The Hunted

She was about to throw out an unconsidered answer when what had been a loud argument at the next table turned dangerously louder. Two millionaires were enjoying a heated argument over a business deal gone sour, both in full throttle about who had outcheated whom. One leaped from his chair and drew a gun. The two lovely blonde bimbos who were their evening entertainment screeched and hit the floor. The gunman was red-faced and howling curses, aiming the pistol in the face of the man across from him. It was such an everyday mess in Moscow business circles that the other patrons mostly ignored the fracas. They went about their meals, the girls laughed, the champagne flowed. Fortunately, like nearly every business in this raucous, crooked town, the restaurant had a protection contract with a crime syndicate. Two burly men hustled over, blackjacked the gun wielder into unconsciousness, kicked and pummeled him a few times out of habit, and dragged him out by the legs. Tatyana exploited the brief entertainment to ponder Golitsin's question more deeply.

The moment things settled down, she suggested, "How about this? In return we name the new attorney general."

It was a brilliant idea, of course. Golitsin saw the possibilities immediately. If they owned the attorney general, any potential Alex problems would go away. Nor, as they gobbled up other companies, would they have to look over their shoulders; they wouldn't worry about the legal authorities because they owned the head honcho. He bent farther forward and asked, "You think Yeltsin will bite?"

"If we time it just right, what choice will he have?"

He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat. "Wait till the blood is running, till the standoff reaches full pitch. Till he's absolutely desperate and has no choice. Great idea."

"Exactly. Can you deliver the Ministry of Security?"

He chuckled. Stupid question. "I'll appeal to their patriotism and I'll spread money around like there's no tomorrow. They may have demands of their own. I'll tell them to make a list."

The waiter arrived. It was nearly midnight, so they both went for the special, boar au gratin, which materialized almost instantly. Large slabs of it, buried under a ton of gooey white cheese and thick gravy. She drank measured sips of champagne with her meal, he stuck with scotch and drank without letup. She nibbled carefully and economically from the feast on her plate, he stuffed everything into his mouth and chewed with noisy vigor.

She stayed on small talk, but had another topic to discuss. A delicate one, and she wanted his stomach full and his incredible intelligence watered down with liquor before she made her move.

After desserts were delivered, she asked, "How do you like your new house?"

"It's wonderful." He tried to keep the nasty smile off his face, but couldn't help it. "I love sleeping in Konevitch's bed, knowing I took it from him. I hope he and his lovely brat are sleeping on a hard, bug-ridden bunk in a flophouse, surrounded by smelly winos and hacking dopers, and thinking about me."

"And how is business these days?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. She was sure he would lie.

As she guessed he would, he said, "Fine. Money's pouring through the doors."

She looked down and played with the silverware beside her plate. "I heard three of the subsidiaries are already bankrupt."

"Small setbacks," he replied smugly, waving for the waiter to haul over another glass of hooch. "We didn't want to be in hotels or restaurants, anyway. Lousy businesses. I'm getting rid of the bloat Konevitch left behind."

"Two more banks were just granted state licenses to exchange foreign currencies. You now have serious competition."

"They'll have to catch up to me. I won't make it easy."

"You kicked your price up to five percent for every ruble exchanged. They're offering two percent."

"Well, I give better service."

Better service, my ass, she wanted to say. Golitsin's posse of former KGB morons were ripping the guts out of Konevitch's business empire. The speed and efficiency was frightening. One of the twits had made the deplorable decision to shift the tourist company to a lower-fare airline. The first load of paying customers died horribly in a fiery plane crash. Worse, the passengers thought they were traveling to a sex vacation in Thailand; the plane was headed for a run-down health clinic in Poland.