake for this to be mishandled at this stage.

"Do not call me a liar," Golitsin pushed back in his most threatening voice. "I am merely telling you what Alex told me. I'll call him again if you insist."

Eugene thought to himself: This guy is trying to jerk me off. He suggested, "Don't bother. Give me the number, I'll call and I'll speak with him."

"He told me he was not to be disturbed. He was very firm on this. No matter what."

"Fine. Why don't I just call the cops?"

"Don't. It would cause a public mess, an embarrassment. Alex would be most upset."

"Then have him call me. Five minutes or I'm on the phone to the locals." Without waiting for a reply, Eugene punched off, checked his watch, and ordered another beer from the buxom young waitress with the comely smile.

Maria was upstairs in the hotel suite, pouting and packing. Sometime during the middle of his sixth beer, Eugene had lost his temper and poured out his resentment on her. She had gotten fired up, replied in kind, and stormed off in a huff, threatening a divorce that would make the last three look like pleasant skirmishes. Vladimir was just getting ready to hand Mrs. Konevitch over to the boys in the back when the clunky satellite phone on his waist began bleating. Every step that would lead to Konevitch's capitulation had been plotted well in advance by Vladimir, personally. He was quite proud of his plan. He intended to let the boys have her as a plaything for an hour, and had encouraged them to do whatever they liked, as long as it produced plenty of screams and was not fatal. Konevitch would be forced to suffer the anguish of blindly listening to her shrieks and howls, knowing his own stubbornness was the cause; then she would be brought back in and tortured before his own eyes.

Vladimir hated to have his work interrupted, but the obnoxious satphone on his waist wouldn't quit. He uttered a loud curse, answered, listened for a moment, then stepped out of the room, away from prying ears, for this conversation.

"No," he told Golitsin in a reproachful tone, "not yet. Just say we're at the critical stage. You're interrupting progress."

"How long?" Golitsin hissed.

"Hard to say. He was really shaken when I told him we wanted everything. He thought it was only money. What a shock. You would've loved the look in his eyes when I told him what this was really about."

Golitsin was indeed very sorry he missed it. "Are we talking hours or minutes?"

Vladimir paused to consider this delicate question. Alex Konevitch had been horribly beaten, branded, and put under mind-crushing stress. With his considerable experience in these matters Vladimir prided himself on knowing his victims and their breaking points. Konevitch was tougher than most-probably too stubborn for his own good. Given five hours Vladimir could break anybody-make them plead and beg and roll over like dogs. That now was out of the question.

Then so be it; time to skip a few steps and accelerate the action. The boys in the back would have to wait their turn; his pretty little wife was about to get her leading role in the drama. Vladimir relished that thought, but her treatment would have to be paced just right. Too fast, and Alex would become enraged and dig in his heels. The emotional line between fury and surrender was brittle, and Vladimir had to calibrate, nudge, and terrorize Konevitch in just the right direction, at just the right speed. Of course he would be angry, initially. He would put up his best front, would threaten and spit and yell profanities. But this was his wife's pain and degradation; ultimately, he would end up desperate, utterly helpless, and would cave in to every demand Vladimir imposed on him.

Yes, it had to be slow and quite horrible.

Then Alex would confront his only real choice: what was left of his wife, or his fortune and companies. "Three hours," Vladimir replied, very firmly. "With luck, two."

Golitsin exploded into the phone, calling Vladimir everything from incompetent to a moron. Vladimir pushed the phone away from his ear and let him vent and fume and spew whatever filthy invective he wanted. For a year now he had had to put up with the old man's abuse and derision. He was sorely tired of it and tried his best to ignore this latest diatribe. How tempted he was to just tell the old man to screw off. He eventually placed the phone back to his ear, smiled to himself, and said, "Maybe you want to come here and do it yourself."

"I don't like your impertinence," Golitsin barked back.

"Nobody ever does." He paused for a moment, then insisted, "Two, maybe three hours."

"That won't do."

"Fine. What will do?"

Golitsin explained the problem in rapid-fire fashion and Vladimir listened. Golitsin eventually asked, "Can you have him call this Eugene man and make up an excuse? He's a dangerous pest. Get rid of him."

"Give me the number," Vladimir confidently replied, then wrote it down. "If Konevitch says one wrong word, his wife dies. You understand the risks, though."

"No, tell me."

"If I have to kill her, we lose an irreplaceable leverage."

"I'm sure you'll find a way without her."

"Right now his mind is on one thing, and one thing only. His own misery. Relieve him of that thought, even for a brief moment, and I might have to start over."

"You mean… beat and torture him again?"

"Almost from the beginning."

"So what's wrong with that?" The straps and belts were quickly unfastened, Alex was helped to sit up, and Katya positioned the cell phone by his ear; her forefinger hovered tensely over the disconnect button. His instructions and options had been explicitly and cruelly explained. "Make this man go away, or else," Vladimir had informed him. To help him comprehend the "or else," Vladimir placed a big knife against Elena's throat, poised on her jugular for a lethal slice.

Eugene answered on the second ring. Struggling to sound apologetic rather than terrified, Alex told him, "It's me, Alex. Sorry I'm late, Eugene. It was unexpected and, believe me, absolutely couldn't be helped."

Eugene replied in a simmering tone, "Check your damn watch, Alex. I've got a briefcase packed with contracts for your signature. In thirty minutes this deal goes through or I'm screwed."

"I understand, Eugene."

"Do you? Then what are you doing about it?"

"There's nothing I can do," Alex replied. "I'm tied up right now," he explained, speaking the unvarnished truth.

"In Budapest?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll come to you."

"No. Even if it were possible, it's not advisable."

"Make it possible, Alex. If this deal collapses I have to pay the partners a penalty of ten million. It was the only way I could get them to pony up. You know this."

"This isn't my call, Eugene. Believe me, I would help if I could."

"My last wife took me for fifty mil, Alex, and my mansion and even my dog. And Maria's upstairs right now scheming and counting how much she can make. I'm desperate here. I can't afford to lose one million right now. Ten will ruin me."

There was a long pause while both men considered their options. Eugene was brilliant and talented, and, like many of his ilk, his skill at business was matched only by his incredible ineptitude at romance. Three ex-wives, with now possibly a fourth in the making. But three already: three hefty alimony payments and seven needy children, four in obscenely expensive private colleges and three in equally rapacious private schools. And there was his own luxurious lifestyle to be considered. Not to mention Maria's, who thought designer clothes grew on trees. Eugene was burning through the cash faster than he could make it-almost faster than the U.S. Treasury could print it. This deal was make or break for him.

Alex glanced at Elena with the knife at her neck; she stared back, wide-eyed, plainly terrified. He felt a stab of gut-wrenching guilt that he had gotten her into this mess, and he tried with limited success to push that aside and figure out what was going on here. When he hadn't shown up for the scheduled meeting, Eugene had obviously called his office in Moscow, probably tossed around a threat or two, and gotten a concerned response. And then-somehow-somebody in Konevitch Associates had passed this news to Vladimir, who was now brandishing a knife at Elena's throat. With a blinding flash of the obvious he understood what this meant: an inside job. Somebody in his employ was a traitor.

No wonder they knew what flight he was on, that he was traveling with Elena, and how to bypass his security.

It dawned on him for the first time that definitely they intended to kill him and Elena. He could sign over his businesses and every last penny of his millions, the deeds to his homes, the titles to his cars, even the clothes off his back. Or he could refuse and tell them to go pound sand, they weren't getting a single penny.

It would make no difference. Absolutely none. He and Elena were dead either way.

Alex drew a long, deep breath. "All right, here's the deal," he blurted into the phone. "You remember the special clause? If Elena and I aren't in the restaurant in thirty minutes, invoke it. Both of us, or-"

A moment too late, Katya jerked the phone from his ear and with an angry forefinger punched the disconnect button.

"What was that about?" she hissed with a stare meant to kill.

Alex ignored her and looked at Vladimir and the knife at Elena's throat. He yelled, "Oh God… wait!" to Vladimir, then yelled at anyone who would listen, "Kill her, spill one drop of her blood, and you'll get nothing. I swear. Not a penny."

Vladimir played with carving a deep gash across her throat, but Katya barked, "Don't. Not yet." Obviously the smarter of the two-at least the less instinctively sociopathic-she awarded Alex a hard look and demanded, "What was that you told him?"

"It's very simple. Eugene is an American investor with three or four very wealthy backers in New York. It's called a joint venture. They are pooling hundreds of millions for this deal. They put up the cash, and I invest it for them, keeping a fair share of the profits for my trouble. In return I had to put up collateral."

Vladimir and Katya were in the wrong line of work to comprehend the meaning of this word, "collateral," and Vladimir snapped, "What are you talking about?"

"It's a common business term. In return for their trust and capital risk, I put my companies on the line. It's all stipulated in the contracts inside Eugene's briefcase. Every one of my businesses, right down to the final nail. If I fail to do my part, title to every business I own reverts to them."

"He's lying," Vladimir hissed at Katya.

"Am I?" Alex asked, definitely lying. He turned to the legal shyster who was hiding in the corner, watching this scene with nervous fascination. Alex asked him, "Have you ever heard of a business deal that did not involve collateral?"

The man frowned, stroked his chin, and tried to look thoughtful. He had small, crowded features and they pinched together; like a pug with hemorrhoids. And he was totally, irrevocably lost. He had been a criminal lawyer under the old Soviet system where the extent of his legal expertise was not lifting a finger or raising a squawk as his clients were ramrodded through the politically corrupt courts and crushed by the state. These days the big money was in corporate law, so he had hung out a new shingle and was avidly trying to cash in. Everything was crooked and rigged in Moscow anyway and the shyster knew as well as anybody who needed to be bribed and/or threatened for a deal to go through.

In short, the man on the gurney had just tossed a pebble down an empty well. The thoughtful pause dragged on.

Well, he might not know squat about contracts, but he had a firm grasp on survival, he told himself. If he said no, this man is clearly a liar, and it turned out the shyster guessed wrong, everything would be lost-all those hundreds of millions of dollars. Naturally, they would hold him responsible. For well over an hour he had stood out in the warehouse, hearing Alex's anguished howls and shrieks echoing through the walls. He felt a sudden shiver as he considered how they might punish him.

But if he said Alex was telling the truth, well, whatever happened afterward-good, bad, or worse-they couldn't blame him.

Feeling quite Solomonic, and with a tone of utter conviction, he offered his best professional opinion. "No, never. As he says, it is typical to arrange collateral in these matters."

"And this is the special clause you referred to?" Katya asked Alex.

"That's right. In forty minutes, everything I own will revert to Eugene and his group of New York investors."

The lawyer walked over to the gurney and leaned in toward Alex. "But there is a way to void this clause, am I right?"

"I'd be an idiot if there weren't."

"Good. Tell me about it," the lawyer demanded, enjoying his sudden moment of importance.

"Put me through to whoever you work for. I'll tell him about it."

"Not a chance," Vladimir answered for all of them, sneering and sliding the knife back and forth against Elena's throat.

"Fine, your call," Alex replied, trying his best to look confident rather than terrified. He had done hundreds of high-pressure business negotiations, tense parleys upon which many millions of dollars hinged. They always involved a fair amount of posturing and bluffing, and Alex had become a master at it. This time, though, he was bargaining for Elena's life, and his own. He took a hard swallow, then forced a smile and said to Vladimir, "In forty minutes, everything will be gone. These are New Yorkers. Greedy bastards, every one of them. If they get their fingers on my properties, you can beat and torture me all you want. You'll never pry them back."

"Maybe we'll just go to the hotel and kill this Eugene man," Vladimir suggested, his preferred course for solving problems.

"That would be stupid. It won't make a difference," Alex told him. "Copies of all the contracts are with his partners in New York. In fact, they'll appreciate it. One less partner means more for them."

Vladimir nodded. Made sense.

"Also," Alex confided, sounding like an afterthought, a small, insignificant detail that meant nothing, "once I sign Eugene's contracts another three hundred million dollars will be electronically transferred to my investment bank."

"What?" Katya asked, suddenly hanging on every word.

"You heard me. When I sign the contract, Eugene and his investors will immediately wire-transfer their funds into my investment bank. Three hundred million American dollars. Cold cash."

Vladimir licked his lips and looked at Katya. Both were struggling to maintain the pretense that they were still in control. And both were clearly rattled and looking for a way out. When Golitsin learned about this, he would throw a tantrum of monumental proportions. But if they didn't call him and Konevitch's companies and properties slipped out of their fingers-much less losing the possibility of three hundred million more, in cash-well, neither of them wanted to think about what he would do to them. It would be horrible and slow, they both knew.

An unspoken signal passed, Vladimir removed the knife from Elena's throat, stepped out of the room, flipped open his clunky satphone, and dialed Golitsin.

"Why are you calling?" Golitsin asked with a ring of hope in his voice. "Is it done? Did he sign over the properties?"

"No. And now there is a new glitch," Vladimir replied, then quickly recounted the problem.

The moment he finished, Golitsin asked, "Is he telling the truth?"

"How would I know? The lawyer says it makes sense. Capitalists don't trust each other. What's new?"

Vladimir stopped talking and allowed this to sink in. He had done the smart thing, he decided; he had booted the problem upstairs. They would get only one chance at this, one shot at becoming unimaginably rich; just one shot at the biggest heist in Russian history. And Golitsin had done excruciating planning for every eventuality, had plotted and surmised and second-guessed every conceivable scenario-except this.

Golitsin knew what Vladimir was doing. But he wasn't at all sure what Konevitch was up to. Was this a trick? Did Konevitch have something up his sleeve?

On the other hand, another cool three hundred million in cash was there for the taking. Three hundred million!

Golitsin rolled that delicious number around his head. He spent a long moment relishing the new possibilities. In one swift swoop the overall take would nearly double. Better yet, this was cold cash, fluid money available for spending on fast cars, big homes, a sumptuous yacht, even a private jet-whatever his heart desired.

And the idea of ripping off a horde of greedy New Yorkers appealed to him mightily. He could hear their anguished howls when they learned their money was gone, stolen. Suddenly he could think of little else.

Eventually Golitsin said what needed to be said. "Take him to the hotel. And make sure he signs the contract." He thought about the extra three hundred million, and with palpable excitement added, "This is better. Much better. I can badly use that much cash."

"Yes, couldn't we all."

Golitsin didn't like the message but he absorbed it. "Pull this off, it will also mean another two hundred thousand for you. How many people do you and Katya have available?"

"Eight here, more than enough."

"He's a financial genius," Golitsin reasoned, as much to his listener as himself. "But he can't spell escape and evasion. A complete amateur."

"He doesn't worry me," Vladimir replied, bubbling with confidence. "Nabbing him was child's play. Besides, after his beating, he can barely walk."

"Still, if he does one thing wrong… if he even looks suspicious, kill the wife." The doctor was rushed back into the room to hastily clean up Alex and make him presentable for the rich boy from New York. A relative term, of course-though Vladimir's blows had mostly been spent on Alex's body, there was a nasty open gash on his forehead, a broken nose, various welts, and some ugly swelling on his face. Six swiftly applied butterfly sutures took care of the nasty gash and a bandage was slapped on to hide it. The other wounds were wiped with medicinal alcohol and, where necessary, also bandaged. "Tell him you were in a car accident," Katya ordered Alex, again proving she was the smart one, the one to be watched. "You've been in the hospital getting checked out."

"All right."

Vladimir leaned in close and warned, "We'll be in the restaurant watching, close and personal. One false move… if I just become slightly bothered by the look in your eyes, your pretty wife dies."

"But if I sign the contract and everything goes fine, Elena and I will live. We're free to go. Right?"

"Yes, that's the deal," Vladimir said, dripping phony sincerity.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" asked Alex. Of course, they were lying. They would take his money, his companies, his homes and cars, then kill the both of them.

"What choice do you have?"

The doctor was slathering a gooey yellow ointment on Alex's chest, a light analgesic. The burn went deep and covered nearly his whole upper left chest. It was raw, already blistering. It would be days before the wound scabbed over and the open nerve tissue was protected. Once they put a shirt on Alex, the material would rub and the pain would be serious. The doctor ordered Alex, "Stand up. Let's see if your leg works."

Alex slowly pushed himself off the gurney. He emitted a sharp yelp as he moved his dislocated left shoulder and stretched the tender skin around the burn. He put his left foot down on the hard floor, followed, more gingerly, by his right. A spike of pain from his right leg, where Vladimir had pounded it with a wooden chair, shot like a thousand-volt current instantly to his brain. A strangled gasp and he nearly collapsed. He would've collapsed except he focused on one overriding thought, one unyielding imperative: there would be no second chance, no do-overs. This was it. Get through it, whatever it took. Swallow the pain, don't let this opportunity slip away, he repeated to himself, over and over.

A man hauled in Alex's overnight bag, unzipped it, withdrew the spare fresh shirt and suit Alex had packed, and lazily tossed them on the gurney. "Get dressed," Vladimir ordered. "Hurry."

The doctor handed Alex a fistful of ibuprofen along with a bottled water, then instructed Alex to swallow them, all of them. Vladimir informed Alex, "Your wife will stay in the car in front of the hotel. She's our insurance. If I give the word, the boys will give her a Bulgarian necktie. Know what that is?"

Alex shook his head. It didn't sound pleasant.

Vladimir answered with a wicked laugh, "They'll slice her throat open and pull her tongue through the hole."

"That would be a big mistake," Alex said, swallowing his anger and carefully slipping a white dress shirt over his damaged shoulder. "I mean separating us. She has to be with me."

"Do you think we're stupid?" Katya asked.

Yes, he most certainly did. Stupid, crude, and impossibly cruel. But also, as he had just learned, afraid to make a move without instructions from their boss, who presumably was back in Moscow. But instead of saying that, Alex replied, "No, you're obviously quite smart. You're overlooking something, though."

"Are we?" Vladimir snarled.

"Think about it. Eugene's expecting Elena to accompany me. If I walk in, looking like I look-without Elena-he'll know something's wrong."

"So what?"

"A legally binding contract depends on both parties being of sound mind and operating of their own free will. People don't get rich being sloppy or stupid. And Eugene is a very, very shrewd and rich man. A flawed contract is worthless. If he suspects I'm under duress, or that something's not right, he'll balk." Alex looked pointedly at Katya, the good cop. "Three hundred million dollars will go out the door with him."

"Just tell him she was also injured and still in the hospital," said the lawyer, deciding to throw in his two cents. Suddenly, he was Mr. Big Shot, brimming with brilliance.

"What an idiotic suggestion," Alex said with a withering stare in the direction of the shyster. "I'd leave Elena seriously injured, in a hospital, just to attend to a business deal?"

"Sure," Vladimir replied, totally clueless. Why not? What husband wouldn't neglect his wife for money? "I don't see the problem."

"Because he'll know I'm lying. And he'll naturally ask why I didn't just invite him to join me at the hospital to sign these contracts."

They were all looking at one another. Nobody liked this idea. Really, though, what difference did it make? On second thought, it might in fact be even better. Just as easy to grease her in the restaurant as carve her throat in a car idling outside: it simplified things, really. With only eight gunmen, far easier to keep an eye on the couple together than split up.

Besides, with his beloved wife beside him, Konevitch would remember exactly what was at stake in the event he was tempted to try any funny business. Reminders were always helpful.

"And we need to carry our bags with us," Alex added, awkwardly knotting his tie with his one usable arm.

Vladimir kicked the base of the table. "Not happening," he snorted.

"Think again. Eugene knows we haven't checked into the hotel yet. I assume you want this to work. We need to look like we've just arrived."

"Think you're smart, don't you?" Vladimir replied, with a mean grin as he held up two tiny red booklets. "Go ahead, bring the bags. I've got your passports and your wallets. You won't escape, and you can't get out of Hungary, no matter what. But even if you do, we'll hunt you down and there won't be a second chance."

"I want this to work just as much as you. Probably more. I want to live," Alex assured him. "And three hundred million is a lot of money," he reminded him, as if anybody had forgotten, as if anybody could.

"We can live without it," Katya said, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. "But you're going to perform one small service before we set foot in that restaurant."

"Am I?"

"You definitely are. You're going to sign the letter of resignation and the contract that reassigns your businesses and properties to a new owner."

The show of confidence Alex had shown a moment earlier drained away. Now he looked crestfallen. "And if I say no?"

"That's your choice," Katya informed him. She looked over at Vladimir. "Count to five," she said, motioning her chin at Elena. "Then kill her."

"One… Two…"

Before he got to three, the lawyer was holding a sheaf of documents in front of Alex's nose and helpfully pointing out where to sign.