Mysteriously, the line suddenly went dead. The three men parked one block away in the white, unmarked van, turned down the volume, and sipped lukewarm coffee. They exchanged knowing winks and satisfied smiles. They were "press aides" assigned to the Russian embassy, a thin guise for intelligence operatives. Yes, run, Illya, run as fast as your legs can carry you. Dodge and hide, spend only cash, ignore your family and job, and disappear into the darkest hole in the universe. We'll still find you.
Volevodz had littered bugs in almost every square inch of the Konevitch apartment. The two Fibbies had observed him, had idly watched as he wandered around the Konevitch home hiding a listening device here, a bug there. They never said a word. After a while, Volevodz dropped any pretense of caution. They obviously didn't care. They had orders from on high to allow the Russian as much latitude as he wanted-as long as he didn't kill anybody. This was America, after alclass="underline" a land of laws and inalienable rights. Beatings were questionable, they figured, in a gray area; guess it depended how bad the thumping got, the two agents decided.
The house phone was bugged as well. The men in the van could barely contain themselves when Elena had called that morning with the surprise news about the bank. Alex, we have no money. Oh Alex, how will we pay our lawyer? Alex, how will we buy food? The questions and pulled hair would come soon. Probably that night.
Another van, similarly equipped, and also filled with Russian "press aides," was parked half a block up from their lawyer's office. His phones, too, both at home and at work, were riddled with bugs. His house had been burgled the day before. While he, his wife, and two kids were doing the prayer thing at church, a team had entered through the broken back door. It was easy. A bad, decaying neighborhood. His neighbors generally stayed inside and very specifically ignored what happened outside their doors. His office, too, was wired like a sound studio.
So they knew the lawyer hadn't come in yet, was apparently still wandering the halls at INS, trying to fathom how bad his client's situation was.
Bad, pal. Real bad.
Neither the lawyer nor the Konevitches had the slightest idea how awful this was about to get.
19
The loud knock on the door came that night, slightly after midnight. Elena was sleeping with a pillow over her head, and never budged. Alex tried to ignore it, but the hammering grew more obnoxiously insistent, until he could stand it no longer. He slipped on his bathrobe and tiptoed quietly to the door.
He peered through the peephole. A middle-aged stranger in a cheap blue suit stood there, nervously looking around. Definitely FBI, Alex thought, though the demeanor was flagrantly different than the agents who tumbled their apartment on Saturday. This man appeared tentative, actually afraid. Alex opened the door.
The man inspected Alex's face, then asked in a low, raspy whisper, "You're Konevitch, right?"
"You know that or you wouldn't be here."
"Yeah, guess I do."
"Should I invite you in or would you rather just burst inside like your comrades? There's not much left to damage. A few chairs in the dining room. Two pictures we put back on the walls. I'll point them out for you. Take your pick."
"Lower your voice, all right? Step into the hall. Please."
"I'd rather make you come inside and drag me out."
The mysterious man leaned closer and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "Trust me. We can't talk… not here, definitely not inside your apartment." His hand did something funny with his left ear, apparently trying to signal something.
Alex took a chance and stepped out. The agent reached over and gently eased the door shut behind him. He walked about ten steps and Alex followed. He turned around and they faced each other less than a foot apart. "Who are you?" Alex demanded.
"Hold your voice down. I'd rather not say. Did you do what they say you did?"
"Why ask? Your people already convicted me."
"Because I'm asking, okay?" The sour odor of a recently smoked cigar was on the man's breath. It mixed badly with the cheap aftershave.
"All right. No, I'm being framed. I swear it."
The agent almost smiled. Right, how pitiful. Why couldn't anybody come up with something original? "Tell you what. I really don't care if you did, or you didn't. I just don't like what's going down."
"Which is what?"
He played with the top button on his jacket and appeared indecisive for a moment. Then he apparently resigned himself to tell Alex everything. "A bunch of Russkis working in our headquarters. Tromble, the director, arranged it. I worked counterintelligence for ten years, right? I can smell it. These guys have former KGB written all over them."
"Colonel Volevodz?"
"Yeah… him and about three of his guys. Your apartment's bugged, you know."
"No… I… I had no idea."
"Probably your phones, too. Be careful."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I'm a career guy, okay."
"So what? Volevodz is also a career guy."
"Yeah, but it's different." He wiped a hand across his forehead in frustration, apparently annoyed by being compared with some cold-eyed KGB thug. "Look, I'm taking a big risk coming here. But whatever you did back there don't justify what's happening here. I'm just warning you, be real careful."
"All right, I'm warned."
If anything, the agent suddenly became more agitated. He glanced down the long hallway, a long, searching look that indicated a high level of paranoia. He avoided Alex's eyes. After a moment he whispered, "One last thing."
"I'm listening."
"The Russian mob's got a contract on you. Don't ask how I know, I just know."
Alex should not have been surprised by this unwelcome news, but he was. Surprised and deeply unnerved. A long day of disasters was just capped by the Mount Vesuvius of bad news. He leaned against the wall and stared down at the red-and-black carpet.
"It's a serious contract," the agent continued, shuffling his feet and avoiding Alex's eyes. "Over a million bucks," he claimed, looking up. "These guys usually get people whacked for about five thousand. Apparently, you're quite valuable to them."
"Should I feel honored?"
"Scared shitless is how you should feel, Konevitch."
"All right, I do."
"Best we can tell, three teams flew in over the past week. That don't even account for the local players, of which there are too many to count."
"Your people know this for a fact?"
"Wouldn't be telling you otherwise."
"Where did this information come from? Do you have a source inside the syndicates?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "It's real, okay? Believe me or not, it's your ass."
"If your people know, why don't you protect us?"
"Because people high up don't believe you deserve it. They figure you did something to piss off the mob. It's your problem, not ours."
"Is that all?"
"That's all."
"Thank you."
A few seconds passed. The agent seemed to be arguing with himself before he blurted, "Look, forget about it. If things get tough, though, if you want advice or help, call me. Just not from your apartment. This is our little secret, okay?" He pressed a business card into Alex's palm. Special Agent Terrence Hanrahan, it read, with the usual array of office, cell, and fax numbers. "Remember, anytime you step outside, look both ways before you cross the street."
Alex nodded. The hand dropped and Special Agent Hanrahan walked quickly back down the hall, straight to the elevator. Alex returned to the apartment, stopped momentarily in his office, and rushed directly to the bedroom. Gently shaking her, he quietly awoke Elena. Placing a forefinger to his lip he handed her a notepad and pencil, keeping another of each for himself.