Suspicious from this burst of benevolence, Tatyana snapped, "What are you hiding, Sergei?"
Golitsin sank in his plush leather seat and cracked a small smile. She was so quick. He quickly recounted the sad tale about the rogue trader who shoved the export-import bank into insolvency. By nine the next morning, the bank would be shuttered. By ten, word would race around Moscow: Konevitch's once mighty empire had finally bled to death.
Tatyana's feet flew off the desk and landed on the floor. "Oh, that's just great," she moaned. "Your idiots ruined me. My stock is now worthless."
"Mine, too."
"Oh, spare me. You have Konevitch's money, his mansion, his cars, his luxury apartment in Paris. What do I have?"
He was tempted to answer truthfully: A hundred thousand shares of nothing; you're broke and desperate, living on a mangy government paycheck. I'm your only hope-you need me more than ever.
Instead, he tapped his fingers on the car seat and sipped patiently from his scotch as she swore and vented for a few more minutes.
Eventually, he uncorked the cure to her troubles. "All the more reason to take care of this Khodorin business quickly. We'll divide the cash this time. I promise. Five hundred million, perfectly even, a three-way split. Same with his shares. And this time, we'll sell everything as fast as we can. We'll easily bag another billion or more."
He paused to allow her a moment to accept the inevitability of her situation. She was broke, for the moment; but not hopeless. With the right moves, in no time at all she could light her cigarettes with thousand-dollar bills. "The best way to get inside Khodorin's head is to kill Konevitch," he suggested.
"It will be quite difficult. He's out of reach, behind bars."
"But not impossible. And if Khodorin wants to play games with us, he needs to be taught a lesson. There's no way for him to win."
"You're right," she mumbled. The brilliance of the suggestion finally dawned on her. "Meet our demands when the time comes, or we'll hunt you down. If the U.S. government can't protect Konevitch, there's no hope for you. Khodorin will collapse."
After a brief call on her cell phone to Nicky, and a long meeting with a few American specialists in the Foreign Ministry, Tatyana barked at the Kremlin switch to do whatever it took to connect her to the director of the American FBI. It took three operators thirty minutes to track him down. He happened to be in an FBI field office in northern Jersey, clustered with a team of agents who had just broken up a large counterfeiting ring. An inside informant had been turned a year before. Unlike so many other operations during Tromble's tenure, the investigation had been a model of law enforcement skill and restraint. Every nuance of legal limit had been adhered to, no shortcuts. The evidence was overwhelming and, in the view of the Justice Department's sharpest experts, virtually unchallengeable in court.
The three counterfeiters had been slapped in cuffs an hour before. Tromble had arrived just in time for the press conference where he would make the announcement and bask in the glory. The podium was already set up, the large flock of reporters and cameras waiting with growing impatience.
An aide entered the room where Tromble was being fed enough information to fool the press into believing he had personally doted on every detail of the case, had personally overseen this masterstroke of crimefighting at its best. The aide cupped a hand to his ear and signaled his boss. Tromble cursed, then stepped out of the room and accepted the proffered cell phone.
Without preamble, Tatyana launched right in. "What's going on with Konevitch?"
"Sorry, no change," he told her, eyeing his watch, impatient to begin his briefing. All the big networks were there, all the big East Coast papers. "He's still up in Chicago. Believe me, it's a nasty place. One of our two worst."
"He's been there two months now, John."
"Almost three, actually."
"And it's been almost a year since you promised to deliver him to me."
"I know, and I'm sorry. He's tougher than expected."
"And how are the reports from Chicago?"
"Not promising. It's very curious. Somehow, he's wormed his way inside the Black Power brotherhood."
"But he's white. Don't they discriminate?"
"Typically, yes. He's amazingly adaptable."
"All right, you've had your turn," she barked, suddenly turning aggressive. "Now I'd like to take my best shot."
"What are you talking about?"
"I consulted with a few of my experts about your prisons. I want someplace tougher. Much tougher, much more terrifying."
This greatly annoyed him and he made no effort to hide it. "I believe I know our prisons better than your so-called experts. Atlanta and Chicago are our worst."
"The worst federal prisons, you mean. Not your worst prisons, not by a long shot."
"That might be true, but the federal prisons are the ones I can influence."
She went on, unfazed. "It's my understanding that your Bureau of Prisons occasionally subcontracts with state prisons."
"Occasionally, yes. To alleviate overcrowding. Sometimes as a temporary measure until a prisoner can be moved. So what?"
"I further understand that the state prison in Yuma is unimaginably horrible. A nightmare of violence, killings, and rapes."
"Well… it's pretty bad. But Parchman down in Mississippi's probably a little worse."
"You don't seem to be listening, John. Like it or not, it's my turn to pick Konevitch's hellhole."
Tromble swallowed his anger. "So what do you want?"
"Switch him to Yuma. Do it immediately."
"He's barely been in Chicago three months."
"It's almost summertime, and the prison lacks air-conditioning. I want him sweltering in 120-degree heat, locked into a small cell he has to share with a complete sociopath. I want him mixed in with the general population, eating horrible food, and worried every minute of every day for his life. I want him more miserable than he's ever been."
"I think that can be arranged."
"If you want your agents in Moscow, you'll make damned sure it is. You've embarrassed me with my bosses, John. You owe me for a year of humiliation and lame excuses."
Before Tromble could say another word, Tatyana punched off. She leaned back into her chair and placed her feet back on her desk. The prison had been Nicky's choice. He knew of ten Russians inside Yuma, three of them hit men with impressive credentials. He swore that any one of them could do the job.
Courtesy of Golitsin's fat wallet, a bonus would be offered to sweeten the pot-$500K to whoever killed Konevitch. A way would be found to get this word inside. Quick results were expected.
The next idea was Tatyana's. To encourage speedy action, the price would decrease by $100K a month, until the job was done.
28
Warden Byron James leaned back in his seat and contemplated the glistening toes of his spitshined wingtips. He peered into the reflected face of Special Agent Terrence Hanrahan and informed him, "Won't take long."
"You're sure?"
"Damn sure. Ask around. This here prison's the rottenest sewer in America," he said very loudly, smacking his lips and looking quite proud about that boast.
"What have you done with him?"
A slow smile. "A week in solitary for starters. Moved him to D Wing today."
"What's that? High-security?"
The warden's feet hit the floor and he leaned forward. "Just say he's not in the best of company."
"Tell me more."
"D Wing's for the undesirables. Big-time dealers, gangbangers, Mafia hoods, Black Power brotherhood, and recalcitrants who can't seem to behave. Plus, he's got a special new cellmate, Bitchy Beatty."