The Hunted

They were all looking at one another. Nobody liked this idea. Really, though, what difference did it make? On second thought, it might in fact be even better. Just as easy to grease her in the restaurant as carve her throat in a car idling outside: it simplified things, really. With only eight gunmen, far easier to keep an eye on the couple together than split up.

Besides, with his beloved wife beside him, Konevitch would remember exactly what was at stake in the event he was tempted to try any funny business. Reminders were always helpful.

"And we need to carry our bags with us," Alex added, awkwardly knotting his tie with his one usable arm.

Vladimir kicked the base of the table. "Not happening," he snorted.

"Think again. Eugene knows we haven't checked into the hotel yet. I assume you want this to work. We need to look like we've just arrived."

"Think you're smart, don't you?" Vladimir replied, with a mean grin as he held up two tiny red booklets. "Go ahead, bring the bags. I've got your passports and your wallets. You won't escape, and you can't get out of Hungary, no matter what. But even if you do, we'll hunt you down and there won't be a second chance."

"I want this to work just as much as you. Probably more. I want to live," Alex assured him. "And three hundred million is a lot of money," he reminded him, as if anybody had forgotten, as if anybody could.

"We can live without it," Katya said, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. "But you're going to perform one small service before we set foot in that restaurant."

"Am I?"

"You definitely are. You're going to sign the letter of resignation and the contract that reassigns your businesses and properties to a new owner."

The show of confidence Alex had shown a moment earlier drained away. Now he looked crestfallen. "And if I say no?"

"That's your choice," Katya informed him. She looked over at Vladimir. "Count to five," she said, motioning her chin at Elena. "Then kill her."

"One… Two…"

Before he got to three, the lawyer was holding a sheaf of documents in front of Alex's nose and helpfully pointing out where to sign.

6

The black Mercedes, trailed by a pair of matching rental Ford Fiestas, pulled up to the entrance of the Aquincum Hotel. Two thugs hustled out of the nearest Fiesta, walked quickly through the entrance, strutted through the expansive lobby, and moved directly to the Apicius Restaurant located on the ground floor.

With a show of deliberate rudeness, they brushed past the attentive maitre d', occupied the closest table to the exit, withdrew their pistols, placed them under the napkins on their laps, snapped at a waitress to bring them two bowls of steaming goulash, and waited.

After three minutes, Katya stepped out of the Mercedes, looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then signaled for Alex and Elena to get out, Elena first. Then Alex painfully hobbled out onto the curb. He slung their matched his-and-hers overnight bags over his good shoulder and waited. A moment later, Vladimir got out as well, taking a moment to stretch and slip the gun he had held at Elena's head into the belt behind his back.

A storm had moved in; thick, angry clouds covered the skies, and it was prematurely dark. With Katya leading, Alex and Elena in the middle, and Vladimir bringing up the rear, the parade entered the hotel and marched directly to the fancy restaurant on the ground floor.

Katya entered a little ahead of them and brusquely instructed the maitre d' that a table for four was required, definitely in the middle of the room, make it quick. No problem. Hungarians are rigorously late sleepers and late eaters, and the crowd was subsequently sparse, mostly foreign guests of the hotel who didn't get the local customs.

Katya followed the maitre d' to the table and sat. A moment later, Alex and Elena entered. Alex looked around, then spotted Eugene at the far-right corner table beside a plate-glass window where he could kill the boredom watching the pedestrians wander by. Alex took Elena's hand. They walked slowly across the room. With each step, his chest and leg radiated pain. He slowed his walk to a near crawl, shuffling like an old man.

It was their first chance to talk. He whispered to Elena, "They're going to kill us, no matter what."

"I know. It's not your fault," she replied.

Oh yes, it definitely was his fault, but this wasn't the time or situation to discuss it. At this stage, fault or fate or serendipity made no difference. Don't waste time; think quickly, he told himself. He squeezed her hand and said, "This is an opportunity-probably our only chance. We have to use it."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I'm thinking." He tried to smile reassuringly but it came across weakly. "If you think of anything, let me know." She squeezed his hand back, and made no reply.