The Hunted

Eugene and Elena made small talk. How did she like Budapest? Lovely old city, didn't she think? Yes, very lovely indeed, she answered with a strained smile and firm nod-after what happened to Alex she would curse this city to her dying breath. Did she enjoy traveling with Alex? Oh, well, always quite an adventure, she replied, tongue in cheek. And how was life in Moscow these days? And so on and so forth.

The last thing Elena felt like doing was partaking in meaningless banter, but she had to buy time for Alex to think, and she endured it with phony grace. Eugene seemed like a nice man, a few rough New York edges aside-so why couldn't they sit there and just enjoy each other's company in golden silence? He could guzzle the beer he seemed to enjoy so much, and she could dwell on their nightmare. Her heart was pounding. She was forced to press her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

Her back was to Vladimir and Katya, yet she could sense-in fact, nearly feel-a malevolent presence.

The food came. Between spoonfuls and slow, careful sips, Alex maintained a pretense of studying the documents, occasionally scribbling on a page, a notation here, a notation there-meaningless chicken scratch as he racked his brain for a way out of this.

Maybe he was overthinking this, he wondered. Maybe elaborate was the wrong approach; they should simply stand up and walk out, thumb their noses at the gangsters, and flee. Maybe this was all a big bluff. The more he thought about it, the more tempting that idea was. Would their kidnappers really open fire, here, in the grand dining room of one of the best-known luxury hotels in Hungary?

Back in Moscow, where such things were all too prevalent, maybe: okay, yes, without a moment of vacillation, they would blast everything in sight. But surely, in Budapest, the storied capital of a foreign nation, a peaceful, elegant old city renowned for its sophistication and exotic charms, different rules applied.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the two dull-eyed thugs by the exit, engulfed in the dense cloud of cigarette smoke swimming over their table. And then, for a fleeting instant, he and Vladimir locked eyes. Stupid question, he realized. Of course they would. They would blow away Elena, Alex, probably Eugene, the waiters and waitresses, other customers, and for good measure they'd nail the doorman and run away with smiles on their faces.

It would be a total massacre, a bloodbath. And it would be Alex's fault.

He had already signed over his companies and properties, coerced statements that, if he survived, would be completely worthless. The moment he set foot in Moscow, he would hire the best lawyers money can rent and rescind everything; he then would use his immense fortune to hunt down every last one of them.

They would know this, of course. And they would know there was only one way to be sure that never happened.

And if that required a massacre, a flamboyant atrocity in a pleasant, peaceful city, it would only persuade the next millionaire they targeted that these were serious people who meant business.

7

With only eight minutes left on Vladimir's deadline-and Eugene noisily draining what he claimed, with a suspicious slur, was only his third stein of beer-Alex finally settled on a plan he thought had a chance of success. He had conceived, chewed over, and discarded at least a dozen different ideas, from dangerously complex to ridiculously simple-from standing up and screaming "Fire!" to collapsing on the floor and pretending to suffer a massive heart attack.

Impressive intelligence was not his kidnappers' forte. But what seemed to be an advantage in his favor was also, ironically, a double-edged sword. Sociopaths like Vladimir could not be depended upon to make cool, rational judgments in moments of stress. Whatever Alex tried had better be trigger-happy-proof.

He looked up from the papers and matter-of-factly asked Eugene, "How did you get from the airport to the hotel?"

"Automobile. Why?"

"How? Taxi? Limousine service?"

"I drove, actually."

"Then you rented a car?"

"Yes, a rusty old orange Trabant," Eugene said, referring to the automobile mass-produced by the East Germans under the old system. Trabants were notorious for their atrocious workmanship, nonexistent reliability, and cramped lack of comfort. The automotive equivalent of throwaway razors, they were called, and that was a compliment; even junkyards didn't want them. He leaned back in his chair and chuckled, enjoying a private joke.

Elena asked, "What's funny? Surely there were nicer cars on the lot."

"You're right. Shiny Mercedes and speedy Beemers all over the place."

"Then-"