The Hunted

Volevodz and his two aides stood in place, nervously wringing their hands. Their eyes never wavered from the window ledge six floors above. As long as the barrel never budged, neither would they. A flock of giggly Japanese tourists mistook them for tired old spies, perhaps sharing a reunion in a place of former glory, swapping lies and inflating old adventures. The tourists spent five minutes snapping pictures of the three scowling men in wrinkled trench coats. A bus arrived delivering a fresh batch of rambunctious tourists, who piled out and were instantly drawn to the attraction. Erupting with laughter, they yanked out the cameras and joined in the fracas. They were third-rate actors hired to lend a little authenticity to the site, one tour leader helpfully explained to his entourage, who laughed louder. "Absolutely third-rate!" one of the crowd yelled back. How badly the three men wanted to yank out the guns and start blowing holes through the crowd.

They felt like boneheads. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, they just gaped at the barrel pointed out the window.

After twenty excruciating minutes, they drew verbal straws. The taller of the two captains lost and gently inched forward, slow, limited scrapes across the cement, before he squeezed his eyes shut, uttered a loud curse, and hopped three rapid bounces. No shots were fired. No bodies bounced off the concrete. They threw caution to the wind and raced toward the base of the apartment house. They drew their guns and pounded heavily up the stairwell to the sixth floor. Puffing from exertion, they found Alex's hired sniper there, directly underneath a hallway window: a mop head rested on an overturned metal trash can, with its rusty metal pole poking out the window.

The three men stared at one another with disbelief that quickly turned into red-faced humiliation. No debate was required or entertained; agreement was quick and unanimous-this petty detail would obviously only add unnecessary clutter in their report to Tatyana Lukin. They were tired of hotel rooms. They wanted to get out and wander around this glorious city that reeked with such historical significance, to venture out and feel the soul of the German people. But they wouldn't. They agreed that it was too dangerous. It made no sense at this point to risk being picked up by Volevodz and his goons. Room service was contacted and they ate a quiet dinner in the room together.

Over dessert and a glass of wine Alex shared the details of the offer. Elena listened and withheld comment. The pros and cons were obvious. They were tired of living on the run, tired of looking over their shoulders, tired of going to bed each night and awakening each morning imagining the worst. And no matter how much Alex exercised, he was a man of restless energy and incredible intellect that needed an outlet. But the offer was humiliating, a disgrace, really. Still, the prospect of neutralizing the bad people trying to kill them had its pluses.

"What will you do if they meet your demands?" she finally asked.

"I may take it."

"Do you think Golitsin is behind the offer?"

"I seriously doubt it. I think he wants me dead."

"Then who?"

"That's the question. There are so many possibilities. I know of only one way to find out."

"So you intend to take the offer to discover who's involved," she suggested.

"That's the idea. If I say yes, I'll look for a way to smoke them out."

"Why you?" she asked, sipping from her wine. Good question.

"Partly because they're still afraid of me. That's why they want me inside and neutralized. Why else are they still working overtime to keep me away from Yeltsin? Bring me in, and they buy my silence."

"What's the other partly?"

"Golitsin has a partner. That's obvious. Somebody inside Yeltsin's inner circle, I'm nearly certain. But think about this, Elena. We know the syndicates are involved. We know Golitsin and his KGB friends are involved. And now this man Volevodz and his deputies show up."

"You think he really is with the ministry?"

"I'm sure of it. I made a call to a friend in Moscow and had him checked out. He's former KGB, but he's now exactly what he claims to be. And he is, in fact, conducting the investigation."

"So this conspiracy is quite big."

"Getting bigger by the day. It would help to know exactly who and what we're up against."

"And then?" Elena asked.

"I find another way to get to Yeltsin. I'll have names and evidence to shove in his face. If they can do this to me, Elena, they can do it to anybody. I'm sure they will. And if that happens, the damage will be immeasurable. Nobody will want to put money in Russia." She was dressed in a long tight dress with a slit that stretched all the way to her waist; it clawed even more provocatively higher when she moved. The dress was not expensive and didn't need to be; she could justify drools in kitchen rags. She entered the restaurant and wound her way through the tables, where her date for the evening awaited impatiently in a long cushioned booth in the back.