"You're assuming he'll still be alive in another year."
"I assume nothing. I'm just telling you there's an opportunity for whoever's clever enough and rich enough. Somebody is going to pump cash into the big hole Konevitch left. Why not us?"
Golitsin thought about it a moment. What was there not to like? Nothing, really. A million a year could buy a world's worth of influence; a few million, in the right hands, at the right moments, and who knew? It was a no-brainer, actually-he was only surprised he hadn't thought of it himself. He puffed a few times, stretched out the contemplative pause, then nodded. "Let's do it."
"Good decision," Tatyana said. "Funnel it through me. I'll make sure everybody knows where the money came from." And who inside the Kremlin arranged this infusion as well, though of course there was no need to point that out.
"How much are we talking?" Golitsin asked, suddenly concerned because it was his money.
"Not much. Relax, Sergei. A hundred or two hundred thousand a month, for starters. As the election draws closer, we'll increase it, have a real impact."
She had clearly thought this through and prattled a bit about the details-plans for secret bank accounts, blind contacts, how the money would be laundered, and so forth and so on, the typical architecture for large-scale graft and bribery. The irony that they were using Alex's money to replace Alex was lost on none of them. In fact, Golitsin had arrived at this meeting ready to pitch and hatch his own bright new idea about how to spend more of Alex's hoard of cash, and was waiting impatiently with his hands clasped to pop it. But Tatyana's suggestion fit right in, so he let her rattle on.
As soon as she finished, he said, "Do we all agree this has worked out beautifully?"
Nicky had been staring out the window. But he swallowed his usual nasty cynicism, looked over, and admitted, "Yeah, it's real sweet."
Tatyana merely nodded.
"Then why stop now?" Golitsin asked them, shifting in his seat and facing them. "There's lots of little Konevitches out there, building businesses and creating millions that are just waiting to be taken away."
Tatyana appeared thoughtful, though she had long held the same idea. The only surprise was that it took Golitsin so long to broach this rather obvious inspiration. In her mind, all along Alex Konevitch was just a guinea pig, a test case for them to see if they could pull this off and get away with it. Young millionaires were growing on trees these days, just waiting to be fleeced. But she played dumb and asked, "Do you really think that's a good idea?"
"It will even be easier next time, less risky. None of the other rich kids have Konevitch's warm relationship with Yeltsin. We now know how it works, and we've got plenty of money to use for whatever we try. We'll get even better at it."
Nicky replied, predictably, "What's in it for me?"
Tatyana, speaking as the lawyer she was, answered, "Right now, Nicky, you get what our agreement called for, your share of company stock, and Konevitch's banks to launder your money. But you and the rest of your syndicate pals are making a very big impression. You've turned Moscow into a bloody war zone. The Russian people are screaming for law and order. Believe me, it's a sore topic in the Kremlin these days. The world is paying close attention to your fun and games, too. Yeltsin is tired of being lectured by Americans and Germans about getting your ilk under control."
"Talk, talk, talk."
"Not much longer, believe me," she replied, wagging a finger in his face.
"They have to catch us first."
"Adapt to the new rules. People now vote, Nicky. They make their displeasure known at the polls. Yeltsin knows he has to show tangible progress on the law-and-order front, and soon. A big crack-down is around the corner. Believe me, plenty will be caught."
"The dumb ones."
"That's right. The smart ones, like you, will get ahead of the curve."
"I like what I'm doing now."
"How much do you score in a year?" she asked him.
"Plenty."
"Don't play games, Nicky. How much?"
"Millions. I don't know. Thirty, maybe fifty." Twenty was more like it, but with Golitsin in the car he wasn't about to sound like a small fry. He squirmed in his seat and tried to look sincere.
"Not bad," Tatyana commented, arching her eyebrows. "How much did Konevitch make last year?"
"A lot, I guess," Nicky replied through gritted teeth. "I don't know."
"Around two hundred million. And there are others, like him, who will soon be hauling in billions. All of it considered legal, too."
"Billions?"
"Billions," she repeated, with cool enunciation, as if the word picked up velocity the more slowly it was pronounced. "It's time to take your game up a notch, Nicky, climb out of the gutter. Keep your whorehouses and drug business if they amuse you. But the real thievery, the big money, will be in big business. Billions, Nicky, billions."
Nicky adored that word, "billions." It rolled out of her lips so beautifully. She could repeat as often as she liked.
They chatted on a while, and-while the driver's toes turned black-settled on an equitable division of labor and responsibilities. Golitsin would scout the possibilities, determine the targets, and apply his devious talents to designing the takeovers. They had done it once, and the blueprint was perfectly adaptable for the next victim. Tatyana would build the political cover, grease the right palms, and buy their way into the hearts of Yeltsin's people. Nicky would continue to push whores and dope and gray-market cars, and bide his time until he was told who needed to be terrorized, or chased out of the country, or murdered.
The conversation ended right where it started, on the perplexing issue of Alex Konevitch. Nicky wanted him dead-as soon as it could be arranged, however it was arranged. Just dead. In a business with few troublesome principles, Nicky steadfastly adhered to one: the fewer witnesses the better.
Golitsin, too, wanted Konevitch dead. Very, very dead. For a man whose emotions generally veered between heartless dispassion and expressive fury, he had developed a fatal preoccupation with Alex Konevitch. It was unhealthy, he knew, he just couldn't help himself. He enjoyed thinking about how Alex would die.
Also, though nobody needed to mention it, if Konevitch did eventually make contact with his old pal Yeltsin, this whole thing could come apart. The lush owed the boy wizard a huge debt. And no matter how hard Tatyana schemed and conspired, eventually Alex would break through-there were too many loose threads, too many suspicious connections, too many holes that could spring leaks. And as with all criminal conspiracies, they would inevitably be pitted against each other. The three of them knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would gladly hang the other two, if it came to that.
A legitimate investigation conducted by any halfway honest and competent official would be a catastrophe.
Tatyana confidently assured her partners she had a plan for their boy Alex, and ordered them to cool their heels until she told them otherwise. The combination of champagne and sex worked like magic. The past three nights Alex had slumbered a more reasonable six hours. He was eating again, even exercising for two hard hours every morning in the nicely equipped hotel gym.
He was toweling off after a shower, preceded by a fierce early-morning workout. Elena lay on the bed nibbling toast and browsing through the morning paper. A delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh coffee had just been wheeled in for Alex when the phone erupted.