The Hunted (24 page)

As soon as she finished, he said, “Do we all agree this has worked out beautifully?”

Nicky had been staring out the window. But he swallowed his usual nasty cynicism, looked over, and admitted, “Yeah, it’s real
sweet.”

Tatyana merely nodded.

“Then why stop now?” Golitsin asked them, shifting in his seat and facing them. “There’s lots of little Konevitches out there,
building businesses and creating millions that are just waiting to be taken away.”

Tatyana appeared thoughtful, though she had long held the same idea. The only surprise was that it took Golitsin so long to
broach this rather obvious inspiration. In her mind, all along Alex Konevitch was just a guinea pig, a test case for them
to see if they could pull this off and get away with it. Young millionaires were growing on trees these days, just waiting
to be fleeced. But she played dumb and asked, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“It will even be easier next time, less risky. None of the other rich kids have Konevitch’s warm relationship with Yeltsin.
We now know how it works, and we’ve got plenty of money to use for whatever we try. We’ll get even better at it.”

Nicky replied, predictably, “What’s in it for me?”

Tatyana, speaking as the lawyer she was, answered, “Right now, Nicky, you get what our agreement called for, your share of
company stock, and Konevitch’s banks to launder your money. But you and the rest of your syndicate pals are making a very
big impression. You’ve turned Moscow into a bloody war zone. The Russian people are screaming for law and order. Believe me,
it’s a sore topic in the Kremlin these days. The world is paying close attention to your fun and games, too. Yeltsin is tired
of being lectured by Americans and Germans about getting your ilk under control.”

“Talk, talk, talk.”

“Not much longer, believe me,” she replied, wagging a finger in his face.

“They have to catch us first.”

“Adapt to the new rules. People now vote, Nicky. They make their displeasure known at the polls. Yeltsin knows he has to show
tangible progress on the law-and-order front, and soon. A big crack-down is around the corner. Believe me, plenty will be
caught.”

“The dumb ones.”

“That’s right. The smart ones, like you, will get ahead of the curve.”

“I like what I’m doing now.”

“How much do you score in a year?” she asked him.

“Plenty.”

“Don’t play games, Nicky. How much?”

“Millions. I don’t know. Thirty, maybe fifty.” Twenty was more like it, but with Golitsin in the car he wasn’t about to sound
like a small fry. He squirmed in his seat and tried to look sincere.

“Not bad,” Tatyana commented, arching her eyebrows. “How much did Konevitch make last year?”

“A lot, I guess,” Nicky replied through gritted teeth. “I don’t know.”

“Around two hundred million. And there are others, like him, who will soon be hauling in billions. All of it considered legal,
too.”

“Billions?”

“Billions,” she repeated, with cool enunciation, as if the word picked up velocity the more slowly it was pronounced. “It’s
time to take your game up a notch, Nicky, climb out of the gutter. Keep your whorehouses and drug business if they amuse you.
But the real thievery, the big money, will be in big business. Billions, Nicky, billions.”

Nicky adored that word, “billions.” It rolled out of her lips so beautifully. She could repeat as often as she liked.

They chatted on a while, and—while the driver’s toes turned black—settled on an equitable division of labor and responsibilities.
Golitsin would scout the possibilities, determine the targets, and apply his devious talents to designing the takeovers. They
had done it once, and the blueprint was perfectly adaptable for the next victim. Tatyana would build the political cover,
grease the right palms, and buy their way into the hearts of Yeltsin’s people. Nicky would continue to push whores and dope
and gray-market cars, and bide his time until he was told who needed to be terrorized, or chased out of the country, or murdered.

The conversation ended right where it started, on the perplexing issue of Alex Konevitch. Nicky wanted him dead—as soon as
it could be arranged, however it was arranged. Just dead. In a business with few troublesome principles, Nicky steadfastly
adhered to one: the fewer witnesses the better.

Golitsin, too, wanted Konevitch dead. Very, very dead. For a man whose emotions generally veered between heartless dispassion
and expressive fury, he had developed a fatal preoccupation with Alex Konevitch. It was unhealthy, he knew, he just couldn’t
help himself. He enjoyed thinking about how Alex would die.

Also, though nobody needed to mention it, if Konevitch did eventually make contact with his old pal Yeltsin, this whole thing
could come apart. The lush owed the boy wizard a huge debt. And no matter how hard Tatyana schemed and conspired, eventually
Alex would break through—there were too many loose threads, too many suspicious connections, too many holes that could spring
leaks. And as with all criminal conspiracies, they would inevitably be pitted against each other. The three of them knew beyond
a shadow of a doubt that they would gladly hang the other two, if it came to that.

A legitimate investigation conducted by any halfway honest and competent official would be a catastrophe.

Tatyana confidently assured her partners she had a plan for their boy Alex, and ordered them to cool their heels until she
told them otherwise.

The combination of champagne and sex worked like magic. The past three nights Alex had slumbered a more reasonable six hours.
He was eating again, even exercising for two hard hours every morning in the nicely equipped hotel gym.

He was toweling off after a shower, preceded by a fierce early-morning workout. Elena lay on the bed nibbling toast and browsing
through the morning paper. A delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh coffee had just been wheeled in for Alex
when the phone erupted.

Elena was closest, and she lifted it up, expecting it to be room service. She listened for a moment, then in Russian said,
“Yes, he’s here,” and handed the phone to Alex. “Some officer from the Ministry of Security.”

Alex put the phone to his ear and identified himself.

“This is Colonel Leonid Volevodz, special assistant to the minister of security.” The voice was deep, with the clipped, irritatingly
authoritative bark of a career officer.

“What do you want?” Alex replied in kind, in Russian.

“I have your number because a week ago, the minister asked me to look into your complaint.”

“Pass him my thanks.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a brief moment found it hard to speak. “What have you found?”

“What have I found? Well, there are… shall we say, certain irregularities and incongruities in your story.”

“You think I’m lying.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Mr. Konevitch. I think there also happen to be big holes in the reports about what happened.”

“Then why don’t we discuss those holes?”

“Fine. For starters, on the fifth, you flew on Flight 290 to Budapest. The—”

“Yes, I—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Konevitch. I will talk and you listen until I ask you a question. Are we clear?”

The arrogance was so thick the man probably was exactly what he claimed to be, a high-ranking bureaucrat in an important ministry.
Alex drew a long breath and said, “No more interruptions.”

“One more and I’ll hang up. Now, where was I? Ah yes… the flight manifest confirms this. Also, Hungarian customs show you
arrived there at 1:05. Nothing shows that you reentered Russia, yet bank records indicate your personal accounts were emptied
out the morning of the sixth. A few hours later, fifty million more was stolen from your customers. The terminals that ordered
the transactions were traced back to your own headquarters.” He paused a moment, then asked, “What am I to make of this?”

This was the first time Alex had heard the precise details of the thievery, and he spent a long painful moment taking it in.
Oh, how he would love to have Golitsin seated in a chair in this room, to have his strong hands gripped around the old man’s
throat. He would squeeze and squeeze harder until every last detail poured out. How did you get into my safe? Where did you
send my money? Who’s in this with you, and where is it parked now? Alex said, “I was on a plane to New York during that time.
If you read my fax, you’d know that. It’s easily confirmed.”

“I read your fax, Mr. Konevitch. But that’s not the only possibility, is it? Maybe you had an accomplice who moved the money.”

“But I didn’t. Is that all?”

“Not quite. From the Central Bank, I obtained copies of the letters assigning your properties to Sergei Golitsin. One of our
handwriting experts gave your signature a look.”

“Go on.”

“The writing is pinched, nonlinear, and extended. He believes it is your writing. But perhaps scrawled under conditions of
discomfort or duress.”

“After three hours of beating and torture, it wasn’t my best work.”

Elena handed Alex a piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee. She raised her eyebrows. He answered with a wavering hand.
He took a large bite and washed it down with coffee.

After a long pause, the colonel said, “About the fax you sent the minister, it raises many provocative questions. For instance,
you implicate General Golitsin.”

“I didn’t implicate him, I said very clearly that he was behind this. He had people murdered, he had me kidnapped, he had
me tortured, and he stole everything.”

“We are talking here about a very distinguished man. A patriot who served this country nobly for many decades. These are serious
charges. I need to question you directly.”

“Fine. I’m in New York. Come and ask whatever you like.”

“Not possible. My jurisdiction ends at the Russian border. My friends in foreign intelligence are understandably territorial.
They become quite touchy if I forget my place.”

“All right. We’ll handle this by phone. Ask whatever you like.”

“That is… unacceptable.”

“Is it? Why?”

“For one thing, the case is very complicated and implicates some very important people. For a second thing, I like to see
the face of the man I’m interrogating. And of course, everything will have to be checked out. Over the phone won’t work.”

“Neither will coming to Moscow, Colonel. They tried to kill me and they might want to finish the job. I explained that in
the fax.”

“I will personally provide for your security, Mr. Konevitch. Arrangements will be made. You have my word as an officer.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Look, the state prosecutor is preparing an indictment. Do you want your name cleared or not?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. I’m not setting foot in Russia until I read in the paper that Golitsin and his people are under
arrest.”

A long moment passed. It sounded to Alex like Colonel Volevodz had a hand over the mouthpiece while he conferred with somebody.
Alex munched toast and drank his coffee.

Volevodz came back on and suggested, “Why don’t we meet on neutral ground?”

“Who were you speaking with?”

“Are we having trust issues, Mr. Konevitch?”

“No, no issues. I don’t trust you.”

A long pause, then, “That was my secretary. Another call has come in that I need to take. Quickly, Mr. Konevitch, do you want
to meet or not?”

“Make it a
very
neutral place, Colonel.”

“Berlin. Is that neutral enough for you? You know Checkpoint Charlie?”

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow, be there at three. Don’t be late.”

C
olonel Volevodz had a crooked sense of humor; or, at the very least, a wicked conception of irony. Checkpoint Charlie, for
four troubled decades, had been the fabled symbol of a divided world—socialism versus capitalism, the free world versus the
chained one. This was where hooded prisoners had been exchanged between East and West, where tense, shadowy bargains had been
fashioned that kept both sides from blowing each other into overradiated rubble.

Alex and Elena had caught an overnight, landed at stately old Tempelhof Airport, and took a fast taxi to a modest gasthaus
near the city center, in a nontrendy neighborhood, an anonymous little place off the beaten track. They checked in under false
names; they paid with cash.

The recently reunited Berlin was a boomtown. Towering cranes poked at the sky like a thick forest. Construction crews seemed
to outnumber the city’s population by two to one. Real estate prices in the eastern half of the city were racing to catch
up with the inflated prices in the west. The West Germans were stumbling over themselves to gentrify their neglected, prodigal
brothers to the east.

Alex stared glumly out the window during the taxi ride and fell ineluctably back into an old habit. Fortunes were being made
all around him, new buildings being thrown up at a dizzying pace, a whole city being refashioned before his eyes. He conceived
of ten ways he could edge himself into this market and produce millions. He felt like an Olympic sprinter whose legs had been
amputated, seated in the bleachers, watching the rookies take their victory laps while he stared on in frustration, hobbled,
unable to compete.

At three o’clock, Alex stood alone, at the west end of Checkpoint Charlie. The guardshacks, the lights, the swinging gates
were still in place, unmanned though, and all too happily neglected. The long, narrow alley was now little more than a tourist
trap, and a very popular one. People of all nationalities and complexions loitered around in herds, snapping pictures of the
remains, wandering through the museum of a now dead era, pausing to ogle the graying old photographs of desperate people employing
desperate, and often brilliant, means to escape the horrors of communism and make new lives in the West.

Volevodz kept Alex waiting twenty minutes. The message was unmistakable. You’re an ex-mogul, a wanted felon, a sorry thief,
a loser. I may be only a lowly colonel but I’m your only hope and you’ll kiss my boots or else.