"Do we have a deal?"
"Not yet. You're moving a little fast for me."
"I'm offering you a chance to live. Let's say you don't take this deal, okay? We'll hunt you down and kill you."
"I thought we were negotiating. Now you're making threats."
"All right. Negotiate."
"Twenty percent is too cheap," Alex told him. "A deal like this needs to be structured. If I increase the value of the fund ten percent or less, twenty percent is all I deserve. But if I beat that, my percentage needs to increase accordingly. Cap it at thirty percent if the value increases by fifty percent or more."
"What if you lose money?"
"I won't."
"You're quite the optimist, aren't you?"
"I gave you the pessimistic scenario. And any smart businessman builds in incentives to encourage better performance. I'm more than confident that I will easily produce returns surpassing a hundred percent a year. In that case, I'd like a five million bonus on top of the thirty percent."
Volevodz turned and traded surprised looks with his two assistants. "The man has balls."
"If you weren't a fool, you'd know I'm being generous. Find yourself another man with a track record like mine, the terms will be even stiffer. There are people on Wall Street who demand thirty percent even if they don't make you a dime. And if they know the money is tainted, or in any way questionable, they'll demand at least sixty percent. Don't take my word for it, ask around."
Volevodz became fidgety. "I will have to discuss this with my friends."
"Of course you will. You're an errand boy," Alex said, twisting the knife a little deeper. "You and I are through speaking. The next conversation will be with your boss or no one," he added. "If it's another rude flunky I'll hang up and never take another call."
Volevodz's eyes narrowed. Oh, how he was tempted to whip out his gun and blow this impertinent punk back to New York. He would, too, would smile and blast away, except he was at a severe disadvantage with all the guns pointed at him. "I'll bring it up," he mumbled, biting his lip.
"One other matter I'd like to bring to their attention."
"What?"
"Given my history with these people, I want some form of assurance I'll get what I earn."
"Like what?"
"I'm not sure yet. I'll think about it." He backed two steps away from Volevodz, then stopped and, treating it like a careless afterthought, warned, "Move two feet or make any effort to follow me-so much as tug a cell phone out of your pocket-and the nervous people with guns have orders to blast you to pieces."
Volevodz's mouth gaped open. A team of five stalkers lurked around the corner, awaiting a call from their boss to jump on Konevitch's trail and track him to his lair, where they would add a little more pressure and help Alex make the right call.
He shifted his feet, suddenly remembered Alex's warning, and froze. He briefly pondered the amazing question of how he had been so thoroughly outwitted by a complete amateur. But before Alex could escape, he remembered to ask, "How do we reach you?"
"Same as before. Tell your boss to call my hotel in New York."
With that Alex turned his back and walked purposefully toward the west and freedom and Elena, who was pacing nervously behind the large gray apartment building, praying they had not overplayed their bluff. They held hands tightly and briskly walked two blocks, caught a taxi, got lost in the traffic, and eventually made their way back to the gasthaus.
Volevodz and his two aides stood in place, nervously wringing their hands. Their eyes never wavered from the window ledge six floors above. As long as the barrel never budged, neither would they. A flock of giggly Japanese tourists mistook them for tired old spies, perhaps sharing a reunion in a place of former glory, swapping lies and inflating old adventures. The tourists spent five minutes snapping pictures of the three scowling men in wrinkled trench coats. A bus arrived delivering a fresh batch of rambunctious tourists, who piled out and were instantly drawn to the attraction. Erupting with laughter, they yanked out the cameras and joined in the fracas. They were third-rate actors hired to lend a little authenticity to the site, one tour leader helpfully explained to his entourage, who laughed louder. "Absolutely third-rate!" one of the crowd yelled back. How badly the three men wanted to yank out the guns and start blowing holes through the crowd.
They felt like boneheads. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, they just gaped at the barrel pointed out the window.
After twenty excruciating minutes, they drew verbal straws. The taller of the two captains lost and gently inched forward, slow, limited scrapes across the cement, before he squeezed his eyes shut, uttered a loud curse, and hopped three rapid bounces. No shots were fired. No bodies bounced off the concrete. They threw caution to the wind and raced toward the base of the apartment house. They drew their guns and pounded heavily up the stairwell to the sixth floor. Puffing from exertion, they found Alex's hired sniper there, directly underneath a hallway window: a mop head rested on an overturned metal trash can, with its rusty metal pole poking out the window.
The three men stared at one another with disbelief that quickly turned into red-faced humiliation. No debate was required or entertained; agreement was quick and unanimous-this petty detail would obviously only add unnecessary clutter in their report to Tatyana Lukin. They were tired of hotel rooms. They wanted to get out and wander around this glorious city that reeked with such historical significance, to venture out and feel the soul of the German people. But they wouldn't. They agreed that it was too dangerous. It made no sense at this point to risk being picked up by Volevodz and his goons. Room service was contacted and they ate a quiet dinner in the room together.
Over dessert and a glass of wine Alex shared the details of the offer. Elena listened and withheld comment. The pros and cons were obvious. They were tired of living on the run, tired of looking over their shoulders, tired of going to bed each night and awakening each morning imagining the worst. And no matter how much Alex exercised, he was a man of restless energy and incredible intellect that needed an outlet. But the offer was humiliating, a disgrace, really. Still, the prospect of neutralizing the bad people trying to kill them had its pluses.
"What will you do if they meet your demands?" she finally asked.
"I may take it."
"Do you think Golitsin is behind the offer?"
"I seriously doubt it. I think he wants me dead."
"Then who?"
"That's the question. There are so many possibilities. I know of only one way to find out."
"So you intend to take the offer to discover who's involved," she suggested.
"That's the idea. If I say yes, I'll look for a way to smoke them out."
"Why you?" she asked, sipping from her wine. Good question.
"Partly because they're still afraid of me. That's why they want me inside and neutralized. Why else are they still working overtime to keep me away from Yeltsin? Bring me in, and they buy my silence."
"What's the other partly?"
"Golitsin has a partner. That's obvious. Somebody inside Yeltsin's inner circle, I'm nearly certain. But think about this, Elena. We know the syndicates are involved. We know Golitsin and his KGB friends are involved. And now this man Volevodz and his deputies show up."
"You think he really is with the ministry?"
"I'm sure of it. I made a call to a friend in Moscow and had him checked out. He's former KGB, but he's now exactly what he claims to be. And he is, in fact, conducting the investigation."
"So this conspiracy is quite big."
"Getting bigger by the day. It would help to know exactly who and what we're up against."
"And then?" Elena asked.