The Hunted (12 page)

“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.

T
he 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 maître 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 maître 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 maître 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.