The Hunted (40 page)

Though the Justice Department was purportedly above the fray of politics, this was a liberal administration, and the White
House had packed the senior appointed ranks with legions of die-hard, woolly-headed lefties. Tromble was the exception, the
lone, fierce duck out of water. The others in the room detested him, and secretly, on a more ambivalent note, nearly all were
convinced he was the right man for the right job—a tireless, efficient, ruthless hatchetman who ran his besuited stormtroopers
hard. Behind his cover they could spout all the tree-hugging, abortion-loving, big government nonsense they wanted. In the
first two years of his incumbency, national crime rates had plummeted a historic nine percent.

A Nazi he might be, but at least he was
their
Nazi.

“This guy Konevitch,” Tromble explained with an air of authority, “was worth hundreds of millions before he fled. Nobody with
clean hands makes that kind of money over there. Nobody. He’s definitely a crook.”

Heads nodding all around. Though few of them had ever set foot in Russia, the roomful of news junkies was well aware of Russia’s
sad descent into crooked madness. The rampant shootings in Moscow streets. The swift rise of the Mafiya. Vast fortunes being
made by a handful of conniving thieves—a kleptocracy, Russia was now being called, and with good reason. Naturally this Konevitch
man had to be crooked.

“He’s the number one most wanted criminal in Russia. It’s Russia, so that’s saying something,” he continued to the nodding
heads. “There is no chance he is innocent. And from what we’ve learned from our Russian friends, he’s already got a foothold
here.”

Laura was only too happy it was something so simple and straightforward for a change. She asked, “What help can I provide?”

One of her many legal advisors—a she, it happened—scraped forward in her chair, gazing suspiciously down the long table at
Tromble. After carefully reading the article, she wasn’t sure this was such a slam dunk. “We lack an extradition treaty with
the Russians,” she announced.

“So what’s the best way to proceed?” her boss asked.

“Essentially, we have to prove the merits of Russia’s case before an American judge,” the aide answered.

“How hard is that?”

“It’s been done before. Not with Russia inside this country, but we often use this strategy ourselves. In Colombia, for example,
when we want a drug lord renditioned to our courts. We dispatch a legal team there, do a little show-and-tell before a Colombian
judge, then they transfer custody to us.”

“So we need a team of Russian prosecutors?”

“Pretty much. Assuming they have a good case, they display their evidence to our INS attorneys, and our people handle the
heavy lifting in the courts. This takes time, though.”

“How much time?”

“Sometimes years. Varies by case.”

Tromble stared down the table at this busybody pushing her nose into his business. “The case will be heard again in one week.
Konevitch doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“What if you’re wrong?” his boss’s legal aide asked, not backing down.

“No reasonable judge will decide against us.”

“All right, consider an unreasonable one.”

“Fine. If you insist, I’ll call Russia and get a team over here right away,” he conceded. The concession was of course entirely
meaningless. He had not the slightest doubt that the Konevitches would land in Moscow long before a Russian team landed in
D.C.

The meeting broke up with the solicitor general and head of Civil Rights in a corner, trading insults, and nearly fists, over
Chief and Mrs. Stare at My Moon.

Tatyana was heavily preoccupied when her phone started ringing off the hook. She tried to ignore it, but eventually stopped
what she was doing, rolled over, and put it to her ear. “What? Who is this,” she snapped in Russian.

“Please hold for the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” a female voice stiffly instructed her in English.

The voice of John Tromble popped on a moment later. “Hello, Tatyana. Heard the news about your boy Konevitch? Made a big splash
in the news on this side of the water.”

“How did you get my home number?” she asked, unable to disguise her irritation.

“When I couldn’t get you at the office, my boys in the embassy tracked it down.”

“All right. Yes, I see that you’ve got him in jail. Why haven’t you just shipped him here?”

“It’s complicated. Not as easy as I thought. Listen, I need a big favor.”

He explained what he needed, a team of Russian prosecutors, and Tatyana listened. Eventually, she replied, “Is this absolutely
necessary?”

“Probably not. He goes back to court in a week. No way in hell he won’t be deported. But the judge might act crazily. Call
it a precaution, insurance.”

“It will take time to get the case together.”

“How much time?”

“A month or two, probably. Maybe a little longer.”

“I thought you folks were already prepared to fry him in your courts. What’s the problem?”

“John, please. The case is ready for Russian courts, not yours. Your rules of evidence are different, and we’ll have to tailor
it accordingly. There are also certain pieces of evidence we would find it embarrassing or troublesome to show foreigners.
Dirty laundry we really don’t want to showcase at a time when we’re trying to attract foreign investment. Those problems will
have to be cleaned up.”

“Okay, yeah. I understand that.”

“You can keep him in jail, can’t you? A lot of powerful people here are opposed to letting you keep the FBI outpost in your
embassy. I’m doing my best, but, John, it’s a real uphill battle. Such a clear lack of mutual cooperation won’t go over well.”

Tromble started to say something, but she cut him off. “President Yeltsin asked me about this case just yesterday,” she lied.
“He keeps asking if he needs to discuss it with your president.”

“Hey, we’ll find a way. I don’t care if I have to bribe the judge or kill his wife. I’ll find a way.”

“Whatever it takes, John, whatever it takes. I’ll put together a team of prosecutors and get them over there as soon as possible.”

They rung off. Tatyana stretched, then rolled over, back into the muscular arms of Sasha Komenov, her boytoy soccer star.
He drew away. “Who was it?” he asked in a petulant mood. He didn’t speak English and understood not a word.

“Just some idiot law enforcement administrator from America.”

“Oh, you’re screwing him, too?” Sasha snapped. Lately, he was turning a little sulky about Tatyana and her extracurricular
sleeping habits. It had never bothered him before, but after discovering a gray hair a few weeks before, he found himself
suddenly torn with possessive urges.

“You’re cute when you’re mad. Come on and screw me now.” She laughed.

Sasha crossed his arms and pouted. “Don’t joke. I’m tired of sharing you.”

“You’re a fool. You’ve seen my boss. He’s bald and fat and not the least bit interesting. He’s so terrible in bed I have to
pinch myself just to stay awake. He’s so disgusting, I become nauseated afterward. I’m only doing this for us, Sasha.”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“And it’s true. Listen, we’re moving in on a huge fortune right now. Billions, Sasha, billions. My cut will be hundreds of
millions, and as soon as I have it, I’ll dump that old moron and quit my job. You and I will buy a big yacht and sail around
the world. We’ll never be able to spend it all. We’ll die rich and happy.”

The recorder in the basement whirred and caught every word.

The limo had been cruising around Moscow for an hour. It wandered aimlessly, in no particular direction, eating up pavement
until the meeting in the back was finished. After picking up Sergei Golitsin at his big brick mansion, it had sped crosstown,
straight to the comparatively smaller home of Anatoli Fyodorev, Russia’s attorney general. He climbed inside and off it sped.

The tracking device on the undercarriage made it too easy to trail. After an hour it pulled back up to the curb in front of
Fyodorev’s home. Out stepped the attorney general, stretching and straightening his suit. And then Golitsin’s big head peeked
out. The old man said something, they both laughed. He handed Fyodorev a thick envelope. Right there, on the curb, the idiot
actually opened it so he could count the cash.

Click, click, went Mikhail’s trusty camera.

C
ourt reconvened at ten o’clock in the morning on the second. Elena had driven herself and parked in the underground INS garage.
She was dressed not in orange but in a modest dark blue frock that complemented her beauty, her blonde hair, her slim figure.
She sat directly behind Alex, who was in his usual orange jumpsuit. They exchanged quiet whispers and handwritten notes while
they waited for the festivities to begin. Alex had been permitted to shower and shave this time—though only after MP threatened
his jailers with a noisy lawsuit for deprivation of dignity.

Kim Parrish sat at her table with the same youthful assistant perched anxiously to her right. Piles of paper along with several
large boxes were stacked off to the side.

MP had offered her a warm, friendly greeting when they entered. She met it with stony indifference. She was openly furious
with him over that nasty, rotten, one-sided
Times
article—earlier in the week, Agent Wilson had confided to her how MP had called in a favor from the
Times
reporter and arranged her public thrashing. She could barely stand to be in the same room with him.

As before, Judge John Everston entered punctually through a side door, hustling along, anxious to begin. He studied his court
again. No reporters this time. None of Tromble’s punks, either, he noted with satisfaction—nobody but a plump, middle-aged,
long-haired fellow in the visitors’ section who was sipping noisily through a straw stuck in a Diet Coke.

“Who are you, sir?” His Honor asked.

“An author,” the man replied in an almost indifferent manner. “I’m halfway into a legal thriller that involves a few immigration
matters. Saw this case mentioned in the
Times.
Thought I’d pop in and pick up a little authentic juice.”

The man looked seedy, wildly disorganized, and poorly groomed. His threadbare blue blazer bore long streaks of mustard stain,
and he was vigorously scratching his fanny. Sure looked like a writer.

When the judge did not throw him out, the man quickly settled his ample rear back into his seat. He dug a notebook out of
a side pocket and loudly flicked his pen open. On the frames of his glasses were two miniature cameras. Tucked in his breast
pocket, a highly sensitive microphone was capturing every word. In a small office two floors above, three federal agents were
huddled before video screens, watching and listening to the proceedings with great amusement.

Agent Wilson laughed, slapped a thigh, and bellowed, “Hah, you old bastard, who’s the smart one now?”

With his usual judicial efficiency, His Honor cut right to the chase. “Mr. Jones, we left off with your assessment that you
needed two more weeks to prepare your defense. Are you ready?”

“I believe I am, Your Honor. But as there is no requirement for discovery in immigration code, I reserve the right to hear
what the prosecution presents.”

This reference was to the requirement in criminal trials for the prosecution and defense to share advance notice about evidence
and witnesses they intend to present. There was no such obligation in immigration court. MP’s retort was old hat. The judge
nodded accordingly. He shifted his attention to the prosecutor. “Miss Parrish, make your case.”

Without hesitation she said, “We’ll open with the government claim that Mr. Konevitch lied to the immigration board about
his place of employment.”

She nodded at her young assistant. He apparently had another impressive purpose than being the meek target of blame for things
gone wrong. He hefted up a number of documents and hauled them to the bench.

Miss Parrish said, “I’m providing annotated transcripts from the statement made by Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch to an immigration
panel on April 15, to wit, they both were employed by a company supposedly established in Austria. The company so named is
Orangutan Media.”

Judge Everston licked his fingers and began noisily thumbing through the documents. “Go on.”

“You’ll also note three statements signed by Russia’s attorney general, Anatoli Fyodorev. They detail several investigations
by Russian federal investigators into the true activities of Orangutan Media. The—”

MP quickly interrupted. “Your Honor, we have not seen those statements.”

“And you already established that, Mr. Jones.”

“Yes, and surely it won’t hurt to remind the court that my client came to America as a result of political persecution. The
same government that provided those statements wishes him dead.”

“Then you believe these statements to be false?”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“Well, they’re in Russian. Can’t read them myself. But let’s assume, momentarily, that Miss Parrish is telling the truth.
That’s a reasonable assumption, is it not, Miss Parrish?”

“It is.”

“Mr. Jones? Is Russia’s attorney general lying?”

“Probably. I’ll withhold judgment for now.”

The prosecutor flipped a quick sideways smile at MP. She wasn’t through, and he definitely wasn’t going to like her next move.
Too bad your hack reporter friend’s not here to see you gag and choke, she wanted to tell him. Her errand boy hauled a few
more papers up to the judge. “Your Honor, these are sworn statements from employees of Orangutan Media. They confirm the nature
of the company’s criminal activities. Please note the top statement.”

“So noted. What is it?”

“A confession signed by Illya Mechoukov.”

MP had never heard the name so he glanced over at his client. Alex’s mouth hung open. He appeared to be in shock. He was massaging
his forehead, openly pained.

MP bent over and scribbled a brief, questioning note to Alex.