Read The Hunted for Free Online Page B

you’ve been very good to me. I owe you more than I can express. Do me a favor,
     let me pay some of it back.”
    “Just fix this damned country. Finish what you started. Believe me, I’ll be more than delighted.”
    Yeltsin chuckled. “You’ll be old and senile before anything works in this land. I’ll be dead and buried, with throngs of people
     lining up to pee on my grave for causing all this chaos. I’m giving you a house, Alex.”
    “I have a house already. Didn’t we just go over that?”
    Yeltsin ignored him. “Not quite as garish as yours. But big, and believe me, you’ll love this place. It’s out here, in the
     country, inside the presidential compound. A mere two-minute walk from my quarters—one minute if you sprint, which I expect
     you to do if I call. A gym and indoor pool. Six servants, a chef, and—hey, you’ll love this part—they have separate quarters
     outside the house.”
    The president paused to let his sales pitch sink in, then threw out a little more ammunition. “Here’s the kicker, Alex. My
     presidential security detail guards the entire compound. Even with your money, you couldn’t touch the kind of security these
     goons provide.”
    Alex chuckled. “Is that a challenge?” He could not say it, but he abhorred the idea of living in walking, or even sprinting,
     distance of Boris. The man drank and partied until four every morning, frothy bacchanalias that consumed enormous amounts
     of liquor. He was notoriously social by nature and regarded it as sinful to get tanked alone. The idea of being dragged into
     those late-night orgies was appalling.
    Yeltsin chuckled as well, then a loud belly laugh. What was he saying? With all that wealth, Alex could probably buy half
     the Russian army; maybe all of it. After a moment the laughing stopped. “I’m serious, Alex. My economic advisors are all boring
     idiots. Even that bunch of Harvard professors who’ve camped out here to tell me how to build a capitalist paradise—just stuffier
     idiots.”
    “All right, replace them.”
    “You’re not listening. I’m trying to.”
    But Alex was listening, very closely. A week before he and Elena had attended a dull state dinner to honor the visiting potentate
     of some country where, apparently, everybody was short and squat, with bad teeth, horrible breath, and nauseating table manners.
     After the usual tedious speeches about eternal brotherhood and blah, blah, blah—along with a seriously overcooked meal—the
     party shifted to the ballroom, where Yeltsin promptly invited Elena to dance.
    Boris had an eye for the ladies and Elena in a baggy sweatsuit could snap necks. But attired as she was, in a gold-embossed
     scarlet gown, she nearly sucked the male air out of the ballroom. And of course, three-quarters of a lifetime of ballet training
     had made her a splendid dancer who knew how to make her partner look graceful and better than he was. Yeltsin and Elena laughed
     and chatted and whirled gaily around the floor. All eyes were on them—Fred and Ginger, cutting the rug. One dance turned into
     two, then three.
    Alex was sure he was listening to the echo of that third dance. Clearly Elena had whispered into Yeltsin’s ear her growing
     concerns about Alex’s safety. If her husband wouldn’t heed her warnings, she would take matters over his head. He admired
     the effort and adored her for trying. He had absolutely no intention of humoring her.
    He would just litter a few more guards around the property and hope it settled her nerves.
    “Oh, one other thing,” Yeltsin added, an afterthought, an insignificant little note to round out the pitch. “It happens to
     be Gorbachev’s old house. The official quarters of the general secretary himself. I had him booted out the day after I took
     over. Didn’t even give him time to clear the clothes from the closets. Ha, ha, ha. Had those shipped to him, later, with a
     nice personal note. ‘I got the country, you keep the