The Hunted

The man, Vladimir, he had heard him called, bent down over his face, smiled, squeezed open his lids, and studied his pupils a moment. Vladimir then took two thick leather straps and, one at a time, stretched them across Alex's chest, strung them underneath the table, fastened them as he would a belt, and tightened them enough that they bit painfully into Alex's skin. Next he held something before his face-a handheld device. A machine of some sort. Oddly enough, it looked like a compact traveling iron for pressing clothes. "See this?" he asked Alex.

"Yes… what is it?"

"You'll learn in a moment."

"Where's Elena?" Alex demanded.

Vladimir laughed.

"Please," Alex pleaded. "Leave her out of this. She's done nothing to you."

"But you have," Vladimir informed him with a mean smile.

"I don't even know you." Sensing it was the wrong thing to say, Alex suggested, a little hopefully, "If it's money, let's agree on a price. Let her go. Keep me. She'll make sure you get paid."

"Are you proud of what you did?" Vladimir asked, backing away. He spit on the iron and enjoyed the angry hiss.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman spoke up and said, "Most of us are former KGB. Career people, patriotic servants who protected Mother Russia. You ruined our lives."

"How?" Alex asked.

"You know how. You fed millions to Yeltsin and destroyed our homeland."

"How do you know about this?"

"We know all about you, Alex Konevitch. We've watched you for years. Watched you undermine our country. Watched you become rich off the spoils. Now it's time to return the favor."

Alex closed his eyes. Things had just gone from bad to worse. Not only did they know him, they knew about him. A simple kidnapping was bad enough. This was revenge on top of it, and both Vladimir and Katya allowed Alex a few moments to contemplate how bad this was going to get.

Vladimir held up the iron so they could jointly inspect it; the metal undertray was red-hot, glowing fiercely in the dimly lit room. He held it before Alex's face. "American cowboys branded their cattle. I hope you don't mind, but now we will brand you."

Without another word, Vladimir slipped a pair of industrial earphones over his head, thick black rubber gloves over his hands, then with a steady hand lowered the iron slowly toward Alex's chest. Watching it move closer, Alex squirmed and tried to evade it with all his might; the new belts totally immobilized him. The first hot prick of the iron seared the tender flesh above his left nipple-Vladimir used the recently sharpened edges of the iron and glided it slowly and skillfully around his skin.

Alex screamed and Vladimir pressed down firmly, though not too hard, etching a careful pattern: a long curve first, then another curve, meticulously connecting them into the shape of a sickle. The stench of burning flesh filled the room. Next, he began drawing a squarish shape-completing the hammer and sickle, the symbol of the once feared and mighty, now historically expired Soviet Union. Vladimir had done this before; this was obvious. Just as obviously, he was the kind of artisan who reveled in his work. The entire process lasted thirty minutes. Alex screamed until he went hoarse, piercing shrieks that echoed and bounced around the warehouse.

Katya stood and tried to watch, then, after two minutes, horrified, she gave up and fled.

5

By 3:30, Eugene Daniels was quaffing down the final dregs of his third Bavarian brew, a special, thick dunkel beer produced seasonally without preservatives that was totally unavailable in the States. Across the table, his wife, Maria, was stingily nursing her second wine, a Georgian pinot she had just explained, for the second time, with an excellent bouquet, overly subtle perhaps, but with fine, lingering legs and other insufferable claptrap she had obviously lifted from one of those snobbish wine books. How could anybody make so much of squished grapes? An attractive Hungarian waitress approached the table and, while Eugene wasn't looking, Maria quietly waved her off.

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and reminded her husband, "Business meetings are best conducted sober."

"If Alex wanted me sober, he'd be here on time."

"Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Hundreds of millions are at stake, Eugene. Maybe he wants you loaded and stupid before he arrives." And maybe he's succeeding beyond his wildest dream, she thought and smiled coldly.

"You don't know Alex, obviously."

Rather than risk another squabble, Maria lifted a finely plucked eyebrow and insisted with a disapproving frown, "All the same, switch to coffee."

Eugene ignored this and took a long sip of beer. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time, then repeated the same thing he had said at least twenty times. "I've never known Alex to be late. He's punctual to a fault. Always."

"Maybe he has a Russian watch. I know for a fact, their crafts-manship is awful."