The Hunted

"Oh, spare me. You have Konevitch's money, his mansion, his cars, his luxury apartment in Paris. What do I have?"

He was tempted to answer truthfully: A hundred thousand shares of nothing; you're broke and desperate, living on a mangy government paycheck. I'm your only hope-you need me more than ever.

Instead, he tapped his fingers on the car seat and sipped patiently from his scotch as she swore and vented for a few more minutes.

Eventually, he uncorked the cure to her troubles. "All the more reason to take care of this Khodorin business quickly. We'll divide the cash this time. I promise. Five hundred million, perfectly even, a three-way split. Same with his shares. And this time, we'll sell everything as fast as we can. We'll easily bag another billion or more."

He paused to allow her a moment to accept the inevitability of her situation. She was broke, for the moment; but not hopeless. With the right moves, in no time at all she could light her cigarettes with thousand-dollar bills. "The best way to get inside Khodorin's head is to kill Konevitch," he suggested.

"It will be quite difficult. He's out of reach, behind bars."

"But not impossible. And if Khodorin wants to play games with us, he needs to be taught a lesson. There's no way for him to win."

"You're right," she mumbled. The brilliance of the suggestion finally dawned on her. "Meet our demands when the time comes, or we'll hunt you down. If the U.S. government can't protect Konevitch, there's no hope for you. Khodorin will collapse."

***

After a brief call on her cell phone to Nicky, and a long meeting with a few American specialists in the Foreign Ministry, Tatyana barked at the Kremlin switch to do whatever it took to connect her to the director of the American FBI. It took three operators thirty minutes to track him down. He happened to be in an FBI field office in northern Jersey, clustered with a team of agents who had just broken up a large counterfeiting ring. An inside informant had been turned a year before. Unlike so many other operations during Tromble's tenure, the investigation had been a model of law enforcement skill and restraint. Every nuance of legal limit had been adhered to, no shortcuts. The evidence was overwhelming and, in the view of the Justice Department's sharpest experts, virtually unchallengeable in court.

The three counterfeiters had been slapped in cuffs an hour before. Tromble had arrived just in time for the press conference where he would make the announcement and bask in the glory. The podium was already set up, the large flock of reporters and cameras waiting with growing impatience.

An aide entered the room where Tromble was being fed enough information to fool the press into believing he had personally doted on every detail of the case, had personally overseen this masterstroke of crimefighting at its best. The aide cupped a hand to his ear and signaled his boss. Tromble cursed, then stepped out of the room and accepted the proffered cell phone.

Without preamble, Tatyana launched right in. "What's going on with Konevitch?"

"Sorry, no change," he told her, eyeing his watch, impatient to begin his briefing. All the big networks were there, all the big East Coast papers. "He's still up in Chicago. Believe me, it's a nasty place. One of our two worst."

"He's been there two months now, John."

"Almost three, actually."

"And it's been almost a year since you promised to deliver him to me."

"I know, and I'm sorry. He's tougher than expected."

"And how are the reports from Chicago?"

"Not promising. It's very curious. Somehow, he's wormed his way inside the Black Power brotherhood."

"But he's white. Don't they discriminate?"

"Typically, yes. He's amazingly adaptable."

"All right, you've had your turn," she barked, suddenly turning aggressive. "Now I'd like to take my best shot."

"What are you talking about?"

"I consulted with a few of my experts about your prisons. I want someplace tougher. Much tougher, much more terrifying."

This greatly annoyed him and he made no effort to hide it. "I believe I know our prisons better than your so-called experts. Atlanta and Chicago are our worst."

"The worst federal prisons, you mean. Not your worst prisons, not by a long shot."

"That might be true, but the federal prisons are the ones I can influence."

She went on, unfazed. "It's my understanding that your Bureau of Prisons occasionally subcontracts with state prisons."

"Occasionally, yes. To alleviate overcrowding. Sometimes as a temporary measure until a prisoner can be moved. So what?"

"I further understand that the state prison in Yuma is unimaginably horrible. A nightmare of violence, killings, and rapes."

"Well… it's pretty bad. But Parchman down in Mississippi's probably a little worse."

"You don't seem to be listening, John. Like it or not, it's my turn to pick Konevitch's hellhole."

Tromble swallowed his anger. "So what do you want?"

"Switch him to Yuma. Do it immediately."

"He's barely been in Chicago three months."