The Hunted

"Because Maria is a typical, spoiled American, without the slightest thought of how awful things were under communism. I thought she should experience firsthand the quality of socialist manufacturing." The drive had taken forty-five minutes and Maria moaned and complained every inch of it. Well accustomed to his money and all the perks it could buy, whatever memories she had of life on a secretary's paycheck were long behind her. She was horrified by this sudden dip back into the pool of poverty. Eugene relished every minute of it. His sole regret was that he hadn't brought along a tape recorder so he could replay it again and again.

"That sounds like a novel concept," Elena noted, obviously wondering about Eugene's marital skills, or sanity.

"So is the car parked in the hotel lot?" Alex asked.

"The side lot. Why?"

"I'd like to borrow it," he said, rubbing the bandage over his eye and looking pained. "Elena and I have had enough taxi rides for the day. And as soon as we're done here we have to return to the hospital pharmacy for painkillers and fresh bandages."

"Of course."

"Also," Alex said, shifting from pained to apologetic, "I seem to have misplaced my wallet. The orderlies undressed me at the hospital to treat my injuries. It must have fallen out of my pocket. Do you happen to have some money I could borrow?"

"How much do you need?"

"I might have to cover the medical bills. How much do you have?"

99 "Two thousand in bills, another thousand in traveler's checks. American dollars, all of it. I exchanged two hundred into Hungarian forints, but Maria left with that."

"Dollars are fine. Two thousand should be enough."

Eugene dug into his pant pocket, withdrew the keys, then a fat wad of hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the table. "About the car, only a strong hind wind will get you over thirty miles an hour, the shocks are nonexistent, springs are popping through the seats, and the windshield wipers flop all over the place." He smiled for a moment. "Other than that, great car."

"Before the wall came down," Alex noted with an ironic shrug, "we all had to place our names on long lists, then wait years for the privilege to buy a Trabant. Some people were smart enough to sign up every year."

"Every year?" Eugene asked.

"Well cared for and driven minimally, that's about how long they lasted."

They lifted their glasses and silently toasted the marvelous new world.

Alex waved for the waitress, the same cute one Eugene had been nakedly admiring all afternoon. When she arrived he spoke in a low rasp that forced her to bend deeply over to hear him. He spoke for about thirty seconds, then slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm-two weeks' salary and tips for her. An enthusiastic nod and she rushed off, beaming.

Alex checked his watch-five more minutes and New York would be calling Eugene. In six, Vladimir and Katya would be blasting away. He fought the temptation to turn around and look at Vladimir and Katya, lifted up another few pages, and pretended to return to his work. "What's he doing now?" Golitsin inquired into Vladimir's satellite phone. Copies of Alex's resignation letter and the appending contract relinquishing his properties had been faxed by the lawyer and now were stacked in a tidy pile on his desk. They sat there, less than two feet away. Close enough to where he could reach out and caress them. He had read and reread them six times. He could barely keep his hands off them.

A courier on a night flight from Budapest was en route with a chain around his wrist attaching him to a briefcase containing the legally vital originals. Just scrawl his name onto those originals, designate himself as the handpicked successor to Alex's empire, and voila-he, Sergei Golitsin, controlled 350 million dollars. Possibly more.

Years of plotting and scheming and putting the pieces together were about to pay off. A few drops of ink and he would be one of the ten richest men in Russia; but throw in another three hundred million in New York moolah, and, well… he might be the richest. In the new Russia, cash was king. He was about to be seated on a mountainous throne of cash.

"He's still reading the contract," Vladimir eventually answered in a tone saturated with annoyance. He was so tired of being checked up on. "His wife and the American banker are talking."

"Talking about what?"

"Who knows? Who cares?"

"Can't you hear what they're saying?"

"No."

After a brief pause meant to expose the seriousness of his concern, Golitsin asked very quietly, "Why can't you?"

"Because," Vladimir replied testily, "we're seated in the middle of the room, at a vantage where we can keep them from escaping."

"Maybe Konevitch and the banker are planning their escape."

"Possibly they are. So what?"

"I'll tell you so what. Hundreds of millions of dollars disappear with them, you idiot."