five or it never closes.”
A long silence followed while Golitsin recognized he had clumsily misplayed his hand. This pushy American on the other end
was proving to be a big problem. If he alerted the Budapest police about the mysterious disappearance of Alex Konevitch, this
whole operation could come unglued. There was the dead bodyguard at the airport to be factored in. The locals had already
initiated an investigation, Golitsin had been informed by his well-placed sources. But the Hungarians had no idea of its relevance.
And corpses don’t complain or become impatient.
Once they learned, though, that Alex had disappeared from Ferihegy Airport at around the same time as the murder, they might
put two and two together.
Alex was a rich, seriously important man, a celebrity back home, a big-time FOB—Friend of Boris. For sure, the Hungarians
would not welcome the diplomatic noise and ugly publicity his disappearance would almost certainly ignite. A citywide manhunt
would undoubtedly be initiated. The police would scour the airport for any witnesses who might have noticed anything. The
Konevitches were an attractive couple and quite noticeable. Who knew what the cops might turn up?
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
A long silence followed while Golitsin recognized he had clumsily misplayed his hand. This pushy American on the other end
was proving to be a big problem. If he alerted the Budapest police about the mysterious disappearance of Alex Konevitch, this
whole operation could come unglued. There was the dead bodyguard at the airport to be factored in. The locals had already
initiated an investigation, Golitsin had been informed by his well-placed sources. But the Hungarians had no idea of its relevance.
And corpses don’t complain or become impatient.
Once they learned, though, that Alex had disappeared from Ferihegy Airport at around the same time as the murder, they might
put two and two together.
Alex was a rich, seriously important man, a celebrity back home, a big-time FOB—Friend of Boris. For sure, the Hungarians
would not welcome the diplomatic noise and ugly publicity his disappearance would almost certainly ignite. A citywide manhunt
would undoubtedly be initiated. The police would scour the airport for any witnesses who might have noticed anything. The
Konevitches were an attractive couple and quite noticeable. Who knew what the cops might turn up?
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
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