"So what's next?" Elena took a long sip from the flute.
"I honestly don't know. I've tried everything I can think of."
She was now pressed firmly up against him, and between sips and explanations, he was stealing furtive glances at her thread-bare teddy. She lowered her left shoulder and encouraged a strap to slip off. "What's the worst that can happen to us, Alex?"
"This is the worst."
"No it's not. Not by a long shot. We could be back in Budapest, dead."
"True enough. But if we return to Moscow, that could still happen."
"But they can't drag us back to Russia, can they? Without an extradition treaty, they can't touch us. They can add a library of charges but you're here. If they try, we'll just stay here."
"You wouldn't miss Russia?"
"A little, sure. But alive anywhere with you is better than dead there. But one thing's going to change."
He turned and looked at her.
"We're in this together. I wasn't involved in your business back in Moscow, I didn't need to be, and frankly I never cared to be. But our lives are different now. Our marriage changes with it."
"What does that mean?"
"From now on, no matter how depressing, keep me informed of everything. I'm scared, but I'm not some breakable china doll, and I won't be treated like one."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I love you, and I want to help."
He put his arm around her. Elena slid back and dragged him down onto the bed. The champagne flutes tumbled to the floor. Three weeks of pent-up energy and the frustration of three hundred and fifty million in stolen dollars and stocks were compacted into the first long, smoldering kiss.
The expensive little teddy was quickly ripped off-it sailed through the air and landed on the lampshade. Alex paused only long enough to ask, "What time did you tell Homeless Harry to be here?"
13
The black limo idled in an otherwise empty parking lot that overlooked the ice-cold Moskva River. Mid-October. The sky was gray, overcast, and dreary; another winter that threatened to be long and harsh had produced its first cold snap. The driver had been ordered out of the car. He stood some twenty feet away in the bone-aching darkness, smoking, shivering, stamping his feet, and eyeing the heated car with considerable bitterness.
Three people sat in the rear.
They had agreed to meet like this, one or two days each week. They were bound together by the money and the single enduring emotion that thieves hold for one another: poisonous distrust. For obvious reasons, the three could not be seen together in public under any circumstances, so Golitsin took the initiative and arranged the inconspicuous rendezvous.
Tatyana Lukin sat in the middle, her splendid legs skillfully folded, impossible to miss or ignore. The men who were seated on each side of her-Golitsin to her left, Nicky her right-could barely stand the sight of each other. Golitsin hated to have his authority questioned. Nicky detested authority generally, and loathed Golitsin's prickly brand of it particularly.
Both men were arrogant, selfish, pushy, ill-tempered, and crooked to the core. They had so much in common it was scary. One was brains, one brawn, and for this to work they had to remain together. She was a woman; she could handle them. Without her to referee, they would have their hands around each other's throats in seconds flat. Tatyana liked to be needed.
She was saying, "I lost count of how many times he called. More than a hundred, probably. We're running an office pool. The operators in the basement are given a daily tag sheet of who to put the calls through to. Yeltsin still has no idea Konevitch is trying to reach him. He's seen the summaries of the news accounts, and heard-"
"And what was his response?" Golitsin interrupted.
"He called in my boss… the chief of staff," she added for Nicky's edification. "Said this did not sound like Alex. He wanted Konevitch tracked down so he could hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Asked my boss what he thought."
Golitsin smiled and rubbed his hands. "I'm sure you had already explained to him what he thought."
The answer was too obvious to merit a response. "He told Yeltsin he always considered Konevitch a conniving crook. Charming and likable, perhaps. But for sure, nobody earns that kind of money, they steal it. Warned him that he always believed Yeltsin allowed Konevitch to get too close. Whatever emotional or political bonds they shared, the only tangible connection was money. Konevitch didn't contribute all that cash out of the goodness of his heart. Plus, the Congress is filled with mutinous former communists who want to cut Yeltsin's balls off. He's walking a tightrope between trying to placate them and the frustrated reformers in his camp. They're always threatening to impeach him, and here's Konevitch, making a huge splash on the front pages. Exactly the kind of connection Yeltsin doesn't need."
Nicky yawned. Politics bored him to death. It made absolutely no difference to him whether commies or democrats or pansies in birthday suits were in charge. His business was bulletproof regardless of whichever idiots ruled the land.
"Did Yeltsin buy it?" asked Golitsin.
"He wasn't not buying it. He knows he's got enough problems already. There are dirty rumors regarding his daughter flying all over the city. She has almost literally hung out a sign saying, I'm daddy's little girl-leave your bags of cash here and I'll twist old poppa around my pinkie and bring home the goods."
Nicky perked up at this hint of corruption in high places. "Is it true?"
"Yes, and stay away from her," Tatyana warned with a knowing wink. "She doesn't know it, but she's already being investigated by the chief prosecutor. Bugs and undercover cops surround her everywhere she goes."
Nicky laughed and slapped his thighs with a loud thump. At least his brand of crook made no pretenses.
Golitsin merely grunted. He already knew about Yeltsin's daughter, of course. He could in fact educate Tatyana about how much little Miss Piggy had stashed in a Swiss bank, the account numbers, who gave her the money, and why. It was invaluable knowledge he had no intention of sharing.
"Tell you what, babe," Nicky announced. He leaned toward her and his left hand landed with a lecher's grip high on Tatyana's right thigh. "You still gotta get Konevitch. Put up all the roadblocks you want, eventually he's gonna find a way to get through. You thought about that?"
A twitch of irritation crossed Golitsin's face. "We'll take care of it," he sneered in Nicky's direction.
"Yeah? Like you took care of him in the first place?" Nicky snapped back.
"Stick to your own business." The two men glared at each other, Golitsin's face glowing with anger, Nicky sneering, as if to say, "You couldn't find a needle if it was sticking in your ass."
Tatyana waited until the men cooled off, then said to Golitsin, "Where's the money?"
"Tucked away in a safe place."
"I know that. Where?"
"None of your business."
"Okay. Will you take a little advice?"
"That depends."
"Don't be that way, Sergei. I'm looking out for all our best interests."
Golitsin sniffed and stared straight ahead. Bullshit. Given half a chance she'd rob him blind. She was smart and beautiful, and utterly without a conscience.
Tatyana plowed on. "You know why Konevitch was so popular with Yeltsin and his people? Money. He bankrolled Yeltsin's election. He bought them all their jobs. Literally. An election is coming in another few years, and believe me, they're scared. Yeltsin is being blamed for the mess we're in. His popularity's in the toilet and it'll take a load of cash to get him out of it. They'll miss Mr. Moneybags."