The Hunted (57 page)

From the stand, Tromble stole a quick look at him, then quietly suppressed another smile. A few of the morning articles had
mentioned his instinctive reaction as he entered the court the day before and first saw Alex; the mentions weren’t overly
flattering.

The pretty boy ambled up to the witness stand. “Could you please tell the court your name and title?”

It was a stupid, fatuous question, but Tromble played along. “Judge John Tromble, director of the FBI.”

“And that would make you the nation’s top law enforcement officer?”

“Technically, that honor belongs to the attorney general,” he said with a condescending smile as if everybody should know
this.

“Do you believe Alex Konevitch committed crimes in Russia that merit deportation?”

“I wouldn’t know about the crimes. Russia’s courts will decide that.”

“But you reviewed the evidence against him?”

“My people reviewed it. I’ve seen summaries.” Another fatuous question—Tromble obviously had more important things on his
hands than sifting through piles of evidence.

“Is this evidence compelling?”

“Overwhelming.”

“What would happen if Mr. Konevitch were to escape?” A slight frown. “I mean, escape again.”

Tromble appeared thoughtful, as though he had never considered this possibility. “Well, it would be a flat-out disaster.”

“Why?”

“Because a great deal of modern crime is international these days. Just as our corporations and businesses have expanded across
borders, so have criminal syndicates. International police forces have to rely on each other.”

“And you believe Mr. Konevitch’s escape would hinder this cooperation?”

“He is what we would call a high-profile criminal back home. If we let him slip away, we would hear about it from the Russians
in a million unfortunate ways. It would probably cripple our efforts against the new wave of Russian criminals.”

“This is called reciprocity, is it not?”

“That’s one word for it. If we want them to hand over our crooks, we have to hand over theirs. If we want their help to combat
crime in our streets, we need to help them.”

“That seems like common sense,” Caldwell remarked, as if anybody would argue otherwise. “Now, why was Mr. Konevitch placed
in federal detention?” Avoiding the “prison” word was a nice touch. Detention sounded so much more pleasant: little more than
a mild inconvenience for Alex while things were sorted out.

“My understanding is that the immigration judge ordered this step. You should ask him why.”

“Would you care to guess?”

Another thoughtful pause. “All right. The escape rate from federal facilities is demonstrably lower than county facilities.
Our Russian friends tell us that Konevitch has hundreds of millions stashed away. Sad to say, he could probably buy his way
out of almost any county jail in the country. And if he disappears again, he won’t make the same mistake of living out in
the open next time. I expect he would flee the country, change his name, maybe get a face-job, and find haven in a more criminal-friendly
country, say Brazil, or a Pacific island. He’s got plenty of money to spread around and buy favors and protection. It might
be impossible to find and bring him to justice.”

“Should he remain in prison? As a former federal judge, you’re certainly qualified to answer.”

Judge Willis’s head snapped up and jerked hard to his left. The question was rude and an impertinent breach of protocol. True,
this was Caldwell’s first performance in a federal court. But he should still know better. And Tromble definitely knew better.
If he answered, either way, it was an unforgivable violation of legal courtesy. This was, after all, what Willis was here
to decide. Judges, even former ones, do not prejudge or inhibit or attempt to preempt other judges. Certainly never in public.
And above all, not in their own courtrooms.

Tromble pretended he didn’t see Willis or understand the slight, though he betrayed himself with a slight smile. “It would
be an unimaginable blunder to let him out before his immigration status is decided. Only a fool would even consider it.”

Willis’s eyes shifted from Tromble to MP Jones. He exerted every pound of silent pressure he could muster to encourage the
attorney to rise from that chair and unleash a loud, heated objection. Come on, boy, for godsakes, let him have it. The question
and answer begged for an objection. Willis
needed
that objection. He so badly wanted a chance to slap down Tromble right here, in the presence of the entire court, that he
nearly screamed objection himself.

Jones just sat, wide-eyed, listening attentively with a flat expression. At least for a change he wasn’t idiotically scrawling
doodles on that stupid legal pad. But not a word. Not so much as a raised eyebrow or parted lips.

“Your witness,” Caldwell said, and nearly strutted back to his table.

Judge Willis continued to stare at MP. In a clenched tone that managed to convey both disapproval and regret, he commented,
“I imagine Mr. Jones, in the interest of saving our time, has no desire to cross-examine.”

Very slowly, MP pushed himself out of his seat. “Maybe a few questions, Your Honor.”

“Well”—for a moment the judge was almost too stunned to reply—“proceed then.”

MP didn’t budge from his table. He glanced down at Alex, who seemed to shrug as if to say: Okay, why not?

“Mr. Tromble,” he began, openly ignoring the official title, “your presence today suggests this is a very important case to
you.”

“More important than some, less than others,” Tromble said, grinning and choosing a nice middle ground.

“As FBI director, at how many other trials have you appeared as a witness?”

Tromble wasted a moment rubbing a forefinger across his lower lip, as though this question required considerable thought.
“I guess none.”

“You guess?”

“All right, none.”

“How’d this case come to your attention?”

“I don’t exactly recall.”

“You don’t? Being the director of the FBI and all, I thought you were a smart guy. You recall nothing?”

“It might surprise you, but the FBI handles tons of cases a year. Nobody expects me to remember every detail.”

“Do you recall any conversations with any Russian government officials about Alex Konevitch?”

He scratched his head. “Not exactly.”

“Inexactly would be fine.”

“I don’t recall any.”

“Then may we assume you did have such conversations, but just can’t recall them?”

“No, you may not.”

“Again, Mr. Tromble, did you or did you not discuss the Konevitch issue with the Russian government? Yes or no.”

“No. If I did, it was only a passing reference.”

MP lifted up a piece of paper from the desk and pretended to read from it. Then, in an annoying tone suggesting he knew everything,
he asked, “That Russian colonel and head prosecutor, how’d they get over here?”

It was an old lawyer trick meant to rattle the witness. Tromble, an observant judge in his day, had seen it a thousand times.
He handled it coolly, leaning back into his seat and replying, “The Russians have a compelling interest in this case. They
were sent to help us prepare his extradition.”

“Extradition? Do we have such a treaty with the Russians?”

“No. I… I misspoke.”

“You mean you spoke your mind.”

Caldwell showed none of MP’s inclination against objections. “Objection,” he yelled, launching from his chair.

“Sustained.”

MP turned back to the witness stand and shook his head. “All right, Mr. Tromble, describe your role in deciding which prisons
Mr. Konevitch would be incarcerated in.”

“That was decided by the attorney general.”

“You had no input? None?”

“Believe it or not, I stay fairly busy running the FBI. Federal prisons aren’t my bailiwick.”

With a condescending roll of his eyes, MP said, “Oops. That was another of those troublesome yes-or-no questions, Mr. Tromble.”

“All right, no.” Strictly speaking, the truth, although he looked uncomfortable.

MP bounced back to the issue of Colonel Volevodz and the team of Russian prosecutors. “Who paid for their trip? Who handled
their expenses?”

“How would I know?”

“That was going to be my next question,” MP answered skeptically.

Tromble lived by the motto “better to give than receive,” and the derisive tone from this pip-squeak immigration lawyer was
starting to grate on him. He gripped the sides of his chair and snapped at MP, “Was that a question?”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll come back to it later.”

MP went on for another two hours, bouncing quickly from subject to subject, tossing in as many insinuations as he could get
away with. Occasionally he returned to an old topic, forcing Tromble to plow and replow old ground. Same questions, repeated
with minor variations, and saturated with a rising tone of disbelief.

Caldwell objected as often as he dared, most often simple harassment objections intended to disrupt the flow, but eventually
the judge warned him to cool it.

After two hours, Tromble was tired of sitting in the same hard wooden chair. He was tired of this disrespectful lawyer, tired
of this Russian crook fighting an overdue trip back to Russia, and tired of the rude questions. He was tired of the judge,
tired of the entire routine. He regretted he had subjected himself to this. He squirmed in his chair but couldn’t seem to
find a comfortable position.

MP suddenly left his position behind the defense table and moved to a place about two feet from Tromble. He paused very briefly,
then leaned in. “Mr. Tromble, I’m a forgetful type. Did I hear you take an oath to tell the truth on this stand?” MP paused
for effect. “The whole truth, absent equivocations, quibbles, or bald deceptions.”

That was it. Tromble shifted his bulk forward and nearly spit in Jones’s face. “Don’t you dare lecture me on integrity, you
twobit mouthpiece. I’m a respected public servant. I will not be addressed this way by you. If you have another question you
will call me Judge or Mr. Director. Those are my titles.”

MP smiled. “You may go, Mr. Tromble.”

Tromble leaned back into the chair. He planted his feet and didn’t budge, not about to let this third-rate legal loser boss
him around.

After a moment, Judge Willis leaned over and said very loudly and very firmly, “Mr. Tromble, if you’re not out of my witness
chair in three seconds, I’ll cite you for contempt.”

Lunch was a welcome reprieve. Alex and Elena were led into a small conference room and allowed to share a quiet meal in privacy.
Outside, two deputies manned the door. Ham sandwiches, a fat deli pickle, chips, and ice-cold sodas, all bought and delivered
by the court, were waiting in paper bags on the long conference table.

MP and his PKR pals lunched in a separate conference room three doors down. After fourteen months apart, Alex and Elena deserved
a little time together, they figured. Left unsaid was that it might be the last time, and they should be allowed this last
chance to be alone.

Besides, MP had a few testy legal issues about rules of evidence he wanted to bang out with the guns from the big firm. He
had picked up a few lazy habits in immigration court that could get the book thrown at him in a federal venue. The afternoon
would be the decisive battle—it would be very touch and go—and the boys from PKR wanted to iron out any kinks.

Caldwell, they knew, was eating with a
Post
reporter in a fancy restaurant a few blocks over, conducting a premature tutorial about his brilliant and inevitable victory.
A PI employed by PKR followed him every time he left the court, and via cell phone kept his bosses apprised. Easy work, since
the INS prosecutor, shipped in from out west and acclimated to the relative geniality of immigration courts, was too naïve
to understand how things were played in the big leagues. At that moment, the nosy PI was seated one table over, enjoying a
cheeseburger and Coke; Caldwell was a loud braggart and PKR’s gumshoe was whispering into a cell phone and relaying every
word of importance to a junior PKR associate in the hallway, who raced in and informed his bosses inside the conference room.
PKR played for keeps.

Caldwell was oblivious to what was coming. He should be in a tense, sweaty huddle with the best and brightest at Justice,
preparing for the assault Alex had gone to over a year’s worth of difficult trouble to prepare. While Caldwell munched away
on a cucumber salad, sipped a large diet Pepsi, and prattled on about his courtroom mastery, a surprise attack was being prepared.

A last-ditch effort was the only way to describe it, a desperate throw of the dice they would never contemplate against a
more seasoned and tested brawler. It was a wild-haired idea of the sort that could come only from a legal novice—Alex himself.

After five days of painful consideration, the pros from PKR warned that it should be attempted only as a last resort.

Its only chance was to catch the government flat-footed.

The moment the conference room door closed behind them, Alex and Elena kissed and hugged. Then Elena stepped back and said,
“Mikhail called this morning. The news from Moscow is good.”

“Describe good.”

“Golitsin and Nicky Kozyrev were shot dead last night.”

“How?” No smile, no satisfied grin—just “How?”

“Mikhail did everything you asked. He talked Yuri Khodorin into putting up five million for Nicky’s death. An easy sell. You
said it would be, and it was. Yuri was fed up with his people being butchered, and tired of Nicky Kozyrev trying to destroy
his business.”

“Who killed him?”

“He killed himself, Alex.”

“How poetic. And Golitsin?”

“This is just a guess on Mikhail’s part, okay?”

Alex nodded.

“Nicky learned about the bounty on his head. I mean, he was meant to learn about it, wasn’t he? He apparently assumed Golitsin
was behind it.”

“No trust among thieves. Let me guess, Kozyrev repaid the favor?”

She nodded.