"I'm a career guy, okay."
"So what? Volevodz is also a career guy."
"Yeah, but it's different." He wiped a hand across his forehead in frustration, apparently annoyed by being compared with some cold-eyed KGB thug. "Look, I'm taking a big risk coming here. But whatever you did back there don't justify what's happening here. I'm just warning you, be real careful."
"All right, I'm warned."
If anything, the agent suddenly became more agitated. He glanced down the long hallway, a long, searching look that indicated a high level of paranoia. He avoided Alex's eyes. After a moment he whispered, "One last thing."
"I'm listening."
"The Russian mob's got a contract on you. Don't ask how I know, I just know."
Alex should not have been surprised by this unwelcome news, but he was. Surprised and deeply unnerved. A long day of disasters was just capped by the Mount Vesuvius of bad news. He leaned against the wall and stared down at the red-and-black carpet.
"It's a serious contract," the agent continued, shuffling his feet and avoiding Alex's eyes. "Over a million bucks," he claimed, looking up. "These guys usually get people whacked for about five thousand. Apparently, you're quite valuable to them."
"Should I feel honored?"
"Scared shitless is how you should feel, Konevitch."
"All right, I do."
"Best we can tell, three teams flew in over the past week. That don't even account for the local players, of which there are too many to count."
"Your people know this for a fact?"
"Wouldn't be telling you otherwise."
"Where did this information come from? Do you have a source inside the syndicates?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "It's real, okay? Believe me or not, it's your ass."
"If your people know, why don't you protect us?"
"Because people high up don't believe you deserve it. They figure you did something to piss off the mob. It's your problem, not ours."
"Is that all?"
"That's all."
"Thank you."
A few seconds passed. The agent seemed to be arguing with himself before he blurted, "Look, forget about it. If things get tough, though, if you want advice or help, call me. Just not from your apartment. This is our little secret, okay?" He pressed a business card into Alex's palm. Special Agent Terrence Hanrahan, it read, with the usual array of office, cell, and fax numbers. "Remember, anytime you step outside, look both ways before you cross the street."
Alex nodded. The hand dropped and Special Agent Hanrahan walked quickly back down the hall, straight to the elevator. Alex returned to the apartment, stopped momentarily in his office, and rushed directly to the bedroom. Gently shaking her, he quietly awoke Elena. Placing a forefinger to his lip he handed her a notepad and pencil, keeping another of each for himself.
They spent the rest of the night writing each other notes. Agent Terrence Hanrahan stepped off the elevator on the ground floor. The Watergate doorman watched as he was quickly surrounded by five agents of the Bureau; they pinned his arms behind his back and roughly hustled him out through the door. No words were exchanged. A shiny black limo idled beside the curb.
A rear door opened and Hanrahan was shoved inside. A lean figure was slumped on the other side of the seat. The overhead reading lamp was on: the figure was paging through a stack of documents with blistering speed. Hanrahan found it hard to believe the man understood a tenth of what he was reading.
Tromble finally looked up. "Well?"
"Went down perfect. He's scared out of his wits."
"And he trusts you?"
"He's a smart guy, so I doubt it."
"But he at least believed you?"
"No question about that."
"And you think he'll call you?"
"Maybe. Depends, I guess, on how desperate he gets."
"You warned him about the contracts?"
"I did. Is it true?"
"Absolutely. My Russian friends say he not only embezzled from his own bank, he also stole millions more, from the mob. As if he didn't have enough enemies already. They want him as badly as the Russian government." He scratched his nose. "You remembered to mention the bugs?"
Hanrahan nodded. "His face turned white as a baby's ass. Why let him in on that, though?"
A slight smile. "We don't want Volevodz and his people to have an unfair advantage, do we?"
"Jesus, his own government, and now the Russian mob. I guess the only question is who'll get him first."
"Not really," Tromble said, glancing out the darkened window. "We'll beat them to him. Your job's to make that happen, Terrence. Don't let me down."
"He and that wife are going to be paranoid."
"Yes, I believe they will. That's the idea. You just make sure they realize America is more dangerous for them than Russia. I want them so hopeless they'll be more than ready for our offer, when it comes. We'll be their only help."
Hanrahan thought about it a moment. He had been an agent for eighteen years; Tromble was the fifth director he had served. By far, he was the toughest and most heavy-handed, but there was no question he got results. "And if they don't fold?"
"No problem. We'll turn up the heat. Pull out the stops and ship them back."
20
The three men sat in the white van, swapping American girlie magazines, sucking on cigarettes, sipping stale coffee, bored out of their wits. After that initial day of heart-thumping surprises and emotional terror, things had quickly retreated to a dull grind.
During the days, surprisingly little took place in the Konevitch apartment. Long bouts of silence, broken occasionally by tedious discussions about incredibly inane things-the laundry, the latest stupid game show on TV, Oprah, and so on. On Tuesday, the wife, Elena, read to her husband, out loud, a stream of interminable passages from War and Peace. Wednesday was Anna Karenina's turn, which proved even worse. The men inside the van contemplated suicide, or rushing upstairs to drive a gag down her throat.
The Konevitches never left their building, or even their apartment, the best the men could tell. This had been a sore topic with Volevodz, who popped by occasionally to gather updates. As long as the couple stayed inside, the three listeners were trapped inside the van, crammed in with all the electronic equipment and debris from their meals. It seemed to shrink by the day; they were peeing in bottles, for God's sake. Theories and conjectures rumbled around the rear of the van. It was unnatural to stay penned up so long inside that cramped apartment. On the other hand, the Konevitches no longer had jobs. And money-actually the sudden lack of it-was undoubtedly a serious factor in their minds. Wasn't like they could afford to splurge on the theater or an expensive restaurant. Why not a movie, though? Better yet, a nice long stroll along the canal, like they used to? How much could that cost?
When it turned dark, things picked up and turned slightly more interesting. The Konevitches were like rabbits. Every night, for hours, groans and giggles, sheets rustling, and an occasional scream or "oh my God" to cap off the festivities. The first few times the volume had been kicked up full blast. The three men tried to imagine what was going on in that bed. Why hadn't Volevodz been thoughtful enough to plant a camera? It would have been so easy, they whispered among themselves. Eventually, the constant lovemaking only contributed to the enveloping air of misery.
It was almost as if the Konevitches knew all about the three listeners, that they were taunting and rubbing it in.
The phone action had turned virtually nonexistent. A few frustrated calls from their lawyer, who complained constantly about being stonewalled by his old friends in the INS.
An occasional call to order pizza and Chinese deliveries-that was it. "What are they doing out there?" asked the note Elena passed over the dining room table to Alex.