The Hunted

The people at the reception counter refused to offer any information no matter how much Katya pleaded or offered in bribes. Customer confidentiality was an obligation taken quite seriously at the Plaza. Fine. The killers fanned out and began accosting maids and waiters, employees on the lower end of the pay scale, who might, for the right price, entertain a slight breach of hospitality ethics.

Katya, with considerably more experience in assassination matters, had a better idea. She took the elevator to the basement where the phone bank was located. The door was locked, so she knocked. A young woman opened it and Katya agilely stepped inside before she could be stopped. A large black woman who apparently was in charge pushed her rear out of her chair, stepped away from the switch console, and approached her.

"Sorry, you have to leave right now. This is a restricted area," she squawked with a posture that brooked no objections.

Katya spoke flawless English, but she hammed it up a bit, pretending she didn't fully understand. She slathered on the accent and said, "I am for my little sister looking. She is staying here, I am sure."

The black lady squared her heels and crossed her arms. "Then you need to go upstairs. Talk to reception. This is an employee-only room."

"Please, you must help me," Katya said with a long, uncomprehending frown. "She is named Elena. Elena Konevitch. She is here with husband."

Amber's big face retracted into a thousand suspicious wrinkles. "How come you don't know where your sister is?"

"She and her husband, Alex, they fled Russia. Alex does bad things there. Now is hiding."

"Bad things?"

"Yes, very, very bad. But our mother, she is most desperately sick. Dying, I think. I come because Elena must learn this." A long, pleading look. "Please, please, please, you must be of help to me."

Elena's big sister, my big ass. Who the hell did this Russian bitch think she was fooling, Amber thought. Her hands landed on her hips. "You missed 'em. Yep, yesterday they checked out in a hurry. Said they were headed for Chicago."

"Chicago?" Katya repeated, a little stunned.

"Uh-huh, Chicago. Said they were tired of New York and planned to settle there."

"Did they leave a forwarding address? A phone number, maybe?"

Amber's large hand popped out. Katya at first looked befuddled. The hand stayed put and she got the message. She yanked a twenty out of her pocket and slammed it onto the palm. The hand stayed put. Welcome to America, bitch. Not until four more twenties hit the pot did the hand retract.

"Nope," Amber said.

"They left no word? None?"

"That's right, none."

"Did they go by car, train, plane?" Katya was so disturbed at missing them, her concocted accent was melting.

"If I had to guess, he and your sister are gonna make themselves scarce. Be damned hard to find, know what I'm saying?"

Katya stared into her face for a long moment, spun on her heels, and departed. The door shut with a loud, angry bang.

At that moment, Maria Sanchez, an upstairs maid, was fingering the hundred in her pocket and recounting the same lie to two of the men on the hit team. Chicago, she told them with absolute certainty. She had overheard the Konevitches discussing the city as she cleaned their room two days before. Stacks of Chicago maps and travel guides sat on their bedside table; they sounded thrilled and eager to get on the road.

Amber figured she had at least bought the Konevitches a little time. A few weeks, maybe. With luck, a few months. But if the killers were serious, they would eventually track them down.

16

John Tromble was a man in a hurry. He had raced through a few years as a federal prosecutor, then sprinted through five more of a federal judgeship, and now was midway in his third year as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-the youngest ever, he reminded you quickly, in the event you failed to bring it up. He quickly stretched his long legs and speed-read a little more of the thick dossier produced by his staff in preparation for this trip.

He planned to spend another two years in this job, make a big splash, then pole-vault to the next level. A vice presidential candidacy wasn't out of the question; a senatorship should be easy pickings. Or barring that, open a private security firm and quickly haul in millions. With a mountain of cash, he could do whatever he wished. He read quickly, ate quickly, slept in a hurry, even had sex at astonishing speed. Everything he did, full speed ahead.

The plane was thirty minutes out from Sheremetyevo Airport, which apparently was on the outskirts of Moscow. If he were flying this damn thing he'd sure as hell find a way to make it in fifteen minutes.