Among the names were the deputy minister for internal security for Hungary, two captains and three senior inspectors in the Budapest police, all of whom were operating under harsh instructions to notify Golitsin the instant Alex Konevitch's disappearance, or death, became an item of police interest.
Vladimir thumped a threatening finger off Alex's forehead. "You're way out of your league, boy. The only way out of this is to get him to sign that money over to us."
"Believe me, I know that. I just want to survive this and get on with my life."
From his face and eyes it appeared he did know. Still, Vladimir thought it a good idea to rekindle his memory. With narrowed eyes he said, "Your pretty bitch will go first. Remember that. You'll have a moment to watch the blood draining from her head, to hear her last pitiful breaths. And you'll know it's all your fault. Then I'll kill you, too."
"I have to get back to the table," Alex told him, now looking paralyzed with terror.
"You've got twenty-five minutes to finish this. Not a second longer." He pointed at Alex's watch. "In twenty-five minutes and one second, I write off the money and start blasting. Now, take a few deep breaths," Vladimir said, "then get back in there and get us our money." "It worked," Eugene announced with a triumphal slap on the table the moment Alex returned to the table. The lawyers in New York, a consortium of legal hit men who smelled an easy ten million for their clients, had yapped and howled a chorus of odious threats right up to the instant Eugene invoked the sacred Act of God clause. Like that, the curses and bullying died in their throats. Total silence. After that moment of stunned stillness, suddenly they couldn't shut up. They talked over themselves to extend Alex however much time was needed. And how was the poor man's health? the suddenly compassionate throng wanted to know. Damn shame about that awful accident, they collectively agreed-they couldn't have felt more sorry or sincere.
Eugene euphorically snapped his cell phone shut and laid it on the table. "They gave us thirty more minutes to hammer this thing out." He took a long congratulatory sip of beer and smacked his lips.
"Do you mind if we order a little food first?" Alex replied, sliding gently into his seat. "We haven't eaten all day. We're famished."
"No, no, of course," Eugene replied, feeling regretful once more for putting his friend through this. Then he thought again of his money, of ten million sailing away to his despised partners. Like that, he got over it.
Alex asked Elena, "What would you like, dear?"
She gave the menu a cursory glance and settled on a table salad and spicy German sausage dish. Alex ordered lukewarm chicken broth and a warm cola. He was famished, though his lips were so scabbed and swollen that solid foods were out of the question; at least three teeth were cracked or broken with exposed nerves a hot or cold drink would have brutalized; his jaw muscles were so achy, the thought of chewing was sickening.
Eugene loudly ordered another dark beer, a celebratory one this time, and mentioned to Alex, "Why don't you get started on reviewing the contracts?" In other words: I pushed fate once for you, pal, now get started.
Trying hard to look focused, Alex hoisted the thick sheaf of papers over and began leafing through, thoughtfully scanning the pages. His head throbbed. His body howled with pain. He forced himself to concentrate on one overriding thought: How to get out of this alive. How to elude the team of professional assassins seated only fifty feet away, fingering their guns, ready to blast away.
At least he had bought twenty-four minutes of relative calm to ponder his options-twenty-four minutes without anybody pummeling his body, or frying designs on his flesh, or uttering vile threats into his ear.
Eugene and Elena made small talk. How did she like Budapest? Lovely old city, didn't she think? Yes, very lovely indeed, she answered with a strained smile and firm nod-after what happened to Alex she would curse this city to her dying breath. Did she enjoy traveling with Alex? Oh, well, always quite an adventure, she replied, tongue in cheek. And how was life in Moscow these days? And so on and so forth.
The last thing Elena felt like doing was partaking in meaningless banter, but she had to buy time for Alex to think, and she endured it with phony grace. Eugene seemed like a nice man, a few rough New York edges aside-so why couldn't they sit there and just enjoy each other's company in golden silence? He could guzzle the beer he seemed to enjoy so much, and she could dwell on their nightmare. Her heart was pounding. She was forced to press her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.
Her back was to Vladimir and Katya, yet she could sense-in fact, nearly feel-a malevolent presence.
The food came. Between spoonfuls and slow, careful sips, Alex maintained a pretense of studying the documents, occasionally scribbling on a page, a notation here, a notation there-meaningless chicken scratch as he racked his brain for a way out of this.
Maybe he was overthinking this, he wondered. Maybe elaborate was the wrong approach; they should simply stand up and walk out, thumb their noses at the gangsters, and flee. Maybe this was all a big bluff. The more he thought about it, the more tempting that idea was. Would their kidnappers really open fire, here, in the grand dining room of one of the best-known luxury hotels in Hungary?
Back in Moscow, where such things were all too prevalent, maybe: okay, yes, without a moment of vacillation, they would blast everything in sight. But surely, in Budapest, the storied capital of a foreign nation, a peaceful, elegant old city renowned for its sophistication and exotic charms, different rules applied.
He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the two dull-eyed thugs by the exit, engulfed in the dense cloud of cigarette smoke swimming over their table. And then, for a fleeting instant, he and Vladimir locked eyes. Stupid question, he realized. Of course they would. They would blow away Elena, Alex, probably Eugene, the waiters and waitresses, other customers, and for good measure they'd nail the doorman and run away with smiles on their faces.
It would be a total massacre, a bloodbath. And it would be Alex's fault.
He had already signed over his companies and properties, coerced statements that, if he survived, would be completely worthless. The moment he set foot in Moscow, he would hire the best lawyers money can rent and rescind everything; he then would use his immense fortune to hunt down every last one of them.
They would know this, of course. And they would know there was only one way to be sure that never happened.
And if that required a massacre, a flamboyant atrocity in a pleasant, peaceful city, it would only persuade the next millionaire they targeted that these were serious people who meant business.
7
With only eight minutes left on Vladimir's deadline-and Eugene noisily draining what he claimed, with a suspicious slur, was only his third stein of beer-Alex finally settled on a plan he thought had a chance of success. He had conceived, chewed over, and discarded at least a dozen different ideas, from dangerously complex to ridiculously simple-from standing up and screaming "Fire!" to collapsing on the floor and pretending to suffer a massive heart attack.