The Hunted

"But you know it now, sir. And like sick perverts you're all leering at my wife. If you had any decency you'd allow her to go into the bathroom and get dressed."

Agent Wilson could not stop staring at his shoes, the tips, the laces, the stitching along the sides. His orders were clear and brutal. Humiliate Konevitch. Goad and provoke him into doing something stupid-any pitiful attempt at resistance, disrespectful behavior toward the agents, or, better yet, some mild act of violence. The charges against him were precariously flimsy, trumped-up bullshit that was dangerously toothless, if truth be told. His boss, Hanrahan, had demanded something a real judge could sink his teeth into.

But that "pervert" word really stung. Now looking at anything but the nearly naked, gorgeous blonde in the room, he said to the female agent, "Let her get some clothes and change in the bathroom."

Elena was led off, stomping angrily down the hall.

Alex leaned against a wall and resigned himself to watching the INS agents tear his apartment apart. The few pieces that weren't already broken-and those he and Elena had carefully and lovingly repaired-were now destroyed beyond repair. It was hard, grim work and, to their credit, nobody smiled or laughed this time.

After about five more minutes of frantic homewrecking, the sounds of somebody pounding hard on a door at the rear of the apartment brought a sudden halt to the action. A deep woman's voice was frantically yelling, "What are you doing in there? Open up. I said, open this damned door! I mean it, I'm not fooling around."

The FBI agent, Wilson, suddenly lost his polished cool and dashed back to the rear bathroom. After a few moments of loud confusion accompanied by more ignored demands to open the door, Alex heard a loud crash. A moment later, Elena was dragged back into the living room, fully dressed now, in jeans, a loose sweatshirt, and a petulant expression.

"What were you doing in there?" the FBI agent demanded two inches from her face.

"I changed clothes."

"What else?"

Elena could not resist a big smirk. "Isn't that a rude question to ask a lady who was in the bathroom?"

Mr. FBI rolled his eyes and barked at the INS agents, "Search the bathroom."

Two minutes later, one of the agents reappeared, sheepishly gripping a wet cell phone in his hand. "This was hidden inside the toilet."

It was senseless to ask Elena if she had made a call. And equally a total waste to ask whom she had called. At that moment, their lawyer probably had his foot glued to the metal as he raced to the apartment.

"Slap her in cuffs," the FBI agent ordered. "Time to get out of here." As they were led out the doors on the ground floor, somebody had obviously alerted the press. They were there in force, it was 3:15 in the morning, and they were swapping jokes about the infamous Watergate, sipping coffee, playing with the klieg lights, waiting for the fun to begin.

It had been a slow, dry week for the news cycle-the Hollywood brats were behaving surprisingly well; plenty of murders, but none gruesome or weird enough to break the threshold of public monotony with such things; and of course Washington hosted its usual political scandals involving graft and sex, but nobody cared about that anymore. The boys from the Bureau publicity machine had gone into overdrive and kicked up huge interest in this fast-breaking story. The Runaway Millionaire, they had called Konevitch. The number one most wanted man in Russia. A beautiful celebrity couple, and better yet, the news bureaus were promised all kinds of inside leaks and dirt to fan the public interest and give the story long legs.

A blonde woman lingered at the rear of the crowd, gripping a big pistol under her jacket, silently cursing that there were so many witnesses. The hell with them all, Katya swore to herself. Her orders from Golitsin were clear and unequivocal: make their deaths look like an accident, or a robbery gone wrong, or a joint suicide pact by the obviously distressed couple. But in her long, fruitful career of killing and assassinating, no target had ever pushed her buttons this way. The humiliation of the escape from Budapest was bad enough. But the full year of misery in Chicago, and to learn now that it was all because Mr. Smartass inside that big building had outsmarted her, again. Oh, she was long past caring what Moscow wanted. If she saw any chance for a clean shot, she would take it-just blast away with her forefinger glued to the trigger. Just keep firing until the Konevitches had more holes than a doughnut shop, then flee into the night and hop the fastest transport headed to Mexico. She rather enjoyed the idea that it would all be caught on camera.

She would somehow acquire a copy of that tape. She intended to spend the rest of her life watching herself blow them both to hell.