She held a law degree from Moscow University, where she had graduated top of her class. A background check performed by his people revealed that those professors she couldn't awe with her mastery of law she conquered with her body. That got her to number two. Number one was a young genius who ignored sleep and consumed libraries, with an elephantine memory and a talent for oratory that would make a southern preacher blanch with envy. Two weeks before graduation, the KGB received a late-night tip-a female caller, the records revealed, who naturally insisted on anonymity-to ransack his room. The contraband was discovered under the bed, a stack of kiddie-porn magazines and nauseating videos, all with American trademarks, making them doubly illegal-all of which he naturally protested he'd never laid eyes on in his life. The next day, he was forced to goose-step across a stage to a chorus of boos and hisses from the entire student body, then hauled straight to jail.
His fourth day in prison, he was beaten to death by a fellow prisoner with two young daughters and a hard-fisted aversion to perverts.
After that, three years as a state prosecutor. Tatyana never lost a case, not one. From the best his people could tell, she seduced at least two judges to acquire convictions of men who were flagrantly innocent. The rumors about her in Moscow's legal circles were rich and rife. She blackmailed and framed witnesses. She burned evidence contrary to her case, concocted false evidence, persuaded the police to force confessions, and so on. Golitsin believed every word of it. She was a scheming, conniving whore whose only scruple was to get ahead, whatever the cost. The old man admired her greatly.
Tatyana had the looks, the brains, the ambitions, and, more importantly, the chief of staff's balls in her hand. She could call him Sergei, or idiot, or toad for all he cared. He looked upon her as the daughter he wished he'd had, rather than the ugly cow he ended up with.
"Get lost," Golitsin barked at the guard, who shot out the door.
"Everything's on track," he informed Tatyana with a confident scowl. He moved around the room and collapsed into the chair at the other end of the table. "Just one unexpected glitch."
"Oh, do tell."
"Konevitch and his pretty little wife, they got away."
"Okay." Cool as ice, no shock, no histrionics. "Please explain that."
Golitsin launched into a brief recap. He left out a few embarrassing details, such as his own miserable role in dispatching Konevitch to the hotel. Nor did he feel it at all necessary to bring up the extra three hundred million that nearly fell in his lap, which he fully intended to keep for himself. When the doctored tale was done, he concluded, "We've initiated a manhunt. We're turning over all the usual rocks. I'm sure he'll turn up."
She had gorgeously thick black hair and was playing with a long strand next to her left ear. "And if he doesn't?" she asked, revealing no shock or surprise at this turn.
"Well, then he doesn't."
"But he signed the letters?"
"After a little persuasion, yes."
"And you now have the originals?"
"Signed, sealed, and delivered to my office an hour ago."
"And properly notarized by an attorney, I'm sure."
"Good assumption."
The lawyer in her seemed satisfied. "Does he know you're behind it yet?"
"Not yet, no. The name of his successor was left blank."
"Whose idea was that?"
"Who do you think?"
She raised an admiring eyebrow at that touch. As long as Konevitch didn't know who put this together, he wouldn't know who or what he was fighting. Time counted for everything. Hours were worth half a fortune. A full day was worth everything Konevitch owned.
It was brilliant, really. Keep him guessing and punching in the dark until they chose to expose themselves.
"Where do you think he'll go next?"
"If he's stupid, here. Moscow."
"But he's not stupid, is he?" she asked. A rhetorical question, really. The man was brilliant and full of surprises. Why else were they in this room, at this hour, rehashing his escape?
Golitsin grinned. "He was stupid enough to hire me."
"Good point." She laughed.
"Right now," Golitsin hypothesized in his usual way, as if it were a fact, "he's probably gone to ground. I think he's hiding someplace in Hungary. Trying to wait us out."
"Interesting. What makes you think that?"
"Deductive logic. We took their wallets, and we have his and his wife's passports. He can't get out. I limited the kidnap team to only ten people, and to the best of our knowledge, that's all he's seen. He has no idea how many more people are involved. But we won't underestimate him again. The torture was administered by one of Nicky's people, so Konevitch might reasonably guess the Mafiya is behind this. That alone will scare the crap out of him. He'll try to keep his head down, perhaps by driving around all night, or checking into a cheap fleabag long enough to lick his wounds. As long as he stays in Hungary, we're fine. In another ten hours it won't matter where he turns up."
She seemed to consider this. "Have you traveled overseas lately?"
"No."
"But Konevitch has, right?"
"You know he has. Between Yeltsin's trips and his own business, he's on the road more than he's here."
"Then it's safe to presume he has more passports."
"How do you know this?"
"Trust me. You know, I also usually accompany Yeltsin. I have seven passports with open visas myself."
A bored shrug. "So what? It really doesn't matter if he has a thousand. If he makes it to Austria or Czechoslovakia, we'll find him. Like I said, the key is keeping him away from here."
Tatyana stood up and moved around the table. She lit a cigarette as she walked, and a long trail of smoke curdled behind her. She came to a stop less than two feet from Golitsin. A small hop and she was on the table, seated, legs swaying loosely from side to side. Long, lovely legs. She crossed one knee over the other and leaned in toward the old man.
He could smell her perfume, something wicked and musky-probably French, definitely expensive, a gift from one of her well-heeled lovers, he guessed. She had left the top three buttons of her jacket undone, he noticed, offering a quick peek at the chief of staff's playthings.
He spent a long moment taking it all in, the aroma, the pose, the alluring flare of her nostrils. She was just so perfect-a perfect blend of Asiatic and Caucasian, perfect teeth, perfect black, uninhibited eyes, perfect body. She leaned a little lower. "Who do you think he'll call first? What's your hunch?"
"I know who he'll call. Sonja."
"And who's she? The mistress?"
"No, the secretary. Been with him since the beginning. He relies on her for everything, an old lady he trusts completely. Treats her like the mother he barely knew." He pushed his chair back and stretched his short arms over his head. He was too old, too tired, and too callous to be seduced. He definitely admired the effort, though.
The message was received, and she produced an elegant little shrug; even the shrug was a turn-on. She took another pull off her cigarette. "So where's this Sonja? At home?"
"She was, yes, before we dragged her back here. She's seated at her desk at this moment, with a garrote dangling loosely around her neck. If he calls, she'll ask for his location or the new necklace will become unbearably uncomfortable."