The Hunted

Since it was a privately owned company there was no financial reporting or formalized information flowing to the shareholders. He briefly wondered how much she knew. Too much, judging by the shrewd tone of her voice. He pulled a long sip of scotch, then admitted, "There have been a few small setbacks."

"Does Nicky know yet?" she asked, thrusting the knife a little deeper. "He's also a partner, last time I checked."

Golitsin flicked a hand through the air as if it didn't bother him in the least. He wasn't happy that she brought it up, though. Nicky definitely was not the sort of partner you wanted to disappoint with bad news. "What's your point?" he asked nastily.

"Two points. One, Konevitch is very good at making money," she said, and the insinuation was clear and painful-Golitsin and his band of fools would alchemize gold into Silly Putty. "Two, if we employ him," she continued, "we own him. He won't run and tattle, because it won't be in his interest. And he'll be a co-conspirator."

"Where is he?"

"New York City."

"A big place. Where in New York?"

"I don't know exactly."

He knew she was lying. Her lips were moving, so of course she was lying. "If you don't know, how did you reach him?"

"Why does it matter? Are you in or out?"

"What do you get out of it?"

"A reasonable share of the profits. Nothing exorbitant, say thirty percent. It's my idea, after all."

Golitsin knew damn well what she was up to. She wanted to get her fingers on the money, the cash. His millions. She would set up this arrangement with Konevitch, then figure out a scheme to rob him blind.

Well, he knew damn well what he wanted, too. More than ever, more than anything, he wanted that boy dead. Just dead. That he was running Konevitch's companies into the ground-he was too painfully aware of the snickers and rumors roaring around the city-only made him detest the man all the more.

He sat back, drew a few heavy breaths, and struggled to clear his brain. Maybe killing him was the wrong approach. Maybe he was being impetuous and shortsighted. In fact, enlisting Konevitch in this scheme might be a great idea. It felt better by the moment-let the genius double or triple his money, get the boy's fingers nice and dirty, and if Konevitch made one wrong move, then find a way to blow the whistle and humiliate him once again. Why not?

He could always kill him.

He asked, innocently enough, but without commitment, "And how did he sound about the offer?"

"Interested. He made a few demands. Don't worry, I'll grind him down."

"All right," he growled, playing at phony reluctance. "Go ahead. Make the deal. See where it goes."

15

Early October 1993 Midnight, and Elena was lying awake, improving her English by watching an old American western. The tense gunfight was interrupted, midshot, by a tedious toothpaste commercial, so she casually flipped over to CNN for a quick peek at what was happening around the world, late-night. They were back in their suite in the Plaza, counting the days and waiting for whoever sent Volevodz to call.

She reached across the bed and shook her husband awake. "Alex, look what's happening," she said, almost yelling, aiming a finger at the flickering tube across the room.

Alex sat up and stretched, glanced briefly at the tube, and froze. At that instant, a line of tanks was pouring salvo after salvo at the Russian White House, Russia's rather less than elegant equivalent of a parliamentary building. The top floors burned brightly. Fresh shells were striking the sides of the building, sending showers of shattered glass and debris that bounced off the concrete apron.

An unseen male correspondent was providing commentary in a hurried, theatrical voice: "The Supreme Soviet, as the Russian Congress is still known, a week ago voted to impeach Boris Yeltsin and replace him with his hard-line vice president, Aleksandr Rutskoi. A few hours ago, in this very building, Rutskoi signed a decree announcing his own presidency. The fencing that has gone back and forth for months, the largely communist and right-wing deputies voting first to emasculate Yeltsin's reforms and power, and now to replace him, has finally erupted in violence. The past week there have been scattered skirmishes around the capital. Now there are two presidents of Russia. And now… the fate of democracy hangs in the balance."

Elena reached for the phone, called room service, and ordered two pots of coffee, with a fresh pot to be delivered every hour until she notified them otherwise. The drama, with overheated updates, unfolded throughout the night. Alex and Elena never budged. They sipped coffee, munched toast, spoke little, and watched in fascination. The troops surrounding the White House were part of the Ministry of Security. The trigger-happy tanks were courtesy of the army.