The Hunted (26 page)

“Same as before. Tell your boss to call my hotel in New York.”

With that Alex turned his back and walked purposefully toward the west and freedom and Elena, who was pacing nervously behind
the large gray apartment building, praying they had not overplayed their bluff. They held hands tightly and briskly walked
two blocks, caught a taxi, got lost in the traffic, and eventually made their way back to the gasthaus.

Volevodz and his two aides stood in place, nervously wringing their hands. Their eyes never wavered from the window ledge
six floors above. As long as the barrel never budged, neither would they. A flock of giggly Japanese tourists mistook them
for tired old spies, perhaps sharing a reunion in a place of former glory, swapping lies and inflating old adventures. The
tourists spent five minutes snapping pictures of the three scowling men in wrinkled trench coats. A bus arrived delivering
a fresh batch of rambunctious tourists, who piled out and were instantly drawn to the attraction. Erupting with laughter,
they yanked out the cameras and joined in the fracas. They were third-rate actors hired to lend a little authenticity to the
site, one tour leader helpfully explained to his entourage, who laughed louder. “Absolutely third-rate!” one of the crowd
yelled back. How badly the three men wanted to yank out the guns and start blowing holes through the crowd.

They felt like boneheads. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, they just gaped at the barrel pointed out the window.

After twenty excruciating minutes, they drew verbal straws. The taller of the two captains lost and gently inched forward,
slow, limited scrapes across the cement, before he squeezed his eyes shut, uttered a loud curse, and hopped three rapid bounces.
No shots were fired. No bodies bounced off the concrete. They threw caution to the wind and raced toward the base of the apartment
house. They drew their guns and pounded heavily up the stairwell to the sixth floor. Puffing from exertion, they found Alex’s
hired sniper there, directly underneath a hallway window: a mop head rested on an overturned metal trash can, with its rusty
metal pole poking out the window.

The three men stared at one another with disbelief that quickly turned into red-faced humiliation. No debate was required
or entertained; agreement was quick and unanimous—this petty detail would obviously only add unnecessary clutter in their
report to Tatyana Lukin.

They were tired of hotel rooms. They wanted to get out and wander around this glorious city that reeked with such historical
significance, to venture out and feel the soul of the German people. But they wouldn’t. They agreed that it was too dangerous.
It made no sense at this point to risk being picked up by Volevodz and his goons. Room service was contacted and they ate
a quiet dinner in the room together.

Over dessert and a glass of wine Alex shared the details of the offer. Elena listened and withheld comment. The pros and cons
were obvious. They were tired of living on the run, tired of looking over their shoulders, tired of going to bed each night
and awakening each morning imagining the worst. And no matter how much Alex exercised, he was a man of restless energy and
incredible intellect that needed an outlet. But the offer was humiliating, a disgrace, really. Still, the prospect of neutralizing
the bad people trying to kill them had its pluses.

“What will you do if they meet your demands?” she finally asked.

“I may take it.”

“Do you think Golitsin is behind the offer?”

“I seriously doubt it. I think he wants me dead.”

“Then who?”

“That’s the question. There are so many possibilities. I know of only one way to find out.”

“So you intend to take the offer to discover who’s involved,” she suggested.

“That’s the idea. If I say yes, I’ll look for a way to smoke them out.”

“Why you?” she asked, sipping from her wine. Good question.

“Partly because they’re still afraid of me. That’s why they want me inside and neutralized. Why else are they still working
overtime to keep me away from Yeltsin? Bring me in, and they buy my silence.”

“What’s the other partly?”

“Golitsin has a partner. That’s obvious. Somebody inside Yeltsin’s inner circle, I’m nearly certain. But think about this,
Elena. We know the syndicates are involved. We know Golitsin and his KGB friends are involved. And now this man Volevodz and
his deputies show up.”

“You think he really is with the ministry?”

“I’m sure of it. I made a call to a friend in Moscow and had him checked out. He’s former KGB, but he’s now exactly what he
claims to be. And he is, in fact, conducting the investigation.”

“So this conspiracy is quite big.”

“Getting bigger by the day. It would help to know exactly who and what we’re up against.”

“And then?” Elena asked.

“I find another way to get to Yeltsin. I’ll have names and evidence to shove in his face. If they can do this to me, Elena,
they can do it to anybody. I’m sure they will. And if that happens, the damage will be immeasurable. Nobody will want to put
money in Russia.”

She was dressed in a long tight dress with a slit that stretched all the way to her waist; it clawed even more provocatively
higher when she moved. The dress was not expensive and didn’t need to be; she could justify drools in kitchen rags. She entered
the restaurant and wound her way through the tables, where her date for the evening awaited impatiently in a long cushioned
booth in the back.

Golitsin had arrived ten minutes earlier. He was deep into his third scotch, a fine, imported blend he had acquired a taste
for during his years in the KGB.

The restaurant was the most exclusive and most breathtakingly expensive in Moscow. At that moment, anyway: city hot spots
fluctuated monthly, and after three weeks of endless lines, of thousand-dollar bribes to the owner for a reserved table, this
place was peering at oblivion. The tables were filled with other crooks and entrepreneurs who were choking down caviar by
the bushel and gulping enough champagne to float the Russian fleet. Enough cigarette smoke filled the air for an artillery
duel. Beautiful women seemed to be littered around every table, hanging lustily on the arms of seriously rich men, laughing
at full volume over the slightest ping of humor, generally working hard to ingratiate themselves enough to let the party last
another day, another week, another month, before they were replaced by a more eager bimbo with longer legs and a louder, faster
quick-draw giggle.

Long live capitalism.

“Nice place. You have good taste,” Tatyana said, smiling nicely, not meaning a word of it.

Golitsin did not get up or even acknowledge the phony compliment. She slid into the booth across from him and offered a nice
flash of thigh. Her blue blouse was cut precariously low—if she tripped, or stooped even one inch forward, her breasts would
flop out.

“How are things in the Kremlin?” Golitsin asked.

“Tense. Always tense. Disaster always lurking around the corner.”

The waiter rushed over. She ordered British gin, straight up, no water, no ice. Golitsin tipped his nearly empty glass and
signaled for a refill. A small band sat in the corner, dressed as Cossacks, playing old Russian folk songs to an audience
playing a new Russian game.

Golitsin informed her, “Let me tell you why we’re here. I’m hearing rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Bad ones for the lush.”

“How bad?”

“The reactionary forces are going to take him down.”

“They’ve been promising that for years.”

“They’re beyond promising. They’re hiring hooligans off the streets, arming them, and preparing a showdown.”

An eyebrow shot up. “How reliable are these rumors?”

“Believe them. My old KGB friends say it will happen any day.”

“What about Rutskoi? He involved?” she asked in a low whisper, meaning, of course, Aleksandr Rutskoi, Yeltsin’s vice president,
a war hero from the Afghanistan debacle Yeltsin had taken aboard in the hope that Rutskoi could calm down the right-wing wackos
and former communists who loathed Yeltsin with a passion that bordered on madness. But the marriage was ill-conceived and
soured from the start. It sped bitterly downhill from there. They were very different kind of men: one malleable and political
down to his underwear; the other the sort of military man who adored absolutes in everything but his own ethics. Aside from
a few organs the only thing they shared in common was that they were both legendary blowhards with a bottomless lust for power.
The two men now barely talked. Rutskoi schemed and plotted with his friends and allies in the Russian version of a Congress,
undermining Yeltsin and his reforms at every turn. And Yeltsin worked hard to return the favor. Stealing a note from his American
friends, he pushed his vice president into the shadows, and shoved him out the door every time there was a funeral anywhere
in the world. “The Pallbearer,” Yeltsin called him with considerable malice.

“In it up to his hips,” Golitsin confirmed, finishing off his scotch.

Her gin arrived. She took a long, careful sip. “I know you hate him, but it would be bad luck for us and our plans if Yeltsin
was toppled right now.”

Barely paying attention, he now was looking over her shoulder at a man who had just swaggered through the entrance. Six leggy
women of identical height and approximate weight and anorexic build were hanging off his arms, all with their hair died bright
red, all dressed in identical red evening gowns. He thought at first he was seeing double, or triple, and it was time to cut
back on the hooch. What a glorious time to be ridiculously rich and Russian.

“Maybe there’s an opportunity in this for us,” she suggested.

That got his attention. He shifted his rear and bent forward. “Like what?”

“Your old KGB friends now run the Ministry of Security and the security services. If there’s bloodshed, they’ll be Yeltsin’s
only hope.”

“Yes, they will. What do we get in return?”

She was about to throw out an unconsidered answer when what had been a loud argument at the next table turned dangerously
louder. Two millionaires were enjoying a heated argument over a business deal gone sour, both in full throttle about who had
outcheated whom. One leaped from his chair and drew a gun. The two lovely blonde bimbos who were their evening entertainment
screeched and hit the floor. The gunman was red-faced and howling curses, aiming the pistol in the face of the man across
from him. It was such an everyday mess in Moscow business circles that the other patrons mostly ignored the fracas. They went
about their meals, the girls laughed, the champagne flowed. Fortunately, like nearly every business in this raucous, crooked
town, the restaurant had a protection contract with a crime syndicate. Two burly men hustled over, blackjacked the gun wielder
into unconsciousness, kicked and pummeled him a few times out of habit, and dragged him out by the legs. Tatyana exploited
the brief entertainment to ponder Golitsin’s question more deeply.

The moment things settled down, she suggested, “How about this? In return we name the new attorney general.”

It was a brilliant idea, of course. Golitsin saw the possibilities immediately. If they owned the attorney general, any potential
Alex problems would go away. Nor, as they gobbled up other companies, would they have to look over their shoulders; they wouldn’t
worry about the legal authorities because they owned the head honcho. He bent farther forward and asked, “You think Yeltsin
will bite?”

“If we time it just right, what choice will he have?”

He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat. “Wait till the blood is running, till the standoff reaches
full pitch. Till he’s absolutely desperate and has no choice. Great idea.”

“Exactly. Can you deliver the Ministry of Security?”

He chuckled. Stupid question. “I’ll appeal to their patriotism and I’ll spread money around like there’s no tomorrow. They
may have demands of their own. I’ll tell them to make a list.”

The waiter arrived. It was nearly midnight, so they both went for the special, boar au gratin, which materialized almost instantly.
Large slabs of it, buried under a ton of gooey white cheese and thick gravy. She drank measured sips of champagne with her
meal, he stuck with scotch and drank without letup. She nibbled carefully and economically from the feast on her plate, he
stuffed everything into his mouth and chewed with noisy vigor.

She stayed on small talk, but had another topic to discuss. A delicate one, and she wanted his stomach full and his incredible
intelligence watered down with liquor before she made her move.

After desserts were delivered, she asked, “How do you like your new house?”

“It’s wonderful.” He tried to keep the nasty smile off his face, but couldn’t help it. “I love sleeping in Konevitch’s bed,
knowing I took it from him. I hope he and his lovely brat are sleeping on a hard, bug-ridden bunk in a flophouse, surrounded
by smelly winos and hacking dopers, and thinking about me.”

“And how is business these days?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. She was sure he would lie.

As she guessed he would, he said, “Fine. Money’s pouring through the doors.”

She looked down and played with the silverware beside her plate. “I heard three of the subsidiaries are already bankrupt.”

“Small setbacks,” he replied smugly, waving for the waiter to haul over another glass of hooch. “We didn’t want to be in hotels
or restaurants, anyway. Lousy businesses. I’m getting rid of the bloat Konevitch left behind.”

“Two more banks were just granted state licenses to exchange foreign currencies. You now have serious competition.”

“They’ll have to catch up to me. I won’t make it easy.”

“You kicked your price up to five percent for every ruble exchanged. They’re offering two percent.”

“Well, I give better service.”

Better service, my ass, she wanted to say. Golitsin’s posse of former KGB morons were ripping the guts out of Konevitch’s
business empire. The speed and efficiency was frightening. One of the twits had made the deplorable decision to shift the
tourist company to a lower-fare airline. The first load of paying customers died horribly in a fiery plane crash. Worse, the
passengers thought they were traveling to a sex vacation in Thailand; the plane was headed for a run-down health clinic in
Poland.