The Hunted, page 11
Eugene and Elena made small talk. How did she like Budapest? Lovely old city, didn’t she think? Yes, very lovely indeed, she answered with a strained smile and firm nod—after what happened to Alex she would curse this city to her dying breath. Did she enjoy traveling with Alex? Oh, well, always quite an adventure, she replied, tongue in cheek. And how was life in Moscow these days? And so on and so forth.
The last thing Elena felt like doing was partaking in meaningless banter, but she had to buy time for Alex to think, and she endured it with phony grace. Eugene seemed like a nice man, a few rough New York edges aside—so why couldn’t they sit there and just enjoy each other’s company in golden silence? He could guzzle the beer he seemed to enjoy so much, and she could dwell on their nightmare. Her heart was pounding. She was forced to press her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.
Her back was to Vladimir and Katya, yet she could sense—in fact, nearly feel—a malevolent presence.
The food came. Between spoonfuls and slow, careful sips, Alex maintained a pretense of studying the documents, occasionally scribbling on a page, a notation here, a notation there—meaningless chicken scratch as he racked his brain for a way out of this.
Maybe he was overthinking this, he wondered. Maybe elaborate was the wrong approach; they should simply stand up and walk out, thumb their noses at the gangsters, and flee. Maybe this was all a big bluff. The more he thought about it, the more tempting that idea was. Would their kidnappers really open fire, here, in the grand dining room of one of the best-known luxury hotels in Hungary?
Back in Moscow, where such things were all too prevalent, maybe: okay, yes, without a moment of vacillation, they would blast everything in sight. But surely, in Budapest, the storied capital of a foreign nation, a peaceful, elegant old city renowned for its sophistication and exotic charms, different rules applied.
He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the two dull-eyed thugs by the exit, engulfed in the dense cloud of cigarette smoke swimming over their table. And then, for a fleeting instant, he and Vladimir locked eyes. Stupid question, he realized. Of course they would. They would blow away Elena, Alex, probably Eugene, the waiters and waitresses, other customers, and for good measure they’d nail the doorman and run away with smiles on their faces.
It would be a total massacre, a bloodbath. And it would be Alex’s fault.
He had already signed over his companies and properties, coerced statements that, if he survived, would be completely worthless. The moment he set foot in Moscow, he would hire the best lawyers money can rent and rescind everything; he then would use his immense fortune to hunt down every last one of them.
They would know this, of course. And they would know there was only one way to be sure that never happened.
And if that required a massacre, a flamboyant atrocity in a pleasant, peaceful city, it would only persuade the next millionaire they targeted that these were serious people who meant business.
7
With only eight minutes left on Vladimir’s deadline—and Eugene noisily draining what he claimed, with a suspicious slur, was only his third stein of beer—Alex finally settled on a plan he thought had a chance of success. He had conceived, chewed over, and discarded at least a dozen different ideas, from dangerously complex to ridiculously simple—from standing up and screaming “Fire!” to collapsing on the floor and pretending to suffer a massive heart attack.
Impressive intelligence was not his kidnappers’ forte. But what seemed to be an advantage in his favor was also, ironically, a double-edged sword. Sociopaths like Vladimir could not be depended upon to make cool, rational judgments in moments of stress. Whatever Alex tried had better be trigger-happy-proof.
He looked up from the papers and matter-of-factly asked Eugene, “How did you get from the airport to the hotel?”
“Automobile. Why?”
“How? Taxi? Limousine service?”
“I drove, actually.”
“Then you rented a car?”
“Yes, a rusty old orange Trabant,” Eugene said, referring to the automobile mass-produced by the East Germans under the old system. Trabants were notorious for their atrocious workmanship, nonexistent reliability, and cramped lack of comfort. The automotive equivalent of throwaway razors, they were called, and that was a compliment; even junkyards didn’t want them. He leaned back in his chair and chuckled, enjoying a private joke.
Elena asked, “What’s funny? Surely there were nicer cars on the lot.”
“You’re right. Shiny Mercedes and speedy Beemers all over the place.”
“Then—”
“Because Maria is a typical, spoiled American, without the slightest thought of how awful things were under communism. I thought she should experience firsthand the quality of socialist manufacturing.” The drive had taken forty-five minutes and Maria moaned and complained every inch of it. Well accustomed to his money and all the perks it could buy, whatever memories she had of life on a secretary’s paycheck were long behind her. She was horrified by this sudden dip back into the pool of poverty. Eugene relished every minute of it. His sole regret was that he hadn’t brought along a tape recorder so he could replay it again and again.
“That sounds like a novel concept,” Elena noted, obviously wondering about Eugene’s marital skills, or sanity.
“So is the car parked in the hotel lot?” Alex asked.
“The side lot. Why?”
“I’d like to borrow it,” he said, rubbing the bandage over his eye and looking pained. “Elena and I have had enough taxi rides for the day. And as soon as we’re done here we have to return to the hospital pharmacy for painkillers and fresh bandages.”
“Of course.”
“Also,” Alex said, shifting from pained to apologetic, “I seem to have misplaced my wallet. The orderlies undressed me at the hospital to treat my injuries. It must have fallen out of my pocket. Do you happen to have some money I could borrow?”
“How much do you need?”
“I might have to cover the medical bills. How much do you have?”
99 “Two thousand in bills, another thousand in traveler’s checks. American dollars, all of it. I exchanged two hundred into Hungarian forints, but Maria left with that.”
“Dollars are fine. Two thousand should be enough.”
Eugene dug into his pant pocket, withdrew the keys, then a fat wad of hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the table. “About the car, only a strong hind wind will get you over thirty miles an hour, the shocks are nonexistent, springs are popping through the seats, and the windshield wipers flop all over the place.” He smiled for a moment. “Other than that, great car.”
“Before the wall came down,” Alex noted with an ironic shrug, “we all had to place our names on long lists, then wait years for the privilege to buy a Trabant. Some people were smart enough to sign up every year.”
“Every year?” Eugene asked.
“Well cared for and driven minimally, that’s about how long they lasted.”
They lifted their glasses and silently toasted the marvelous new world.
Alex waved for the waitress, the same cute one Eugene had been nakedly admiring all afternoon. When she arrived he spoke in a low rasp that forced her to bend deeply over to hear him. He spoke for about thirty seconds, then slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm—two weeks’ salary and tips for her. An enthusiastic nod and she rushed off, beaming.
Alex checked his watch—five more minutes and New York would be calling Eugene. In six, Vladimir and Katya would be blasting away. He fought the temptation to turn around and look at Vladimir and Katya, lifted up another few pages, and pretended to return to his work.
“What’s he doing now?” Golitsin inquired into Vladimir’s satellite phone. Copies of Alex’s resignation letter and the appending contract relinquishing his properties had been faxed by the lawyer and now were stacked in a tidy pile on his desk. They sat there, less than two feet away. Close enough to where he could reach out and caress them. He had read and reread them six times. He could barely keep his hands off them.
A courier on a night flight from Budapest was en route with a chain around his wrist attaching him to a briefcase containing the legally vital originals. Just scrawl his name onto those originals, designate himself as the handpicked successor to Alex’s empire, and voilà—he, Sergei Golitsin, controlled 350 million dollars. Possibly more.
Years of plotting and scheming and putting the pieces together were about to pay off. A few drops of ink and he would be one of the ten richest men in Russia; but throw in another three hundred million in New York moolah, and, well… he might be the richest. In the new Russia, cash was king. He was about to be seated on a mountainous throne of cash.
“He’s still reading the contract,” Vladimir eventually answered in a tone saturated with annoyance. He was so tired of being checked up on. “His wife and the American banker are talking.”
“Talking about what?”
“Who knows? Who cares?”
“Can’t you hear what they’re saying?”
“No.”
After a brief pause meant to expose the seriousness of his concern, Golitsin asked very quietly, “Why can’t you?”
“Because,” Vladimir replied testily, “we’re seated in the middle of the room, at a vantage where we can keep them from escaping.”
“Maybe Konevitch and the banker are planning their escape.”
“Possibly they are. So what?”
“I’ll tell you so what. Hundreds of millions of dollars disappear with them, you idiot.”
“Two men are positioned by the exit to the restaurant. Two more by the exit to the hotel. That’s three layers of security they would have to make it past. Also I have the Konevitches’ passports, and their wallets, and he’s nearly crippled. I’m telling you, he’s not going anywhere.”
Silence.
Vladimir rolled his eyes. “No matter what they try, he’s dead.”
Golitsin let more silence register his disapproval.
After a long moment, Vladimir said, “I gave him twenty-five minutes to produce the signed contracts or I start shooting. That was twenty-two minutes ago. I think I can keep him from escaping within the next three minutes.”
“I still don’t like it.”
Vladimir could almost see the condescending scowl on Golitsin’s face. So far he, Vladimir, had taken all the risks and done every bit of the dirty work. Plotting and overseeing the murder of Alex’s executives, the kidnapping, the torture, obtaining the invaluable signatures—his handiwork, all accomplished without a glitch. He was quite proud of it. He had made Golitsin a very, very rich man. Was there even a halfhearted grumble of thanks? How about: Good job, Vladimir my boy, you really pulled this one off?
But more than anything, Vladimir despised being second-guessed and scolded by this deskbound lizard. The old boy hadn’t been in smelling distance of real fieldwork in decades. And here he was, sticking his big nose into everything
Then again, Golitsin had promised him a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars, U.S., the instant this job was finished, three hundred if they bagged an additional 300 million of New York dough. A year of lurking in the shadows, of watching and killing—the money was so close he could smell it. No way would he give Golitsin an excuse to snatch it away. Yes, he was tired of being lectured and reprimanded, of having to endure the old man’s biting insults, but in a few more hours, he reminded himself, it would be over. A few more hours and he would take his money, and then tell the old man exactly where to stuff it.
He fought the impulse to say, “Shut up and mind your own business,” and instead meekly said, “Don’t worry, boss. Less than three minutes. We’re fifty feet away, watching his every move.”
“You’re an overconfident idiot. Don’t mess this up.”
With slightly more than two minutes left before the deadline expired, the lights suddenly went out in the restaurant. Like that, the room was pitched into darkness.
Nearly simultaneously, the kitchen door flew open and out marched a long line of waiters and waitresses, one after another, ten in all. The cute waitress with the impressive bosom headed the procession, proudly hauling a chocolate cake with ten lit birthday candles. The marching line was loudly slaughtering “Happy Birthday,” in English polluted by thick Hungarian accents, and moving at a fast clip directly toward the table in the center of the room. Then they came to an abrupt stop, positioning themselves directly between Vladimir, Katya, and the table by the window where Alex and Elena were seated with Eugene.
The moment the throng was in place, stamping their feet and singing in a brash routine imported from an American restaurant chain, Alex leaped up from his chair, lifted the empty chair beside him, and hurled it with as much force as he could muster directly at the big picture window ten feet away. He had rehearsed this throw over and over in his mind. Over and over he told himself, ignore the pain from his dislocated shoulder, forget the severe burn on his chest. No matter how agonizing, put everything he had into this one chance. There wouldn’t be another.
The moment the chair launched, he shut his eyes, held his breath, and prayed.
The chair flew through the air, and then, with a loud satisfying crash, the large plate-glass window shattered into a thousand shards and crumbled to the floor.
Vladimir was still holding the satellite phone, still smarting from the conversation.
Katya had been eavesdropping. Her elbows were planted on the table, her head craned sideways in a wonderfully successful attempt to catch every word.
She loathed Vladimir and found huge enjoyment in overhearing the old man browbeat and humble him. She had no love for Golitsin either—a selfish, overbearing, snarling old tyrant she detested to her core. But she worked for him. She took his money and, without complaint, did whatever sordid work he asked of her. And why not? The money was damned good; actually it was merely adequate, but she wasn’t about to complain. Two thousand a month in salary when thousands of KGB veterans were out on the street, wiping windshields of traffic-stalled cars and pleading for kopecks.
Plus he was cunning, corrupt, ambitious, and endlessly ruthless; in the bare-knuckle new Russia, with that résumé, she was betting the old coot would shoot quickly to the top. There were worse wagons to hitch her horses to, she reasoned. Besides, her other options were few and not overly hopeful. She had spent twelve years doing dirty work for the KGB before the wall tumbled down. Sadly, her skillset had prepared her for only one thing.
By twenty-six, she had thirty kills on five continents. All clean hits, all professionally flawless. Now thirty-one, her once lustrous hair had been peroxided, bleached, dyed and redyed so many times it hung in listless strands. Her skin resembled a snare drum in need of a rigorous tightening. Long years killing under the hot African and Afghan sun had prematurely aged her. She still had an attractive face, one that bordered on beauty, except for a detached iciness that chased men off. She cared less. Her tastes ran more toward women than men anyway.
Besides, sex didn’t interest her generally, and emotions even less.
Unfortunately, that arctic demeanor was exactly what attracted Vladimir, who over the past year had come on to her more than a few times. Like many men with bulletproof egos, beating around the bush wasn’t his preferred style of seduction. He barged right into the sweet talk, long, swaggering soliloquies of what he’d like to do to her. Much of it sounded physically impossible; all of it sounded vividly repulsive.
Katya encouraged him in the strongest terms to get lost or, barring that, try performing the acts on himself.
One dark night, while they were staking out a target from a parked van, he gave up on the subtle approach. Without ado, he rabbit-punched her twice on the side of the head, clamped his hands around her throat, and tried to rape her.
She wasn’t entirely surprised by his foreplay. The brawl was brief. No quarter was given. His balls screamed with pain for weeks afterward.
She didn’t nurse a grudge. Vladimir was an animal. Naturally, his urges lingered closer to the surface than most. She simply hated him a little more passionately than before.
And thus, at that moment, while Golitsin upbraided Vladimir on the phone, she smiled and hung on every word. Way to go, old boy. Oh please, don’t forget my favorite part—call him an idiot again.
And thus, at the very moment the lights were extinguished, they both were preoccupied with their own thoughts, off guard and flat-footed. One instant the restaurant was brightly lit and humming with small groups engaged in polite conversation; then, without warning, it went dark and the calamitous mob of waiters and waitresses were clustered in front of their table, a gaggle of people in white uniforms stomping their feet and howling that stupid ditty at the top of their lungs.
A long hesitation. Then both drew their pistols and leaped to their feet. It was already too late.
They heard the glass crash and stretched their necks to look over the choir. They began hopping up and down, feeling like idiots. But between the darkness and the wall of kitchen staff, they were completely blinded.
Vladimir, who prided himself on being a man of action, for once was at a loss, frozen. Katya reacted first. She raised her pistol and fired three shots into the ceiling, rapid-fire—boom, boom, boom. It was absolutely effective—and totally the wrong move. The first shot unleashed a wild fiasco; the next two wildly reinforced it.
Between the thunderous crash of the glass shattering and the upsetting flash and bang of the pistol shots in a dark chamber, the entire dining room collapsed into instant bedlam. Half the waiters and waitresses fell to the floor. The other half fled, screaming and hollering and clawing past one another in the general direction of the kitchen. Customers leaped to their feet, shoving over tables and chairs, banging against each other, racing for sanctuary wherever they could find it. Wails and shrieks and flailing bodies bounced around the room.
