She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and reminded her husband, "Business meetings are best conducted sober."
"If Alex wanted me sober, he'd be here on time."
"Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Hundreds of millions are at stake, Eugene. Maybe he wants you loaded and stupid before he arrives." And maybe he's succeeding beyond his wildest dream, she thought and smiled coldly.
"You don't know Alex, obviously."
Rather than risk another squabble, Maria lifted a finely plucked eyebrow and insisted with a disapproving frown, "All the same, switch to coffee."
Eugene ignored this and took a long sip of beer. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time, then repeated the same thing he had said at least twenty times. "I've never known Alex to be late. He's punctual to a fault. Always."
"Maybe he has a Russian watch. I know for a fact, their crafts-manship is awful."
He was tempted to say: How would you know, you stupid spoiled twit? but swallowed the sentiment and instead noted, "No, something's wrong. I smell it."
"Yes, you're right. This whole thing is dreadfully wrong. We flew all the way from New York, he only had to come from Moscow, we're here, and he's not. This is rude and unprofessional. We should leave."
Eugene stared hard at his wife and fought the urge to stuff a napkin down her throat. Wife number four, actually-and without question, the biggest mistake of all. He was still on his third wife and making a decent go of it when Maria, a buxom brunette half his age and with a penchant for tight leather miniskirts, became his secretary. He'd chased her around the desk a few times, but not too many before she hit the brakes and made the pursuit pay off.
When it got out-with more than a little assistance from Maria, he only belatedly and after the fact realized-Wife Three stomped off into the sunset with a fifty million settlement and that big, ostentatious mansion in the Hamptons to quell her hurt pride. Word was she now had a shiny new red Rolls and a good-looking cabana boy to help her through the emotional relapses.
The house and money had been bad enough. What Eugene most sorely regretted was losing the one really capable secretary he ever had. Maria was pushy, curt, and anal, keeping him organized and punctual, and cleaning up behind him-qualities that now made her insufferable as a wife.
And now that she was bound to his money by a marriage license, any pretense of pleasantry had worn off. Even the sex had turned infrequent and limp.
He whipped out his cell and punched the preset for Alex's office in Moscow. The call went straight through to Alex's warm and efficient secretary, Sonja, who picked up on the second ring. Eugene and Alex had done a few very profitable deals together, he lining up American backers and bringing in the American greenbacks, while Alex plowed them into Russian enterprises that minted gold. Though he and Alex's secretary had never met face-to-face, Sonja never forgot a voice. She called him Mr. Daniels before he finished hello.
Eugene quickly explained his problem-Alex had scheduled a meeting with him, here, in the restaurant of the Aquincum Hotel for two hours before. "I know that," replied Sonja, who instantly turned equally perplexed and talkative. Alex was never tardy, she replied with considerable pride. Yes, she had made the travel arrangements herself, and no, Alex had not contacted her regarding delays or problems. They quickly exhausted the possibilities, and she eventually transferred Eugene to Alex's head of security, a former KGB general named Sergei Golitsin.
"What may I do for you?" Golitsin asked in heavily accented, stilted English.
Eugene slammed down his beer and came directly to the point. "Have you heard from Alex?"
"No."
"He's over two hours late for a meeting."
"Two hours?" he asked, only mildly interested.
"Yes, that's what I said."
"So what?"
"Alex is never late. That's the what."
"So maybe he makes an exception this time."
"Maybe he did. But wouldn't you know if he was diverted, or missed his flight, or had a car accident? Maybe he fell down a rabbit hole."
"Probably not."
"But shouldn't you know?"
"No, I should not. At Mr. Konevitch's insistence he employs an outside security company for foreign travel. I have strongly advised him against this dangerous practice many, many times. Outside Mother Russia, his itinerary and security… well, they are out of my hands."
Eugene was dismayed by the too-bored-who-gives-a-damn tone at the other end of the line. If this guy was his chief of security, he thought, Alex better invest in plenty of body armor. He tried to swallow his exasperation and said, "Look, Alex and Elena are supposed to meet me here for a late lunch to discuss a pressing business deal. This deal has to close by tonight. Millions might be lost."
"I believe this is your problem."
"According to your job title, Alex's personal security is your problem."
"No," Golitsin replied with a nasty laugh, "that is Konevitch's problem."
"Can't you at least call the outside firm that handles Alex's security? Better yet, give me the number. I'll call."
"This is inside confidential information that cannot be divulged."
"All right, fine. Surely you won't mind if I call the local police and report Alex's disappearance."
The general's voice suddenly changed from a gruff blow-off to conciliatory. "No… there is no need to do that. Let me handle this."
"I don't think I trust you to handle it."
"I will. Give me your number. I will call the moment I have something."
"Call me even if you don't. I've got twenty million riding, my own cash, and four greedy partners who are throwing in another seventy mil each." He glanced at his watch. "If the deal's not going through, I'll have to cancel the bank order by five at the latest."
"Yes… of course."
Eugene gave him his number and the line went dead. They let him rest for an hour after the branding was finished. A large industrial fan had been brought in and locked into high gear to push out the stench of roasted flesh. The iron had been pressed down hard enough that the best plastic surgeon in the world could not totally eliminate or disguise Vladimir's handiwork. Alex would spend the rest of his life tattooed with the symbol he had done so much to destroy.
At exactly 4:05, Vladimir and Katya reentered the room, herding a harried-looking doctor and a plump, greasy-haired lawyer who reputedly specialized in the rapidly changing Russian business legal codes. Vladimir and Katya stood and waited with indifferent expressions at the end of the gurney. The doctor checked Alex's pulse and monitored his breathing, then spent a while poking and prodding various body parts.
Eventually the doctor looked up and in high native Russian informed Vladimir, "Pulse count's a little high, no doubt the result of the trauma and fear. At least two ribs are broken and there's a terrible contusion on his leg. Without an X-ray I can't determine if it's broken."
The room was unheated and cold, and as nightfall moved in was becoming colder by the minute. Naked but for his underpants, Alex's teeth were chattering. His arms and legs would've been shivering except for the tight restraints. The doctor glanced again at the broken, bleeding body on the gurney, then, after wasting a horrified grimace at Vladimir, scuttled swiftly from the room.
Vladimir and Katya pulled over a long wooden bench and sat beside Alex. They had agreed beforehand they would play out their best imitation of the old good-cop/bad-cop routine.
Vladimir had already done a thoroughly credible job of establishing his credentials as the bad cop. Acting good wasn't exactly Katya's strong suit, either; as long as she sat beside Vladimir, though, she'd look like an angel. Vladimir slowly lit a foul-smelling French cigarette, exhaled loudly, and in his most blase tone said to Alex, "You're probably wondering what this is about."