The Hunted

"Tatyana Lukin. You know, she works for you." The man studied his face more intently and continued, "I'm sure it was you. Walking into a hotel together on Tverskoy Boulevard. Same place you and she spend every Tuesday and Thursday together."

"You're mistaken," he replied in as much a hiss as a whisper. He tried unsuccessfully once more to edge away.

"No, there's no mistake. Here." The mysterious man pushed a plastic case into the hands of the chief of staff. All trace of phony uncertainty was gone. With a mocking smile, the mystery man whispered, "You'll want to listen to these alone. Believe me, you won't want company. You're mentioned a lot on these tapes."

Before he could reply, Mikhail jogged away in the direction of the road, where he jumped into an automobile with the engine running and sped off.

The chief thought about just tossing the case away. Fling it as far and as hard as he could; forget about it and walk away. Instead he opened the lid and peeked inside-just two unmarked cassette tapes and a few photographs. He tucked it into his inside coat pocket and decided he'd get rid of it after he got home. Who knew what was on those tapes? Why risk having some stranger find them? Who knows how bad it might be?

He arrived home at nine that night, fixed a tall glass of vodka, and removed his jacket. He felt the weight of the plastic packet; he had nearly forgotten it. He withdrew it from the inside pocket and walked directly to the trash can. He promptly dropped it inside, then stared down at the case for a moment. He should listen to it, he decided: maybe the man that afternoon was a blackmailer. Who knew?

The photos fell on the floor when he pulled the tapes out, and he let them lie there until he knew what this was about. He selected the first tape and inserted it into the cassette player on his desk, sat back into his desk chair, and sipped quickly from his vodka.

It whirred quietly for a moment before a petulant male voice he didn't recognize said, "Who was it?"

"Just some idiot law enforcement administrator from America." This would be Tatyana: no doubt about it. He reached over and turned up the volume.

"Oh, you're screwing him, too?"

"You're cute when you're mad. Come on and screw me now." A loud laugh. Definitely Tatyana's throaty laugh.

"Don't joke. I'm tired of sharing you."

"You're a fool. You've seen my boss. He's bald and fat and not the least bit interesting. He's so terrible in bed I have to pinch myself just to stay awake. He's so disgusting, I become nauseated afterward. I'm only doing this for us, Sasha."

"You've been saying that for years."

"And it's true. Listen, we're moving in on a huge fortune right now. Billions, Sasha, billions. My cut will be hundreds of millions, and as soon as I have it, I'll dump that old moron and quit my job. You and I will buy a big yacht and sail around the world. We'll never be able to spend it all. We'll die rich and happy."

By then the chief of staff was choking and coughing violently. The vodka popped out his nostrils, dribbled out his mouth, and spilled down his double chin. He clutched his chest and thought he was having a heart attack.

He lurched from his chair and rushed to the cassette player. He punched stop, rewind, then listened again, and then repeated the sequence three more times.

He put the machine on pause and sat back and rubbed his temples. He felt the onset of a crushing brain-splitter. "Nauseated." "Terrible in bed." "Bald and fat, and not the least bit interesting." The torrent of nasty words kept tumbling in his mind. The headache quickly progressed from a five to a ten on the Richter scale.

That bitch. That lying, deceitful, two-timing, impertinent bitch.

Settle down, he told himself. He actually voiced it, out loud in the big, empty room-relax, take a few deep breaths. Get a grip, for God's sake. He walked over and refilled his glass with vodka, then sloppily filled a second and third glass; it never hurt to be on the safe side. He carried them back to his desk, positioned them carefully and in order, freshest to least freshest, pushed start on the cassette player, then settled back to hear everything. It was going to be horrible, he knew. And he swore he would endure every last word.

Halfway through, he rushed to the trash can and picked up the photos from the floor. The first showed a smiling, handsome young man dressed in the uniform of the national soccer team. He had no idea who he was, just a strong suspicion that it was his whiny voice on the first tape. The second showed the justice minister accepting a fistful of dollars from a man whose face he thought he recognized.