The Hunted (30 page)

A lie. His president could care less about anything that didn’t register in national polls and outside Hollywood, where a
fresh species of frightening brutes was always a welcome addition; the average Joe knew nothing about Russia’s Mafiya and
could care less.

Fyodorev looked sympathetic.

“I need a favor,” Tromble continued with a friendly smile. “As you know, we have a small FBI field station at our embassy
here in Moscow. Yeltsin personally signed the agreement. That was two years ago.”

Tatyana noted, “And it expires in a few months.”

“Exactly. Now I’d like an extension. Say, another five years. And I want to triple the size.”

“How many of your people are here now?” Fyodorev asked.

“Four. Four overworked, exhausted agents,” Tromble said sourly. “Two broken marriages, one newly minted alcoholic, one attempted
suicide. Sad to say, it has become the most unpopular posting in the Bureau.”

“Twelve would be a lot,” Fyodorev countered, obviously cool to the idea. “This is, after all, Russian soil.”

“I know, I know. But your Mafiya is huge, and growing fast. Ambitious, too. They’re blasting their way into everything. Dope,
whores, kidnapping, extortion. The bodies are piling up. Four agents barely make a dent. Besides, I hoped we would work this
problem together.”

“Together?”

“Well, yes. Presumably your people have a better handle on your own Mafiya than we do.”

“I would hope that’s the case.”

“What if some of my agents worked full-time with your people?”

“Like liaisons?” Tatyana suggested, nudging Fyodorev with her knee under the table.

“That’s the general idea. At our end, we’re dealing with Mafiya foot soldiers. That’s not working. Take one off the street,
and in days he’s replaced with two more. We presume that the heads of all these organizations are here, in Russia.” Nobody
contradicted that obvious point and he pushed ahead. “And you can put some of your people at my headquarters. We’ll share
intelligence, share everything we learn and tip each other off. Maybe perform a few big busts together.”

Tatyana maintained a straight face, but her heart was racing. Oh, what an incredibly great idea: yes, we can share intelligence,
the more the better. Wait until Nicky heard what had just landed in her lap. He would know everything the FBI was up to. He
would learn the names of every plant, every snitch, every stoolie. Through her, he could set up his opposition and exploit
the FBI boys to squash their American operations. It would be a windfall. Nicky’s American branch would grow by leaps and
bounds.

And it would all depend on little old Tatyana. She liked to be needed. Service like that doesn’t come cheap.

A slight nod from Tatyana to Fyodorev, who glanced in her direction every few seconds.

“Of course we’ll share the headlines?” Fyodorev asked, showing he and Tromble were kindred spirits.

“Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” Tromble lied.

“Why only twelve agents?” Tatyana asked. “And why only five years? Our Mafiya have been around for seven decades. They’re
such an institution, I hardly think we’ll defeat them in only five years. Make it twenty agents. Thirty, if you wish. And
a ten-year extension strikes me as much more reasonable.”

Tromble reached both hands under the table and steadied his knees. This was everything he’d hoped for, times two or three.
Ol’ J. Edgar may have created the FBI and put it on the map, but he was determined to claw out his own storied place in Bureau
legend. He was going to take America’s only national police force and turn it into an international juggernaut. It would be
twice as big before he was through: maybe more, maybe much more. He intended to have his agents in every damn embassy in every
damn country in the world. A bigger operations center would be necessary, a real monster with dozens of lit-up screens constantly
flashing the latest updates about Chink Triads, and Jap Yakuzas, French wharf rats, and Tibetan whatever-the-hell-they-weres.
He would have a big seat in the middle of it all, a throne from which he could survey his crime-busting kingdom.

He bit his lip. “That all sounds reasonable to me.”

“Good,” said Tatyana with the great legs. She started to stand, then lightly tapped her forehead. She slid back into her seat,
frowning, distracted. “There is, uh, one thing you can do for us, John. A favor. A very, very important one.”

“Name it.”

It was a gamble, but why not? How much was this worth to Tromble? She said, “There is a certain criminal who fled Russia.
Alex Konevitch. He’s hiding out in your country. He ran a large bank here that laundered billions of dollars. Mafiya money,
in fact. When he learned we were on to him, he absconded with hundreds of millions, in dollars. A real crook.”

“And he’s in America?”

“That’s right. We had a thread on him, but he disappeared over a year ago. We had a lead that he was in Chicago. And maybe
he is, but our best people have been unable to locate him.”

“No problem. I’ll put twenty agents on it tomorrow.”

“You have your most wanted list”—she paused and looked him dead in the eye—“well, John, we have ours, too. He’s number one
on our list. The top dog, the most wanted bad guy in Russia. It’s a great embarrassment that he has eluded us this long. He
is unquestionably guilty. We want him back. Crooked bankers are a serious problem for us. We intend to make an example of
him with a very big, very public trial.”

“One week and he’ll be in a Moscow slammer. I guarantee it.”

The State Department representative coughed. “Uh, that might be a problem.”

“Why’s that?” Tromble asked, clearly irritated by the interruption.

“We don’t share an extradition treaty with our Russian friends, I’m afraid.”

“So what?”

That question, emerging from the lips of America’s top law enforcement officer, a former federal judge no less, was unnerving.
“It would be… well, you know, a big legal problem if Konevitch has diplomatic permission to remain in America. You can’t just
throw him on an airplane and ship him back here.”

Tromble leaned over until their faces were inches apart. “I don’t think this is any of your business.”

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.

Mikhail edged over to the table and began buying rounds for everybody. The fired staffer was drunk, and in no time became
utterly drunker. The man had a bottomless bladder, but around midnight he ambled off to the men’s room. Mikhail trailed two
steps behind him. Over side-by-side urinals Mikhail offered him a cool thousand if the man could point out the backstabbing
bitch the next morning as she made her way into the Kremlin.

One look, and he knew he had his girl. Everything fit, except the name. Then again, Tatyana to Anna had a certain ring to
it. Alex had predicted she probably was attractive; she was that, and then some. Plus, she had a law degree. Over the next
two weeks he tailed her everywhere, and it was fun, though not overly productive. Three to four nights a week she and her
boss checked into a hotel. They drove into work together, holding hands and smooching like horny newlyweds. But she also took
lots of extended lunch breaks in downtown hotels, not with her chubby middle-aged boss but a handsome, fit-looking young lad
who apparently offered a little more in the sack. Click, click went Mikhail’s camera. A little research and the young lad
turned out to be Sasha Komenov, a star striker on the national soccer team. A little more digging revealed a little more dirt.
Turned out pretty boy Sasha and lovely Tatyana were from the same town, had flirted and dated and wrestled together in backseats
throughout high school. Her Moscow affairs came and went but Sasha was always there, lurking in her locker room after the
game.

Late into the third week, he’d watched her disappear into the rear of a long black limo that took off at a gallop. Click,
click. He hit the gas and followed. Next stop was a seedy, run-down nightclub on the city outskirts. More click, click, click.
A short man with a large bent nose and graying ponytail dashed out of the club and clambered inside.

From his former days as a Mafiya crimebuster, Mikhail instantly put the name Nicky to the furtive figure wrapped in black
leather. The limo’s license plate told the rest of the story. It was registered as a company car by Golitsin Enterprises.

Usually the meetings by the Moskva lasted no longer than fifteen to twenty minutes. Today’s meeting dragged on for over an
hour. Big things were afoot, Mikhail guessed. At one point, Nicky climbed out, stumbled uncertainly for a few steps, then
he whipped it out and peed in the open. More click, click with Mikhail’s long, wide-angled lens. He chuckled to himself.

The most feared thug in Russia, Nicky Kozyrev, had a teenie weenie.

He made his weekly telephonic report to Alex that night. The pictures were bundled into a large envelope and sent off to the
Watergate apartment.

Late 1994

T
he apartment bought by Alex and Elena Konevitch was riverside, on the sixth floor of the sprawling co-op building, gazing
fitfully over the brown muddy waters of the broad Potomac and within yelling distance of the majestic Kennedy Center. Even
after a year, Alex remained dismayed by how preposterously small it was. A two-bedroom, one for sleep, the other converted
to a tiny, cluttered office shared by the two of them. At an amazing cost of almost a million, it had to be the most expensive
eight hundred square feet in the city.