"That what you think happened, he ran with the money?" A year before this had been the most popular game in town-the Alex quiz. Where was the money? Where was Alex? How much did he steal?
"Sure, of course." A furious nod. "That's what the news said happened."
"Great tale, isn't it? What's your theory about it?"
"I'm a big fan of the 'he snapped' camp."
"Just freaked out, grabbed as much he could haul, and fled, huh?"
"Yeah, something like that. It probably makes more sense to me than it might to you. Tell the truth, I sometimes dream of doing the same thing."
"Having all that money isn't fun, huh?"
"Twenty-hour days, thousands of people who depend on you, constant crises where everything's on the verge of crashing down on your head. Oh sure, it's a blast." A brief pause, accompanied by a few more hard twists on the wedding band. "Now, who are you, and what do you want?"
"Mikhail Borosky. I did a lot of private investigation work for Alex. Still do."
"And what? Alex asked you to drop by?"
"Yes." Mikhail stretched his legs out and leaned back in the chair. "Alex asked me to keep my eye on the news. See who's next. Apparently, you're the guy."
A slight flinch. "Next? What does that mean?"
"It means you're at stage one of the same treatment Alex got. For some reason, you're getting it a bit rougher than he got. And they're a lot sloppier. I'm not sure why. Guess they're a little over-confident this time."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Did you receive a visit from two of Moscow's finest?" From his tone, Mikhail already seemed to know the answer.
"Yes."
"A blimp and a beanpole, right?" It wasn't really a question. From a parking lot across the street, Mikhail had watched the pair enter the headquarters the day before yesterday.
A slow nod.
"They give you a business card recommending somebody who could put a stop to all this?"
Yuri tried to hide his surprise but found it impossible. This strange man knew so much. The card in question, in fact, sat on Yuri's blotter, in easy reach of his fingers. Only three minutes before, he had been within seconds of dialing the number and pleading for help.
Yuri shoved the card across the table. Mikhail bent forward and studied it a moment. The name on the card was unrecognizable and meant nothing. But the name didn't matter. If he bothered to check, which he had no intention of doing, the resume would reveal a long career in the KGB and some kind of deep attachment or connection to Sergei Golitsin.
"You know the old story about the Trojan horse?" Mikhail asked, pushing the card back in Yuri's direction.
A careful nod. "Sure, who doesn't?"
Mikhail directed a finger at the business card. "There's your Trojan horse. Those two cops are crooked to the core. They were sent in to kick open the door. Once you call that number, the worm will find a way to let the barbarians inside your company."
"This is what they did to Alex?"
A knowing nod, and for the next twenty minutes Mikhail revealed everything that happened to Alex, how the scheme worked, the kidnap, the torture, being framed for the theft of everything he owned. The whole ugly tale. To verify his story, he passed Yuri morgue forms that confirmed the death of Alex's employees, as well as one of the statements prepared a year before by Alex that he had faxed to all the senior officials around Yeltsin.
Mikhail sat back and allowed Yuri time to read the evidence, to see the similarities, and to realize that he was indeed the newest target.
Long before he finished, Yuri looked sad, confused, and scared out of his wits. He gripped his hands together and studied his blotter for a long moment. "So what do I do now?"
"I think you got two options. One, take as much money as you can, and run."
After everything this man had just told him, option one sounded impossibly irresistible. Screw option two. He had millions stored in a Swiss vault, a hoard of cash large enough to live happily ever after. A fraction of his current fortune of course, but he'd at least be alive to spend it. His private jet was tucked in a private hangar at the airport, fueled up and ready to go. He could have breakfast at his spacious London flat, or lunch at his favorite Azores resort. That indecision lasted seconds. The British have always been so very civil and accommodating to wealthy Russian exiles who drop by for breakfast, and asylum.
Mikhail allowed him a moment to bask in this hopeful reprieve before he warned, "Course, that option's not quite as clean as it sounds."
"Why's that?"
"They're still trying to murder Alex. They've got teams of killers hanging in his shadows. Also, they've somehow fooled the American FBI into shipping him back here. He's long past the point where he can do anything to them. They don't care. They still want him dead."
"What's option two?" Yuri asked very quickly, very solemnly.
"Fight them."
"Don't be silly. I'm a businessman. I don't know what I'm up against, or even who these people are."
