"Vladimir was the moron who let this happen. He was your man, last time I checked."
"Yeah, on loan to you for the past year, last time I checked. When I sent you Vladimir, he was a real killing machine. Your cretins polluted him, turned him stupid and clumsy."
Golitsin held his breath and counted to ten. An hour before, they had sniped back and forth like this for a full fifteen minutes. He gathered as much patience as he could muster and said, "Tell me what your people are doing."
Nicky had broken his spell of boredom and gotten his blood; he could wait until the next opportunity rolled around. He fought back a smile and said, "All right. Word's been passed to all my guys in East Europe. Since we got their passports, they'll need new ones, right? So what are they gonna do? Try and buy phonies, right? Every counterfeiter and half-assed fabricator in Hungary's been warned to pass word the second they make contact."
Golitsin nodded. Sounded good.
Nicky pulled out another black cheroot and lit up. "I got pick-pocket teams working every train and plane station in Europe. They been told to keep a good eye out for a gimpy giant, a blonde runt, and a rich American fatty."
The twit who had just detailed his own efforts at corralling Alex at transportation terminals leaned forward and advised Nicky, "Consider giving them photographs instead. Our experience shows that visual representations always work better than verbal descriptions." He produced a crooked smile. "If you have fax machines, I'll provide copies."
He instantly regretted that he had opened his mouth. "Fax machines?" Nicky roared. He looked ready to bounce out of his seat and strangle the twit. "Oh, sure, moron. Hell, every pickpocket's got one. You know, stuffed in his back pocket." The other former agents at the table instantly hated the thick-necked dolt for his stupid remark. Little wonder they never caught Nicky.
Nicky planted his leather elbows on the table. "Listen up, ass-hole. They don't need no pictures. Pickpockets are… what? Observant, right? It's what they do. All day, staring at people, sizing 'em up. They can tell in a blink if a mark's got ten bucks in their pocket and who's got a thousand."
Another withering glare at the fool and Nicky clammed up. Why cast pearls before swine? He lit another cigarette and collapsed back into his chair.
The next man in line, in an earlier life the Ministry of Interior's liaison to Interpol, squirmed for a moment, stared down at the table, picked at a scab on his nose, then as quietly as he could, mumbled, "I called my former colleagues and alerted them that a warrant for Alex's arrest would be coming their way within hours."
Time for the next man in line to speak up. Nobody did, and the silence quickly turned deafening.
The man stole a quick sideways peek at Golitsin, who was staring back with a mean scowl. "And what are they doing about it?" Golitsin snapped, his scowl deepening.
This was not the question the man wanted to hear. "And they… they listened."
"Listened?"
"Well… umh, yes. Interpol won't do anything until a formal request is launched through appropriate legal channels. Can't really. The protocol is written in stone. It's a very bureaucratic and-"
"You're saying Interpol won't do anything?"
"No. I'm… I'm not saying that."
The other sharks around the table were edging forward in their seats, waiting for the fireworks to erupt. Oh yeah, pal, that's what you're saying, no question about it. "Then explain to me what you meant," Golitsin barked.
"We… that is, we, as executives of Konevitch Associates, we don't, well… we don't exactly have the legal authority to demand an arrest. Interpol wants to see a legitimate warrant before it will act."
The man reached under the table and with both hands gripped his knees together to keep them from shaking. His face was red. A jackhammer was going off in his chest. With pleading eyes he looked around the table for help, a meager sign of support, anything; a tepid nod of pity would be fine. Nine sets of eyes looked elsewhere. At the table, the ceiling, the white walls.
"Did you offer your contacts money?" Golitsin asked.
"Money, women, cars, drugs. Yes, anything their hearts desire."
Complete silence.
"And they swore at me and hung up."
"Then you didn't offer enough, idiot."
Nervous snickers around the table. They had all, every last man, heard the pistol shot reverberate through Golitsin's phone in that fatal final conversation with Vladimir. What a moment. Just the sound of Golitsin's throaty voice and that hardass Vladimir pumped a bullet into his own head. One for the record books, definitely.
More to the point, they had collectively witnessed the old man's response. He did not flinch or cringe or curse. Bang-not even a wrinkle of surprise. Actually, he smiled.
It looked, in fact, remarkably like the unpleasant little smirk he was offering Mr. Interpol at that moment. Wouldn't it be special if that smile ignited a heart attack?
Golitsin cracked a knuckle, then in a hectoring tone said, "Listen to me, idiot. All you idiots listen up. Konevitch doesn't have a game plan. He's improvising. If, somehow, they make it over the Hungarian border, they could jump on a late-night train or plane and end up anywhere in Europe. Only Interpol can issue orders broad enough to cover the entire continent. Only Interpol has instant access to charge card information. Only Interpol can forward warrants to police and border officials across Europe. Are you getting this?"
The man was scribbling notes furiously in a small notebook. Not a word had been said that he did not already know. If he shrank any deeper into his chair, he would disappear.
Golitsin stood up and walked in his direction. He bent over, got less than six inches from the man's ear, and muttered, "Get back on the phone and offer more money, moron."
Golitsin headed for the door, kicked it open, and slammed it loudly after he left. The room nearly collapsed in relief; everybody except Nicky. Watching these boys squirm and sweat was more fun than he could remember.
They all grabbed their phones and began making more calls, frantic now to find Alex Konevitch. Golitsin took the stairs one at a time, down one flight, then bounced along a short hallway that ended in a small, well-lit conference room. A young lady, shapely and wonderfully attractive in red business attire, tight jacket, and a provocatively short skirt was seated patiently at the end of the long table.
A stout bodyguard stood in the corner and kept his mouth shut.
She looked up as Golitsin entered and acknowledged his presence with a cold smile. "How's it going, Sergei?"
Not many people dared call him Sergei. General Golitsin was fine; plain General better yet. His own wife and children called him General to his face and The General behind his back; he liked that most of all, the singularity of it. That had been his rank, after all-a lifetime title, one that reeked of power, prestige, and authority. He particularly enjoyed the look in their eyes when people learned it was not army, but KGB rank.
The informality of Sergei, though, was reserved for his equals; in his mind, there weren't many. Tatyana Lukin certainly wasn't his equal; she was the special assistant to Yeltsin's chief of staff, the youngest one, his right hand and chief counsel.
Nothing about that impressed Golitsin.
The Kremlin had more special assistants than mice, clawing around and trying to look and act more important than the replaceable coatholders they definitely were. But Tatyana came with another qualification, a priceless one. She happened also to be the chief of staff's mistress, the person who planted the first whisper in his ear in the morning, with final say at night. The chief was a lazy bureaucrat, a man who adored the many perks of his position and detested the maddening grind of daily work. His major qualification for his lofty title was that he was a more than willing drinking buddy for this sorry lush of a president. The whole Kremlin staff knew it. Anything of importance was therefore passed through Tatyana, who more than compensated for her boss's steady indifference.