He sat back, drew a few heavy breaths, and struggled to clear his brain. Maybe killing him was the wrong approach. Maybe he was being impetuous and shortsighted. In fact, enlisting Konevitch in this scheme might be a great idea. It felt better by the moment-let the genius double or triple his money, get the boy's fingers nice and dirty, and if Konevitch made one wrong move, then find a way to blow the whistle and humiliate him once again. Why not?
He could always kill him.
He asked, innocently enough, but without commitment, "And how did he sound about the offer?"
"Interested. He made a few demands. Don't worry, I'll grind him down."
"All right," he growled, playing at phony reluctance. "Go ahead. Make the deal. See where it goes."
15
Early October 1993 Midnight, and Elena was lying awake, improving her English by watching an old American western. The tense gunfight was interrupted, midshot, by a tedious toothpaste commercial, so she casually flipped over to CNN for a quick peek at what was happening around the world, late-night. They were back in their suite in the Plaza, counting the days and waiting for whoever sent Volevodz to call.
She reached across the bed and shook her husband awake. "Alex, look what's happening," she said, almost yelling, aiming a finger at the flickering tube across the room.
Alex sat up and stretched, glanced briefly at the tube, and froze. At that instant, a line of tanks was pouring salvo after salvo at the Russian White House, Russia's rather less than elegant equivalent of a parliamentary building. The top floors burned brightly. Fresh shells were striking the sides of the building, sending showers of shattered glass and debris that bounced off the concrete apron.
An unseen male correspondent was providing commentary in a hurried, theatrical voice: "The Supreme Soviet, as the Russian Congress is still known, a week ago voted to impeach Boris Yeltsin and replace him with his hard-line vice president, Aleksandr Rutskoi. A few hours ago, in this very building, Rutskoi signed a decree announcing his own presidency. The fencing that has gone back and forth for months, the largely communist and right-wing deputies voting first to emasculate Yeltsin's reforms and power, and now to replace him, has finally erupted in violence. The past week there have been scattered skirmishes around the capital. Now there are two presidents of Russia. And now… the fate of democracy hangs in the balance."
Elena reached for the phone, called room service, and ordered two pots of coffee, with a fresh pot to be delivered every hour until she notified them otherwise. The drama, with overheated updates, unfolded throughout the night. Alex and Elena never budged. They sipped coffee, munched toast, spoke little, and watched in fascination. The troops surrounding the White House were part of the Ministry of Security. The trigger-happy tanks were courtesy of the army.
Inside the building, Vice President Rutskoi and a band of mutinous deputies, as well as a large clutch of armed thugs, were making their last stand. For the second time in two years, Russia's future hung over a bitter standoff at this same building. This time, though, the roles were reversed. Instead of Yeltsin flipping the bird at the old boys in the Kremlin, he was the one being flipped, the one who dispatched the tanks to flatten his opposition.
At seven the next morning the television showed Rutskoi and his humbled lieutenants waving a desultory white flag and scurrying from the still burning building. They were quickly slapped in handcuffs, forced into waiting vans, and driven off to prison.
The American president immediately issued a statement lauding a great victory of democracy, and a painful but desperately necessary move by his dear, dear friend Boris.
The screen quickly filled with talking heads who, as so often was the case, proceeded with silky conviction and utter certitude to get it all incredibly wrong. One graying authority in oversized horn-rimmed glasses made an analogy to Hitler's failed putsch in Munich. Another crowed that Yeltsin was the Lincoln of this era, a decisive, principled man who had locked horns with the devil and kicked his butt. Russia was saved, democracy triumphed, Yeltsin the hero of the hour, was the common refrain across network world.
Alex watched it all in sheer disgust. "They have no idea what they've just seen," he whispered to Elena, who was nibbling on a piece of cold toast.
"No, they're idiots," she agreed between bites.
"You saw who saved Yeltsin?"
"The Security people and the army."
"Yes, all former KGB people. You know what this means? Yeltsin cut a deal with them."
"How much trouble are we in?" Elena asked, though she knew the answer.
"A lot. This is the end of our Russian experiment in democracy. From here on, the old boys will take back what Yeltsin took from them, and there's nothing to stop them. The people who stole our money now have no fear. Even if I got through to Yeltsin, he's in their pocket. "
"He won't lift a finger to help. He sold his soul," Elena said, finishing the thought. The call came a full two days later. The voice was a woman's, Anna, throaty and sultry, no last name.
Alex cut off her attempt at pleasantries and opened the bidding. "You heard my requirements?"
"Volevodz explained everything."
"Good. What's your answer?"
"Thirty percent might be a reasonable compensation, but it will be structured differently. I'll draw up a contract that pegs your take a little more precisely." And along the way, I'll whack off as many points as I can get away with and add them to my own total, she thought, but didn't explain.
"I won't commit until I see the details," Alex told her very quickly.
"That's understandable. But forget the five million bonus. Out of the question."
"I considered it a reasonable request. Of course, I have no idea how big the base is. Volevodz mentioned several hundred million."
"So you were for shooting for the stars. I don't blame you. But let's say it's in the several hundred million range now. It will be more in the future, considerably more. Down the road, based on your performance, we can talk about a structured bonus. Not until we see how good you are."
"Who are you?" Alex asked.
Anna, actually Tatyana, laughed playfully. "Alex, you're smarter than that."
Yes, he was. Also a painfully good listener. She was playing it close to the vest, but she had already made one serious slip-"I'll draw up a contract." Alex took a moment and added it up. Female by sex, Anna obviously an imaginary name, a lawyer most certainly, from her voice late twenties, early thirties at the outside, and Alex guessed she probably worked in the Kremlin or held a senior government position of some sort. Also arrogant and pushy and sly-of course, that could fit almost any lawyer. From her tone of smug self-assurance, Alex suspected she was very pretty, possibly beautiful.
"Explain how this is supposed to work," Alex asked. "Obviously you have no intention of assigning me direct control over the money."
"Good guess. You'll work through a team of accountants and brokers who report to me. You tell them what you'd like to do, they inform me, not a penny gets moved until I approve it. You'll receive daily updates from them. Satisfactory?"
"It's not ideal, no."
"From your angle, I'm sure it's not. It looks perfect from mine." "Listen to me. The best investments don't give warning. A difference between interest spreads, for instance, can last seconds. The same is true in the arbitrage game. It's a very narrow strike window-miss it, and you can forget about it. If you want spectacular returns, I can't be handicapped by time. How many people have to approve my decisions?"