The Hunted

Then Alex would confront his only real choice: what was left of his wife, or his fortune and companies. "Three hours," Vladimir replied, very firmly. "With luck, two."

Golitsin exploded into the phone, calling Vladimir everything from incompetent to a moron. Vladimir pushed the phone away from his ear and let him vent and fume and spew whatever filthy invective he wanted. For a year now he had had to put up with the old man's abuse and derision. He was sorely tired of it and tried his best to ignore this latest diatribe. How tempted he was to just tell the old man to screw off. He eventually placed the phone back to his ear, smiled to himself, and said, "Maybe you want to come here and do it yourself."

"I don't like your impertinence," Golitsin barked back.

"Nobody ever does." He paused for a moment, then insisted, "Two, maybe three hours."

"That won't do."

"Fine. What will do?"

Golitsin explained the problem in rapid-fire fashion and Vladimir listened. Golitsin eventually asked, "Can you have him call this Eugene man and make up an excuse? He's a dangerous pest. Get rid of him."

"Give me the number," Vladimir confidently replied, then wrote it down. "If Konevitch says one wrong word, his wife dies. You understand the risks, though."

"No, tell me."

"If I have to kill her, we lose an irreplaceable leverage."

"I'm sure you'll find a way without her."

"Right now his mind is on one thing, and one thing only. His own misery. Relieve him of that thought, even for a brief moment, and I might have to start over."

"You mean… beat and torture him again?"

"Almost from the beginning."

"So what's wrong with that?" The straps and belts were quickly unfastened, Alex was helped to sit up, and Katya positioned the cell phone by his ear; her forefinger hovered tensely over the disconnect button. His instructions and options had been explicitly and cruelly explained. "Make this man go away, or else," Vladimir had informed him. To help him comprehend the "or else," Vladimir placed a big knife against Elena's throat, poised on her jugular for a lethal slice.

Eugene answered on the second ring. Struggling to sound apologetic rather than terrified, Alex told him, "It's me, Alex. Sorry I'm late, Eugene. It was unexpected and, believe me, absolutely couldn't be helped."

Eugene replied in a simmering tone, "Check your damn watch, Alex. I've got a briefcase packed with contracts for your signature. In thirty minutes this deal goes through or I'm screwed."

"I understand, Eugene."

"Do you? Then what are you doing about it?"

"There's nothing I can do," Alex replied. "I'm tied up right now," he explained, speaking the unvarnished truth.

"In Budapest?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll come to you."

"No. Even if it were possible, it's not advisable."

"Make it possible, Alex. If this deal collapses I have to pay the partners a penalty of ten million. It was the only way I could get them to pony up. You know this."

"This isn't my call, Eugene. Believe me, I would help if I could."

"My last wife took me for fifty mil, Alex, and my mansion and even my dog. And Maria's upstairs right now scheming and counting how much she can make. I'm desperate here. I can't afford to lose one million right now. Ten will ruin me."

There was a long pause while both men considered their options. Eugene was brilliant and talented, and, like many of his ilk, his skill at business was matched only by his incredible ineptitude at romance. Three ex-wives, with now possibly a fourth in the making. But three already: three hefty alimony payments and seven needy children, four in obscenely expensive private colleges and three in equally rapacious private schools. And there was his own luxurious lifestyle to be considered. Not to mention Maria's, who thought designer clothes grew on trees. Eugene was burning through the cash faster than he could make it-almost faster than the U.S. Treasury could print it. This deal was make or break for him.

Alex glanced at Elena with the knife at her neck; she stared back, wide-eyed, plainly terrified. He felt a stab of gut-wrenching guilt that he had gotten her into this mess, and he tried with limited success to push that aside and figure out what was going on here. When he hadn't shown up for the scheduled meeting, Eugene had obviously called his office in Moscow, probably tossed around a threat or two, and gotten a concerned response. And then-somehow-somebody in Konevitch Associates had passed this news to Vladimir, who was now brandishing a knife at Elena's throat. With a blinding flash of the obvious he understood what this meant: an inside job. Somebody in his employ was a traitor.

No wonder they knew what flight he was on, that he was traveling with Elena, and how to bypass his security.