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
“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
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