The Hunted

He quickly reviewed the possibilities. It was a simple process of elimination; exactly the arithmetic he should've use six minutes before, he now knew. One, had they leaped out the window and run away in the other direction, the team posted outside the entrance would've seen them and blasted away. Two, had they instead exited through the lobby and out the hotel's front entrance, either of the two teams by the entrance would've bagged them. Open and shut.

There was, however, a third possibility. The least physically demanding possibility for a wounded man, as he thought about it-the most likely possibility, he realized with an ugly curse.

If only Katya hadn't barked at him to rush out the window. Stupid bitch. Like a snot-nosed rookie, she panicked. Rule number one: be sure what you think you see is what you're actually seeing. They should've yanked back all the curtains and peeked under all the tables.

Oh look, it's Alex and his friends playing peekaboo; ha, ha, ha-bang, bang, bang.

How simple that would've been. How deeply satisfying.

But no, they fell for Konevitch's cat-and-mouse game, and the mouse won. It was terribly stupid. But this blunder was definitely her fault, not his.

No, on second thought, the real blame fell on Golitsin's stooped shoulders. He approved the plan in the first place to drag Konevitch to the hotel. Okay, yes, Vladimir had claimed it would be easy. But of course there were risks. The greedy bastard knew that, but he wanted more money, money, money.

Konevitch baited the trap and the old geezer bit with every tooth in his mouth. He had nobody to blame but himself.

The satellite phone suddenly rattled at his waist. After a long hesitation, he pulled it off his belt and stared at it, consumed with dread, a new and surprisingly unwelcome emotion for Vladimir. Probably it was Golitsin. He would not answer it, not under any condition. He would just let it bleep and bleep until the old geezer got frustrated and gave up.

The thought of trying to explain this muddle, of trying to justify and excuse his stupidity, of confessing that he had allowed Konevitch to escape, was sickening.

On the other hand, maybe it was Katya. Maybe she was calling to say she had caught up with them; maybe Konevitch and his short wife and fat friend were already decomposing in a dark alley and out of their hair. Maybe their troubles were over. Oh, how he longed to hear those words.

So which was it? The devil or salvation? The bastard or the bitch?

He pushed the receive button and placed the phone firmly against his ear.

Golitsin said without a breath of emotion, "Your twenty-five minutes are long over. I'm assuming you lost him."

Vladimir felt a rush of fear bordering on panic. The voice was cold, so totally flat. For a moment he said nothing. He just stood there, tempted to throw the phone and flee as far and as fast as his feet could carry him. Find a new life in India or Zanzibar, for all he cared.

What could he say?

Golitsin snapped, "Your silence confirms it, you cretin. You were outsmarted by a complete dilettante."

"I still made you a fortune."

"So what?"

"Hundreds of millions. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"No." Just no.

"He hasn't escaped yet," Vladimir insisted, trying to sound convincing. The echo of his own bleating in the earphone, loud and whiny, shocked him.

"Oh, I think we both know he is long gone," Golitsin whispered, and he was right. "He and my three hundred million. All gone. Vanished. And it's your fault, you incompetent dimwit."

Vladimir stared into the dark, overcast skies. The alley was narrow and empty: no pedestrians; no lost tourists wandering in confusion; not even a smelly wino sleeping it off on a dark door-stoop. Just him, just a dead man sniveling into a clunky satphone. A scatter of small shops lined both sides of the street, all of which were locked and shuttered. Rain was pouring down in heavy sheets. A few lights burned in the apartments over the stores and the flickering glow from television sets refracted off several windows. The gloom contributed to his quickly deepening misery. "I'm sorry," he choked, mangling the words he had never before uttered in his life. He tried again, more clearly, more unctuously repentant, anything to mollify the menacing voice on the other end. "Truly, sir, I am very, very sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes sir. Sorry, sorry, sorry. "

"Well, sorry won't do, idiot. Sorry is for spilling coffee on my carpet. But losing three hundred million dollars? For letting Konevitch escape from under your nose? Just sorry?" Golitsin paused for a moment, then laid down the verdict. "When I am done with you, you'll learn the real meaning of sorry."

Vladimir reached into his waistband and withdrew his pistol. He took a deep swallow and said, "That's where you're wrong. You'll never get your hands on me, you ugly old bastard."

"Listen closely, moron. Wherever you run, I'll find you. You'll last days, long, terrible days, I promise that."