After seven long and exhausting days, the assault faltered almost as suddenly as it began. By day eight, it waned to a dull skirmish-a few aimless shots fired without energy or optimism. Nothing but lingering echoes of a battle that had been desperately waged and apparently conceded.
"Come back to bed," Elena told her husband, fluffing his pillow and giving it a loud, inviting smack.
"I'm not tired."
"Neither am I. We're in a glorious luxury suite in a great city. Make love to me, Alex."
"I'm not in the mood." A moment later, with his back still turned, "Sorry."
"Listen to me, Konevitch. I am so in the mood I caught myself winking at the toothless old homeless guy across the street. His name's Harry. He's heavy, and dirty, and has only one eye, but sort of a cute butt. Now get in this bed and do your damnedest to satisfy me before Harry shows up."
He never turned around-never even glanced at the skimpy black teddy she had secretly purchased the day before at Victoria's Secret and slipped into two minutes before in the bathroom. Two thimbles and a string would've been more modest. Nearly two hundred dollars for barely three ounces of fabric, but that was the whole point. She had painted her face, something she seldom did. Her golden locks were brushed to a high glean. She had saturated herself in so much perfume, a thick mist of vapors hovered around her skin. She was taking no chances. No corner had been unpampered or overlooked or spared. A bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne cooled its heels in a frosted bucket beside the side of the bed.
She had schemed and prepared this seduction. If she had to slam his head with a mallet, he would damn well get in the mood.
In a marriage that rarely passed three days without sex, Alex had not been Mr. Ready-and-Able since Budapest. He was in a black depression, trapped in a bottomless funk, and she would do her damnedest to bring him out of it.
She climbed out of bed and approached him from behind. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Look what I bought for you. And I damn well better hear a gasp," she ordered. With that, she pranced and strutted and flaunted her sculpted dancer's body shamelessly, like a brassy stripper.
Three weeks before she wouldn't have made two steps before he tossed her on the bed and the ravaging began.
Ten steps. Twenty steps. Thirty.
He crossed his arms and weathered the distraction.
The hussy routine came to an abrupt halt. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and looked him dead in the eye. "Get on the bed, now," she demanded, pointing a finger in that general direction.
"I warned you, I'm not in the mood."
"I can see that, Konevitch. But I bought this silly outfit, and primped and plucked my eyebrows and shaved my legs, and now I look like a whore, but I did this for you. You're not getting out of this if I have to kill you."
He took in the flared nostrils, the sparks in the blue eyes, the gripped fists, and he made the only sensible choice: a swift, meek retreat to the bed. He sat stiffly on a corner, enough to placate her-enough also to signal his stubborn indifference.
She sat on the opposite corner. She crossed her legs and for a moment did not say a word. Then, "Tell me what's happening. It's my life, too, and you're keeping everything to yourself."
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"I'd rather you do. No, I insist."
"Are we having a fight?"
"Not yet." She pulled a pillow over and rested it against her back. "But we're about to have a bloody world war if you don't tell me what's going on. I'm not bluffing."
"I don't want to depress you."
"Your depression is depressing me. Frankly I don't care if we lost everything. I'd actually be quite pleased if somebody else is now living in that musty old mansion."
"It's a good thing. I did, I lost everything. The money, our homes, our companies… everything."
"I thought the money was safe."
"Apparently they found the account numbers and security codes. They were better prepared than I anticipated."
"Well… it's only money, dear."
"A million or two is only money, Elena. But two hundred million in cash, and stock worth another hundred million, I think that deserves a slightly better modifier than 'only money,' don't you?"
She had no idea it was that much. "Yeltsin won't allow it. He owes you everything, Alex."
A long sigh. "I can't get through to him. And believe me, I've tried. I've called his office countless times, and flooded it with faxes."
"Maybe he's busy. I'm sure that's it. This is urgently important to us, but I think he has a few other problems on his plate."
"No, I'm being stonewalled. I call and get foisted from one unimportant assistant to another. I know damn well what's going on."
"Okay, what is going on?"
"Somebody inside is pulling strings. Somebody clever and powerful enough to block me from Yeltsin. Each time it's a fresh new assistant, each time I have to start over from scratch. They're taking turns. They're trying to wear me down, and it's worked."
"You're smarter than they are, sweetheart. Shift your approach."
"Do you think I haven't attempted that? I tried every path into the Kremlin I could think of. Among many others, I've contacted the minister of security, the secretary of the Security Council, the minister of finance, the mayor of Moscow, even the chairman of the Central Bank."
"And what do they say?"
"They said it sounded terrible and promised to look into it." He turned away from her and stared again at the window. "That was last week's line. Now they won't take my calls."
She reached over and hauled the champagne bottle out of the bucket. Over the long days and nights they had stayed cooped up in the hotel she had managed to make only one friend, Amber Lincoln, a large, warm-hearted black woman who ran the phone bank in the basement. During Alex's week of furious activity, as Alex ignored her and as the switchboard people in the basement pulled hairs to keep up with his incessant requests for calls to various numbers in Russia, Elena had considered it the least she could do to reward their help by bringing food and an occasional bottle of wine.
This had been her only respite from Alex's bout of frenetic activity, and now his dark mood.
Champagne and sex were long overdue.
Her tiny fingers worked the aluminum cover before she handed off the bottle to Alex for the honors. "What do you think is going on?"
"Sergei Golitsin."
"The security chief? That ugly old toad?"
"He put this together, he and all the KGB crooks he brought into the company with him. He took over my company, and now has the nerve to rename it after himself. He stole everything I built, everything, Elena. He's now living fat and happy in our house."
He can have it, she thought, but said, "Everybody knows it's your company. He can't just steal it."
"Last week he fired every vice president. Called them all into my office, and ordered them to depart the building immediately. Armed guards pushed and shoved them out onto the street. Remember Mishi? He said it was the most frightening moment of his life. Even before they were called in, Golitsin's thugs already had taken over their offices." Alex rubbed his eyes and stared off into space. "All those decent, hardworking people, now they're out on the street, unemployed. It's my fault."
"How was it your fault?"
"I was stupid. And worse, careless. I became desperate after the killings, so I brought Golitsin in to protect the company. I've thought about it for days, and the pieces have fallen into place. From the very beginning he was plotting to steal it. I'm a fool."
"No, you're brilliant. You're the most talented man I ever met, and the most decent. You just don't think like they do." He was gripping the bottle tightly, and she took it away from him. He was the least self-pitying man she'd ever met, but he was utterly miserable. Then again, everything he had built had been stolen, his life turned upside down. The frustration was boiling his soul. She went to work on the cork. She squinted and grunted and twisted with all her might.