The Hunted

6

The black Mercedes, trailed by a pair of matching rental Ford Fiestas, pulled up to the entrance of the Aquincum Hotel. Two thugs hustled out of the nearest Fiesta, walked quickly through the entrance, strutted through the expansive lobby, and moved directly to the Apicius Restaurant located on the ground floor.

With a show of deliberate rudeness, they brushed past the attentive maitre d', occupied the closest table to the exit, withdrew their pistols, placed them under the napkins on their laps, snapped at a waitress to bring them two bowls of steaming goulash, and waited.

After three minutes, Katya stepped out of the Mercedes, looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then signaled for Alex and Elena to get out, Elena first. Then Alex painfully hobbled out onto the curb. He slung their matched his-and-hers overnight bags over his good shoulder and waited. A moment later, Vladimir got out as well, taking a moment to stretch and slip the gun he had held at Elena's head into the belt behind his back.

A storm had moved in; thick, angry clouds covered the skies, and it was prematurely dark. With Katya leading, Alex and Elena in the middle, and Vladimir bringing up the rear, the parade entered the hotel and marched directly to the fancy restaurant on the ground floor.

Katya entered a little ahead of them and brusquely instructed the maitre d' that a table for four was required, definitely in the middle of the room, make it quick. No problem. Hungarians are rigorously late sleepers and late eaters, and the crowd was subsequently sparse, mostly foreign guests of the hotel who didn't get the local customs.

Katya followed the maitre d' to the table and sat. A moment later, Alex and Elena entered. Alex looked around, then spotted Eugene at the far-right corner table beside a plate-glass window where he could kill the boredom watching the pedestrians wander by. Alex took Elena's hand. They walked slowly across the room. With each step, his chest and leg radiated pain. He slowed his walk to a near crawl, shuffling like an old man.

It was their first chance to talk. He whispered to Elena, "They're going to kill us, no matter what."

"I know. It's not your fault," she replied.

Oh yes, it definitely was his fault, but this wasn't the time or situation to discuss it. At this stage, fault or fate or serendipity made no difference. Don't waste time; think quickly, he told himself. He squeezed her hand and said, "This is an opportunity-probably our only chance. We have to use it."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I'm thinking." He tried to smile reassuringly but it came across weakly. "If you think of anything, let me know." She squeezed his hand back, and made no reply.

Eugene had spotted them and jumped from his seat. He took in the gallery of bruises and abrasions on Alex's face, noted the severe limp, and his face turned instantly into a mass of concerned wrinkles. "My God, Alex, what happened to you?"

"Car accident," Alex replied with pretended indifference, slipping the overnight bags off his shoulder and placing them on the floor to free his one good arm for a lame handshake. His leg was killing him. His left arm hung limp and useless. The yellow ointment covering the burn was seeping through his white dress shirt. He forced a smile and said a little lamely, "You should see the other guy."

After a polite chuckle, Eugene asked, "That's why you're late?" It was a dumb question. Why ask? The answer was right before his eyes. He suggested, "It looks like the accident was damned serious," suddenly swimming in guilt that he had insisted on Alex coming here.

Elena explained, "Well, first there were the police reports. That took nearly an hour. Our taxi driver ran a red light, two other cars were involved, a complete mess. We went to the hospital afterward."

"The hospital?" Eugene echoed, still stunned by the condition of his friend. Elena looked fine; on the surface she appeared unharmed, anyway. Nervous and distressed, for sure-but considering the dreadful state of her husband, that was easily understandable.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Alex assured him. "I was lucky. A few cuts, some nasty bruises, a few broken ribs, I think."

Eugene stared at the floor, torn between empathy for his friend and sympathy for himself if he didn't get Alex's signatures on the contracts. Cuts and bruises heal. Ten million bucks are forever.

Only thirty minutes before, Maria had stormed back downstairs, suitcase in hand, and announced that she had booked a flight back to New York and scheduled a meeting with the most venomous East Coast divorce lawyer money can rent. A real loud-mouthed cutthroat with sterling references. Among those references, Eugene well knew, were wives two and three, whose divorces the lawyer had handled with appalling effectiveness. Practice makes perfect-how sadly true. Wife Three had walked away with twice what Wife Two got. Eugene shuddered to think how much Number Four might cost.

Alex stole a glance over his shoulder, took in the two boys by the exit, and noted that Vladimir had slipped in and joined Katya at her table in the center of the room. Vladimir and Katya were partially blocking the views of their pals by the exit.

Not that it mattered; they were arranged perfectly to keep him and Elena bottled up.

He needed time, and Alex looked at Eugene and said, "Incidentally, please call your friends in New York. Tell them I require another thirty minutes."

"Not possible, Alex."

"Please make it possible."

"You know the stakes. If this deal's not locked down by five tonight, I'm deeply, deeply screwed."

Alex and Eugene stared across the table at each other, frustration hanging in the air like mist. Alex eventually noted, "Surely your contract with them has an Act of God provision. Am I right?"

"Do I look stupid?"

"So use it, Eugene. I was an innocent victim, a hapless passenger in a taxi accident. That's a shining example of an Act of God." He pointed at his own face. Eugene needed no reminder.

"Alex, these contracts have been months in the making."

"I think I know that."

"I faxed copies to your office a week ago."

"And I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"Seven whole days. Surely you've had more than enough time to study them."

"I'm a slow reader."

"Damn it, Alex, I-"

"Look, Eugene, let me be honest. I once signed a contract my lawyers and I had examined only the day before. During the interim, without mentioning it, the other party slipped in a few clauses, a few very expensive clauses. I trusted them, Eugene. I signed the contract without noticing the changes. That little stunt cost me two million dollars."

"You're kidding."

No, not kidding; lying, definitely, though he offered a regretful shrug and lied again. "I swore I would never sign another contract I haven't read on the spot. Please get on the phone and buy me some time."

"This is me, Alex. Eugene Daniels."

Alex bent forward, inspected him closely. "Yes, no doubt about it."

"How many deals have we done together? Five? Six?"

"Four."

"All right, four. Have I ever cheated you? I'm telling you, nothing, not a word has been added or subtracted from the contracts I faxed you." He awarded Alex a look of complete bewilderment. "It's the same paper, Alex, identical, down to the commas. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Good. Then it's settled."

A brief pause. "You trust me, too, don't you, Eugene?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Good. Then let's just dispense with those contracts. A useless waste of time. What's paper between friends? Let's just swap a few hundred million on a handshake."

Eugene lowered his head in defeat. "All right, all right, I'll try," he said, frowning tightly. "These people are absolute bastards, though."

"And right now, their mouths are watering for the easiest ten million they ever made. Your money, Eugene."

"But if I invoke the Act of God clause, they get nothing, right?" Eugene said, letting the words fall off his tongue. The frown began to melt. "Nothing, not a thing," he said, answering his own question, suddenly smiling. As hard as they had made him beg, work, and sweat to cobble this deal together-their nearly unending selfish demands, their noisy bickering over inane details, their lousy New York manners-and now, holding ten million of his dollars as ransom; well, the thought of suddenly yanking the rug from under their feet was exhilarating. What fun.

"That's right," Alex said, reading his thoughts. "The only people who will walk away from this richer and happier are the lawyers and accountants who prepared this deal."

Eugene wasn't drunk but he had inhaled enough thick German swill that any ability to think with real clarity was hours behind him. Alex was right, though. Every word made sense.

After all they'd put him through these past months, if the sharks in New York refused to give him another thirty minutes he'd tell them all to piss off. Take a flying leap and kiss your own fanny before you hit the floor.

"Please, make the call," Alex implored him, looking suddenly apologetic. He glanced quickly over his left shoulder: Vladimir and Katya were eyeing him closely. Once they saw Eugene stabbing numbers into his cell phone, things could instantly turn ugly. Alex put a hand on Elena's arm and smiled pleasantly at Eugene. "Excuse me. In all the excitement today, I never had a chance to use the bathroom."

Without waiting for an answer he stood and left Elena with Eugene. Eugene's plump fingers were already stabbing his cell phone. He couldn't wait. His only regret was that he couldn't watch their faces.

Alex approached the table where Katya and Vladimir sat. Both were glowering and trying to look utterly fierce. Why try? They could be wearing clown suits and sipping pink margaritas through striped straws; they would still smolder with menace. Alex stared directly at Vladimir and hooked a finger.

Katya was the smart one and he preferred to avoid her: Vladimir did his thinking with his fists and would be easier to fool. Not easy, but easier.

Vladimir had been watching the heavy American businessman at the table begin dialing numbers into his cell phone, and then-surprise-Alex standing up! Then walking in his direction! He turned to Katya. She shrugged noncommittally. Did the rich boy have a death wish? Where did he think he was going? Vladimir quickly pushed away from the table, stood, put a hand on the gun in his rear waistband, and trailed Alex.

The pair of hired guns by the exit were just lifting their pistols out of their laps when they saw Vladimir following behind Alex. They decided to sit and wait.

Alex offered a friendly nod as he walked past, then stopped beside a vacant pillar in the massive lobby and allowed Vladimir to catch up. The lobby, like the restaurant, was sparsely populated-it made it ridiculously easy for Alex to pick out Vladimir's people, a tough-looking couple lounging on comfort chairs right beside the entrance, smoking and glowering at anybody who passed by. And through the glass window, huddled directly beneath a fancy outdoor lantern, stood two more men in black jeans and black leather jackets. The moment Vladimir reached hearing distance, he hissed at Alex, "What in the hell are you doing?"

"What anybody in my position would do. The man at the table has to make a call to New York. It's not an option. I wouldn't want you to draw the wrong impression."

Vladimir opened his lips and was on the verge of speaking, but Alex cut him off. "His partners requested a thirty-minute extension. They want to add a few conditions. It's not uncommon. I probably should have warned you-antsy investors who come up with last-minute concerns, demands, and conditions. He's calling to nail down their issues."

Vladimir studied Alex. Nervous. Alex was fidgeting with his hands, his knees trembling so badly they were almost knocking together. Mr. Big Shot: all that money, all those businesses, one of the richest, most powerful men in Russia. Yet here he stood, nerves shot, ready to crumble. How utterly disappointing. Then again, Vladimir had worked damned hard to incite an earthquake of nervousness. In fact, he should be more worried if Alex seemed the least bit nonchalant. "If he's calling the police," Vladimir threatened, "he's arranging your death sentence."

"That's exactly why I'm talking to you right now. I knew you'd assume that."

"Is that right? Well, you're a bright guy, Konevitch, but don't think you can outsmart us. The local police will notify us the instant an alarm goes out about you," he warned. "There's no place you can go that we won't know. No place we won't catch you."

And it was true. During his long decades in the KGB, Sergei Golitsin had collected contacts and stoolies throughout Europe, all of whom now were struggling to create new lives in a new world, and wanted their dirty pasts as Moscow stooges and finks erased, buried, or forgotten. A fastidious bureaucrat with lethal instincts, over the decades Golitsin had kept every incriminating piece of paper he came in contact with. Within hours after he was "retired with prejudice" from the KGB, three large vans wheeled up in front of his old headquarters and were hurriedly loaded with forty years' worth of pilfered files. Box after box. Name after name, enough to fill several city-sized phone books. It was all squirreled away in a clandestine warehouse a few miles outside Moscow. Golitsin was sitting on enough dirt and compromising material to coerce and blackmail many thousands.

Among the names were the deputy minister for internal security for Hungary, two captains and three senior inspectors in the Budapest police, all of whom were operating under harsh instructions to notify Golitsin the instant Alex Konevitch's disappearance, or death, became an item of police interest.

Vladimir thumped a threatening finger off Alex's forehead. "You're way out of your league, boy. The only way out of this is to get him to sign that money over to us."

"Believe me, I know that. I just want to survive this and get on with my life."

From his face and eyes it appeared he did know. Still, Vladimir thought it a good idea to rekindle his memory. With narrowed eyes he said, "Your pretty bitch will go first. Remember that. You'll have a moment to watch the blood draining from her head, to hear her last pitiful breaths. And you'll know it's all your fault. Then I'll kill you, too."

"I have to get back to the table," Alex told him, now looking paralyzed with terror.

"You've got twenty-five minutes to finish this. Not a second longer." He pointed at Alex's watch. "In twenty-five minutes and one second, I write off the money and start blasting. Now, take a few deep breaths," Vladimir said, "then get back in there and get us our money." "It worked," Eugene announced with a triumphal slap on the table the moment Alex returned to the table. The lawyers in New York, a consortium of legal hit men who smelled an easy ten million for their clients, had yapped and howled a chorus of odious threats right up to the instant Eugene invoked the sacred Act of God clause. Like that, the curses and bullying died in their throats. Total silence. After that moment of stunned stillness, suddenly they couldn't shut up. They talked over themselves to extend Alex however much time was needed. And how was the poor man's health? the suddenly compassionate throng wanted to know. Damn shame about that awful accident, they collectively agreed-they couldn't have felt more sorry or sincere.

Eugene euphorically snapped his cell phone shut and laid it on the table. "They gave us thirty more minutes to hammer this thing out." He took a long congratulatory sip of beer and smacked his lips.

"Do you mind if we order a little food first?" Alex replied, sliding gently into his seat. "We haven't eaten all day. We're famished."

"No, no, of course," Eugene replied, feeling regretful once more for putting his friend through this. Then he thought again of his money, of ten million sailing away to his despised partners. Like that, he got over it.

Alex asked Elena, "What would you like, dear?"

She gave the menu a cursory glance and settled on a table salad and spicy German sausage dish. Alex ordered lukewarm chicken broth and a warm cola. He was famished, though his lips were so scabbed and swollen that solid foods were out of the question; at least three teeth were cracked or broken with exposed nerves a hot or cold drink would have brutalized; his jaw muscles were so achy, the thought of chewing was sickening.

Eugene loudly ordered another dark beer, a celebratory one this time, and mentioned to Alex, "Why don't you get started on reviewing the contracts?" In other words: I pushed fate once for you, pal, now get started.

Trying hard to look focused, Alex hoisted the thick sheaf of papers over and began leafing through, thoughtfully scanning the pages. His head throbbed. His body howled with pain. He forced himself to concentrate on one overriding thought: How to get out of this alive. How to elude the team of professional assassins seated only fifty feet away, fingering their guns, ready to blast away.

At least he had bought twenty-four minutes of relative calm to ponder his options-twenty-four minutes without anybody pummeling his body, or frying designs on his flesh, or uttering vile threats into his ear.

Eugene and Elena made small talk. How did she like Budapest? Lovely old city, didn't she think? Yes, very lovely indeed, she answered with a strained smile and firm nod-after what happened to Alex she would curse this city to her dying breath. Did she enjoy traveling with Alex? Oh, well, always quite an adventure, she replied, tongue in cheek. And how was life in Moscow these days? And so on and so forth.

The last thing Elena felt like doing was partaking in meaningless banter, but she had to buy time for Alex to think, and she endured it with phony grace. Eugene seemed like a nice man, a few rough New York edges aside-so why couldn't they sit there and just enjoy each other's company in golden silence? He could guzzle the beer he seemed to enjoy so much, and she could dwell on their nightmare. Her heart was pounding. She was forced to press her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

Her back was to Vladimir and Katya, yet she could sense-in fact, nearly feel-a malevolent presence.

The food came. Between spoonfuls and slow, careful sips, Alex maintained a pretense of studying the documents, occasionally scribbling on a page, a notation here, a notation there-meaningless chicken scratch as he racked his brain for a way out of this.

Maybe he was overthinking this, he wondered. Maybe elaborate was the wrong approach; they should simply stand up and walk out, thumb their noses at the gangsters, and flee. Maybe this was all a big bluff. The more he thought about it, the more tempting that idea was. Would their kidnappers really open fire, here, in the grand dining room of one of the best-known luxury hotels in Hungary?

Back in Moscow, where such things were all too prevalent, maybe: okay, yes, without a moment of vacillation, they would blast everything in sight. But surely, in Budapest, the storied capital of a foreign nation, a peaceful, elegant old city renowned for its sophistication and exotic charms, different rules applied.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the two dull-eyed thugs by the exit, engulfed in the dense cloud of cigarette smoke swimming over their table. And then, for a fleeting instant, he and Vladimir locked eyes. Stupid question, he realized. Of course they would. They would blow away Elena, Alex, probably Eugene, the waiters and waitresses, other customers, and for good measure they'd nail the doorman and run away with smiles on their faces.

It would be a total massacre, a bloodbath. And it would be Alex's fault.

He had already signed over his companies and properties, coerced statements that, if he survived, would be completely worthless. The moment he set foot in Moscow, he would hire the best lawyers money can rent and rescind everything; he then would use his immense fortune to hunt down every last one of them.

They would know this, of course. And they would know there was only one way to be sure that never happened.

And if that required a massacre, a flamboyant atrocity in a pleasant, peaceful city, it would only persuade the next millionaire they targeted that these were serious people who meant business.