His last report from that sicko freak Vladimir indicated he would need another hour to close the deal. Then another hour or two after that to tie up the nasty details like disposing of Alex's and Elena's corpses somewhere they would never be found. They would simply disappear and Golitsin would fuel rumors around Moscow that Konevitch had embezzled money from his own bank and eloped with it into nowhere. A brilliant plan, really, since Golitsin would embezzle the money himself, many, many millions, with dead Alex as his foolproof cover.
His bluff been called, though. Americans! The greediest, pushiest bastards on earth. No, the one on the other end wasn't going to let him off the hook. And too much was at stake for this to be mishandled at this stage.
"Do not call me a liar," Golitsin pushed back in his most threatening voice. "I am merely telling you what Alex told me. I'll call him again if you insist."
Eugene thought to himself: This guy is trying to jerk me off. He suggested, "Don't bother. Give me the number, I'll call and I'll speak with him."
"He told me he was not to be disturbed. He was very firm on this. No matter what."
"Fine. Why don't I just call the cops?"
"Don't. It would cause a public mess, an embarrassment. Alex would be most upset."
"Then have him call me. Five minutes or I'm on the phone to the locals." Without waiting for a reply, Eugene punched off, checked his watch, and ordered another beer from the buxom young waitress with the comely smile.
Maria was upstairs in the hotel suite, pouting and packing. Sometime during the middle of his sixth beer, Eugene had lost his temper and poured out his resentment on her. She had gotten fired up, replied in kind, and stormed off in a huff, threatening a divorce that would make the last three look like pleasant skirmishes. Vladimir was just getting ready to hand Mrs. Konevitch over to the boys in the back when the clunky satellite phone on his waist began bleating. Every step that would lead to Konevitch's capitulation had been plotted well in advance by Vladimir, personally. He was quite proud of his plan. He intended to let the boys have her as a plaything for an hour, and had encouraged them to do whatever they liked, as long as it produced plenty of screams and was not fatal. Konevitch would be forced to suffer the anguish of blindly listening to her shrieks and howls, knowing his own stubbornness was the cause; then she would be brought back in and tortured before his own eyes.
Vladimir hated to have his work interrupted, but the obnoxious satphone on his waist wouldn't quit. He uttered a loud curse, answered, listened for a moment, then stepped out of the room, away from prying ears, for this conversation.
"No," he told Golitsin in a reproachful tone, "not yet. Just say we're at the critical stage. You're interrupting progress."
"How long?" Golitsin hissed.
"Hard to say. He was really shaken when I told him we wanted everything. He thought it was only money. What a shock. You would've loved the look in his eyes when I told him what this was really about."
Golitsin was indeed very sorry he missed it. "Are we talking hours or minutes?"
Vladimir paused to consider this delicate question. Alex Konevitch had been horribly beaten, branded, and put under mind-crushing stress. With his considerable experience in these matters Vladimir prided himself on knowing his victims and their breaking points. Konevitch was tougher than most-probably too stubborn for his own good. Given five hours Vladimir could break anybody-make them plead and beg and roll over like dogs. That now was out of the question.
Then so be it; time to skip a few steps and accelerate the action. The boys in the back would have to wait their turn; his pretty little wife was about to get her leading role in the drama. Vladimir relished that thought, but her treatment would have to be paced just right. Too fast, and Alex would become enraged and dig in his heels. The emotional line between fury and surrender was brittle, and Vladimir had to calibrate, nudge, and terrorize Konevitch in just the right direction, at just the right speed. Of course he would be angry, initially. He would put up his best front, would threaten and spit and yell profanities. But this was his wife's pain and degradation; ultimately, he would end up desperate, utterly helpless, and would cave in to every demand Vladimir imposed on him.
Yes, it had to be slow and quite horrible.
Then Alex would confront his only real choice: what was left of his wife, or his fortune and companies. "Three hours," Vladimir replied, very firmly. "With luck, two."
Golitsin exploded into the phone, calling Vladimir everything from incompetent to a moron. Vladimir pushed the phone away from his ear and let him vent and fume and spew whatever filthy invective he wanted. For a year now he had had to put up with the old man's abuse and derision. He was sorely tired of it and tried his best to ignore this latest diatribe. How tempted he was to just tell the old man to screw off. He eventually placed the phone back to his ear, smiled to himself, and said, "Maybe you want to come here and do it yourself."
"I don't like your impertinence," Golitsin barked back.
"Nobody ever does." He paused for a moment, then insisted, "Two, maybe three hours."
"That won't do."
"Fine. What will do?"
Golitsin explained the problem in rapid-fire fashion and Vladimir listened. Golitsin eventually asked, "Can you have him call this Eugene man and make up an excuse? He's a dangerous pest. Get rid of him."
"Give me the number," Vladimir confidently replied, then wrote it down. "If Konevitch says one wrong word, his wife dies. You understand the risks, though."
"No, tell me."
"If I have to kill her, we lose an irreplaceable leverage."
"I'm sure you'll find a way without her."
"Right now his mind is on one thing, and one thing only. His own misery. Relieve him of that thought, even for a brief moment, and I might have to start over."
"You mean… beat and torture him again?"
"Almost from the beginning."
"So what's wrong with that?" The straps and belts were quickly unfastened, Alex was helped to sit up, and Katya positioned the cell phone by his ear; her forefinger hovered tensely over the disconnect button. His instructions and options had been explicitly and cruelly explained. "Make this man go away, or else," Vladimir had informed him. To help him comprehend the "or else," Vladimir placed a big knife against Elena's throat, poised on her jugular for a lethal slice.
Eugene answered on the second ring. Struggling to sound apologetic rather than terrified, Alex told him, "It's me, Alex. Sorry I'm late, Eugene. It was unexpected and, believe me, absolutely couldn't be helped."
Eugene replied in a simmering tone, "Check your damn watch, Alex. I've got a briefcase packed with contracts for your signature. In thirty minutes this deal goes through or I'm screwed."
"I understand, Eugene."
"Do you? Then what are you doing about it?"
"There's nothing I can do," Alex replied. "I'm tied up right now," he explained, speaking the unvarnished truth.
"In Budapest?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll come to you."
"No. Even if it were possible, it's not advisable."
"Make it possible, Alex. If this deal collapses I have to pay the partners a penalty of ten million. It was the only way I could get them to pony up. You know this."
"This isn't my call, Eugene. Believe me, I would help if I could."
"My last wife took me for fifty mil, Alex, and my mansion and even my dog. And Maria's upstairs right now scheming and counting how much she can make. I'm desperate here. I can't afford to lose one million right now. Ten will ruin me."
There was a long pause while both men considered their options. Eugene was brilliant and talented, and, like many of his ilk, his skill at business was matched only by his incredible ineptitude at romance. Three ex-wives, with now possibly a fourth in the making. But three already: three hefty alimony payments and seven needy children, four in obscenely expensive private colleges and three in equally rapacious private schools. And there was his own luxurious lifestyle to be considered. Not to mention Maria's, who thought designer clothes grew on trees. Eugene was burning through the cash faster than he could make it-almost faster than the U.S. Treasury could print it. This deal was make or break for him.