bench was a monster, utterly without conscience. Maybe Elena had also been branded. Had she been molested? Tortured?
Raped?
Moscow was filled with Vladimirs these days, murderous scum whose depravity and cruelty knew no limits. In the old days they
were employed by the state as instruments for spreading terror and submission; they were now as much a part of Russia’s free-market
economy as potatoes and vodka. They wouldn’t think twice about punishing a rich man’s wife—they would
enjoy
it, in fact. Alex’s mind filled with the ugly possibilities.
Eventually the door opened and Elena was led in by Katya, dragged along like a dog by a rope tied to her wrists. She was frightened
out of her wits, and looked it. But on the surface, at least, she appeared healthy and unmarked. Then she took one long look
at Alex on the gurney and lost it. She screamed, “You bastards!” at Vladimir and Katya. She yanked on her rope, trying to
break free and move toward her battered husband.
Katya grabbed a large knot of her hair, gave it a hard jerk, and yanked her backward, nearly off her feet. So much for good
cop.
Vladimir stood and moved toward Elena. He placed a gag in her mouth and tied it off behind her head.
“Leave her alone,” Alex protested weakly.
“After I kill you,” Vladimir informed him with cruel nonchalance, “I’ll give her to the boys waiting outside. She’s a very
attractive lady. Imagine how much fun they’ll have with her.”
Eugene, halfway through his seventh beer, took the cell phone call at 4:10. It was Golitsin and he opened in a very reassuring
tone, saying, “Good news, I’ve located Alex.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, and he’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Where is he?”
“Apparently a more critically important meeting came up. He asked me to inform you that he needs to reschedule.”
“Reschedule?”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He suggested tomorrow afternoon. What do you think about tomorrow?”
“Out of the question. He knows that. Are you sure you spoke with Alex?”
“He’s my boss. I believe I know his voice.”
Eugene studied his fingers a moment. This made no sense. If this deal didn’t close by five o’clock, the financing evaporated—by
5:01, there was no deal. Back in New York, a cluster of lawyers and accountants were huddled around a long conference table
on a high floor of a massive tower, waiting impatiently for Eugene’s call. They had been there all night, drinking stale coffee,
munching stale pastries, telling stale jokes, drumming their fingers—and turning surlier with each passing moment.
Three months of sweat and hard work. Three long months of Eugene assuring and reassuring his anxious investors that it was
safe to dive into Russia’s crooked and rigged markets with Alex Konevitch as their guide. It was the Wild, Wild East, perilous
and unruly for sure; but for those audacious few willing to jump in on the ground floor, colossal fortunes were waiting to
be plucked. Three months of lengthy business plans, proposals, risk assessments, long boring briefings, and all the other
tedious twaddle entailed in due diligence had taken place before this deal could be cobbled together.
Three insufferable months of sucking up to some of the biggest egos in New York.
All about to go down the drain. The thought of it was nauseating. This couldn’t be happening. Over three hundred million electronic
dollars were loaded and waiting to be fired into Alex’s vaults. The investors were anxious and mistrustful, their commitments
precarious at best. If one thing went wrong, they had collectively whispered in Eugene’s ear—just one infinitesimally tiny
thing—they would withdraw their dough and never take another call from him.
“I don’t believe Alex told you to reschedule,” Eugene spit into his phone in his best New York accusatory tone. “You’re lying.
I don’t know why, but Alex is well aware this deal closes by
Raped?
Moscow was filled with Vladimirs these days, murderous scum whose depravity and cruelty knew no limits. In the old days they
were employed by the state as instruments for spreading terror and submission; they were now as much a part of Russia’s free-market
economy as potatoes and vodka. They wouldn’t think twice about punishing a rich man’s wife—they would
enjoy
it, in fact. Alex’s mind filled with the ugly possibilities.
Eventually the door opened and Elena was led in by Katya, dragged along like a dog by a rope tied to her wrists. She was frightened
out of her wits, and looked it. But on the surface, at least, she appeared healthy and unmarked. Then she took one long look
at Alex on the gurney and lost it. She screamed, “You bastards!” at Vladimir and Katya. She yanked on her rope, trying to
break free and move toward her battered husband.
Katya grabbed a large knot of her hair, gave it a hard jerk, and yanked her backward, nearly off her feet. So much for good
cop.
Vladimir stood and moved toward Elena. He placed a gag in her mouth and tied it off behind her head.
“Leave her alone,” Alex protested weakly.
“After I kill you,” Vladimir informed him with cruel nonchalance, “I’ll give her to the boys waiting outside. She’s a very
attractive lady. Imagine how much fun they’ll have with her.”
Eugene, halfway through his seventh beer, took the cell phone call at 4:10. It was Golitsin and he opened in a very reassuring
tone, saying, “Good news, I’ve located Alex.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, and he’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Where is he?”
“Apparently a more critically important meeting came up. He asked me to inform you that he needs to reschedule.”
“Reschedule?”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He suggested tomorrow afternoon. What do you think about tomorrow?”
“Out of the question. He knows that. Are you sure you spoke with Alex?”
“He’s my boss. I believe I know his voice.”
Eugene studied his fingers a moment. This made no sense. If this deal didn’t close by five o’clock, the financing evaporated—by
5:01, there was no deal. Back in New York, a cluster of lawyers and accountants were huddled around a long conference table
on a high floor of a massive tower, waiting impatiently for Eugene’s call. They had been there all night, drinking stale coffee,
munching stale pastries, telling stale jokes, drumming their fingers—and turning surlier with each passing moment.
Three months of sweat and hard work. Three long months of Eugene assuring and reassuring his anxious investors that it was
safe to dive into Russia’s crooked and rigged markets with Alex Konevitch as their guide. It was the Wild, Wild East, perilous
and unruly for sure; but for those audacious few willing to jump in on the ground floor, colossal fortunes were waiting to
be plucked. Three months of lengthy business plans, proposals, risk assessments, long boring briefings, and all the other
tedious twaddle entailed in due diligence had taken place before this deal could be cobbled together.
Three insufferable months of sucking up to some of the biggest egos in New York.
All about to go down the drain. The thought of it was nauseating. This couldn’t be happening. Over three hundred million electronic
dollars were loaded and waiting to be fired into Alex’s vaults. The investors were anxious and mistrustful, their commitments
precarious at best. If one thing went wrong, they had collectively whispered in Eugene’s ear—just one infinitesimally tiny
thing—they would withdraw their dough and never take another call from him.
“I don’t believe Alex told you to reschedule,” Eugene spit into his phone in his best New York accusatory tone. “You’re lying.
I don’t know why, but Alex is well aware this deal closes by
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