The Hunted (9 page)

“What we tell everybody who asks. Private security, Mr. Konevitch. You have a rich company. You can afford to hire the best.”

Skinny looked like he wanted to say more and Alex glanced in his direction. “If you have something to add, we’d like to hear
it.”

“All right. Off the record. Between us. And just us, please. These are Mafiya people we’re talking about. In case you haven’t
already gotten the message, they’re tough, ruthless, and stubborn. But there is somebody who scares the shit out of these
guys.”

“Go on.”

“KGB people. Former KGB people. They and the Mafiya have been at war for fifty years. Remember the old saying ‘it takes one
to know one’? A lot of highly trained former operatives are now out on the streets, unemployed, desperate for jobs and willing
to work hard. Talented people, a lot of them. They have skills, experience, and attitude. To be blunt, the KGB people are
even worse than the Mafiya types.”

Alex spent a quiet, troubled moment thinking about the officer’s suggestion. He had nothing but rotten memories of the KGB
and was privately delighted that he had helped put them out of business. They had booted him out of college and nearly destroyed
his life. They very nearly destroyed his country. Under communism, the Mafiya were nothing but a nasty irritant, twobit gangsters
engaged in shadowy enterprises that barely made a dent. The real mob was the KGB. It turned itself into the world’s greatest
extortion racket, a mass of faceless thugs who abused their power endlessly, living like spoiled princes while their people
suffered in an asylum of terrified poverty.

No, he decided on the spot: not today, not tomorrow, not ever. No matter how bad it got, he would never employ a former KGB
person to work in his company.

Fatty read his disapproving expression and withdrew a business card from his pocket that he smoothly slid across the table.
“In the event you change your mind, Sergei Golitsin is the man to call. He was the number two in the KGB, a retired three-star
general. Whatever you need, believe me, he can take care of.”

The next morning, after four more dead employees of Konevitch Associates were scraped off the cement and hauled to the morgue,
Alex called Sergei Golitsin.

The door opened loudly and the room filled with noisy voices, a number of people, one or two women and several men, speaking
crudely in Russian. Alex had no idea where he was—the car ride had lasted nearly half an hour—a fast trip filled with abrupt,
jarring turns probably intended as much to disorient Alex and Elena as to elude any followers. He and Elena were pulled and
shoved out of the backseat, then pushed and tugged through a doorway into a building that smelled cloyingly of oil and kerosene.
The floor was hard concrete. By the loud echoes of their footsteps, the room was large, cavernous, and mostly empty.

A vacant warehouse, Alex guessed. Or possibly an abandoned garage.

From there, he and Elena were immediately split up and forced into separate rooms. Alex was rushed inside another, smaller
room, laid out on what he guessed was a hard table or medical gurney, and the work began. A pair of strong hands untied his
shoes, yanked them off his feet, and they landed with a noisy
clumpf
on the floor. A knife skillfully carved off his pants and shirt, leaving him naked except for his Jockeys.

A different pair of stronger hands efficiently clamped his arms and legs tightly with leather straps attached to the sides
of the table. Because of the blindfold, he had not a clue what they had done with Elena, where they had taken her. The only
thing Alex was sure of was this: it was no coincidence the kidnapping had taken place on one of the few occasions when they
traveled together outside Russia, man and wife, on a business trip. This, more than anything, terrified him.

But he squeezed shut his eyes and somehow forced himself to think. Whoever these people were, they had somehow breached, then
eliminated his security. Further, the simple yet elaborate kidnapping indicated they had advance knowledge, somehow, that
he and Elena were traveling to Budapest. They were waiting for him. They knew his schedule and movements to a tee. And they
were professionals—he was sure of this, for whatever it meant, for whatever it was worth.

What kind of professionals, though? Kidnappers out for a fat ransom? Or assassins? That was the urgent question.

They knew he was wondering and left him alone on the gurney to stew and suffer in isolation for nearly half an hour.

Then he heard two sets of footsteps approach, one pair moving lightly, the other heavy, making loud clumps. Probably hard-soled
boots. Through the blindfold, he sensed somebody looking down on him, still not speaking, barely breathing. Alex’s own breaths
were pouring out heavily, his heart racing, his nightmares growing by the second. His mind told him they were allowing the
terror to build and he should fight it. His heart would not allow it; he was utterly terrorized.

Without a word or warning, a fist struck him in the midsection; every bit of oxygen in his lungs exploded out of his mouth
with a noisy
ooompf
. He sucked for air and tried to say, “What do—” when the fist struck again, this time in his groin. He couldn’t even double
over or writhe in agony. He screamed, and the beating continued, methodically, without pause, only the sounds of the fists
striking against flesh and bone, and Alex howling and groaning in agony.

Vladimir stepped out of the room and slipped off the leather gloves that now were nearly saturated with blood, Alex’s blood.
He lifted the phone, and Golitsin, sounding like he was next door and experiencing an orgasm, said, “That was wonderful. Just
wonderful. Thank you.”

“You heard it all?”

“Every punch, every groan. What a treat. How did he look?”

“In shock, at first. He had not a clue why he was being beaten. Now he is merely miserable and confused. You heard him.”

“I certainly did. Any broken bones?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“A few ribs, I would think. Possibly the leg I banged with a chair. And I tore his left shoulder out of the socket. You must’ve
heard the pop. It was certainly loud enough.”

“Ah… I wondered what that was.” Golitsin laughed. “As long as you didn’t damage his precious right hand.”

“No, no, of course not,” Vladimir assured him, then waited, knowing Golitsin was calling the shots. If it was another beating,
fine, though Vladimir needed at least ten minutes to catch his wind and rest his muscles.

After a moment, Golitsin asked, “Is he still conscious?”

“A little bit less than more. We had to revive him a few times. In twenty minutes or so the bruises will be swollen and his
nerve endings will resensitize.” He sounded like he’d done this many times.

“Good. Give him twenty minutes to recover, then mark him.” There was a long pause before Golitsin stressed, “Slowly, stretch
it out for all it’s worth.”

They were not going to kill him, Alex, in his moments of groggy consciousness, kept telling himself. Between the sounds of
his own beating, he heard a voice, a woman’s, deep and scornful, issuing occasionally stern reminders to the man torturing
him. Soften the blows, she warned. Avoid damaging important organs, she reminded him. Twice she had loudly snarled that he
had better stop choking Alex before their precious hostage had to be hauled out in a box.

So they needed him alive. They wouldn’t kill him. They wanted something from him, and they would keep him breathing until
they had it; whatever it was.

Then they might kill him.

The door opened loudly again, and two sets of footsteps approached. Same two pairs of feet, Alex thought, one light, one heavy.
Were they going to beat him again? He totally forgot his earlier reasoning and wondered, maybe they
were
going to kill him?

The blindfold was ripped from his head. He blinked a few times. “What do you want?” he croaked, throat parched. No answer,
not a peep. He tried to focus his eyes, which were blurry and unfocused though he was positive the hazy shapes before him
were the same man and woman from the taxi. And probably the same pair who had inflicted the brutal beating.

“Please. Just tell me what you want.”

The man, Vladimir, he had heard him called, bent down over his face, smiled, squeezed open his lids, and studied his pupils
a moment. Vladimir then took two thick leather straps and, one at a time, stretched them across Alex’s chest, strung them
underneath the table, fastened them as he would a belt, and tightened them enough that they bit painfully into Alex’s skin.
Next he held something before his face—a handheld device. A machine of some sort. Oddly enough, it looked like a compact traveling
iron for pressing clothes. “See this?” he asked Alex.

“Yes… what is it?”

“You’ll learn in a moment.”

“Where’s Elena?” Alex demanded.

Vladimir laughed.

“Please,” Alex pleaded. “Leave her out of this. She’s done nothing to you.”

“But you have,” Vladimir informed him with a mean smile.

“I don’t even know you.” Sensing it was the wrong thing to say, Alex suggested, a little hopefully, “If it’s money, let’s
agree on a price. Let her go. Keep me. She’ll make sure you get paid.”

“Are you proud of what you did?” Vladimir asked, backing away. He spit on the iron and enjoyed the angry hiss.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman spoke up and said, “Most of us are former KGB. Career people, patriotic servants who protected Mother Russia. You
ruined our lives.”

“How?” Alex asked.

“You know how. You fed millions to Yeltsin and destroyed our homeland.”

“How do you know about this?”

“We know all about you, Alex Konevitch. We’ve watched you for years. Watched you undermine our country. Watched you become
rich off the spoils. Now it’s time to return the favor.”

Alex closed his eyes. Things had just gone from bad to worse. Not only did they know him, they knew
about
him. A simple kidnapping was bad enough. This was revenge on top of it, and both Vladimir and Katya allowed Alex a few moments
to contemplate how bad this was going to get.

Vladimir held up the iron so they could jointly inspect it; the metal undertray was red-hot, glowing fiercely in the dimly
lit room. He held it before Alex’s face. “American cowboys branded their cattle. I hope you don’t mind, but now we will brand
you.”

Without another word, Vladimir slipped a pair of industrial earphones over his head, thick black rubber gloves over his hands,
then with a steady hand lowered the iron slowly toward Alex’s chest. Watching it move closer, Alex squirmed and tried to evade
it with all his might; the new belts totally immobilized him. The first hot prick of the iron seared the tender flesh above
his left nipple—Vladimir used the recently sharpened edges of the iron and glided it slowly and skillfully around his skin.

Alex screamed and Vladimir pressed down firmly, though not too hard, etching a careful pattern: a long curve first, then another
curve, meticulously connecting them into the shape of a sickle. The stench of burning flesh filled the room. Next, he began
drawing a squarish shape—completing the hammer and sickle, the symbol of the once feared and mighty, now historically expired
Soviet Union. Vladimir had done this before; this was obvious. Just as obviously, he was the kind of artisan who reveled in
his work. The entire process lasted thirty minutes. Alex screamed until he went hoarse, piercing shrieks that echoed and bounced
around the warehouse.

Katya stood and tried to watch, then, after two minutes, horrified, she gave up and fled.

B
y 3:30, Eugene Daniels was quaffing down the final dregs of his third Bavarian brew, a special, thick dunkel beer produced
seasonally without preservatives that was totally unavailable in the States. Across the table, his wife, Maria, was stingily
nursing her second wine, a Georgian pinot she had just explained, for the second time, with an excellent bouquet, overly subtle
perhaps, but with fine, lingering legs and other insufferable claptrap she had obviously lifted from one of those snobbish
wine books. How could anybody make so much of squished grapes? An attractive Hungarian waitress approached the table and,
while Eugene wasn’t looking, Maria quietly waved her off.

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and reminded her husband, “Business meetings are best conducted sober.”

“If Alex wanted me sober, he’d be here on time.”

“Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Hundreds of millions are at stake, Eugene. Maybe he wants you loaded and stupid before
he arrives.” And maybe he’s succeeding beyond his wildest dream, she thought and smiled coldly.

“You don’t know Alex, obviously.”

Rather than risk another squabble, Maria lifted a finely plucked eyebrow and insisted with a disapproving frown, “All the
same, switch to coffee.”

Eugene ignored this and took a long sip of beer. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time, then repeated the same thing
he had said at least twenty times. “I’ve never known Alex to be late. He’s punctual to a fault. Always.”

“Maybe he has a Russian watch. I know for a fact, their crafts-manship is awful.”

He was tempted to say: How would you know, you stupid spoiled twit? but swallowed the sentiment and instead noted, “No, something’s
wrong. I smell it.”

“Yes, you’re right. This whole thing is dreadfully wrong. We flew all the way from New York, he only had to come from Moscow,
we’re here, and he’s not. This is rude and unprofessional. We should leave.”

Eugene stared hard at his wife and fought the urge to stuff a napkin down her throat. Wife number four, actually—and without
question, the biggest mistake of all. He was still on his third wife and making a decent go of it when Maria, a buxom brunette
half his age and with a penchant for tight leather miniskirts, became his secretary. He’d chased her around the desk a few
times, but not too many before she hit the brakes and made the pursuit pay off.