The Hunted

Nicky pulled out another black cheroot and lit up. "I got pick-pocket teams working every train and plane station in Europe. They been told to keep a good eye out for a gimpy giant, a blonde runt, and a rich American fatty."

The twit who had just detailed his own efforts at corralling Alex at transportation terminals leaned forward and advised Nicky, "Consider giving them photographs instead. Our experience shows that visual representations always work better than verbal descriptions." He produced a crooked smile. "If you have fax machines, I'll provide copies."

He instantly regretted that he had opened his mouth. "Fax machines?" Nicky roared. He looked ready to bounce out of his seat and strangle the twit. "Oh, sure, moron. Hell, every pickpocket's got one. You know, stuffed in his back pocket." The other former agents at the table instantly hated the thick-necked dolt for his stupid remark. Little wonder they never caught Nicky.

Nicky planted his leather elbows on the table. "Listen up, ass-hole. They don't need no pictures. Pickpockets are… what? Observant, right? It's what they do. All day, staring at people, sizing 'em up. They can tell in a blink if a mark's got ten bucks in their pocket and who's got a thousand."

Another withering glare at the fool and Nicky clammed up. Why cast pearls before swine? He lit another cigarette and collapsed back into his chair.

The next man in line, in an earlier life the Ministry of Interior's liaison to Interpol, squirmed for a moment, stared down at the table, picked at a scab on his nose, then as quietly as he could, mumbled, "I called my former colleagues and alerted them that a warrant for Alex's arrest would be coming their way within hours."

Time for the next man in line to speak up. Nobody did, and the silence quickly turned deafening.

The man stole a quick sideways peek at Golitsin, who was staring back with a mean scowl. "And what are they doing about it?" Golitsin snapped, his scowl deepening.

This was not the question the man wanted to hear. "And they… they listened."

"Listened?"

"Well… umh, yes. Interpol won't do anything until a formal request is launched through appropriate legal channels. Can't really. The protocol is written in stone. It's a very bureaucratic and-"

"You're saying Interpol won't do anything?"

"No. I'm… I'm not saying that."

The other sharks around the table were edging forward in their seats, waiting for the fireworks to erupt. Oh yeah, pal, that's what you're saying, no question about it. "Then explain to me what you meant," Golitsin barked.

"We… that is, we, as executives of Konevitch Associates, we don't, well… we don't exactly have the legal authority to demand an arrest. Interpol wants to see a legitimate warrant before it will act."

The man reached under the table and with both hands gripped his knees together to keep them from shaking. His face was red. A jackhammer was going off in his chest. With pleading eyes he looked around the table for help, a meager sign of support, anything; a tepid nod of pity would be fine. Nine sets of eyes looked elsewhere. At the table, the ceiling, the white walls.

"Did you offer your contacts money?" Golitsin asked.

"Money, women, cars, drugs. Yes, anything their hearts desire."

Complete silence.

"And they swore at me and hung up."

"Then you didn't offer enough, idiot."

Nervous snickers around the table. They had all, every last man, heard the pistol shot reverberate through Golitsin's phone in that fatal final conversation with Vladimir. What a moment. Just the sound of Golitsin's throaty voice and that hardass Vladimir pumped a bullet into his own head. One for the record books, definitely.

More to the point, they had collectively witnessed the old man's response. He did not flinch or cringe or curse. Bang-not even a wrinkle of surprise. Actually, he smiled.

It looked, in fact, remarkably like the unpleasant little smirk he was offering Mr. Interpol at that moment. Wouldn't it be special if that smile ignited a heart attack?

Golitsin cracked a knuckle, then in a hectoring tone said, "Listen to me, idiot. All you idiots listen up. Konevitch doesn't have a game plan. He's improvising. If, somehow, they make it over the Hungarian border, they could jump on a late-night train or plane and end up anywhere in Europe. Only Interpol can issue orders broad enough to cover the entire continent. Only Interpol has instant access to charge card information. Only Interpol can forward warrants to police and border officials across Europe. Are you getting this?"

The man was scribbling notes furiously in a small notebook. Not a word had been said that he did not already know. If he shrank any deeper into his chair, he would disappear.

Golitsin stood up and walked in his direction. He bent over, got less than six inches from the man's ear, and muttered, "Get back on the phone and offer more money, moron."