The Hunted, page 29
Late that evening, reeling from the brutally rolling shocks, Yuri sat in his office alone, brooding and speculating about the future. At this rate, there would be no future. He had been shuttling around to funerals all day, trying his best to console sobbing widows and their crying little children. His mood was ugly. He wanted to be left alone, to stew with self-pity.
His secretary interrupted this bout of dark depression and informed him that a man was waiting in the lobby. “Doesn’t he have a name?” Yuri barked. He refused to give one, she replied. “Send him away,” Yuri said. Think twice, she insisted; he claimed he might know a few things about the murders plaguing their firm.
“Nobody else seems to,” Yuri muttered. “All right, show him in.”
The man entered and fell into the seat across from Yuri’s desk. There were no handshakes, no empty attempts at pleasantries.
Mikhail studied Yuri for a moment. Dark cropped hair, rimless glasses, an efficient-looking type with a mass of excess energy he couldn’t control. Constantly shifting in his seat, intermittently twisting the wedding band on a long, skinny finger.
This was Yuri’s office, and he’d be damned if he was going to be outstared by anybody. He stared right back at Mikhail with a show of great intensity. The harder he stared, the less he learned—just a normal-sized, nameless male of about forty-eight years, with a hard, weathered face, dressed casually and nondescriptly.
After they stared at each other long enough, Mikhail broke the ice. “Alex Konevitch informed me that you and he were old buddies.”
“We did a lot of business together, Alex and I. I miss him. Trying to keep up with him was a ball. He a friend of yours?”
“A good friend.”
Yuri relaxed a little. “Where is Alex now?”
“America. Washington, D.C.”
Yuri clapped his hands together in delight. “I knew it. All those theories about Brazil, or detox clinics, I always said they were bunk.” Yuri’s face turned grim. “Too bad he stole that money. Like I said, I miss him.”
“That what you think happened, he ran with the money?” A year before this had been the most popular game in town—the Alex quiz. Where was the money? Where was Alex? How much did he steal?
“Sure, of course.” A furious nod. “That’s what the news said happened.”
“Great tale, isn’t it? What’s your theory about it?”
“I’m a big fan of the ‘he snapped’ camp.”
“Just freaked out, grabbed as much he could haul, and fled, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that. It probably makes more sense to me than it might to you. Tell the truth, I sometimes dream of doing the same thing.”
“Having all that money isn’t fun, huh?”
“Twenty-hour days, thousands of people who depend on you, constant crises where everything’s on the verge of crashing down on your head. Oh sure, it’s a blast.” A brief pause, accompanied by a few more hard twists on the wedding band. “Now, who are you, and what do you want?”
“Mikhail Borosky. I did a lot of private investigation work for Alex. Still do.”
“And what? Alex asked you to drop by?”
“Yes.” Mikhail stretched his legs out and leaned back in the chair. “Alex asked me to keep my eye on the news. See who’s next. Apparently, you’re the guy.”
A slight flinch. “Next? What does that mean?”
“It means you’re at stage one of the same treatment Alex got. For some reason, you’re getting it a bit rougher than he got. And they’re a lot sloppier. I’m not sure why. Guess they’re a little over-confident this time.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Did you receive a visit from two of Moscow’s finest?” From his tone, Mikhail already seemed to know the answer.
“Yes.”
“A blimp and a beanpole, right?” It wasn’t really a question. From a parking lot across the street, Mikhail had watched the pair enter the headquarters the day before yesterday.
A slow nod.
“They give you a business card recommending somebody who could put a stop to all this?”
Yuri tried to hide his surprise but found it impossible. This strange man knew so much. The card in question, in fact, sat on Yuri’s blotter, in easy reach of his fingers. Only three minutes before, he had been within seconds of dialing the number and pleading for help.
Yuri shoved the card across the table. Mikhail bent forward and studied it a moment. The name on the card was unrecognizable and meant nothing. But the name didn’t matter. If he bothered to check, which he had no intention of doing, the résumé would reveal a long career in the KGB and some kind of deep attachment or connection to Sergei Golitsin.
“You know the old story about the Trojan horse?” Mikhail asked, pushing the card back in Yuri’s direction.
A careful nod. “Sure, who doesn’t?”
Mikhail directed a finger at the business card. “There’s your Trojan horse. Those two cops are crooked to the core. They were sent in to kick open the door. Once you call that number, the worm will find a way to let the barbarians inside your company.”
“This is what they did to Alex?”
A knowing nod, and for the next twenty minutes Mikhail revealed everything that happened to Alex, how the scheme worked, the kidnap, the torture, being framed for the theft of everything he owned. The whole ugly tale. To verify his story, he passed Yuri morgue forms that confirmed the death of Alex’s employees, as well as one of the statements prepared a year before by Alex that he had faxed to all the senior officials around Yeltsin.
Mikhail sat back and allowed Yuri time to read the evidence, to see the similarities, and to realize that he was indeed the newest target.
Long before he finished, Yuri looked sad, confused, and scared out of his wits. He gripped his hands together and studied his blotter for a long moment. “So what do I do now?”
“I think you got two options. One, take as much money as you can, and run.”
After everything this man had just told him, option one sounded impossibly irresistible. Screw option two. He had millions stored in a Swiss vault, a hoard of cash large enough to live happily ever after. A fraction of his current fortune of course, but he’d at least be alive to spend it. His private jet was tucked in a private hangar at the airport, fueled up and ready to go. He could have breakfast at his spacious London flat, or lunch at his favorite Azores resort. That indecision lasted seconds. The British have always been so very civil and accommodating to wealthy Russian exiles who drop by for breakfast, and asylum.
Mikhail allowed him a moment to bask in this hopeful reprieve before he warned, “Course, that option’s not quite as clean as it sounds.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re still trying to murder Alex. They’ve got teams of killers hanging in his shadows. Also, they’ve somehow fooled the American FBI into shipping him back here. He’s long past the point where he can do anything to them. They don’t care. They still want him dead.”
“What’s option two?” Yuri asked very quickly, very solemnly.
“Fight them.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m a businessman. I don’t know what I’m up against, or even who these people are.”
Mikhail stood and began pacing in front of the desk. “That’s why I’m here. I do know who they are. And every time they meet, wherever they go, I learn more. They’re very powerful, very dangerous people. And they’re very, very corrupt. It’s a large conspiracy with lots of money that gets bigger by the month.”
“Is this supposed to be encouraging?”
“If you’re listening carefully, yes. That size now works against them. And, as I mentioned, after Alex, they’ve become overconfident and incredibly sloppy. Understand that this thing works only when they have complete surprise. They have to be in the shadows, totally anonymous.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“For starters, forget the name on that card. I’ll leave you the number of a former police captain. He’s competent, tough as nails, a born street fighter. Call him first thing in the morning, pay him whatever he asks, and don’t anticipate overnight results. Expect a few more killings and bombings. Over time he’ll find a way to protect you and your people. If he needs money, write the check without questions. It’s not just a matter of a few more guards and extra precautions. Alex tried that, and look where it got him. He’s going to have to bribe people, and he’ll probably need to buy you a little help from a competing syndicate. He’s going to fight fire with fire.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Stay in the shadows. Keep my eye on them. Eventually, I might come to you for money. It might be expensive, but I promise it’ll be the best money you ever spent.”
“So you expect me to just stay tough.”
“Way I see it, you can stay tough or get dead.”
23
Tuesday, at 9:00 a.m., Alex was again called out of the cell and led to the booking area. Elena was already there—like him, she now was dressed in oversized orange coveralls. Chains ran around her leg irons, looped around her waist, and were connected to her handcuffs. This was so ridiculous, Alex thought; no, on second thought, not ridiculous, it was outrageous. She was being treated like a serial murderer when all she was accused of was an expired visa.
The guards set to work on him next. Within two minutes he and Elena stood side by side, in ugly orange suits and matching chains.
They were led outside and helped into the back of a long, windowless van. The chains were locked down to bolts on the floor before the guards left and shut the rear door.
It was their first chance to speak since Friday night. “I’m so sorry,” Alex told her.
“Don’t be silly. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He tried to rub his eyes but the chains wouldn’t reach and forced him to bend over. Elena asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t worry, Alex. They can’t ship us home over this,” Elena said trying to sound confident.
“I think they can do whatever they want.” They wouldn’t have long to speak, and Alex was avoiding her eyes, trying desperately to build up his nerve. He had spent the whole weekend considering this conversation. Rehearsing it. Playing with variations on the same theme.
There were no other alternatives, and he finally blurted it out. “Elena, I want a divorce.”
She considered this a joke and laughed.
“I’m serious. We’re getting a divorce.”
“Forget it.”
“I intend to ask MP to find a good lawyer to arrange it. Uncontested, it should sail through quickly. Don’t fight me on this. My mind’s made up.”
“Alex, this is so stupid.”
“I said don’t fight me on this, Elena. They’re using you to get to me. The moment we’re divorced they’ll forget about you.”
“Did you meet somebody in lockup? Another man? I know how good you look in orange coveralls. I won’t be thrown away for some weekend fling.” She was laughing again.
“Damn it, I—”
“Shut up, Alex. Just shut up.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. The van was moving. They bounced along in tense silence for a few interminable moments.
With her eyes still shut, Elena said, “We’ll never have this conversation again. I mean it. I love you, and if you ever bring up the ‘divorce’ word again, I’ll kill you. We’re going to suffer through this together. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re together. Nod your head if you understand, or should I just kill you now?”
Alex bent forward and refused to look at her. The silence dragged on.
Alex eventually said, “You look good in orange, too.”
“Check out my new jewelry.” She rattled her chains, then bent over and they shared a kiss. Bad jokes, but neither was in the state to think up good ones.
After a moment, Alex said, “I think there’s a chance you might get out on bail.”
“Me? What about you?”
“MP’s not hopeful. Neither am I. Jail might even be the best place for me right now. Did you recognize anybody in the crowd of reporters the other night?”
“From Budapest, that blonde she-bitch.”
They probably had only a few minutes left. There was a lot Alex wanted to discuss and he began speaking quickly. “You’ll have to go underground. And you’ll have to sell our apartment,” he told her. “I know you love it, and I’m sorry. But you’ll need the money to survive.”
“I hate that apartment. I’ll be happy to unload it. After four days in a small, cramped cell, I suddenly love the idea of wide-open space.”
“Set a low price and dump it quickly. Then find a cheap rental, one you can get out of quickly. You’ll need all the money you can get your hands on. My legal costs are probably going to be enormous.”
“What about Orangutan? No longer an option?”
“It’s history. But I’ve got a new idea. Probably even better than Orangutan Media, something I’ve been toying with for a while.”
The van was beginning to slow down. In a fast rush of words, Alex shared the rough details of his idea. Elena nodded. She would have to learn a lot quickly. The concept was great, though. It would mint money, if she could pull it off.
The van wheeled into an underground garage beneath the INS building. Alex and Elena were separated, taken upstairs in different elevators, then deposited in different cells and left alone to stew with worry.
Thirty minutes later, a guard arrived, unlocked the cell, and escorted Alex down several long, well-lit corridors to a small courtroom. Elena was already there, seated at a table beside MP. Their lawyer had his back turned to Elena and was engaging in a conversation with an attractive, older, dark-featured female seated at what Alex presumed was the prosecution table. A considerably younger male colleague in a dark suit sat to her right, looking nervous and out of place.
Alex sat beside MP, who quickly bent around him and said to the prosecutor, “Kim Parrish, I’d like you to meet my client, Alex Konevitch.”
Alex held out his hand and looked her dead in the eye. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The room was small. They were about three feet apart. She nodded but took a step back, said nothing, and studiously avoided his hand. Go ahead, MP was thinking from the sideline—take a nice long look at the man you’re about to persecute. You’ll be responsible when he lands in a coffin. He’s young and handsome, and his wife is young and beautiful—they have so much to live for—but go ahead, ignore your conscience. Get them killed.
She understood exactly what MP was doing. A long awkward moment, then she suddenly buried her nose in the blank legal pad on her table.
A moment later, the judge entered through a side door. There was none of the procedural rigmarole Alex had observed on American TV. No announcement, no standing. No long perorations or lawyers being introduced. Apparently, immigration cases adhered to a less formal pattern.
Judge John Everston IV presided. He spent a brief moment surveying his court to be sure everything was the way he liked it.
Alex’s and Elena’s eyes were glued to the face of the man who held their lives in his hands. He was neither handsome, impressive-looking, nor even mildly judicial-looking, with a long, droopy face, thick, arched eyebrows that lent an impression of severe fierceness, scarecrow gray hair, and small eyes hidden behind bifocals that seemed impossibly thick and bleary.
John Everston had started out as an immigration attorney thirty years before, a fine, precise, hardworking lawyer whose service was eventually rewarded with a judgeship. His lawyer career had been spent in the prosecution trenches. He came from a long line of deeply rooted, well-heeled southern Virginia aristocrats. And though everybody assumed otherwise, banishing immigrants had been a job he utterly loathed, and nearly always was ashamed to perform. He carefully hid a soft spot for the miserable masses who flocked to America for a thousand different reasons and suddenly found themselves at risk of being booted out. Left alone, they generally turned into perfectly respectable citizens. The law had forced him to separate families, to dispatch honest, hardworking people back to a life of hopeless squalor, and occasionally to send them back to conditions that meant certain death. Thirty years of practicing law on both sides of the bench had converted him from a mild liberal to a fairly rabid one.
And like every liberal judge in the country—in his opinion, like any judge with half a brain—Judge Everston detested John Tromble and he loathed the attorney general for failing to reel him in.
His eyes took in the court recorder, the bailiff at his station along the wall, the attorneys at their appropriate tables, and the young husband and wife huddled miserably in their atrocious orange prison apparel. He finally settled on a small group tucked in the back of the small visitors’ section—a pair of bespoke gentlemen in nice suits and a young lady dressed decidedly more flippantly in ragged jeans, a torn T-shirt, and plastic flip-flops.
The judge directed a long finger in their direction. “It’s not often I get visitors in this courtroom. When I do, I always like to make your acquaintance. You look like a reporter,” he suggested to the young lady; from the way she was attired, she could be nothing but. Jeans and a ripped T-shirt—he had threatened lawyers with contempt just for wearing distasteful ties.
Sally, the court recorder, and Harry, the bailiff, exchanged curious glances. The judge had never, ever before even acknowledged visitors on the few rare occasions any showed up. Now he was actually conversing with them.
“I am,” the lady answered promptly and proudly.
“What paper do you represent?”
“New York Times.”
He would’ve publicly laid into her about her indecorum, but the Times was so reliably and frantically liberal, she could wear a birthday suit for all he cared.
“Good for you,” he pronounced. The judge’s gaze slowly shifted to her left. “And you two gentlemen?” he asked, directing a bony finger at the men.
