An unspoken signal passed, Vladimir removed the knife from Elena's throat, stepped out of the room, flipped open his clunky satphone, and dialed Golitsin.
"Why are you calling?" Golitsin asked with a ring of hope in his voice. "Is it done? Did he sign over the properties?"
"No. And now there is a new glitch," Vladimir replied, then quickly recounted the problem.
The moment he finished, Golitsin asked, "Is he telling the truth?"
"How would I know? The lawyer says it makes sense. Capitalists don't trust each other. What's new?"
Vladimir stopped talking and allowed this to sink in. He had done the smart thing, he decided; he had booted the problem upstairs. They would get only one chance at this, one shot at becoming unimaginably rich; just one shot at the biggest heist in Russian history. And Golitsin had done excruciating planning for every eventuality, had plotted and surmised and second-guessed every conceivable scenario-except this.
Golitsin knew what Vladimir was doing. But he wasn't at all sure what Konevitch was up to. Was this a trick? Did Konevitch have something up his sleeve?
On the other hand, another cool three hundred million in cash was there for the taking. Three hundred million!
Golitsin rolled that delicious number around his head. He spent a long moment relishing the new possibilities. In one swift swoop the overall take would nearly double. Better yet, this was cold cash, fluid money available for spending on fast cars, big homes, a sumptuous yacht, even a private jet-whatever his heart desired.
And the idea of ripping off a horde of greedy New Yorkers appealed to him mightily. He could hear their anguished howls when they learned their money was gone, stolen. Suddenly he could think of little else.
Eventually Golitsin said what needed to be said. "Take him to the hotel. And make sure he signs the contract." He thought about the extra three hundred million, and with palpable excitement added, "This is better. Much better. I can badly use that much cash."
"Yes, couldn't we all."
Golitsin didn't like the message but he absorbed it. "Pull this off, it will also mean another two hundred thousand for you. How many people do you and Katya have available?"
"Eight here, more than enough."
"He's a financial genius," Golitsin reasoned, as much to his listener as himself. "But he can't spell escape and evasion. A complete amateur."
"He doesn't worry me," Vladimir replied, bubbling with confidence. "Nabbing him was child's play. Besides, after his beating, he can barely walk."
"Still, if he does one thing wrong… if he even looks suspicious, kill the wife." The doctor was rushed back into the room to hastily clean up Alex and make him presentable for the rich boy from New York. A relative term, of course-though Vladimir's blows had mostly been spent on Alex's body, there was a nasty open gash on his forehead, a broken nose, various welts, and some ugly swelling on his face. Six swiftly applied butterfly sutures took care of the nasty gash and a bandage was slapped on to hide it. The other wounds were wiped with medicinal alcohol and, where necessary, also bandaged. "Tell him you were in a car accident," Katya ordered Alex, again proving she was the smart one, the one to be watched. "You've been in the hospital getting checked out."
"All right."
Vladimir leaned in close and warned, "We'll be in the restaurant watching, close and personal. One false move… if I just become slightly bothered by the look in your eyes, your pretty wife dies."
"But if I sign the contract and everything goes fine, Elena and I will live. We're free to go. Right?"
"Yes, that's the deal," Vladimir said, dripping phony sincerity.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" asked Alex. Of course, they were lying. They would take his money, his companies, his homes and cars, then kill the both of them.
"What choice do you have?"
The doctor was slathering a gooey yellow ointment on Alex's chest, a light analgesic. The burn went deep and covered nearly his whole upper left chest. It was raw, already blistering. It would be days before the wound scabbed over and the open nerve tissue was protected. Once they put a shirt on Alex, the material would rub and the pain would be serious. The doctor ordered Alex, "Stand up. Let's see if your leg works."
Alex slowly pushed himself off the gurney. He emitted a sharp yelp as he moved his dislocated left shoulder and stretched the tender skin around the burn. He put his left foot down on the hard floor, followed, more gingerly, by his right. A spike of pain from his right leg, where Vladimir had pounded it with a wooden chair, shot like a thousand-volt current instantly to his brain. A strangled gasp and he nearly collapsed. He would've collapsed except he focused on one overriding thought, one unyielding imperative: there would be no second chance, no do-overs. This was it. Get through it, whatever it took. Swallow the pain, don't let this opportunity slip away, he repeated to himself, over and over.
A man hauled in Alex's overnight bag, unzipped it, withdrew the spare fresh shirt and suit Alex had packed, and lazily tossed them on the gurney. "Get dressed," Vladimir ordered. "Hurry."
The doctor handed Alex a fistful of ibuprofen along with a bottled water, then instructed Alex to swallow them, all of them. Vladimir informed Alex, "Your wife will stay in the car in front of the hotel. She's our insurance. If I give the word, the boys will give her a Bulgarian necktie. Know what that is?"
Alex shook his head. It didn't sound pleasant.
Vladimir answered with a wicked laugh, "They'll slice her throat open and pull her tongue through the hole."
"That would be a big mistake," Alex said, swallowing his anger and carefully slipping a white dress shirt over his damaged shoulder. "I mean separating us. She has to be with me."
"Do you think we're stupid?" Katya asked.
Yes, he most certainly did. Stupid, crude, and impossibly cruel. But also, as he had just learned, afraid to make a move without instructions from their boss, who presumably was back in Moscow. But instead of saying that, Alex replied, "No, you're obviously quite smart. You're overlooking something, though."
"Are we?" Vladimir snarled.
"Think about it. Eugene's expecting Elena to accompany me. If I walk in, looking like I look-without Elena-he'll know something's wrong."
"So what?"
"A legally binding contract depends on both parties being of sound mind and operating of their own free will. People don't get rich being sloppy or stupid. And Eugene is a very, very shrewd and rich man. A flawed contract is worthless. If he suspects I'm under duress, or that something's not right, he'll balk." Alex looked pointedly at Katya, the good cop. "Three hundred million dollars will go out the door with him."
"Just tell him she was also injured and still in the hospital," said the lawyer, deciding to throw in his two cents. Suddenly, he was Mr. Big Shot, brimming with brilliance.
"What an idiotic suggestion," Alex said with a withering stare in the direction of the shyster. "I'd leave Elena seriously injured, in a hospital, just to attend to a business deal?"
"Sure," Vladimir replied, totally clueless. Why not? What husband wouldn't neglect his wife for money? "I don't see the problem."
"Because he'll know I'm lying. And he'll naturally ask why I didn't just invite him to join me at the hospital to sign these contracts."
They were all looking at one another. Nobody liked this idea. Really, though, what difference did it make? On second thought, it might in fact be even better. Just as easy to grease her in the restaurant as carve her throat in a car idling outside: it simplified things, really. With only eight gunmen, far easier to keep an eye on the couple together than split up.
Besides, with his beloved wife beside him, Konevitch would remember exactly what was at stake in the event he was tempted to try any funny business. Reminders were always helpful.