The Hunted

"Two men are positioned by the exit to the restaurant. Two more by the exit to the hotel. That's three layers of security they would have to make it past. Also I have the Konevitches' passports, and their wallets, and he's nearly crippled. I'm telling you, he's not going anywhere."

Silence.

Vladimir rolled his eyes. "No matter what they try, he's dead."

Golitsin let more silence register his disapproval.

After a long moment, Vladimir said, "I gave him twenty-five minutes to produce the signed contracts or I start shooting. That was twenty-two minutes ago. I think I can keep him from escaping within the next three minutes."

"I still don't like it."

Vladimir could almost see the condescending scowl on Golitsin's face. So far he, Vladimir, had taken all the risks and done every bit of the dirty work. Plotting and overseeing the murder of Alex's executives, the kidnapping, the torture, obtaining the invaluable signatures-his handiwork, all accomplished without a glitch. He was quite proud of it. He had made Golitsin a very, very rich man. Was there even a halfhearted grumble of thanks? How about: Good job, Vladimir my boy, you really pulled this one off?

But more than anything, Vladimir despised being second-guessed and scolded by this deskbound lizard. The old boy hadn't been in smelling distance of real fieldwork in decades. And here he was, sticking his big nose into everything

Then again, Golitsin had promised him a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars, U.S., the instant this job was finished, three hundred if they bagged an additional 300 million of New York dough. A year of lurking in the shadows, of watching and killing-the money was so close he could smell it. No way would he give Golitsin an excuse to snatch it away. Yes, he was tired of being lectured and reprimanded, of having to endure the old man's biting insults, but in a few more hours, he reminded himself, it would be over. A few more hours and he would take his money, and then tell the old man exactly where to stuff it.

He fought the impulse to say, "Shut up and mind your own business," and instead meekly said, "Don't worry, boss. Less than three minutes. We're fifty feet away, watching his every move."

"You're an overconfident idiot. Don't mess this up." With slightly more than two minutes left before the deadline expired, the lights suddenly went out in the restaurant. Like that, the room was pitched into darkness.

Nearly simultaneously, the kitchen door flew open and out marched a long line of waiters and waitresses, one after another, ten in all. The cute waitress with the impressive bosom headed the procession, proudly hauling a chocolate cake with ten lit birthday candles. The marching line was loudly slaughtering "Happy Birthday," in English polluted by thick Hungarian accents, and moving at a fast clip directly toward the table in the center of the room. Then they came to an abrupt stop, positioning themselves directly between Vladimir, Katya, and the table by the window where Alex and Elena were seated with Eugene.

The moment the throng was in place, stamping their feet and singing in a brash routine imported from an American restaurant chain, Alex leaped up from his chair, lifted the empty chair beside him, and hurled it with as much force as he could muster directly at the big picture window ten feet away. He had rehearsed this throw over and over in his mind. Over and over he told himself, ignore the pain from his dislocated shoulder, forget the severe burn on his chest. No matter how agonizing, put everything he had into this one chance. There wouldn't be another.

The moment the chair launched, he shut his eyes, held his breath, and prayed.

The chair flew through the air, and then, with a loud satisfying crash, the large plate-glass window shattered into a thousand shards and crumbled to the floor. Vladimir was still holding the satellite phone, still smarting from the conversation.

Katya had been eavesdropping. Her elbows were planted on the table, her head craned sideways in a wonderfully successful attempt to catch every word.

She loathed Vladimir and found huge enjoyment in overhearing the old man browbeat and humble him. She had no love for Golitsin either-a selfish, overbearing, snarling old tyrant she detested to her core. But she worked for him. She took his money and, without complaint, did whatever sordid work he asked of her. And why not? The money was damned good; actually it was merely adequate, but she wasn't about to complain. Two thousand a month in salary when thousands of KGB veterans were out on the street, wiping windshields of traffic-stalled cars and pleading for kopecks.