The Hunted (23 page)

She handed him a pair of tall crystal flutes she had borrowed from the dining room downstairs. He slowly filled them, one
for her, one for him. She grabbed her flute and inched a little closer. Little of what he was now telling her was news. Over
the past few days she had sneaked downstairs to the privacy of Amber’s office and made her own calls back to Russia. She had
her own sources, and if her husband kept her in the dark, she would use them.

Her family and a few close friends had fully apprised her about what had happened, the whole ugly story. For a few terrible
days, Alex had been the talk of Moscow, with considerable interest throughout the rest of Russia. The story was irresistible
and the press lunged into a predictable frenzy—on TV, in newspapers, and in magazines, Alex was loudly tried and all but convicted.
The millionaire genius was on the lam. He had stolen the money and fled. Behind the glitz and glamour, behind that mysterious
façade of quiet brilliance, he was nothing but a two-bit crook, a highway robber with a swollen IQ in a nice suit.

The day the news broke there was a frenzied stampede on Alex’s bank: after two frightening days, though, it quickly stagnated
to a mild panic. Only fifty million was supposedly stolen—a small drop from a massive bucket. And twenty percent interest,
after all, was still the sweetest deal in town. The commercials with the lovely girl who adored men with interest and the
treacly old couple fondly eyeing their shiny Mercedes flooded back onto the airwaves. Much of the money that had raced out
limped back in.

As usual, the initial spate of news stories was brief and shallow and disgracefully inaccurate. Few details were known beyond
the basic fact: Alex Konevitch was a lying, conniving thief who took off with a fortune. But somebody kept dropping more and
more tips, inflaming interest in a bonfire that required no fuel. The stories turned longer, the lies more sensational and
deceitfully toxic. Alex stole fifty million, a hundred million, a billion! He was holding out in a jungle palace in Brazil,
guarded by snarling bandistas, flipping the bird and daring anybody to come after him. Using a false identity, he had checked
into one of those California detox clinics, and now was doing cumbaya with the doped-out, besotted dregs of Hollywood. He
was hiding here, in Moscow, in a plush safehouse protected by fierce syndicate killers in exchange for a cut of the loot.

The theories about Alex’s wheres and whys changed daily. Alex had snapped under the pressure and flew out the door, laughing
deliriously, hauling grocery bags leaking cash. Alex had plotted this theft from the start. Everything he built and accomplished
was only to create the edifice for a massive heist; the only mystery was why he waited so long. Alex was bipolar and Jekyll
finally smothered Hyde. A war was waged on the front pages as each paper tried to outdo the newest disclosures, the wildest
suspicions. The same paper that dubbed him “The Kid with the Midas Touch” rechristened him “The Kid with the Sticky Touch.”

Fortunately for Alex, Russians are bred to be jaded and skeptical. After seventy years of communist manipulation and distortions,
any news fit enough to print was bound to be twisted enough to disbelieve. Besides, fabricating conspiracies is part of the
Russian national character, and this story hit the street pregnant with lush possibilities. Golitsin’s long career in the
KGB did not work to his favor. This sounded like something the bad boys from the Lubyanka would cook up; and as everybody
knows, old toads don’t change their warts. Rumors and theories flew around Moscow, and ran heavily in Alex’s favor.

Foul play was suspected, though nobody could put a finger on exactly how Golitsin pulled it off.

But the incredible idea that Alex would plunder his own bank and, before racing out the door, take the trouble to legally
transfer everything he owned—not to his partners, not to his businesspeople, but to his chief of security, of all people—smelled
rotten. What sense did that make? Besides, why would he care who snatched up the crumbs he left behind? And only fifty million
from his bank customers? For a man rumored to have billions? Why squander his reputation and name for pocket change? And if
he was willing to snatch fifty million, why leave behind billions more?

Even among those skeptics, however, very few pitied Alex. A rich man brought down, big deal. It was funny, actually. Live
by the dollar, die by the dollar, seemed to be the general sentiment among a nation of former communists. Besides, nothing
satisfies the average Ivan more than the spectacle of a high-and-mighty chopped down to his knees. Alex’s downfall was weighed
and deliberated around dinner tables with no small measure of delight.

“So what’s next?” Elena took a long sip from the flute.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

She was now pressed firmly up against him, and between sips and explanations, he was stealing furtive glances at her thread-bare
teddy. She lowered her left shoulder and encouraged a strap to slip off. “What’s the worst that can happen to us, Alex?”

“This is the worst.”

“No it’s not. Not by a long shot. We could be back in Budapest, dead.”

“True enough. But if we return to Moscow, that could still happen.”

“But they can’t drag us back to Russia, can they? Without an extradition treaty, they can’t touch us. They can add a library
of charges but you’re here. If they try, we’ll just stay here.”

“You wouldn’t miss Russia?”

“A little, sure. But alive anywhere with you is better than dead there. But one thing’s going to change.”

He turned and looked at her.

“We’re in this together. I wasn’t involved in your business back in Moscow, I didn’t need to be, and frankly I never cared
to be. But our lives are different now. Our marriage changes with it.”

“What does that mean?”

“From now on, no matter how depressing, keep me informed of everything. I’m scared, but I’m not some breakable china doll,
and I won’t be treated like one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I love you, and I want to help.”

He put his arm around her. Elena slid back and dragged him down onto the bed. The champagne flutes tumbled to the floor. Three
weeks of pent-up energy and the frustration of three hundred and fifty million in stolen dollars and stocks were compacted
into the first long, smoldering kiss.

The expensive little teddy was quickly ripped off—it sailed through the air and landed on the lampshade. Alex paused only
long enough to ask, “What time did you tell Homeless Harry to be here?”

T
he black limo idled in an otherwise empty parking lot that overlooked the ice-cold Moskva River. Mid-October. The sky was
gray, overcast, and dreary; another winter that threatened to be long and harsh had produced its first cold snap. The driver
had been ordered out of the car. He stood some twenty feet away in the bone-aching darkness, smoking, shivering, stamping
his feet, and eyeing the heated car with considerable bitterness.

Three people sat in the rear.

They had agreed to meet like this, one or two days each week. They were bound together by the money and the single enduring
emotion that thieves hold for one another: poisonous distrust. For obvious reasons, the three could not be seen together in
public under any circumstances, so Golitsin took the initiative and arranged the inconspicuous rendezvous.

Tatyana Lukin sat in the middle, her splendid legs skillfully folded, impossible to miss or ignore. The men who were seated
on each side of her—Golitsin to her left, Nicky her right—could barely stand the sight of each other. Golitsin hated to have
his authority questioned. Nicky detested authority generally, and loathed Golitsin’s prickly brand of it particularly.

Both men were arrogant, selfish, pushy, ill-tempered, and crooked to the core. They had so much in common it was scary. One
was brains, one brawn, and for this to work they had to remain together. She was a woman; she could handle them. Without her
to referee, they would have their hands around each other’s throats in seconds flat. Tatyana liked to be needed.

She was saying, “I lost count of how many times he called. More than a hundred, probably. We’re running an office pool. The
operators in the basement are given a daily tag sheet of who to put the calls through to. Yeltsin still has no idea Konevitch
is trying to reach him. He’s seen the summaries of the news accounts, and heard—”

“And what was his response?” Golitsin interrupted.

“He called in my boss… the chief of staff,” she added for Nicky’s edification. “Said this did not sound like Alex. He wanted
Konevitch tracked down so he could hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Asked my boss what he thought.”

Golitsin smiled and rubbed his hands. “I’m sure you had already explained to him what he thought.”

The answer was too obvious to merit a response. “He told Yeltsin he always considered Konevitch a conniving crook. Charming
and likable, perhaps. But for sure, nobody earns that kind of money, they steal it. Warned him that he always believed Yeltsin
allowed Konevitch to get too close. Whatever emotional or political bonds they shared, the only tangible connection was money.
Konevitch didn’t contribute all that cash out of the goodness of his heart. Plus, the Congress is filled with mutinous former
communists who want to cut Yeltsin’s balls off. He’s walking a tightrope between trying to placate them and the frustrated
reformers in his camp. They’re always threatening to impeach him, and here’s Konevitch, making a huge splash on the front
pages. Exactly the kind of connection Yeltsin doesn’t need.”

Nicky yawned. Politics bored him to death. It made absolutely no difference to him whether commies or democrats or pansies
in birthday suits were in charge. His business was bulletproof regardless of whichever idiots ruled the land.

“Did Yeltsin buy it?” asked Golitsin.

“He wasn’t
not
buying it. He knows he’s got enough problems already. There are dirty rumors regarding his daughter flying all over the city.
She has almost literally hung out a sign saying, I’m daddy’s little girl—leave your bags of cash here and I’ll twist old poppa
around my pinkie and bring home the goods.”

Nicky perked up at this hint of corruption in high places. “Is it true?”

“Yes, and stay away from her,” Tatyana warned with a knowing wink. “She doesn’t know it, but she’s already being investigated
by the chief prosecutor. Bugs and undercover cops surround her everywhere she goes.”

Nicky laughed and slapped his thighs with a loud thump. At least his brand of crook made no pretenses.

Golitsin merely grunted. He already knew about Yeltsin’s daughter, of course. He could in fact educate Tatyana about how much
little Miss Piggy had stashed in a Swiss bank, the account numbers, who gave her the money, and why. It was invaluable knowledge
he had no intention of sharing.

“Tell you what, babe,” Nicky announced. He leaned toward her and his left hand landed with a lecher’s grip high on Tatyana’s
right thigh. “You still gotta get Konevitch. Put up all the roadblocks you want, eventually he’s gonna find a way to get through.
You thought about that?”

A twitch of irritation crossed Golitsin’s face. “We’ll take care of it,” he sneered in Nicky’s direction.

“Yeah? Like you took care of him in the first place?” Nicky snapped back.

“Stick to your own business.” The two men glared at each other, Golitsin’s face glowing with anger, Nicky sneering, as if
to say, “You couldn’t find a needle if it was sticking in your ass.”

Tatyana waited until the men cooled off, then said to Golitsin, “Where’s the money?”

“Tucked away in a safe place.”

“I know that. Where?”

“None of your business.”

“Okay. Will you take a little advice?”

“That depends.”

“Don’t be that way, Sergei. I’m looking out for all our best interests.”

Golitsin sniffed and stared straight ahead. Bullshit. Given half a chance she’d rob him blind. She was smart and beautiful,
and utterly without a conscience.

Tatyana plowed on. “You know why Konevitch was so popular with Yeltsin and his people? Money. He bankrolled Yeltsin’s election.
He bought them all their jobs. Literally. An election is coming in another few years, and believe me, they’re scared. Yeltsin
is being blamed for the mess we’re in. His popularity’s in the toilet and it’ll take a load of cash to get him out of it.
They’ll miss Mr. Moneybags.”

“You’re assuming he’ll still be alive in another year.”

“I assume nothing. I’m just telling you there’s an opportunity for whoever’s clever enough and rich enough. Somebody is going
to pump cash into the big hole Konevitch left. Why not us?”

Golitsin thought about it a moment. What was there not to like? Nothing, really. A million a year could buy a world’s worth
of influence; a few million, in the right hands, at the right moments, and who knew? It was a no-brainer, actually—he was
only surprised he hadn’t thought of it himself. He puffed a few times, stretched out the contemplative pause, then nodded.
“Let’s do it.”

“Good decision,” Tatyana said. “Funnel it through me. I’ll make sure everybody knows where the money came from.” And who inside
the Kremlin arranged this infusion as well, though of course there was no need to point that out.

“How much are we talking?” Golitsin asked, suddenly concerned because it was his money.

“Not much. Relax, Sergei. A hundred or two hundred thousand a month, for starters. As the election draws closer, we’ll increase
it, have a real impact.”

She had clearly thought this through and prattled a bit about the details—plans for secret bank accounts, blind contacts,
how the money would be laundered, and so forth and so on, the typical architecture for large-scale graft and bribery. The
irony that they were using Alex’s money to replace Alex was lost on none of them. In fact, Golitsin had arrived at this meeting
ready to pitch and hatch his own bright new idea about how to spend more of Alex’s hoard of cash, and was waiting impatiently
with his hands clasped to pop it. But Tatyana’s suggestion fit right in, so he let her rattle on.