The Hunted

And it was true. During his long decades in the KGB, Sergei Golitsin had collected contacts and stoolies throughout Europe, all of whom now were struggling to create new lives in a new world, and wanted their dirty pasts as Moscow stooges and finks erased, buried, or forgotten. A fastidious bureaucrat with lethal instincts, over the decades Golitsin had kept every incriminating piece of paper he came in contact with. Within hours after he was "retired with prejudice" from the KGB, three large vans wheeled up in front of his old headquarters and were hurriedly loaded with forty years' worth of pilfered files. Box after box. Name after name, enough to fill several city-sized phone books. It was all squirreled away in a clandestine warehouse a few miles outside Moscow. Golitsin was sitting on enough dirt and compromising material to coerce and blackmail many thousands.

Among the names were the deputy minister for internal security for Hungary, two captains and three senior inspectors in the Budapest police, all of whom were operating under harsh instructions to notify Golitsin the instant Alex Konevitch's disappearance, or death, became an item of police interest.

Vladimir thumped a threatening finger off Alex's forehead. "You're way out of your league, boy. The only way out of this is to get him to sign that money over to us."

"Believe me, I know that. I just want to survive this and get on with my life."

From his face and eyes it appeared he did know. Still, Vladimir thought it a good idea to rekindle his memory. With narrowed eyes he said, "Your pretty bitch will go first. Remember that. You'll have a moment to watch the blood draining from her head, to hear her last pitiful breaths. And you'll know it's all your fault. Then I'll kill you, too."

"I have to get back to the table," Alex told him, now looking paralyzed with terror.

"You've got twenty-five minutes to finish this. Not a second longer." He pointed at Alex's watch. "In twenty-five minutes and one second, I write off the money and start blasting. Now, take a few deep breaths," Vladimir said, "then get back in there and get us our money." "It worked," Eugene announced with a triumphal slap on the table the moment Alex returned to the table. The lawyers in New York, a consortium of legal hit men who smelled an easy ten million for their clients, had yapped and howled a chorus of odious threats right up to the instant Eugene invoked the sacred Act of God clause. Like that, the curses and bullying died in their throats. Total silence. After that moment of stunned stillness, suddenly they couldn't shut up. They talked over themselves to extend Alex however much time was needed. And how was the poor man's health? the suddenly compassionate throng wanted to know. Damn shame about that awful accident, they collectively agreed-they couldn't have felt more sorry or sincere.

Eugene euphorically snapped his cell phone shut and laid it on the table. "They gave us thirty more minutes to hammer this thing out." He took a long congratulatory sip of beer and smacked his lips.

"Do you mind if we order a little food first?" Alex replied, sliding gently into his seat. "We haven't eaten all day. We're famished."

"No, no, of course," Eugene replied, feeling regretful once more for putting his friend through this. Then he thought again of his money, of ten million sailing away to his despised partners. Like that, he got over it.

Alex asked Elena, "What would you like, dear?"

She gave the menu a cursory glance and settled on a table salad and spicy German sausage dish. Alex ordered lukewarm chicken broth and a warm cola. He was famished, though his lips were so scabbed and swollen that solid foods were out of the question; at least three teeth were cracked or broken with exposed nerves a hot or cold drink would have brutalized; his jaw muscles were so achy, the thought of chewing was sickening.

Eugene loudly ordered another dark beer, a celebratory one this time, and mentioned to Alex, "Why don't you get started on reviewing the contracts?" In other words: I pushed fate once for you, pal, now get started.

Trying hard to look focused, Alex hoisted the thick sheaf of papers over and began leafing through, thoughtfully scanning the pages. His head throbbed. His body howled with pain. He forced himself to concentrate on one overriding thought: How to get out of this alive. How to elude the team of professional assassins seated only fifty feet away, fingering their guns, ready to blast away.

At least he had bought twenty-four minutes of relative calm to ponder his options-twenty-four minutes without anybody pummeling his body, or frying designs on his flesh, or uttering vile threats into his ear.