The Hunted (25 page)

Colonel Volevodz finally marched around the corner of a short gray building, a middle-aged, tall, thin man in civilian clothes
wrapped in a rumpled trench coat. Two young assistants dressed nearly identically accompanied him, both slightly behind, one
to his left, one to his right. They strutted in step, like conquering military men, across Checkpoint Charlie from the east,
no doubt attempting to concoct a cinematic entrance. The colonel stopped about two feet from Alex. They eyed each other suspiciously
for a moment.

The colonel finally put out a hand. They shook without enthusiasm. Volevodz pointed at his two colleagues, who kept their
hands in their pockets and edged a little closer. “Captains Kaputhcuv and Godunov. They’re assisting me with this investigation.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Alex without a trace of warmth. He had dressed carefully for this meeting—the same tailored suit
he had escaped in, cleaned and neatly pressed, with a stiffly starched, monogrammed shirt and silk tie completing the ensemble.
He looked every bit the big-deal gazillionaire who could roil entire markets with a swipe of his pen.

“So, where is your wife?”

“Around.”

“You are alone, then?”

“But you’re not,” Alex answered without really answering. “I’d like to see your identification.”

“I don’t believe you should be making demands, Mr. Konevitch. You’re a wanted man in Russia.”

“Welcome to the new Russia, Colonel. I’m a taxpayer with rights. You’re my servant now. Identification, please.”

“I can arrest you right now and drag you back to Russia. I’d be a big hero.”

“Then welcome to Germany, too. You have no legal authority here.”

The colonel’s hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. Alex studied him carefully. He had a thin face, thin eyes, thin
lips, and close-cropped hair molded to conceal a thinning spot on top. The face was neither mean nor nice, neither handsome
nor ugly; the prototypically stonewashed face of a career Soviet functionary. He pushed one hand toward Alex—something round
and hard poked forward against his trench coat. “Here’s all the authority I need. My assistants are also armed. I can kill
you right here.” He paused to produce a hard grin. “Maybe I will.”

Alex upped him with a tight smile. “A bad idea. For you and for me.”

“To the contrary, it would be a great idea. It would solve a lot of problems.”

“Look behind me at that big gray apartment building.”

Volevodz’s gaze left Alex’s face.

“Keep going,” Alex ordered, following the colonel’s roving eyes. “Third window down on the right side. See the barrel pointed
out the window?”

Volevodz’s mouth nearly fell open when his eyes finally settled on something long, cylindrical, and dark poking out a window.

“Look long and hard, Colonel,” Alex said. “That’s one of three snipers I hired to protect me. If I lift my right arm, you’re
dead, all of you. If I die, you’re dead. I had hoped not to do this, but…” He cranked his right arm halfway up, nearly to
his waist.

Volevodz computed the new situation very quickly, then, in a fast rush of words, said, “Put it down! For godsakes, put your
arm down.”

“Hands out of your coats. Palms up. Shut up and do as I say. Show me your identification—then, maybe my arm will come down.”

The hands popped out and so did the identifications. The hands were trembling. Alex glanced dismissively at the official-looking
IDs in the fists of the two captains and snatched the colonel’s for a closer inspection. It looked genuine enough, but what
did he know? He threw it back.

Volevodz caught it and slipped it back inside his pocket. “You’re not behaving like an innocent man, Mr. Konevitch.”

“I wasn’t treated like an innocent man.”

“You’ve just threatened the lives of three officers of the Ministry of Security. This will be added to the already grave charges
against you.”

“You won’t believe how much that worries me. Are you wired?”

“Why would I be wired?” Volevodz replied with a sneer.

“You wouldn’t necessarily. I’d just like to be sure our frequencies don’t interfere with each other.”

“Oh… I see.”

“You threatened to kill me. It’s on tape. Who sent you?”

He stared at Alex a moment. Alex had chosen to stand in the middle of the checkpoint, well away from any walls or protective
cover of any nature. Why was now clear. Volevodz and his assistants were trapped, out in the open, wildly vulnerable, and
he briefly pondered the interesting question of how many bull’s-eyes were painted on his forehead at that moment. He tried
a smile and said, “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Alex crossed his arms and stopped smiling. “I’m here because you promised to help me. You show up instead with guns and threaten
to kill me. You have an interesting definition of a wrong foot.”

“All right, all right. I made a mistake, a big one. I’m sorry. Let’s start over.” He tried to force the smile, and tried his
damnedest to make it look friendly and sincere. “Can I call you Alex?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Okay. Alex, as I said yesterday, I’d like you to return with me to Russia. If, as you claim, you’re innocent, you can clear
this up in court.”

“Don’t make me laugh. I won’t be alive long enough to make it to court.”

It was obviously a waste of time for Volevodz to contradict him; he’d just threatened to do the honors, here, now, in Germany,
in a supposedly neutral corner. It was even more foolhardy to attempt to worm his way into Alex’s confidence. A group of blond-haired,
blue-eyed tourists wandered past, gibbering in some strange tongue. The eyes inside the skinny slits danced around a moment,
then Volevodz observed, “There’s a lady over there filming us with a camera.”

“It’s about time you started paying attention. Yes, you’re being filmed, yes, your voice is being recorded, and yes, a bunch
of guns in the hands of seriously nervous people are being pointed at you. At least four of these tourists wandering around
are my people. They’re all armed to the teeth in the event you have friends lurking nearby. Don’t try something stupid; I’m
a very frightened, very desperate man. Any second I could maybe forget, and reach up, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and
you’ll all be dead. Now, why are we here?” Alex suddenly flapped his arms up and down, half slaps on his thighs like a penguin.
“Quickly, Colonel.”

“Settle down, Alex. I’m not here to kill you. I have a bargain for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Stop that with the arms. It makes me nervous.”

“Speak faster. My nose itches.”

“All right, all right.” He rubbed his eyes. Alex’s preparations were not a total surprise. After being briefed on his unexpected
escape from Hungary and the clever stunts he had pulled off, he had been warned to expect some sort of shenanigans. But Alex’s
eyes seemed to be boring into his soul, and he was having difficulty trying to maintain his nonchalance. “Certain friends
are very impressed with your financial acumen. Frankly, it’s a shame you’ve been chased out. You’re a national asset for Russia.
We admire what you accomplished.”

“Who are your friends?”

“Powerful people.”

“Give me some powerful names.”

“Don’t waste both our time. I don’t know all the names, anyway.”

“All right, go on.”

“They would like to enlist you to manage their finances. The money is parked offshore. You never have to come to Russia. It’s
work you certainly know how to do.”

“And what do I get out of this?”

“Twenty percent of the profit. The fund contains hundreds of millions right now, but eventually will grow to billions. Your
take, obviously, will depend on how well you invest it. It will be a reasonable compensation.”

“Is the money clean or dirty?” Alex asked, ignoring the offer.

Volevodz shrugged. “What’s clean money in Russia these days? Anyway, why should you care?”

“I don’t. What about the case against me?”

“As I said, these are powerful people.”

“How powerful?”

“Arrangements can be made.” His forehead wrinkled and he pretended to think about it awhile. He reached up and massaged his
sore neck. Alex towered a good six inches over him and had chosen to stand nose-to-nose. Volevodz was a tall man himself,
used to being looked up to, and he hated having the role reversed. “A few witnesses might materialize and clear your name.
The state prosecutor assigned to your case is a very reasonable sort. For a judgeship and a healthy contribution to his retirement
account he might be persuaded to declare the case a dead end.”

“Stop lying. My story was spread all over the front pages for weeks. I find it hard to believe it could be easily disposed
of.”

The colonel enacted a small shrug. “Sadly our police and courts are so overburdened, there is little pressure to close cases.
Besides, in Moscow these days, a new scandal always eclipses the last. Such are the times you helped bring about, Alex Konevitch.”

“What about my money?”

“Don’t think of it that way.” He attempted a feeble smile and placed a hand on Alex’s arm.

Alex shrugged it off and backed away a step. “I was beaten and nearly killed. My wife was kidnapped and threatened. Three
hundred and fifty million dollars were stolen from me. My businesses have been ruined and I’ve been publicly disgraced. How
should I think of it?” Alex asked carefully, coolly, without a trace of rancor—a businessman dispassionately listing the credits
and debits from a register.

“Water under a bridge, if you’re smart. Or, if you like, a down payment on a new future. You’re an exceptionally talented
man, Alex. We’re offering you the chance to make it all back.”

“How kind of you.”

“Get over it. In a few years, with a little elbow grease, you’ll be right where you started. Maybe richer.”

This offer was the last thing Alex had expected, and he needed a pause to consider what he was hearing and learning. It was
almost laughable. Almost. Volevodz obviously was another cog in the rapidly growing conspiracy that robbed his life. Now they
were offering Alex the chance to take the money they stole from him, to invest and nurture it, and produce fabulous profits
that would make them even richer.

In return he would get a fraction of what was already his. It wasn’t enough that the sharks took everything from him; they
now were offering to make him a slave to their financial interests. And it was slavery. They would own him, a deal with the
devil, and once he was in there was no way out.

They had his money, his companies, his homes—they now wanted to own him.

In fact, it was beautiful—for them, anyway. Alex would be the offshore front for their illegal activities, he would launder
their money, keep it hidden and growing, and if anyone got wind of it, Alex would be there, the disposable frontman, holding
the bag.

“You’re a liar and the people who sent you are thieves,” Alex said very simply, a fact he managed to express without sentiment.
“So why should I trust you?”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Not yet. You’re moving a little fast for me.”

“I’m offering you a chance to live. Let’s say you don’t take this deal, okay? We’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“I thought we were negotiating. Now you’re making threats.”

“All right. Negotiate.”

“Twenty percent is too cheap,” Alex told him. “A deal like this needs to be structured. If I increase the value of the fund
ten percent or less, twenty percent is all I deserve. But if I beat that, my percentage needs to increase accordingly. Cap
it at thirty percent if the value increases by fifty percent or more.”

“What if you lose money?”

“I won’t.”

“You’re quite the optimist, aren’t you?”

“I gave you the pessimistic scenario. And any smart businessman builds in incentives to encourage better performance. I’m
more than confident that I will easily produce returns surpassing a hundred percent a year. In that case, I’d like a five
million bonus on top of the thirty percent.”

Volevodz turned and traded surprised looks with his two assistants. “The man has balls.”

“If you weren’t a fool, you’d know I’m being generous. Find yourself another man with a track record like mine, the terms
will be even stiffer. There are people on Wall Street who demand thirty percent even if they don’t make you a dime. And if
they know the money is tainted, or in any way questionable, they’ll demand at least sixty percent. Don’t take my word for
it, ask around.”

Volevodz became fidgety. “I will have to discuss this with my friends.”

“Of course you will. You’re an errand boy,” Alex said, twisting the knife a little deeper. “You and I are through speaking.
The next conversation will be with your boss or no one,” he added. “If it’s another rude flunky I’ll hang up and never take
another call.”

Volevodz’s eyes narrowed. Oh, how he was tempted to whip out his gun and blow this impertinent punk back to New York. He would,
too, would smile and blast away, except he was at a severe disadvantage with all the guns pointed at him. “I’ll bring it up,”
he mumbled, biting his lip.

“One other matter I’d like to bring to their attention.”

“What?”

“Given my history with these people, I want some form of assurance I’ll get what I earn.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll think about it.” He backed two steps away from Volevodz, then stopped and, treating it like a careless
afterthought, warned, “Move two feet or make any effort to follow me—so much as tug a cell phone out of your pocket—and the
nervous people with guns have orders to blast you to pieces.”

Volevodz’s mouth gaped open. A team of five stalkers lurked around the corner, awaiting a call from their boss to jump on
Konevitch’s trail and track him to his lair, where they would add a little more pressure and help Alex make the right call.

He shifted his feet, suddenly remembered Alex’s warning, and froze. He briefly pondered the amazing question of how he had
been so thoroughly outwitted by a complete amateur. But before Alex could escape, he remembered to ask, “How do we reach you?”