The Hunted

Who is this guy kidding? Tromble thought. He was sure his leg was being pulled and he laughed. Fyodorev developed a very deep frown.

The hottie in the short skirt suddenly shoved herself off the wall and moved to a position beside Fyodorev's desk. She said to him, "Anatoli, we're being terrible hosts. It's been a long, tiring trip for our American guests. Maybe they would like coffee."

Whoever she was, she had an interesting relationship with Fyodorev, because his demeanor turned on a dime. The angered frown converted instantly into a gracious smile. "Yes… yes, you're right. Coffee, anybody?"

Tromble said yes, black, no sugar, no cream. Laura chose tea, doused with sugar and cream. One of the aides shoved off from the wall and scurried off to retrieve the refreshments.

The young lady with the glorious legs slid around the desk and, with a glowing smile and firm handshake, introduced herself. Tatyana something-or-other-she explained she worked not here, in the attorney general's office, but upstairs, for his boss. She was a lawyer who frequently advised Yeltsin on legal matters. This seemed to justify her presence.

"Why don't we all adjourn to the conference table?" she suggested, quite hospitably.

Why not? For sure, the current arrangement was a bust. They shifted from their stools and desks to comfortable chairs abutting a huge walnut block table by a large window. Tingleman and Tromble sat side by side, in an uncomfortable silence.

Miss Tatyana Whoever sat closely beside Fyodorev on the other side of the long, gleaming table. They made small talk about the flight and weather and a dozen other uninteresting topics. Once the coffees and teas were delivered and the room had cooled to a level of moderate tension, Tatyana said, "Let's not beat around the bush. What is it you'd really like to discuss?"

Tromble's briefing papers, prepared by a bunch of stuffy eggheads over at State, had stipulated that the Russians were consummate horse traders. Never arrive empty-handed: give a little, get a little. In that spirit, he had started-more accurately, he had tried to start-by offering them a few handsome concessions before he got down to his own request.

But if she could come right to the point, so could he. "Your Mafiya," he said very importantly.

"What about them?"

"Since the wall came down, they've become your biggest export. They're crawling all over our cities. They've turned Miami into a free-fire zone. Brighton Beach is a funeral parlor." Tromble worked up a nasty grimace. "They're a very nasty lot."

"Tell me about it," Fyodorev said, shaking his head with disgust. "Total vermin. The most ruthless, brutal criminals in the world."

"Yes, so we're learning," Tingleman replied, slightly irritated, not really clued in to what her FBI director had in mind for this visit. She had been told it was no more than a diplomatic meet-and-greet, part of the required protocol for her office, a chance to get away from the daily grind of Washington. "Our own Italian Mafiosi are civilized gentlemen compared to your guys. With your people, no finesse, no rules, no attractive traditions. They kill over nothing."

"We're not proud of them," Fyodorev replied with an uneven shrug.

"I'm under great pressure from my president to do something about them," Tromble insisted, regaining the initiative.

A lie. His president could care less about anything that didn't register in national polls and outside Hollywood, where a fresh species of frightening brutes was always a welcome addition; the average Joe knew nothing about Russia's Mafiya and could care less.

Fyodorev looked sympathetic.

"I need a favor," Tromble continued with a friendly smile. "As you know, we have a small FBI field station at our embassy here in Moscow. Yeltsin personally signed the agreement. That was two years ago."

Tatyana noted, "And it expires in a few months."

"Exactly. Now I'd like an extension. Say, another five years. And I want to triple the size."

"How many of your people are here now?" Fyodorev asked.

"Four. Four overworked, exhausted agents," Tromble said sourly. "Two broken marriages, one newly minted alcoholic, one attempted suicide. Sad to say, it has become the most unpopular posting in the Bureau."

"Twelve would be a lot," Fyodorev countered, obviously cool to the idea. "This is, after all, Russian soil."

"I know, I know. But your Mafiya is huge, and growing fast. Ambitious, too. They're blasting their way into everything. Dope, whores, kidnapping, extortion. The bodies are piling up. Four agents barely make a dent. Besides, I hoped we would work this problem together."

"Together?"

"Well, yes. Presumably your people have a better handle on your own Mafiya than we do."

"I would hope that's the case."

"What if some of my agents worked full-time with your people?"

"Like liaisons?" Tatyana suggested, nudging Fyodorev with her knee under the table.