The Hunted

Colonel Volevodz finally marched around the corner of a short gray building, a middle-aged, tall, thin man in civilian clothes wrapped in a rumpled trench coat. Two young assistants dressed nearly identically accompanied him, both slightly behind, one to his left, one to his right. They strutted in step, like conquering military men, across Checkpoint Charlie from the east, no doubt attempting to concoct a cinematic entrance. The colonel stopped about two feet from Alex. They eyed each other suspiciously for a moment.

The colonel finally put out a hand. They shook without enthusiasm. Volevodz pointed at his two colleagues, who kept their hands in their pockets and edged a little closer. "Captains Kaputhcuv and Godunov. They're assisting me with this investigation."

"Thank you for coming," said Alex without a trace of warmth. He had dressed carefully for this meeting-the same tailored suit he had escaped in, cleaned and neatly pressed, with a stiffly starched, monogrammed shirt and silk tie completing the ensemble. He looked every bit the big-deal gazillionaire who could roil entire markets with a swipe of his pen.

"So, where is your wife?"

"Around."

"You are alone, then?"

"But you're not," Alex answered without really answering. "I'd like to see your identification."

"I don't believe you should be making demands, Mr. Konevitch. You're a wanted man in Russia."

"Welcome to the new Russia, Colonel. I'm a taxpayer with rights. You're my servant now. Identification, please."

"I can arrest you right now and drag you back to Russia. I'd be a big hero."

"Then welcome to Germany, too. You have no legal authority here."

The colonel's hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. Alex studied him carefully. He had a thin face, thin eyes, thin lips, and close-cropped hair molded to conceal a thinning spot on top. The face was neither mean nor nice, neither handsome nor ugly; the prototypically stonewashed face of a career Soviet functionary. He pushed one hand toward Alex-something round and hard poked forward against his trench coat. "Here's all the authority I need. My assistants are also armed. I can kill you right here." He paused to produce a hard grin. "Maybe I will."

Alex upped him with a tight smile. "A bad idea. For you and for me."

"To the contrary, it would be a great idea. It would solve a lot of problems."

"Look behind me at that big gray apartment building."

Volevodz's gaze left Alex's face.

"Keep going," Alex ordered, following the colonel's roving eyes. "Third window down on the right side. See the barrel pointed out the window?"

Volevodz's mouth nearly fell open when his eyes finally settled on something long, cylindrical, and dark poking out a window.

"Look long and hard, Colonel," Alex said. "That's one of three snipers I hired to protect me. If I lift my right arm, you're dead, all of you. If I die, you're dead. I had hoped not to do this, but…" He cranked his right arm halfway up, nearly to his waist.

Volevodz computed the new situation very quickly, then, in a fast rush of words, said, "Put it down! For godsakes, put your arm down."

"Hands out of your coats. Palms up. Shut up and do as I say. Show me your identification-then, maybe my arm will come down."

The hands popped out and so did the identifications. The hands were trembling. Alex glanced dismissively at the official-looking IDs in the fists of the two captains and snatched the colonel's for a closer inspection. It looked genuine enough, but what did he know? He threw it back.

Volevodz caught it and slipped it back inside his pocket. "You're not behaving like an innocent man, Mr. Konevitch."

"I wasn't treated like an innocent man."

"You've just threatened the lives of three officers of the Ministry of Security. This will be added to the already grave charges against you."

"You won't believe how much that worries me. Are you wired?"

"Why would I be wired?" Volevodz replied with a sneer.

"You wouldn't necessarily. I'd just like to be sure our frequencies don't interfere with each other."

"Oh… I see."

"You threatened to kill me. It's on tape. Who sent you?"

He stared at Alex a moment. Alex had chosen to stand in the middle of the checkpoint, well away from any walls or protective cover of any nature. Why was now clear. Volevodz and his assistants were trapped, out in the open, wildly vulnerable, and he briefly pondered the interesting question of how many bull's-eyes were painted on his forehead at that moment. He tried a smile and said, "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot."

Alex crossed his arms and stopped smiling. "I'm here because you promised to help me. You show up instead with guns and threaten to kill me. You have an interesting definition of a wrong foot."

"All right, all right. I made a mistake, a big one. I'm sorry. Let's start over." He tried to force the smile, and tried his damnedest to make it look friendly and sincere. "Can I call you Alex?"

"Sure. Why not?"