The Hunted (33 page)

“You… What do you mean?”

“Your account’s frozen.” She was pointing at the screen Elena couldn’t see.

“Frozen? How is it frozen?” Elena thought maybe her English was failing her, that maybe “frozen” was some enigmatic banking
term like “overdrawn.” A minor inconvenience that could easily be cleared up. “We have hundreds of thousands in that account,”
she insisted.

“Yes, I know. But the police or somebody has ordered the bank not to disburse any money from your account. I’m very sorry.”

She felt like crying. Not here, though—not in front of all these strangers. She rushed outside and called Alex on her cell.
She explained what had happened. He told her not to get upset, this had to be a misunderstanding. He would call MP, who would
work a little legal magic and fix it.

They hung up and Alex immediately placed a call to his bank in Bermuda where the vast bulk of their money was parked. He was
thanking God he had kept the account offshore, deeply relieved that he had not moved all that cash to an American bank where
the interest rates were impressively higher. His business brain told him it was costing him thousands of dollars a year in
lost income. A reckless waste. He had been sorely tempted a dozen times to just do it. Now he was pleased he had followed
some darker instinct.

An assistant manager answered and quickly placed Alex on hold. A senior manager came on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Konevitch.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“There was nothing we could do.”

“About what?”

“Well…” A lame cough. “Your account, sir, it’s frozen.”

The discussion lasted five minutes. Only an hour before, the governor of Bermuda had called in the head of the bank and read
him the riot act. He himself had just gotten off the phone with a senior American Justice Department official who kicked him
around like a third world tin can. Though Bermudan banking laws were notoriously loose, he was told that, in this case, the
rules would tighten up. Ugly threats were traded back and forth, but in the end the outcome was preordained. Neither the governor
nor the Bermudan banks wanted to be listed as havens for criminal money. It mattered not that they were—being accurately labeled
was what they deathly feared. Tourism would dry up. Bermudan exports would sit on American docks, rotting. Bermuda, so dependent
on rich Americans, would shrivel to a wasteland of empty beaches and foreclosed hotels, massive numbers of angry, unemployed
people, etcetera. The governor remained steadfast for about three seconds before he crumbled under the onslaught of threats.

The FBI now had a death grip on both of Alex’s accounts.

Not thirty minutes later, Illya called from Austria. “Alex, what’s going on?” he yelled, clearly at the outer edge of reason.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No idea? The roof’s falling in here.”

“Settle down, Illya. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s happening.”

A long moment passed while his excitable protégé tried to order his harried thoughts. “This morning I was informed that our
license to do business in Russia has been revoked. All day, we’ve been getting calls from clients canceling their contracts.”

“On what basis?”

“The American clients were advised by the American FBI that we’re a front for criminal operations.”

“And the Russian clients?”

“No reason was given. They were just ordered by the Ministry of Security to terminate their relationships with us, or else.”

Alex quietly cursed himself. The computer! He had password-coded his files, a false sense of security, he realized now, very
unhappily, and a little after the fact. The FBI had talented specialists who probably could crack his password in seconds
flat. He tried to recall what was in those files. Nothing. Everything. Too much. He had never imagined he would have to protect
himself against this kind of police abuse. Not here. Not in America.

Everything he and Elena had done with Orangutan, the accounts they had brought in, the names of his contacts in Austria. What
else? His bank records, of course—that accounted for how swiftly the FBI moved in and strangled their finances. A new thought
struck him and his blood ran cold.

As coolly as he could, he said to Illya, “Pack your bags and get away, Illya.”

“Why, Alex? I’m—”

“Don’t ask questions I can’t answer. Just get away, right now.” “Alex, I have three hundred employees. I can’t. I have responsibilities
and obligations here.”

“Do you want to live?”

“Of course, but—”

“Use cash, Illya. Don’t leave a trail. Don’t call your family or friends. Find a place to hide where nobody will expect you.”

Mysteriously, the line suddenly went dead.

The three men parked one block away in the white, unmarked van, turned down the volume, and sipped lukewarm coffee. They exchanged
knowing winks and satisfied smiles. They were “press aides” assigned to the Russian embassy, a thin guise for intelligence
operatives. Yes, run, Illya, run as fast as your legs can carry you. Dodge and hide, spend only cash, ignore your family and
job, and disappear into the darkest hole in the universe. We’ll still find you.

Volevodz had littered bugs in almost every square inch of the Konevitch apartment. The two Fibbies had observed him, had idly
watched as he wandered around the Konevitch home hiding a listening device here, a bug there. They never said a word. After
a while, Volevodz dropped any pretense of caution. They obviously didn’t care. They had orders from on high to allow the Russian
as much latitude as he wanted—as long as he didn’t kill anybody. This was America, after all: a land of laws and inalienable
rights. Beatings were questionable, they figured, in a gray area; guess it depended how bad the thumping got, the two agents
decided.

The house phone was bugged as well. The men in the van could barely contain themselves when Elena had called that morning
with the surprise news about the bank. Alex, we have no money. Oh Alex, how will we pay our lawyer? Alex, how will we buy
food? The questions and pulled hair would come soon. Probably that night.

Another van, similarly equipped, and also filled with Russian “press aides,” was parked half a block up from their lawyer’s
office. His phones, too, both at home and at work, were riddled with bugs. His house had been burgled the day before. While
he, his wife, and two kids were doing the prayer thing at church, a team had entered through the broken back door. It was
easy. A bad, decaying neighborhood. His neighbors generally stayed inside and very specifically ignored what happened outside
their doors. His office, too, was wired like a sound studio.

So they knew the lawyer hadn’t come in yet, was apparently still wandering the halls at INS, trying to fathom how bad his
client’s situation was.

Bad, pal. Real bad.

Neither the lawyer nor the Konevitches had the slightest idea how awful this was about to get.

T
he 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?”