Alex would make the rounds of the big American companies and sell them on Orangutan Media-an all-Russian outfit with a native feel for how to pitch to a home audience.
Alex would work for commission only; he wouldn't hear otherwise. Illya was gaining traction with Russian companies, but the business remained an uphill struggle. Monthly payrolls were always uncertain. The costs of production in Austria were staggering. Russian companies remained skeptical about advertising, and proved hard-fisted and stingy. They undervalued it as a matter of habit.
Within six months Alex and Elena were bagging millions in new accounts. They opened ambitiously with all-out attacks against certain large American candy companies and gargantuan consortiums that produced everyday household products, among other things. Most signed on-small, hesitant contracts at first, but once the clients gained confidence in this no-name Russian start-up, they couldn't throw enough money at Illya.
To cover more ground, Alex and Elena split up. Weekends were reserved for each other: rarely, though, was a weekday spent in the same town. She hit the big movie studios in Los Angeles, he bounced around the oil patch in Houston. The next week, Alex trolled New York City; he signed fat contracts to serve as subcon-tractors for three large Madison Avenue firms who recognized that their own efforts in Russia were failing abysmally. Two days later, Elena snagged a large Tennessee drug company with a slew of dietary products. A day after that, she hooked a New Jersey luxury cosmetics outfit that was salivating to decorate Russia's new class of uninhibited wealth. And so it went, week after week. Illya was elated. He tripled his staff and shifted the operation into an expansive new sixty-thousand-square-foot warehouse in Austria. It was expensive and risky, but what the hell. Spend money to make money, he figured. He struggled to keep up with demands that seemed to double by the week.
Their new life in America was coming together nicely. Over a million in commissions that first year. Not bad, but not good enough. The second year, they promised themselves, would be three million. With a little luck and more elbow grease, four million. Elena was happy. Alex was restless as always, but that was his nature, and part of his charm. It was Saturday, and they had just finished a leisurely lunch at an excellent Georgetown restaurant followed by a brisk stroll along the lovely tree-lined canal to burn off the calories. Harold, the doorman, gave them a distressed look as they passed through the entrance on the ground floor. "Hey, Mr. K," he said in almost a whisper, "you got guests upstairs."
"I'm not expecting any."
"Yeah, well you got 'em. Guys in suits. They flashed badges and… hey, I tried, I swear I did. They wouldn't take no. They been up there about thirty minutes now."
Alex and Elena exchanged horrified looks. A race for the elevator and Alex punched six. They sprinted down the hallway. Alex gently pushed Elena aside before he stuffed his key into the door. No need, it swung open. He stepped through the entry, tense and ready to swing.
What a mess. The couches were overturned and knifed open, their interiors gutted, drawers emptied on the floor, lamps broken, books torn apart. The place had been tossed with cruel deliberation. The new furniture and furnishings Elena had picked out with such loving care were ruined. Two men in gray suits loitered by the living room window, ignoring the glorious view of the river while they admired their own handiwork. They took quick looks at Alex and Elena but didn't budge.
"Who are you?" Alex demanded, making no effort to disguise his fury.
"FBI," came the prompt reply. Two sets of identification were quickly flashed, then quickly put away.
"Why are you here?"
"Welcome to America, pal," said one of them with a nasty sneer. "We had a tip you and the wife were harboring a fugitive."
"That's ridiculous."
"Yeah? Seemed real enough to us."
"Do you have a warrant?"
"What are you, a lawyer?"
"Show me your warrant or get out."
They rocked back on their heels and laughed. Take a strike at us, their body language screamed. Look what we did to your home, look at your wife's horrified face, and do what any real man would do. Go ahead, run across the room-throw your best punch. We'll slap your ass in cuffs, cart you off like trash, and, as an undesirable, have your ass on the next flight to Moscow.
Alex was mad enough to do it, but at that moment a third man strolled out of their bedroom. Alex glanced in his direction, and froze. The man was tall and thin, dressed in a rumpled trench coat, and wrapped in his arms was their home computer. He looked, in fact, remarkably like his old friend Colonel Volevodz-but it couldn't be. Not here, not now. This was America.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch." Amazing-he even sounded like Volevodz, right down to the clipped arrogance.
Alex drew a few heavy breaths and struggled to get himself under control. He felt a large lump in his throat. He snapped at Volevodz, "I thought your friends in external security were territorial. What are you doing here?"
In Russian, Volevodz replied very coolly, "You're a wanted felon. I'm here to take you back."
"Then you're going to be disappointed," replied Alex in English.
"Am I?" Volevodz stayed with Russian so the Fibbies couldn't understand a word. He had arrived two weeks before, after a call from Tatyana to Tromble offering his services and expertise.
The Konevitches' year of dodging and ducking was over. No more hiding behind his wife's name. Nicky's boys had been chasing ghosts in Chicago for a year, cowering in an embattled outpost in a forlorn corner of the city, and coming up empty. What they could not do, the FBI handled with speed and ease. A polite inquiry to the INS revealed the Konevitch address, working situation, and immigration status. Another call to the IRS revealed the full details of their financial status. All information the FBI gave Volevodz that he passed on to Nicky, via Tatyana. Hide-and-seek was over, a new game was about to begin.
One way or another, dead or alive, but on a plane to Russia, Konevitch was going to lose.
"I don't think I will," Volevodz countered, arrogance rising to full pitch. "You've tangled with the wrong people. There will be no second chance, Konevitch. You're a fool, you should have taken the deal."
"Think again. I have political asylum."
"I strongly advise you to come along willingly. This is inevitable, believe me. Make it easier on all of us."
"Get out of my apartment. Now."
A switch to English. "What will you do, Konevitch? Call the police? These are the police," he said, nodding his sharp chin in the general direction of the two agents by the window.
They smiled and waved. Real smartasses.
Elena bared her teeth and said to the two agents, "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Even in Russia, citizens aren't treated this way anymore."
"How much did you pay for this place?" one of the agents asked without a trace of curiosity. It was a statement of fact, an accusation, or, worse, a verdict.
"None of your business," Elena shot back.
"Nine hundred and seventy thousand," the agent replied, scowling. "Almost a million bucks. Lotta money. Cash, too. Where'd it come from?"
Alex placed a hand on Elena's arm-they were deliberately goading her. It would do no good to answer, so she stifled her reply.
"You stole it," the agent said, directing a long finger at Alex. "You robbed your own investors. You fled with hundreds of millions of dollars. You're crooks who lied to the immigration board to procure your status. You're nothing but lying thieves."
Elena had passed the point of rage. She was going to have her say, no matter what. "That's a lie. I don't know what this man told you, but he's a liar. You're stupid and he's a liar. Get out."
More smiles from the two agents. Large slack jaws, bunched shoulders, simple responses-actually they did look a little stupid.