The Hunted

"No reason was given. They were just ordered by the Ministry of Security to terminate their relationships with us, or else."

Alex quietly cursed himself. The computer! He had password-coded his files, a false sense of security, he realized now, very unhappily, and a little after the fact. The FBI had talented specialists who probably could crack his password in seconds flat. He tried to recall what was in those files. Nothing. Everything. Too much. He had never imagined he would have to protect himself against this kind of police abuse. Not here. Not in America.

Everything he and Elena had done with Orangutan, the accounts they had brought in, the names of his contacts in Austria. What else? His bank records, of course-that accounted for how swiftly the FBI moved in and strangled their finances. A new thought struck him and his blood ran cold.

As coolly as he could, he said to Illya, "Pack your bags and get away, Illya."

"Why, Alex? I'm-"

"Don't ask questions I can't answer. Just get away, right now." "Alex, I have three hundred employees. I can't. I have responsibilities and obligations here."

"Do you want to live?"

"Of course, but-"

"Use cash, Illya. Don't leave a trail. Don't call your family or friends. Find a place to hide where nobody will expect you."

Mysteriously, the line suddenly went dead. The three men parked one block away in the white, unmarked van, turned down the volume, and sipped lukewarm coffee. They exchanged knowing winks and satisfied smiles. They were "press aides" assigned to the Russian embassy, a thin guise for intelligence operatives. Yes, run, Illya, run as fast as your legs can carry you. Dodge and hide, spend only cash, ignore your family and job, and disappear into the darkest hole in the universe. We'll still find you.

Volevodz had littered bugs in almost every square inch of the Konevitch apartment. The two Fibbies had observed him, had idly watched as he wandered around the Konevitch home hiding a listening device here, a bug there. They never said a word. After a while, Volevodz dropped any pretense of caution. They obviously didn't care. They had orders from on high to allow the Russian as much latitude as he wanted-as long as he didn't kill anybody. This was America, after all: a land of laws and inalienable rights. Beatings were questionable, they figured, in a gray area; guess it depended how bad the thumping got, the two agents decided.

The house phone was bugged as well. The men in the van could barely contain themselves when Elena had called that morning with the surprise news about the bank. Alex, we have no money. Oh Alex, how will we pay our lawyer? Alex, how will we buy food? The questions and pulled hair would come soon. Probably that night.

Another van, similarly equipped, and also filled with Russian "press aides," was parked half a block up from their lawyer's office. His phones, too, both at home and at work, were riddled with bugs. His house had been burgled the day before. While he, his wife, and two kids were doing the prayer thing at church, a team had entered through the broken back door. It was easy. A bad, decaying neighborhood. His neighbors generally stayed inside and very specifically ignored what happened outside their doors. His office, too, was wired like a sound studio.

So they knew the lawyer hadn't come in yet, was apparently still wandering the halls at INS, trying to fathom how bad his client's situation was.

Bad, pal. Real bad.

Neither the lawyer nor the Konevitches had the slightest idea how awful this was about to get.

19

The loud knock on the door came that night, slightly after midnight. Elena was sleeping with a pillow over her head, and never budged. Alex tried to ignore it, but the hammering grew more obnoxiously insistent, until he could stand it no longer. He slipped on his bathrobe and tiptoed quietly to the door.

He peered through the peephole. A middle-aged stranger in a cheap blue suit stood there, nervously looking around. Definitely FBI, Alex thought, though the demeanor was flagrantly different than the agents who tumbled their apartment on Saturday. This man appeared tentative, actually afraid. Alex opened the door.

The man inspected Alex's face, then asked in a low, raspy whisper, "You're Konevitch, right?"

"You know that or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, guess I do."

"Should I invite you in or would you rather just burst inside like your comrades? There's not much left to damage. A few chairs in the dining room. Two pictures we put back on the walls. I'll point them out for you. Take your pick."

"Lower your voice, all right? Step into the hall. Please."

"I'd rather make you come inside and drag me out."

The mysterious man leaned closer and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "Trust me. We can't talk… not here, definitely not inside your apartment." His hand did something funny with his left ear, apparently trying to signal something.