August 1993 The first team picked him up the moment he and his wife raced out the metal gate of their housing compound and stepped on the gas toward Sheremetyevo Airport. As usual, whenever the couple traveled around Moscow, a car with flashing blue lights rode in front, the shiny black armored Mercedes sedan was tucked securely in the middle, and a third car filled with heavily armed guards brought up the rear.

They followed at a discreet distance in a beaten-up rusted Lada sedan that blended in wonderfully, since it looked like all the other wretched junkheaps roaring around the streets of Moscow.

A totally excessive precaution, really. The plane tickets for the couple had been booked electronically; they knew the flight number, the departure time, his and her seat numbers, where they were going, and how long they planned to stay.

Why he was going wasn't in their briefing; nor did it matter, nor did they care. They knew why they were following him.

That's what mattered; all that mattered.

He and the Mrs. were booked in first-class side-by-side seats, and were picked up by a fresh team the instant they cleared customs and stepped onto the plane. Within moments after falling into their plush reclining seats, they ordered two flutes of bubbly and held hands as they sipped and chatted. A lovely couple, the second trail team agreed.

This new team, one male, one female, was positioned ten rows back, squished into cramped economy seats selected for the excellent view it gave them of their target. Nobody in first class ever glanced back at the deprived unfortunates in cattle class. Detection really wasn't an issue, but they worried about it anyway, and took every precaution possible. They munched on dried-out prunes, sipped bottled water, stayed quiet, and watched.

Another precaution that was totally useless, really. Wasn't like their targets could escape, flying twenty thousand feet above the earth, racing along at five hundred miles per hour.

Besides, a third team, much larger, about eight or ten people, would be in position an hour before landing at Ferihegy Airport outside Budapest.

Tedious work, but the watchers were professionals and never relaxed. They patiently spent their time hoarding mental notes that might come in handy later. Despite all the careful planning, rehearsals, and precautions, you never knew.

He, Alex Konevitch, was dressed in a superbly cut two-piece blue wool suit, obviously imported, probably from England, and just as obviously expensive. She, his wife, Elena, wore a lovely black wool pantsuit, also superbly tailored and definitely more expensive than his. From one of those faggy, la-di-da European design houses, they guessed, but the his-and-hers fancy rags were a big tactical mistake on their part. Russians and East Europeans in general are notoriously awful dressers and it set the couple apart.

After studying countless photographs of him, they agreed his likeness was a perfect match; he would be impossible to lose or misplace. His unusual height also worked heavily in their favor; even in the densest crowd, he would stick out.

No pictures of her were included in their file-a sloppy oversight in their professional judgment. What if the couple split up? What if they took separate cabs, he to his business meeting, and she maybe to a local plaza for a little noodling through stores?

They therefore focused mostly on her, collecting useful mental notes of her appearance, her distinguishing features. About his age, they estimated-possibly twenty-two, more likely twenty-four-though vastly shorter than him. Shoulder-length blonde hair, casually brushed, light on the makeup, and she really didn't need any, they both agreed. Delicious blue eyes, large, innocently doe-like, with a slightly upturned nose, and nice figure, but a little on the skinny side, in their view. All in all, though, a sweet number, very pretty, very sexy-and best of all, very difficult to miss.

They had been told little about her. Perhaps because little was known or maybe because her background was irrelevant. Why did they care?

She was with him.

That was the key.

Thirty minutes into the flight, he extended his lounger chair, unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, then dozed off. She handed the stewardess a few American dollars, plugged in her earphones, and intently watched a subtitled American action movie about an airplane hijacking, of all things.

He awoke from the siesta an hour later, refreshed, ready to dig in. He turned down an offer for a meal, withdrew a thick ream of papers from his briefcase, and got down to work. The file said he was a workaholic, driven, focused, and greedy. Looked about right.

But somewhere on this flight, they were almost certain, lurked a bodyguard. Possibly two, but no more than two: of this they were nearly certain. Alex Konevitch's life was in perpetual danger in Moscow, where it was open season on bankers, entrepreneurs, and rich businessmen. Nearly seven hundred had been whacked, bombed, or kidnapped that year alone, and there were still four months to go.

But the Wild East was behind him now; or so he believed. He would relax his precautions, as he always did when he left Mother Russia in the dust. And besides, Alex Konevitch, they had been confidently informed by their employer, regarded large bodyguard detachments as distasteful, ostentatious, and worse-bad for business. A large flock of elephant-necked thugs tended to upset the Western investors and corporate types he dealt with.

But somewhere on this flight, they were quite sure, a bodyguard or bodyguards were seated, like them, calm and unobtrusive, waiting and watching. They held out little hope of detecting them, at least during the flight; these boys came from a well-heeled foreign private outfit with a first-class reputation, mostly former intelligence and police types who got paid big bucks not to make stupid mistakes. But the dismal odds aside, they were ordered to give it their best shot anyway; maybe they'd catch a lucky break. They agreed beforehand to look for anybody staring a little too possessively at Alex and his pretty little Mrs.

So the couple traded turns making idle passes through the cabin, trolling back and forth, mostly to the toilets. There were a few young men with tough faces and thick, muscular builds, but that seemed abnormally conspicuous for an elite security firm that loudly advertised its discreetness and invisibility.

At least the bodyguards wouldn't be armed; they were sure of this. Smuggling a weapon through a Russian airport was absurdly difficult. And detection would cause a public mess, the last thing a prestigious, supposedly ethical firm needed or wanted. No, they wouldn't be that stupid.

Besides, why risk getting caught when a better alternative was available?

Far easier to have somebody meet them in Budapest and discreetly hand over the heavy artillery. On August 19, 1991, the old boys had their last desperate fling at preserving an empire hanging by its fingernails. Gorby, who had wrought so much damage with his flailing attempts at reform, was vacationing at his Black Sea resort when a clutch of rough-looking KGB officers stormed the building and took him hostage. In Moscow, a cabal including his chief of staff, vice president, prime minister, minister of defense, and KGB chairman promptly seized the organs of government.

A few thousand troops were rushed to the capital, the state television stations were seized, and water reservoirs secured; heavily armed guards were posted in front of food distribution centers to ensure a stranglehold on the city population. Tanks were littered at strategic intersections around the government section of the city-the usual signs of a beerhall putsch in progress.