The Hunted

Katya rushed off. Vladimir sat back down on the wood bench and blew lazy smoke rings while Alex pondered his options. At least now he knew what they wanted. But what would they do to Elena? Had they already harmed her? He had been unconscious for a while and his imagination began playing with all the horrible things they might already have done during that interlude. The man on the bench was a monster, utterly without conscience. Maybe Elena had also been branded. Had she been molested? Tortured? Raped?

Moscow was filled with Vladimirs these days, murderous scum whose depravity and cruelty knew no limits. In the old days they were employed by the state as instruments for spreading terror and submission; they were now as much a part of Russia's free-market economy as potatoes and vodka. They wouldn't think twice about punishing a rich man's wife-they would enjoy it, in fact. Alex's mind filled with the ugly possibilities.

Eventually the door opened and Elena was led in by Katya, dragged along like a dog by a rope tied to her wrists. She was frightened out of her wits, and looked it. But on the surface, at least, she appeared healthy and unmarked. Then she took one long look at Alex on the gurney and lost it. She screamed, "You bastards!" at Vladimir and Katya. She yanked on her rope, trying to break free and move toward her battered husband.

Katya grabbed a large knot of her hair, gave it a hard jerk, and yanked her backward, nearly off her feet. So much for good cop.

Vladimir stood and moved toward Elena. He placed a gag in her mouth and tied it off behind her head.

"Leave her alone," Alex protested weakly.

"After I kill you," Vladimir informed him with cruel nonchalance, "I'll give her to the boys waiting outside. She's a very attractive lady. Imagine how much fun they'll have with her." Eugene, halfway through his seventh beer, took the cell phone call at 4:10. It was Golitsin and he opened in a very reassuring tone, saying, "Good news, I've located Alex."

"Have you?"

"Yes, and he's fine."

"Glad to hear it. Where is he?"

"Apparently a more critically important meeting came up. He asked me to inform you that he needs to reschedule."

"Reschedule?"

"Yes, that's what he said. He suggested tomorrow afternoon. What do you think about tomorrow?"

"Out of the question. He knows that. Are you sure you spoke with Alex?"

"He's my boss. I believe I know his voice."

Eugene studied his fingers a moment. This made no sense. If this deal didn't close by five o'clock, the financing evaporated-by 5:01, there was no deal. Back in New York, a cluster of lawyers and accountants were huddled around a long conference table on a high floor of a massive tower, waiting impatiently for Eugene's call. They had been there all night, drinking stale coffee, munching stale pastries, telling stale jokes, drumming their fingers-and turning surlier with each passing moment.

Three months of sweat and hard work. Three long months of Eugene assuring and reassuring his anxious investors that it was safe to dive into Russia's crooked and rigged markets with Alex Konevitch as their guide. It was the Wild, Wild East, perilous and unruly for sure; but for those audacious few willing to jump in on the ground floor, colossal fortunes were waiting to be plucked. Three months of lengthy business plans, proposals, risk assessments, long boring briefings, and all the other tedious twaddle entailed in due diligence had taken place before this deal could be cobbled together.

Three insufferable months of sucking up to some of the biggest egos in New York.

All about to go down the drain. The thought of it was nauseating. This couldn't be happening. Over three hundred million electronic dollars were loaded and waiting to be fired into Alex's vaults. The investors were anxious and mistrustful, their commitments precarious at best. If one thing went wrong, they had collectively whispered in Eugene's ear-just one infinitesimally tiny thing-they would withdraw their dough and never take another call from him.

"I don't believe Alex told you to reschedule," Eugene spit into his phone in his best New York accusatory tone. "You're lying. I don't know why, but Alex is well aware this deal closes by five or it never closes."

A long silence followed while Golitsin recognized he had clumsily misplayed his hand. This pushy American on the other end was proving to be a big problem. If he alerted the Budapest police about the mysterious disappearance of Alex Konevitch, this whole operation could come unglued. There was the dead bodyguard at the airport to be factored in. The locals had already initiated an investigation, Golitsin had been informed by his well-placed sources. But the Hungarians had no idea of its relevance. And corpses don't complain or become impatient.

Once they learned, though, that Alex had disappeared from Ferihegy Airport at around the same time as the murder, they might put two and two together.