By six, they had rented a car, stocked it with maps, and loaded the trunk with everything they owned. For a former mogul and his wife, it was almost pitiful-Alex's office supplies and what little clothing and toiletries they had gathered since their arrival. Alex checked out, with cash, then, accompanied by Elena, headed for the phone bank in the basement, where they discussed their plan with Elena's friend Amber. Ignoring her protests, Alex stuffed three thousand dollars into her palm with orders to keep a thousand or two for herself and spread the rest around liberally to select members of the hotel staff.
Amber pecked Elena on the cheek, hugged her tightly, and wished them both luck.
Fourteen hours after they departed, the team of killers arrived. They pushed through the door and began prowling the lobby, looking for their prey. There were six of them in all, five men and one lady, Katya, their old tormentor from Budapest, who had arrived only hours before, after being dispatched on a swift overnight from Russia. She was along to brief the new boys about Konevitch's elusiveness and ensure positive confirmation once the deed was done. At least that was the reason Golitsin had offered her and his partners, Tatyana and Nicky. A more truthful reply was that he did not trust Nicky. He wanted some of his own muscle involved.
The other killers were Americanized Russians, immensely talented at murder, citizens of Brighton Beach, connected through two or three shell companies to Nicky's expansive organization.
It had been easy enough to trace the phone number Tatyana handed Nicky after Konevitch told her to piss off; a swift look-see through the Manhattan Yellow Pages led them straight to the Plaza.
Alex was here, they were sure of it. His room number was the one mystery, but they would learn it quickly. Two men would remain downstairs in the lobby, one by each exit to block any attempt at escape. The rest would rush upstairs, employ a crowbar to burst through the doors, and toss the Konevitches through the window down onto the busy street below. If it turned out the room was on a lower level, knives and garrotes would do the trick.
The people at the reception counter refused to offer any information no matter how much Katya pleaded or offered in bribes. Customer confidentiality was an obligation taken quite seriously at the Plaza. Fine. The killers fanned out and began accosting maids and waiters, employees on the lower end of the pay scale, who might, for the right price, entertain a slight breach of hospitality ethics.
Katya, with considerably more experience in assassination matters, had a better idea. She took the elevator to the basement where the phone bank was located. The door was locked, so she knocked. A young woman opened it and Katya agilely stepped inside before she could be stopped. A large black woman who apparently was in charge pushed her rear out of her chair, stepped away from the switch console, and approached her.
"Sorry, you have to leave right now. This is a restricted area," she squawked with a posture that brooked no objections.
Katya spoke flawless English, but she hammed it up a bit, pretending she didn't fully understand. She slathered on the accent and said, "I am for my little sister looking. She is staying here, I am sure."
The black lady squared her heels and crossed her arms. "Then you need to go upstairs. Talk to reception. This is an employee-only room."
"Please, you must help me," Katya said with a long, uncomprehending frown. "She is named Elena. Elena Konevitch. She is here with husband."
Amber's big face retracted into a thousand suspicious wrinkles. "How come you don't know where your sister is?"
"She and her husband, Alex, they fled Russia. Alex does bad things there. Now is hiding."
"Bad things?"
"Yes, very, very bad. But our mother, she is most desperately sick. Dying, I think. I come because Elena must learn this." A long, pleading look. "Please, please, please, you must be of help to me."
Elena's big sister, my big ass. Who the hell did this Russian bitch think she was fooling, Amber thought. Her hands landed on her hips. "You missed 'em. Yep, yesterday they checked out in a hurry. Said they were headed for Chicago."
"Chicago?" Katya repeated, a little stunned.
"Uh-huh, Chicago. Said they were tired of New York and planned to settle there."
"Did they leave a forwarding address? A phone number, maybe?"
Amber's large hand popped out. Katya at first looked befuddled. The hand stayed put and she got the message. She yanked a twenty out of her pocket and slammed it onto the palm. The hand stayed put. Welcome to America, bitch. Not until four more twenties hit the pot did the hand retract.
"Nope," Amber said.
"They left no word? None?"
"That's right, none."
"Did they go by car, train, plane?" Katya was so disturbed at missing them, her concocted accent was melting.
"If I had to guess, he and your sister are gonna make themselves scarce. Be damned hard to find, know what I'm saying?"
Katya stared into her face for a long moment, spun on her heels, and departed. The door shut with a loud, angry bang.
At that moment, Maria Sanchez, an upstairs maid, was fingering the hundred in her pocket and recounting the same lie to two of the men on the hit team. Chicago, she told them with absolute certainty. She had overheard the Konevitches discussing the city as she cleaned their room two days before. Stacks of Chicago maps and travel guides sat on their bedside table; they sounded thrilled and eager to get on the road.
Amber figured she had at least bought the Konevitches a little time. A few weeks, maybe. With luck, a few months. But if the killers were serious, they would eventually track them down.
16
John Tromble was a man in a hurry. He had raced through a few years as a federal prosecutor, then sprinted through five more of a federal judgeship, and now was midway in his third year as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-the youngest ever, he reminded you quickly, in the event you failed to bring it up. He quickly stretched his long legs and speed-read a little more of the thick dossier produced by his staff in preparation for this trip.
He planned to spend another two years in this job, make a big splash, then pole-vault to the next level. A vice presidential candidacy wasn't out of the question; a senatorship should be easy pickings. Or barring that, open a private security firm and quickly haul in millions. With a mountain of cash, he could do whatever he wished. He read quickly, ate quickly, slept in a hurry, even had sex at astonishing speed. Everything he did, full speed ahead.
The plane was thirty minutes out from Sheremetyevo Airport, which apparently was on the outskirts of Moscow. If he were flying this damn thing he'd sure as hell find a way to make it in fifteen minutes.
Having slept since Washington, he had woken up thirty minutes before, showered, shaved, and slapped on a freshly pressed suit. He stole a quick glance in the mirror before he left the special cabin of this very special plane to make his final preparations for this very special trip. The rear of the plane was stuffed with as many American reporters as his aides and cronies could entice or cajole and cram aboard. The press would be shoved off five minutes before him. Oh yes, there they would be, a large, impatient mob at the bottom of the steps, snapping away as he made his majestic descent, capturing shot after shot of his photogenic face. The remains of a low-cal breakfast sat on the tray above his lap. He was sipping quickly and noisily from a bottled water, nose buried in the dossier, straining to avoid conversation.
Across from him sat Laura Tingleman, attorney general, and putatively his boss. She had worked through the entire flight since they lifted off from Andrews Air Force base twelve hours before. She was crumpled into her seat with her nose stuffed in her BlackBerry. She looked wrinkled, tired, and wrung out. She was a large, heavy, unimpressive-looking type, fifty years old, though she appeared a very poorly kept sixty, with a broad face that managed, somehow, always to convey panic.