The Hunted

"I did. Is it true?"

"Absolutely. My Russian friends say he not only embezzled from his own bank, he also stole millions more, from the mob. As if he didn't have enough enemies already. They want him as badly as the Russian government." He scratched his nose. "You remembered to mention the bugs?"

Hanrahan nodded. "His face turned white as a baby's ass. Why let him in on that, though?"

A slight smile. "We don't want Volevodz and his people to have an unfair advantage, do we?"

"Jesus, his own government, and now the Russian mob. I guess the only question is who'll get him first."

"Not really," Tromble said, glancing out the darkened window. "We'll beat them to him. Your job's to make that happen, Terrence. Don't let me down."

"He and that wife are going to be paranoid."

"Yes, I believe they will. That's the idea. You just make sure they realize America is more dangerous for them than Russia. I want them so hopeless they'll be more than ready for our offer, when it comes. We'll be their only help."

Hanrahan thought about it a moment. He had been an agent for eighteen years; Tromble was the fifth director he had served. By far, he was the toughest and most heavy-handed, but there was no question he got results. "And if they don't fold?"

"No problem. We'll turn up the heat. Pull out the stops and ship them back."

20

The three men sat in the white van, swapping American girlie magazines, sucking on cigarettes, sipping stale coffee, bored out of their wits. After that initial day of heart-thumping surprises and emotional terror, things had quickly retreated to a dull grind.

During the days, surprisingly little took place in the Konevitch apartment. Long bouts of silence, broken occasionally by tedious discussions about incredibly inane things-the laundry, the latest stupid game show on TV, Oprah, and so on. On Tuesday, the wife, Elena, read to her husband, out loud, a stream of interminable passages from War and Peace. Wednesday was Anna Karenina's turn, which proved even worse. The men inside the van contemplated suicide, or rushing upstairs to drive a gag down her throat.

The Konevitches never left their building, or even their apartment, the best the men could tell. This had been a sore topic with Volevodz, who popped by occasionally to gather updates. As long as the couple stayed inside, the three listeners were trapped inside the van, crammed in with all the electronic equipment and debris from their meals. It seemed to shrink by the day; they were peeing in bottles, for God's sake. Theories and conjectures rumbled around the rear of the van. It was unnatural to stay penned up so long inside that cramped apartment. On the other hand, the Konevitches no longer had jobs. And money-actually the sudden lack of it-was undoubtedly a serious factor in their minds. Wasn't like they could afford to splurge on the theater or an expensive restaurant. Why not a movie, though? Better yet, a nice long stroll along the canal, like they used to? How much could that cost?

When it turned dark, things picked up and turned slightly more interesting. The Konevitches were like rabbits. Every night, for hours, groans and giggles, sheets rustling, and an occasional scream or "oh my God" to cap off the festivities. The first few times the volume had been kicked up full blast. The three men tried to imagine what was going on in that bed. Why hadn't Volevodz been thoughtful enough to plant a camera? It would have been so easy, they whispered among themselves. Eventually, the constant lovemaking only contributed to the enveloping air of misery.

It was almost as if the Konevitches knew all about the three listeners, that they were taunting and rubbing it in.

The phone action had turned virtually nonexistent. A few frustrated calls from their lawyer, who complained constantly about being stonewalled by his old friends in the INS.

An occasional call to order pizza and Chinese deliveries-that was it. "What are they doing out there?" asked the note Elena passed over the dining room table to Alex.

A glance at his watch-8:00 p.m.-and he scribbled a hasty response and flashed it to her. "Going nuts, I hope." After days of corresponding like this they had finally mastered the awkward art of balancing two conversations at once-inane verbal ramblings to mollify their listeners while they scrawled brief messages back and forth. It was tedious and slow, and absolutely necessary. They chatted in English and they wrote in Russian.

"Why didn't we buy a bigger place?!!!!" she scribbled back. "It's closing in on me, Alex. I can barely breathe."