The Hunted

Tatyana calmly watched this exchange. "He might be right," she said, twirling a strand of her gorgeous hair. "But let's be sure we're all clear on our deal. You can maintain your field station only if Alex Konevitch is returned to us. If not, there will be no cooperation. None." The big black limo was parked in the small lot by the Moskva River. It was Tuesday. And they usually met on Tuesdays. The windows were cracked open. Cigar smoke billowed out. The car parked here once or twice a week. Week after week. Month after month.

The sheer sloppiness of it all amazed the man who sat and watched from a small nondescript car half a block away. He understood it, though. Hunters rarely looked back over their own shoulders. The people inside that car had every reason to be over-confident, and they were. He lit up an American Marlboro and cranked up his heater.

Tracking down Miss Tatyana Lukin had proven to be neither easy nor quick. Tracing the phone number Alex gave him to the Kremlin was simple enough-a small bribe to a phone technician was all it took. But the Kremlin was an immense factory of bureaucrats of all manner and forms. They were not a talkative lot. It was such a snakepit of conspiracy and political fratricide that they spoke, even among themselves, in whispers. Outsiders were cold-shouldered as a matter of course.

Month after month of stubborn digging ensued. Six Annas were found and swiftly vetted. Unfortunately, none fit the broader profile and all were quickly rejected as dead ends. Mikhail had other jobs he had to balance with Alex's request, and a long, tiring period of frustration ensued. Dozens of trails opened, then grew cold. Leads looked hot then fizzled into disappointment. The staff at the Kremlin turned over constantly as Yeltsin chewed through prime ministers and assistants like a slaughterhouse. The number of potential suspects alternated almost daily. Was she one of those casualties? Maybe, like so many successful and well-connected political people, she had simply jumped into the private sector for the big bucks.

Mikhail Borosky had first encountered Alex Konevitch years before when Alex's firm had been hit hard by a few in-house embezzlers. A grizzled former cop, now a private investigator, Mikhail had been hired to find the crooks. No problem, they were greedy idiots. They drove up to work in their shiny new BMW 730s, which they stupidly parked in the office lot. Why not just hang out signs that announced: Hey, we're your thieves if you're wondering.

But Alex had been impressed. Only two brief days and Mikhail named the thieves. Steady work followed, nearly all of which involved in-house shenanigans of one sort or another. Mikhail handled it all with brutal efficiency.

Alex had been generous with the bonuses, always paid promptly in cash. The two became fast friends. There were occasional dinners that usually ran late. In his long years as a cop, Mikhail had specialized in combating the Mafiya, part of a handpicked cadre that was vetted and watched constantly for its incorruptibility and ruthlessness. Mikhail's strong suit was gathering intelligence, figuring out the corrupting webs of mob activity, bugging, trailing, and observing, collecting enough dirt on the hoods and thugs to ensure their convictions.

Alex enjoyed hearing tales that had nothing to do with business. But nobody in Konevitch Associates knew of their relationship. This secrecy Mikhail insisted on from the beginning. As long as he stayed hidden in the shadows, they would leave lots of breadcrumbs in their wake and the cat-and-mouse game would be child's play. Pay me personally, never call from the office phone, never mention my name. It made it so much easier for the bloodhound to find their trails.

After over half a year of hard effort, Tatyana had fallen into his lap by a stroke of luck, a complete fluke. He had befriended a pair of lowly assistants to the minister of finance, frequently accompanying them to a bar, a favorite Kremlin hangout where the coatholders schmoozed and networked. He plied them with booze and encouraged them to introduce him to everybody they knew.

One night, a gentleman at the next table was complaining bitterly and, after inhaling his fourth vodka, very loudly, about another Kremlin bureaucrat. Another staffer had knifed him in the back, had gotten him sacked. That sorry bitch, he kept calling her. Mikhail's ears perked up. Yes, but a tasty bitch, his companion noted with a garrulous laugh. The insults and bad jokes poured out and Mikhail's eavesdropping turned serious. No wonder the chief of staff always looked so exhausted, one said. Ha, ha. Yeah, but she's such a ballbuster, it's a miracle he still had his dingaling. More ha, ha.