The Hunted

"That's the general idea. At our end, we're dealing with Mafiya foot soldiers. That's not working. Take one off the street, and in days he's replaced with two more. We presume that the heads of all these organizations are here, in Russia." Nobody contradicted that obvious point and he pushed ahead. "And you can put some of your people at my headquarters. We'll share intelligence, share everything we learn and tip each other off. Maybe perform a few big busts together."

Tatyana maintained a straight face, but her heart was racing. Oh, what an incredibly great idea: yes, we can share intelligence, the more the better. Wait until Nicky heard what had just landed in her lap. He would know everything the FBI was up to. He would learn the names of every plant, every snitch, every stoolie. Through her, he could set up his opposition and exploit the FBI boys to squash their American operations. It would be a windfall. Nicky's American branch would grow by leaps and bounds.

And it would all depend on little old Tatyana. She liked to be needed. Service like that doesn't come cheap.

A slight nod from Tatyana to Fyodorev, who glanced in her direction every few seconds.

"Of course we'll share the headlines?" Fyodorev asked, showing he and Tromble were kindred spirits.

"Wouldn't dream otherwise," Tromble lied.

"Why only twelve agents?" Tatyana asked. "And why only five years? Our Mafiya have been around for seven decades. They're such an institution, I hardly think we'll defeat them in only five years. Make it twenty agents. Thirty, if you wish. And a ten-year extension strikes me as much more reasonable."

Tromble reached both hands under the table and steadied his knees. This was everything he'd hoped for, times two or three. Ol' J. Edgar may have created the FBI and put it on the map, but he was determined to claw out his own storied place in Bureau legend. He was going to take America's only national police force and turn it into an international juggernaut. It would be twice as big before he was through: maybe more, maybe much more. He intended to have his agents in every damn embassy in every damn country in the world. A bigger operations center would be necessary, a real monster with dozens of lit-up screens constantly flashing the latest updates about Chink Triads, and Jap Yakuzas, French wharf rats, and Tibetan whatever-the-hell-they-weres. He would have a big seat in the middle of it all, a throne from which he could survey his crime-busting kingdom.

He bit his lip. "That all sounds reasonable to me."

"Good," said Tatyana with the great legs. She started to stand, then lightly tapped her forehead. She slid back into her seat, frowning, distracted. "There is, uh, one thing you can do for us, John. A favor. A very, very important one."

"Name it."

It was a gamble, but why not? How much was this worth to Tromble? She said, "There is a certain criminal who fled Russia. Alex Konevitch. He's hiding out in your country. He ran a large bank here that laundered billions of dollars. Mafiya money, in fact. When he learned we were on to him, he absconded with hundreds of millions, in dollars. A real crook."

"And he's in America?"

"That's right. We had a thread on him, but he disappeared over a year ago. We had a lead that he was in Chicago. And maybe he is, but our best people have been unable to locate him."

"No problem. I'll put twenty agents on it tomorrow."

"You have your most wanted list"-she paused and looked him dead in the eye-"well, John, we have ours, too. He's number one on our list. The top dog, the most wanted bad guy in Russia. It's a great embarrassment that he has eluded us this long. He is unquestionably guilty. We want him back. Crooked bankers are a serious problem for us. We intend to make an example of him with a very big, very public trial."

"One week and he'll be in a Moscow slammer. I guarantee it."

The State Department representative coughed. "Uh, that might be a problem."

"Why's that?" Tromble asked, clearly irritated by the interruption.

"We don't share an extradition treaty with our Russian friends, I'm afraid."

"So what?"

That question, emerging from the lips of America's top law enforcement officer, a former federal judge no less, was unnerving. "It would be… well, you know, a big legal problem if Konevitch has diplomatic permission to remain in America. You can't just throw him on an airplane and ship him back here."

Tromble leaned over until their faces were inches apart. "I don't think this is any of your business."