Authors: Brian Haig
When it got out—with more than a little assistance from Maria, he only belatedly and after the fact realized—Wife Three stomped
off into the sunset with a fifty million settlement and that big, ostentatious mansion in the Hamptons to quell her hurt pride.
Word was she now had a shiny new red Rolls and a good-looking cabana boy to help her through the emotional relapses.
The house and money had been bad enough. What Eugene most sorely regretted was losing the one really capable secretary he
ever had. Maria was pushy, curt, and anal, keeping him organized and punctual, and cleaning up behind him—qualities that now
made her insufferable as a wife.
And now that she was bound to his money by a marriage license, any pretense of pleasantry had worn off. Even the sex had turned
infrequent and limp.
He whipped out his cell and punched the preset for Alex’s office in Moscow. The call went straight through to Alex’s warm
and efficient secretary, Sonja, who picked up on the second ring. Eugene and Alex had done a few very profitable deals together,
he lining up American backers and bringing in the American greenbacks, while Alex plowed them into Russian enterprises that
minted gold. Though he and Alex’s secretary had never met face-to-face, Sonja never forgot a voice. She called him Mr. Daniels
before he finished hello.
Eugene quickly explained his problem—Alex had scheduled a meeting with him, here, in the restaurant of the Aquincum Hotel
for two hours before. “I know that,” replied Sonja, who instantly turned equally perplexed and talkative. Alex was never tardy,
she replied with considerable pride. Yes, she had made the travel arrangements herself, and no, Alex had not contacted her
regarding delays or problems. They quickly exhausted the possibilities, and she eventually transferred Eugene to Alex’s head
of security, a former KGB general named Sergei Golitsin.
“What may I do for you?” Golitsin asked in heavily accented, stilted English.
Eugene slammed down his beer and came directly to the point. “Have you heard from Alex?”
“No.”
“He’s over two hours late for a meeting.”
“Two hours?” he asked, only mildly interested.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“So what?”
“Alex is never late. That’s the
what
.”
“So maybe he makes an exception this time.”
“Maybe he did. But wouldn’t you know if he was diverted, or missed his flight, or had a car accident? Maybe he fell down a
rabbit hole.”
“Probably not.”
“But shouldn’t you
know
?”
“No, I should not. At Mr. Konevitch’s insistence he employs an outside security company for foreign travel. I have strongly
advised him against this dangerous practice many, many times. Outside Mother Russia, his itinerary and security… well, they
are out of my hands.”
Eugene was dismayed by the too-bored-who-gives-a-damn tone at the other end of the line. If this guy was his chief of security,
he thought, Alex better invest in plenty of body armor. He tried to swallow his exasperation and said, “Look, Alex and Elena
are supposed to meet me here for a late lunch to discuss a pressing business deal. This deal has to close by tonight. Millions
might be lost.”
“I believe this is your problem.”
“According to your job title, Alex’s personal security is your problem.”
“No,” Golitsin replied with a nasty laugh, “that is Konevitch’s problem.”
“Can’t you at least call the outside firm that handles Alex’s security? Better yet, give me the number. I’ll call.”
“This is inside confidential information that cannot be divulged.”
“All right, fine. Surely you won’t mind if I call the local police and report Alex’s disappearance.”
The general’s voice suddenly changed from a gruff blow-off to conciliatory. “No… there is no need to do that. Let me handle
this.”
“I don’t think I trust you to handle it.”
“I will. Give me your number. I will call the moment I have something.”
“Call me even if you don’t. I’ve got twenty million riding, my own cash, and four greedy partners who are throwing in another
seventy mil each.” He glanced at his watch. “If the deal’s not going through, I’ll have to cancel the bank order by five at
the latest.”
“Yes… of course.”
Eugene gave him his number and the line went dead.
They let him rest for an hour after the branding was finished. A large industrial fan had been brought in and locked into
high gear to push out the stench of roasted flesh. The iron had been pressed down hard enough that the best plastic surgeon
in the world could not totally eliminate or disguise Vladimir’s handiwork. Alex would spend the rest of his life tattooed
with the symbol he had done so much to destroy.
At exactly 4:05, Vladimir and Katya reentered the room, herding a harried-looking doctor and a plump, greasy-haired lawyer
who reputedly specialized in the rapidly changing Russian business legal codes. Vladimir and Katya stood and waited with indifferent
expressions at the end of the gurney. The doctor checked Alex’s pulse and monitored his breathing, then spent a while poking
and prodding various body parts.
Eventually the doctor looked up and in high native Russian informed Vladimir, “Pulse count’s a little high, no doubt the result
of the trauma and fear. At least two ribs are broken and there’s a terrible contusion on his leg. Without an X-ray I can’t
determine if it’s broken.”
The room was unheated and cold, and as nightfall moved in was becoming colder by the minute. Naked but for his underpants,
Alex’s teeth were chattering. His arms and legs would’ve been shivering except for the tight restraints. The doctor glanced
again at the broken, bleeding body on the gurney, then, after wasting a horrified grimace at Vladimir, scuttled swiftly from
the room.
Vladimir and Katya pulled over a long wooden bench and sat beside Alex. They had agreed beforehand they would play out their
best imitation of the old good-cop/bad-cop routine.
Vladimir had already done a thoroughly credible job of establishing his credentials as the bad cop. Acting good wasn’t exactly
Katya’s strong suit, either; as long as she sat beside Vladimir, though, she’d look like an angel. Vladimir slowly lit a foul-smelling
French cigarette, exhaled loudly, and in his most blasé tone said to Alex, “You’re probably wondering what this is about.”
After toying with the idea of answering him, Alex decided against it. Finally they were getting down to business. They had
beaten him to a pulp, branded him, had nearly killed him—at last they were going to tell him how much it would cost not to
finish the job.
No use beating around the bush, and Vladimir in a commanding voice came right out with it. “You’re going to sign over your
money and businesses to us.”
“What?” Alex was sure he hadn’t heard right. A demand for money had been expected. In fact, given the scale of this operation
and the brutal professionalism of his kidnappers, Alex had fully anticipated the initial demand to be huge: in all likelihood
preposterous. They would threaten and insist, he would tell them whom to talk with, then the negotiations would begin in earnest.
Eventually, the ransom experts at Alex’s expensive English security firm would be brought into the game, there would be some
haggling, a little give, a little take, threats and counterthreats, but sooner or later a reasonable price would be agreed
upon and promptly paid. But sign over his businesses? Ludicrous.
These people were either stupid or crazy. Or both.
“You heard right,” Vladimir insisted, very calmly, very seriously. He stood, bent over, and lowered his face within twelve
inches of Alex’s eyes. “It’s simple. You sign a letter we’ve already prepared. Nothing fancy—you’re tired, worn out, and frustrated
from the crushing work and responsibilities. Then you sign a simple contract with a blank space for the name of the person
we will designate as your successor. You don’t touch that—we will later. All you do is sign the bottom of the page.”
“That simple?”
“Yes, that’s it. My lawyer friend here will notarize it, and you and your wife are free to go.” The shyster stood quietly
in the corner, and he nodded and smiled energetically, so damned pleased to be of service to both parties.
“And if I say no?” Alex asked.
“Then you and your wife are dead. Think about it. You lose your businesses either way.”
Katya butted in and, taking her best stab at playing the good cop, informed him, “Vladimir will happily kill you and your
wife. Believe me, he’ll enjoy it. Don’t be stupid, don’t give him the excuse.”
Alex took a long look at the dark ceiling. So this was what it was all about. His money
and
his businesses and his properties, the works—the greedy bastards were demanding everything he’d spent six years creating
and building. He drew a heavy breath and, as firmly as he could, insisted, “Money you can have. Plenty of it, enough to live
happily ever after. But no, you can’t have my businesses.”
Vladimir had expected this, in fact was fully prepared for it. He smiled and then turned around and looked at Katya. “Get
the wife,” he told her.
Katya rushed off. Vladimir sat back down on the wood bench and blew lazy smoke rings while Alex pondered his options. At least
now he knew what they wanted. But what would they do to Elena? Had they already harmed her? He had been unconscious for a
while and his imagination began playing with all the horrible things they might already have done during that interlude. The
man on the 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 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.