The apartment was spacious, and also dark and empty. They tiptoed quietly in their sneakers, flipped on small flashlights, and fanned out. Nice place, high-ceilinged, wood-floored, furnished with expensive antiques, and kept neat as a pin by the lady of the house. The lady in question, Tatyana, was spending the night with her boss. Mikhail went to work on the phones, while Igor began littering listening devices at strategic locations around the apartment. Mikhail inserted a bug inside the phone in the living room, then another inside the phone on the bedside table. In less than fifteen minutes the job was done.
They slipped out as quietly as they entered.
The bugs were manufactured by a German electronics firm, highly sensitive, sound-activated little things that fed the noise to a small recording box hidden in the basement of the apartment building. There would be no need for Mikhail to conceal himself in a cubbyhole somewhere, battling sleep and boredom with an earphone pressed against his ear. He would stop in every few days, collect the old tape, reload a fresh one, then sit back in comfort over a cigar and scotch and listen for the dirt.
Only a few hours before, the two men had magnetically attached a small tracking device on the undercarriage of Golitsin's limo. Another, as well, was slapped on that cute little BMW convertible Golitsin had bought himself.
Breaking through the high-tech security system into Golitsin's mansion was close to impossible; also, frankly unnecessary. Who cared what the old man said, anyway?
At this stage of the operation, all that mattered was where he went. Illya Mechoukov was soaking up the sun on a fold-out beach chair and gazing, without a serious thought in his head, through his shades at the Caribbean beach from the commanding perch of his balcony. In the four years since he founded Orangutan Media, he had not taken a single day of vacation. Not one. Just work, work, work. And even more work once Alex and Elena started roping in all those big U.S. firms.
He had no idea how exhausted he was, until this forced vacation landed in his lap. And this glorious little sun-drenched island filled with all manner of pleasantries was such a perfect place to unwind and forget all that pressure. The sun, the rum, the beaches, all those native girls and American tourist girls romping in the surf, competing to see who could show off the tinier bikini. At that moment, his eyes were feasting on two of the lovely little things down below, flaunting their bronzed bodies in little more than thin strings.
He never heard them enter his hotel room. Never knew of their presence until the garrote landed around his neck and was pulled back. The pain was vicious and unbearable. The garrote was held firmly in place for over a minute. His eyes bulged, his lips turned purple, as his hands clawed desperately at the rope.
Then darkness. He passed out, though he hadn't died. He was sure of this when they threw cold water on his body and revived him.
"What-" he tried to say before a big fist smashed against his lips.
He spit out two front teeth. He was on a bed, gagging and coughing up blood.
"We'll talk and you'll listen," a man told him in Russian. The man was a terrifying giant, nearly six and a half feet, with swollen muscles that stretched against his silly Bahamian shirt. Black curly hair covered his arms and half-exposed chest. In fact there were three men, Illya realized. The other two were dressed similarly in pink and yellow shorts, flowered shirts, dark socks, and leather sandals.
"Nice outfits," Illya mumbled, and was quickly rewarded with another fist.
"This is very easy. We have nothing against you," the one in pink shorts informed him. "All you have to do is sign a simple statement and you're free."
"A statement? What kind of statement?"
"Do you want to live?"
"Of course."
"Then what do you care what the statement says?"
He really didn't. Not at all. A sheet of paper, official-looking and typed neatly in Russian, was shoved in front of Illya's face. A pen was propped in his hand.
He barely had time for a brief glance before the garrote around his neck suddenly tightened-something about a confession that Orangutan Media was a front for criminal activities. And something more, something about Alex Konevitch, before the world around Illya became a gathering blur. Somehow he scrawled his name at the bottom of the page before he subsided into darkness again.
When he awoke, the bad men were gone.
21
Tromble was seated behind his large desk, ruffling papers, pretending to read, a trivial excuse to keep Hanrahan and his team leaders waiting along the far wall, a spiteful way of showing his deep displeasure at their failure to bag Alex Konevitch.
After five minutes of this, Hanrahan thought seriously about rushing across the room and pistol-whipping him.
Eventually the director glanced up at Hanrahan. "It's been two weeks. Why hasn't Konevitch called us yet?" he asked in a tone suggesting this was all Hanrahan's fault.
"I don't know." It was five o'clock, Friday. The end of two long frustrating weeks, and Hanrahan was sure there was a happy hour somewhere with his name on it. He pushed himself off the wall and moved closer to the big desk. "They haven't left the building since our little chat. They're ordering in food, tiptoeing around their home, hunkering down. They're scared to death. They'd be idiots not to be."
"Where are they getting the money? I thought we took care of that."
"My guess would be they had a little cash laying around. Not everybody lives off charge cards."
"How much money?"
Hanrahan said, "I have no idea. Probably not a lot. They're living off pizza and Chinese food. We've questioned a few of the delivery boys. They're using coupons, very spare with the tips. Indications are the kitty jar ain't all that full. They're trying to stretch it out."
"But you could be wrong?"
"Yes, I could be wrong."
"And this could drag out for months?"
"That's possible. Unlikely as hell, but I won't rule it out." Tatyana from Yeltsin's office had been calling Tromble every other day. She was polite and courteous, but beneath that veneer, she was needling and nagging. She never missed a chance to remind him of his boast that Konevitch would be in Russia inside a week. He was tired of it. Twenty talented agents with hundreds of years of experience in battling organized crime had been identified and told to prepare for quick reassignments to Russia. Everything was ready to go, everything except this Konevitch guy.
"What are our Russian friends up to?" Tromble asked, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head.
"The white van's still here. Our guys snuck over and attached a very sensitive listening device on its side. The three boys inside are seriously unhappy campers. Starting to act a little strange. Get this. Yesterday they actually played a few rounds of Russian roulette." He shrugged. "I guess it's their national sport."
"What else?"
"The Mafiya's got a small presence. Last Tuesday, one of their people made a few fast laps around the area. She and two of their people are living inside a car about a block away. They sleep in it, eat in it, and wait."
The impatience on Tromble's face was palpable. Hanrahan, an old hand, was a veteran of countless stakeouts and several hostage situations. Patience is key. They take time. It's a psychological face-off, both sides playing mind games with the other. It's just a matter of who'll snap first. You can't rush it.
Almost predictably, Tromble said, "We need to do something different." After a pause that was meant to appear thoughtful, he pushed on. "Why don't you just arrest them?"
"On what grounds?" Hanrahan asked.
"I don't care. You tell me."
Hanrahan scratched his head. "Maybe some sort of immigration violation. Something simple. Overstaying their visas, maybe. From what the Russkis are saying, he lied to get his asylum. Maybe toss on a charge for fraud."