The Hunted

She shook her head. She would sorely miss her parents and her friends. And okay, sure, it would be difficult to adjust to America's peculiar ways-people here were so flagrantly casual, so obtrusively personal, and their sense of humor was so weird. But she loved Alex, had from the moment she laid eyes on him-and her instincts told her this was the one place in the world where he would be happy, the one place he could be productive, the one place they would be safe. "What will we do for a living?"

"Start over. Build a business of some sort."

"You know, Alex, if you could make a fortune in Russia, there's no reason you won't do the same thing here. I'll help you. In fact, it should be easier. America is a land of laws and respect for property. Rich people aren't despised here."

"We'll need a place to live," he said, and she readily agreed-just definitely not like the old one, she thought. A small, livable home, no servants, and definitely unpretentious enough that nobody made a point of spitting hawkers on their doorstep.

They began listing the requirements. A safe place, she said very firmly, with guards and doormen, where they could sleep without worrying about Golitsin's thugs. Great, but it would have to be in or very near a metropolis, he replied-a bustling, prosperous city where money grew on trees. Not too big a city, she countered, and that swiftly ruled out New York and Chicago and Atlanta. California and Florida, in fact the entire South, and the Southwest, were too hot and miserably humid for their thick Russian blood. The Midwest was too plainly American, too parochial, and they doubted they would fit in. They were quickly running out of real estate.

An idea popped into her brain and, since time was short, and all other options were evaporating, Alex quickly agreed.

Washington. They would settle in that charming city, not too small, not too large, filled with impressive monuments, noisy politicians, and gobs of money. The more they considered it, the better it looked. They would find a nice home, stuff it with furniture, make a normal life, and quickly-and quietly-gather another fortune.

Plus, it was a city of lawyers, after all. It should be easy to locate a good one with loads of experience and contacts in immigration matters and get the paperwork started.

Alex warned, "We'll have to cover our tracks."

That sobering thought brought Elena back from her rosy dreams of the future-to-be to the here and now. "They'll keep hunting for us, won't they?"

"For a while, yes." He paused and looked at the window. "We have to mislead them on our way out. I'll need your help."

"Will this go on forever, Alex?"

"No. Not if we disappear and leave them alone. I think they'll forget about us, eventually. The idea is to be sure we aren't worth their time or effort."

***

By six, they had rented a car, stocked it with maps, and loaded the trunk with everything they owned. For a former mogul and his wife, it was almost pitiful-Alex's office supplies and what little clothing and toiletries they had gathered since their arrival. Alex checked out, with cash, then, accompanied by Elena, headed for the phone bank in the basement, where they discussed their plan with Elena's friend Amber. Ignoring her protests, Alex stuffed three thousand dollars into her palm with orders to keep a thousand or two for herself and spread the rest around liberally to select members of the hotel staff.

Amber pecked Elena on the cheek, hugged her tightly, and wished them both luck.

Fourteen hours after they departed, the team of killers arrived. They pushed through the door and began prowling the lobby, looking for their prey. There were six of them in all, five men and one lady, Katya, their old tormentor from Budapest, who had arrived only hours before, after being dispatched on a swift overnight from Russia. She was along to brief the new boys about Konevitch's elusiveness and ensure positive confirmation once the deed was done. At least that was the reason Golitsin had offered her and his partners, Tatyana and Nicky. A more truthful reply was that he did not trust Nicky. He wanted some of his own muscle involved.

The other killers were Americanized Russians, immensely talented at murder, citizens of Brighton Beach, connected through two or three shell companies to Nicky's expansive organization.

It had been easy enough to trace the phone number Tatyana handed Nicky after Konevitch told her to piss off; a swift look-see through the Manhattan Yellow Pages led them straight to the Plaza.

Alex was here, they were sure of it. His room number was the one mystery, but they would learn it quickly. Two men would remain downstairs in the lobby, one by each exit to block any attempt at escape. The rest would rush upstairs, employ a crowbar to burst through the doors, and toss the Konevitches through the window down onto the busy street below. If it turned out the room was on a lower level, knives and garrotes would do the trick.