Mrs. Konevitch were walking briskly through the lobby, straight for the taxi stand outside. The tail team followed
at a safe distance, hobbling and creaking with every step.
At the taxi stand, three people were already lined up ahead of the Konevitches—a hatchet-faced lady struggling with her oversized
luggage, and two faces the tails instantly recognized, Vladimir and Katya.
Vladimir was the boss of the arrival-and-reception team, a man they all thoroughly feared and deeply loathed. Katya, like
the rest of them, was vicious, cold-blooded, and unemotional, a veteran killer with a long and enviable list of hits—but always
just business. Vladimir was a sadistic bastard with freakish appetites. He would’ve done this work for free; paid to do it,
probably. Even the toughest killers in the unit felt a wash of pity for his victims.
The tail team from the airplane backed off, ignoring the Konevitches and redirecting their attention to trying to spot the
private bodyguards. They had memorized as many faces from their flight as they could. Now they separated from each other,
about twenty yards apart, stopped, pretended to fumble with their luggage, and watched for familiar faces.
The call came in at 2:37 p.m. and the secretary put it right through.
Sergei Golitsin checked his watch, right on time. He lifted the phone and barked, “Well?”
“Good news, they’re here,” the voice informed him. “Everything’s under control.”
“So you have them?”
“No, not yet. They’re at the taxi stand two feet from Vladimir and Katya. Everything’s on schedule, everything’s in place.
I’ll call you in a few minutes when we do.”
“Don’t mess this up.” Golitsin snorted.
“Relax. We won’t.”
There was a long pause. Golitsin, with barely suppressed excitement, asked, “Are the communications set up?”
“They are. The listening devices are state of the art. You’ll get a crystal-clear feed into the phone lines and through your
speakerphone. I tested it with your secretary an hour ago. Everything’s fine.” After a pause, the voice added, “Vladimir’s
going to handle this. It’s going to be loud and ugly.”
“It better be.” Golitsin closed his eyes and smiled. “I want to hear every sound.”
3
T he old lady at the front of the line shoved two bags at a cabbie and crawled painfully into a blue BMW with TAXI splashed in bold letters across the side.
The couple directly in front of Alex and Elena stepped forward, and a black Mercedes sedan that had been idling by the far
curb suddenly swerved in front of the other taxis and screeched to a noisy halt half a foot from the taxi stop. Vladimir,
wearing the garb and collar of a Catholic priest, made a fast survey of the surroundings, then quickly threw open the rear
door. The same instant, Katya, dressed as a nun, pushed out an ugly black pistol hidden inside the folds of her baggy sleeve
and pointed it in Alex’s face.
Her partner turned around. Coldly and in Russian he said to Alex, “It’s a simple choice. Get into the car or die right here
and right now.”
Alex looked into his eyes. He had not the slightest doubt he meant every word. After a moment, he said, “Fine, I’ll go. This
young lady, however, you will leave alone. I don’t know her. She’s not with me.”
“Don’t be stupid, Konevitch. Katya will kill you, or your wife, or both of you. Doesn’t matter to us.”
Alex’s face froze. His
name
. The man had used his name, and he
knew
Elena was his wife. For three years he had prepared himself for a moment like this. Dreamed about it. Dreaded it. Now it
was actually happening, and he couldn’t think or react.
Vladimir’s thick hands shot out and grabbed Elena by the neck. He spun her around like a puppet; one hand slipped under her
chin, the other against the back of her head. Elena squirmed and fought at first, but Vladimir was too large and strong. He
tightened his grip, and she
at a safe distance, hobbling and creaking with every step.
At the taxi stand, three people were already lined up ahead of the Konevitches—a hatchet-faced lady struggling with her oversized
luggage, and two faces the tails instantly recognized, Vladimir and Katya.
Vladimir was the boss of the arrival-and-reception team, a man they all thoroughly feared and deeply loathed. Katya, like
the rest of them, was vicious, cold-blooded, and unemotional, a veteran killer with a long and enviable list of hits—but always
just business. Vladimir was a sadistic bastard with freakish appetites. He would’ve done this work for free; paid to do it,
probably. Even the toughest killers in the unit felt a wash of pity for his victims.
The tail team from the airplane backed off, ignoring the Konevitches and redirecting their attention to trying to spot the
private bodyguards. They had memorized as many faces from their flight as they could. Now they separated from each other,
about twenty yards apart, stopped, pretended to fumble with their luggage, and watched for familiar faces.
The call came in at 2:37 p.m. and the secretary put it right through.
Sergei Golitsin checked his watch, right on time. He lifted the phone and barked, “Well?”
“Good news, they’re here,” the voice informed him. “Everything’s under control.”
“So you have them?”
“No, not yet. They’re at the taxi stand two feet from Vladimir and Katya. Everything’s on schedule, everything’s in place.
I’ll call you in a few minutes when we do.”
“Don’t mess this up.” Golitsin snorted.
“Relax. We won’t.”
There was a long pause. Golitsin, with barely suppressed excitement, asked, “Are the communications set up?”
“They are. The listening devices are state of the art. You’ll get a crystal-clear feed into the phone lines and through your
speakerphone. I tested it with your secretary an hour ago. Everything’s fine.” After a pause, the voice added, “Vladimir’s
going to handle this. It’s going to be loud and ugly.”
“It better be.” Golitsin closed his eyes and smiled. “I want to hear every sound.”
3
T he old lady at the front of the line shoved two bags at a cabbie and crawled painfully into a blue BMW with TAXI splashed in bold letters across the side.
The couple directly in front of Alex and Elena stepped forward, and a black Mercedes sedan that had been idling by the far
curb suddenly swerved in front of the other taxis and screeched to a noisy halt half a foot from the taxi stop. Vladimir,
wearing the garb and collar of a Catholic priest, made a fast survey of the surroundings, then quickly threw open the rear
door. The same instant, Katya, dressed as a nun, pushed out an ugly black pistol hidden inside the folds of her baggy sleeve
and pointed it in Alex’s face.
Her partner turned around. Coldly and in Russian he said to Alex, “It’s a simple choice. Get into the car or die right here
and right now.”
Alex looked into his eyes. He had not the slightest doubt he meant every word. After a moment, he said, “Fine, I’ll go. This
young lady, however, you will leave alone. I don’t know her. She’s not with me.”
“Don’t be stupid, Konevitch. Katya will kill you, or your wife, or both of you. Doesn’t matter to us.”
Alex’s face froze. His
name
. The man had used his name, and he
knew
Elena was his wife. For three years he had prepared himself for a moment like this. Dreamed about it. Dreaded it. Now it
was actually happening, and he couldn’t think or react.
Vladimir’s thick hands shot out and grabbed Elena by the neck. He spun her around like a puppet; one hand slipped under her
chin, the other against the back of her head. Elena squirmed and fought at first, but Vladimir was too large and strong. He
tightened his grip, and she
Similar Books
