Authors: Brian Haig
The construction business was an unfolding disaster. Without Alex’s name on the letterhead, no new contracts had come in.
Nor, after the latest stumble, were they likely to. A huge high-rise under construction on the outer ring had collapsed in
a spectacular heap. Ten workers crushed to death, twenty more in the hospital. The cause was an incredible decision by another
of the twits to use less expensive wood beams in place of the thick metal ones clearly stipulated by the now enraged architects.
Tatyana managed to pull a few strings and have the investigation squelched. The damage was done, though. Half the construction
workforce quit on the spot; the other half were making ugly sounds about a strike.
Another twit, this one in charge of the bank, ignored the growing spread between government bonds and interest rates. A small,
momentary blip on a computer screen and, like that, a hundred million, gone. Amazing.
The list of problems was endless, horrible, and growing. The car importing company shipped five hundred Mercedes sedans to
the wrong cities, then hiked up the prices so high that the inventory was rusting on the lots. The hundred Mercedes convertibles
that ended up in Yakutsk, a frigid penal colony near the Arctic Circle, were going to be a bitch to move at any price. The
complicated computer program confused him, that twit whined afterward. And another idiot, this one in the arbitrage business,
had purchased two thousand tons of the most expensive iron ore in history. He misread the code, thought it was silver at a
great price, he insisted after he annihilated any possibility of the arbitrage business having a profitable year.
Another few months at this hideous pace and there’d be nothing left.
As per the original deal, Tatyana was a partner in Golitsin Enterprises—a hidden partner, of course—and she was quietly seething.
From the beginning Golitsin had demanded Konevitch’s cash for himself. His idea, his brilliant plan, his inspirational leadership;
the instant gratification was rightfully his, every bit of it, he insisted. She had neither objected nor debated that point—she
hadn’t seen a reason to—and now she sorely regretted it. Looking back, it seemed so naïve. Stupid. But by any reasonable measure,
at the time her take was around fifty million in stock in companies that were wildly flourishing and threatening to double
or triple in a few brief years. At the time, that struck her as ample restitution for her part in the heist.
She doubted she could unload her shares now at any price. The smart money had already sprinted out of the banks; even the
dumb money was pawing the exits. Lawsuits were piling up over shoddy workmanship, false promises, missed deliveries, slipped
deadlines, and of course the furiously grieving families of the people slaughtered by that fly-by-night excuse for an airline
booked by Golitsin’s twits. Who knew what awful disaster would happen next? She had no legal friends, but plenty of attorney
acquaintances, all of whom were eyeing Golitsin Enterprises with considerable intensity. They were salivating to get a piece
of the action.
But Tatyana was a realist. Nothing she could say would change things. Golitsin, for all his brilliance and canniness, had
no interest or talent for commerce. And his thugs had as much business running a company as three-year-olds playing with nuclear
warheads. Tugging fingernails out of helpless prisoners was one thing; squeezing profit out of finicky customers quite another.
“I contacted Konevitch,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“You
what
?”
She bent forward. “You heard me, Sergei. Konevitch. I dispatched an officer of the Security Ministry to make him an offer.”
“You must have a death wish. You have no business free-lancing.”
“Well… then forgive me. I’m looking out for both our interests.” Even she couldn’t make that sound authentic. Golitsin’s face
reddened, his eyes narrowed into angry slits.
“Answer me this, Sergei. How much interest are you getting from the bank where the money is stashed?”
“None of your business.”
“It won’t hurt to tell me. How much?”
“It’s a big pile of money. A mountain, really. A little interest goes a long way.”
“If it’s a Swiss bank, about one percent, am I right?”
“Around there,” he snarled—not that one percent of 250 million was anything to be ashamed of. Besides, one didn’t go to the
Swiss for the interest.
“What if Konevitch could double it every few years? He’s a genius. It will be easy to build in a few safeguards. He’ll never
actually touch the money. For a small share in the profits we’ll be buying his golden touch.”
“Not interested.”
“Why aren’t you? Because you’re making a fortune from Golitsin Enterprises?” she asked with a constricted smile.
Since it was a privately owned company there was no financial reporting or formalized information flowing to the shareholders.
He briefly wondered how much she knew. Too much, judging by the shrewd tone of her voice. He pulled a long sip of scotch,
then admitted, “There have been a few small setbacks.”
“Does Nicky know yet?” she asked, thrusting the knife a little deeper. “He’s also a partner, last time I checked.”
Golitsin flicked a hand through the air as if it didn’t bother him in the least. He wasn’t happy that she brought it up, though.
Nicky definitely was not the sort of partner you wanted to disappoint with bad news. “What’s your point?” he asked nastily.
“Two points. One, Konevitch is very good at making money,” she said, and the insinuation was clear and painful—Golitsin and
his band of fools would alchemize gold into Silly Putty. “Two, if we employ him,” she continued, “we own him. He won’t run
and tattle, because it won’t be in his interest. And he’ll be a co-conspirator.”
“Where is he?”
“New York City.”
“A big place. Where in New York?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
He knew she was lying. Her lips were moving, so of course she was lying. “If you don’t know, how did you reach him?”
“Why does it matter? Are you in or out?”
“What do you get out of it?”
“A reasonable share of the profits. Nothing exorbitant, say thirty percent. It’s my idea, after all.”
Golitsin knew damn well what she was up to. She wanted to get her fingers on the money, the cash. His millions. She would
set up this arrangement with Konevitch, then figure out a scheme to rob him blind.
Well, he knew damn well what he wanted, too. More than ever, more than anything, he wanted that boy dead. Just dead. That
he was running Konevitch’s companies into the ground—he was too painfully aware of the snickers and rumors roaring around
the city—only made him detest the man all the more.
He sat back, drew a few heavy breaths, and struggled to clear his brain. Maybe killing him was the wrong approach. Maybe he
was being impetuous and shortsighted. In fact, enlisting Konevitch in this scheme might be a great idea. It felt better by
the moment—let the genius double or triple his money, get the boy’s fingers nice and dirty, and if Konevitch made one wrong
move, then find a way to blow the whistle and humiliate him once again. Why not?
He could always kill him.
He asked, innocently enough, but without commitment, “And how did he sound about the offer?”
“Interested. He made a few demands. Don’t worry, I’ll grind him down.”
“All right,” he growled, playing at phony reluctance. “Go ahead. Make the deal. See where it goes.”
Early October 1993
M
idnight, and Elena was lying awake, improving her English by watching an old American western. The tense gunfight was interrupted,
midshot, by a tedious toothpaste commercial, so she casually flipped over to CNN for a quick peek at what was happening around
the world, late-night. They were back in their suite in the Plaza, counting the days and waiting for whoever sent Volevodz
to call.
She reached across the bed and shook her husband awake. “Alex, look what’s happening,” she said, almost yelling, aiming a
finger at the flickering tube across the room.
Alex sat up and stretched, glanced briefly at the tube, and froze. At that instant, a line of tanks was pouring salvo after
salvo at the Russian White House, Russia’s rather less than elegant equivalent of a parliamentary building. The top floors
burned brightly. Fresh shells were striking the sides of the building, sending showers of shattered glass and debris that
bounced off the concrete apron.
An unseen male correspondent was providing commentary in a hurried, theatrical voice: “The Supreme Soviet, as the Russian
Congress is still known, a week ago voted to impeach Boris Yeltsin and replace him with his hard-line vice president, Aleksandr
Rutskoi. A few hours ago, in this very building, Rutskoi signed a decree announcing his own presidency. The fencing that has
gone back and forth for months, the largely communist and right-wing deputies voting first to emasculate Yeltsin’s reforms
and power, and now to replace him, has finally erupted in violence. The past week there have been scattered skirmishes around
the capital. Now there are two presidents of Russia. And now… the fate of democracy hangs in the balance.”
Elena reached for the phone, called room service, and ordered two pots of coffee, with a fresh pot to be delivered every hour
until she notified them otherwise. The drama, with overheated updates, unfolded throughout the night. Alex and Elena never
budged. They sipped coffee, munched toast, spoke little, and watched in fascination. The troops surrounding the White House
were part of the Ministry of Security. The trigger-happy tanks were courtesy of the army.
Inside the building, Vice President Rutskoi and a band of mutinous deputies, as well as a large clutch of armed thugs, were
making their last stand. For the second time in two years, Russia’s future hung over a bitter standoff at this same building.
This time, though, the roles were reversed. Instead of Yeltsin flipping the bird at the old boys in the Kremlin, he was the
one being flipped, the one who dispatched the tanks to flatten his opposition.
At seven the next morning the television showed Rutskoi and his humbled lieutenants waving a desultory white flag and scurrying
from the still burning building. They were quickly slapped in handcuffs, forced into waiting vans, and driven off to prison.
The American president immediately issued a statement lauding a great victory of democracy, and a painful but desperately
necessary move by his dear, dear friend Boris.
The screen quickly filled with talking heads who, as so often was the case, proceeded with silky conviction and utter certitude
to get it all incredibly wrong. One graying authority in oversized horn-rimmed glasses made an analogy to Hitler’s failed
putsch in Munich. Another crowed that Yeltsin was the Lincoln of this era, a decisive, principled man who had locked horns
with the devil and kicked his butt. Russia was saved, democracy triumphed, Yeltsin the hero of the hour, was the common refrain
across network world.
Alex watched it all in sheer disgust. “They have no idea what they’ve just seen,” he whispered to Elena, who was nibbling
on a piece of cold toast.
“No, they’re idiots,” she agreed between bites.
“You saw who saved Yeltsin?”
“The Security people and the army.”
“Yes, all former KGB people. You know what this means? Yeltsin cut a deal with them.”
“How much trouble are we in?” Elena asked, though she knew the answer.
“A lot. This is the end of our Russian experiment in democracy. From here on, the old boys will take back what Yeltsin took
from them, and there’s nothing to stop them. The people who stole our money now have no fear. Even if I got through to Yeltsin,
he’s in their pocket. ”
“He won’t lift a finger to help. He sold his soul,” Elena said, finishing the thought.
The call came a full two days later. The voice was a woman’s, Anna, throaty and sultry, no last name.
Alex cut off her attempt at pleasantries and opened the bidding. “You heard my requirements?”
“Volevodz explained everything.”
“Good. What’s your answer?”
“Thirty percent might be a reasonable compensation, but it will be structured differently. I’ll draw up a contract that pegs
your take a little more precisely.” And along the way, I’ll whack off as many points as I can get away with and add them to
my own total, she thought, but didn’t explain.
“I won’t commit until I see the details,” Alex told her very quickly.
“That’s understandable. But forget the five million bonus. Out of the question.”
“I considered it a reasonable request. Of course, I have no idea how big the base is. Volevodz mentioned several hundred million.”
“So you were for shooting for the stars. I don’t blame you. But let’s say it’s in the several hundred million range now. It
will be more in the future, considerably more. Down the road, based on your performance, we can talk about a structured bonus.
Not until we see how good you are.”
“Who are you?” Alex asked.
Anna, actually Tatyana, laughed playfully. “Alex, you’re smarter than that.”
Yes, he was. Also a painfully good listener. She was playing it close to the vest, but she had already made one serious slip—“I’ll
draw up a contract.” Alex took a moment and added it up. Female by sex, Anna obviously an imaginary name, a lawyer most certainly,
from her voice late twenties, early thirties at the outside, and Alex guessed she probably worked in the Kremlin or held a
senior government position of some sort. Also arrogant and pushy and sly—of course, that could fit almost any lawyer. From
her tone of smug self-assurance, Alex suspected she was very pretty, possibly beautiful.
“Explain how this is supposed to work,” Alex asked. “Obviously you have no intention of assigning me direct control over the
money.”
“Good guess. You’ll work through a team of accountants and brokers who report to me. You tell them what you’d like to do,
they inform me, not a penny gets moved until I approve it. You’ll receive daily updates from them. Satisfactory?”