"That sounds like a novel concept," Elena noted, obviously wondering about Eugene's marital skills, or sanity.
"So is the car parked in the hotel lot?" Alex asked.
"The side lot. Why?"
"I'd like to borrow it," he said, rubbing the bandage over his eye and looking pained. "Elena and I have had enough taxi rides for the day. And as soon as we're done here we have to return to the hospital pharmacy for painkillers and fresh bandages."
"Of course."
"Also," Alex said, shifting from pained to apologetic, "I seem to have misplaced my wallet. The orderlies undressed me at the hospital to treat my injuries. It must have fallen out of my pocket. Do you happen to have some money I could borrow?"
"How much do you need?"
"I might have to cover the medical bills. How much do you have?"
99 "Two thousand in bills, another thousand in traveler's checks. American dollars, all of it. I exchanged two hundred into Hungarian forints, but Maria left with that."
"Dollars are fine. Two thousand should be enough."
Eugene dug into his pant pocket, withdrew the keys, then a fat wad of hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the table. "About the car, only a strong hind wind will get you over thirty miles an hour, the shocks are nonexistent, springs are popping through the seats, and the windshield wipers flop all over the place." He smiled for a moment. "Other than that, great car."
"Before the wall came down," Alex noted with an ironic shrug, "we all had to place our names on long lists, then wait years for the privilege to buy a Trabant. Some people were smart enough to sign up every year."
"Every year?" Eugene asked.
"Well cared for and driven minimally, that's about how long they lasted."
They lifted their glasses and silently toasted the marvelous new world.
Alex waved for the waitress, the same cute one Eugene had been nakedly admiring all afternoon. When she arrived he spoke in a low rasp that forced her to bend deeply over to hear him. He spoke for about thirty seconds, then slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm-two weeks' salary and tips for her. An enthusiastic nod and she rushed off, beaming.
Alex checked his watch-five more minutes and New York would be calling Eugene. In six, Vladimir and Katya would be blasting away. He fought the temptation to turn around and look at Vladimir and Katya, lifted up another few pages, and pretended to return to his work. "What's he doing now?" Golitsin inquired into Vladimir's satellite phone. Copies of Alex's resignation letter and the appending contract relinquishing his properties had been faxed by the lawyer and now were stacked in a tidy pile on his desk. They sat there, less than two feet away. Close enough to where he could reach out and caress them. He had read and reread them six times. He could barely keep his hands off them.
A courier on a night flight from Budapest was en route with a chain around his wrist attaching him to a briefcase containing the legally vital originals. Just scrawl his name onto those originals, designate himself as the handpicked successor to Alex's empire, and voila-he, Sergei Golitsin, controlled 350 million dollars. Possibly more.
Years of plotting and scheming and putting the pieces together were about to pay off. A few drops of ink and he would be one of the ten richest men in Russia; but throw in another three hundred million in New York moolah, and, well… he might be the richest. In the new Russia, cash was king. He was about to be seated on a mountainous throne of cash.
"He's still reading the contract," Vladimir eventually answered in a tone saturated with annoyance. He was so tired of being checked up on. "His wife and the American banker are talking."
"Talking about what?"
"Who knows? Who cares?"
"Can't you hear what they're saying?"
"No."
After a brief pause meant to expose the seriousness of his concern, Golitsin asked very quietly, "Why can't you?"
"Because," Vladimir replied testily, "we're seated in the middle of the room, at a vantage where we can keep them from escaping."
"Maybe Konevitch and the banker are planning their escape."
"Possibly they are. So what?"
"I'll tell you so what. Hundreds of millions of dollars disappear with them, you idiot."
"Two men are positioned by the exit to the restaurant. Two more by the exit to the hotel. That's three layers of security they would have to make it past. Also I have the Konevitches' passports, and their wallets, and he's nearly crippled. I'm telling you, he's not going anywhere."
Silence.
Vladimir rolled his eyes. "No matter what they try, he's dead."
Golitsin let more silence register his disapproval.
After a long moment, Vladimir said, "I gave him twenty-five minutes to produce the signed contracts or I start shooting. That was twenty-two minutes ago. I think I can keep him from escaping within the next three minutes."
"I still don't like it."
Vladimir could almost see the condescending scowl on Golitsin's face. So far he, Vladimir, had taken all the risks and done every bit of the dirty work. Plotting and overseeing the murder of Alex's executives, the kidnapping, the torture, obtaining the invaluable signatures-his handiwork, all accomplished without a glitch. He was quite proud of it. He had made Golitsin a very, very rich man. Was there even a halfhearted grumble of thanks? How about: Good job, Vladimir my boy, you really pulled this one off?
But more than anything, Vladimir despised being second-guessed and scolded by this deskbound lizard. The old boy hadn't been in smelling distance of real fieldwork in decades. And here he was, sticking his big nose into everything
Then again, Golitsin had promised him a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars, U.S., the instant this job was finished, three hundred if they bagged an additional 300 million of New York dough. A year of lurking in the shadows, of watching and killing-the money was so close he could smell it. No way would he give Golitsin an excuse to snatch it away. Yes, he was tired of being lectured and reprimanded, of having to endure the old man's biting insults, but in a few more hours, he reminded himself, it would be over. A few more hours and he would take his money, and then tell the old man exactly where to stuff it.
He fought the impulse to say, "Shut up and mind your own business," and instead meekly said, "Don't worry, boss. Less than three minutes. We're fifty feet away, watching his every move."
"You're an overconfident idiot. Don't mess this up." With slightly more than two minutes left before the deadline expired, the lights suddenly went out in the restaurant. Like that, the room was pitched into darkness.
Nearly simultaneously, the kitchen door flew open and out marched a long line of waiters and waitresses, one after another, ten in all. The cute waitress with the impressive bosom headed the procession, proudly hauling a chocolate cake with ten lit birthday candles. The marching line was loudly slaughtering "Happy Birthday," in English polluted by thick Hungarian accents, and moving at a fast clip directly toward the table in the center of the room. Then they came to an abrupt stop, positioning themselves directly between Vladimir, Katya, and the table by the window where Alex and Elena were seated with Eugene.
The moment the throng was in place, stamping their feet and singing in a brash routine imported from an American restaurant chain, Alex leaped up from his chair, lifted the empty chair beside him, and hurled it with as much force as he could muster directly at the big picture window ten feet away. He had rehearsed this throw over and over in his mind. Over and over he told himself, ignore the pain from his dislocated shoulder, forget the severe burn on his chest. No matter how agonizing, put everything he had into this one chance. There wouldn't be another.