The Hunted (60 page)

The judge then began addressing the court, speaking quite loudly, and ever so clearly, so that even the farthest reporter
in the back wouldn’t miss a word or legal nuance. He began with a long summary of everything on the tapes. He had notes, though
he referred to them only rarely, primarily when a precise quote was preferred over a generalized summary. There had been a
conspiracy of staggering proportions in Moscow; Konevitch was its first victim. His fortune was stolen, his companies taken
away, only after he was brutally tortured. The conspiracy reached into the highest offices in the Kremlin; “we have these
problems ourselves sometimes,” the judge explained, “Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and so on. This case represents
another of those watershed historical embarrassments.”

He shared the names of the conspirators, struggling with the Russian names, and outlined their scheme. Next he spent a few
moments dwelling on how exactly American law enforcement got duped into being a tool for the conspirators. A good duping requires
a gullible dupe, he pointed out; the director of the FBI was that man. A quick description of the quid pro quo: they get Alex,
whatever the costs; Tromble gets to sprinkle a few more agents in Moscow. A brief summary of how Tromble violated countless
laws and procedures to persecute Alex and Elena Konevitch. There were too many breaches for the judge to count, but a full
accounting would be prepared later by competent figures with enough time to wade through all the tapes and other evidence.

In effect, the INS, the FBI, and the Justice Department—the very people represented by the attorneys at the prosecution table—were
suddenly branch offices of a cabal of evil people in a foreign land. MP had offered the judge a few pointers back in the chambers,
and he threw out some of the more egregious ones: the constant shuffling through increasingly miserable prisons to turn up
the heat; punishments inflicted by various wardens under orders from Washington; wiretaps in their apartment; illegal searches;
the senseless destruction of their home and property; their money seized by the federal government and their business enterprise
shut down and bankrupted.

For ten minutes, not a soul looked bored or even mildly inattentive. Twice the director of the FBI tried to walk out—both
times he made a meek retreat back to his position after a stern and angry judge issued a strong warning.

Jason Caldwell sulked in his chair and listened to the bright, shining future he had envisioned collapse in ruins. He could
see the evening news that night; him holding forth on the courthouse steps, the picture of brimming confidence promising a
quick, punishing victory; then flash to a bunch of mealymouthed legal monkeys dissecting his overwhelming destruction in court.
He knew it was going to be horrible—absolutely horrible.

He was right; it was.

Judge Willis ended with another long apology to Alex, then ordered his immediate release from custody.

He grabbed his robes and left.

Tromble dug his heels in and rushed for the door, shoving aside reporters who were bombarding him with questions. He turned
to a deputy in the hallway. “Is there a back entrance to this place?”

The deputy smiled. “Sure is.”

“Where?”

“Find it yourself, you prick.”

The kisses, hugs, and relieved expressions of appreciation at the defense table—along with a round robin of the usual victorious
congratulations among Alex, Elena, MP, Matt, and Marvin—lasted five minutes. Marvin eventually lifted a stately arm and quieted
them down. The old pro got a strong grip on Alex’s arm and solemnly pledged he would personally file and oversee the suits
against the FBI, Justice, and INS.

One big suit, a monstrous case for compensatory damages, he promised with a gleam in his eyes.

“What are our chances, and when’s the payoff?” asked Alex, ever the businessman.

Marvin smiled and rubbed his hands. “It’s not a question of chances or when,” he replied. “How much is the only question.”
He would demand and fight with conviction for ten million; after enough blood was shed, he would give them a break and settle
at five million.

“Still pro bono?” Alex asked.

Marvin flashed a ruthless grin. “Not a chance.”

Elena said to Marvin, quite firmly, “But you will forget your usual third. You’ll take twenty percent or I swear I’ll hire
another firm tonight.”

One look at her and Marvin had absolutely no doubt she meant every word. “Deal.”

A mob of reporters descended and was driven off only after MP solemnly vowed he would stand on the courtroom steps all night.
They could ask questions to their heart’s content and he would bloviate until the moon came out. Before the night was over,
he would be booked on five talk shows, and take calls from six book agents and five movie studio chiefs.

Marvin called the lawyers together into a tight huddle. They spent a brief moment trading ideas back and forth, planning what
would be a very busy morning of filings.

When they turned around, Alex and Elena were gone.

T
he snow was three feet deep and dry, and though it was only fall, the snow machines were roaring full-blast and tourists in
Aspen were at high tide. Neither Alex nor Elena had ever been near skis, much less on them. Both were good athletes, though.
After three weeks of mastering the art, they were roaring recklessly down the black slopes like they owned the place.

Elena had argued vigorously for someplace warm. Her preferred option had been a small, pleasant, neglected Caribbean island
where the natives were friendly and had no idea who they were, and wouldn’t care a whit if they did.

Her preferred option two was one of those private, gated resorts in Florida. A nice one with a thick forest of palm trees,
a thousand holes of golf, a well-stocked bar, and a beach where they could drink themselves silly on rum and piña coladas
and roast themselves into shriveled prunes.

Alex had experienced enough heat and wouldn’t hear of it. A federal prison in Georgia, followed by another in the heart of
Chicago, and finally, the worst oven of all, a scorching summer in Yuma.

His Russian roots screamed for someplace where icicles hung off your nose. Exploiting her desire for privacy, he had briefly
argued for an Arctic expedition, but Elena did not warm to that idea. The argument shifted slowly southward, working its way
through Alaska, then, one by one, through the provinces of Canada, and refused to budge another degree once it hit Colorado.

At the end of the second week, MP called. Elena answered. Alex picked up the other line.

“Have you heard the big news?” MP asked them.

Elena happily informed him, “The only newspaper we’ve touched all week was the one we used to get a fire started.”

“The attorney general quit this morning. Apparently the cows in Montana are calling her back.”

“And Tromble?” Alex asked.

“Boy, you are out of touch. Fired, five days ago. He fled to Puerto Rico and is taking no calls.”

“And how are you doing, MP?” Elena asked.

“Great. I have an offer right here from PKR. They’re offering a partnership. They don’t currently handle immigration law,
and they’d like me to set up a new division.”

“Will you take it?”

“I don’t think so. Terry and I talked it over. It’s almost ridiculously generous, but I doubt I’ll fit in.”

“You won’t miss the money?” Alex, the practical one, asked.

“I think I’ll be fine. With all the hooplah about you, I’ve kicked my fee up to three hundred an hour. Nobody’s said no yet.”

They promised they’d all get together for dinner after Alex and Elena got tired of Aspen, or ran out of money. Truthfully,
neither of them was the least bit tired of it. It was such a playground, and the restaurants and bars were great and plentiful.

Bitchy had popped in for a visit two days before. He flew in from Chicago, where he had just closed on a North Shore home.
The appellate court that reviewed his case had recently been joined by two new justices: a pair of rabid Giants fans who sincerely
enjoyed the misery of their die-hard Jets brethren on the court. Neither was the least bit appalled by Beatty’s assault. Besides,
his letter to the court sounded so gracious and repentant the judges were all deeply affected. And, after all, it was Bitchy’s
first offense.

He showed up in a yellow taxi that brought him from Denver International, lumbering out in a three-piece, tailored Brooks
Brothers suit, looking like a Wall Street banker—or more like four or five bankers squished into the same suit. He lifted
Elena off the ground with one arm and gave her a huge kiss. After months in a cell with Alex, he knew all about her. He hugged
Alex and started to kiss him also, but that’s where Alex drew the line.

Over a long dinner, Bitchy happily informed them he was now in talks with the Bears, while his lawyers haggled with the football
commissioner about having him reinstated in time for spring camp. Bitchy was optimistic. The commish was playing hard to get,
but the inside word was that it was all show. Bitchy was a two-year All-Pro, after all, and an ex-con to boot. That combination
always did wonders for attendance and TV ratings. He was also confident the Bears would kick in another million on top of
his old three million contract. His reputation alone was worth at least that—what team wouldn’t think long and hard before
taking on a team with Beatty on the roster?

Elena invited Bitchy to join them on the slopes that day, but he demurred and was resting in his hotel room. The truth was,
Bitchy wouldn’t go near a ski lift. He was terrified of heights.

So Alex and Elena were alone, at the top of the big mountain, staring down at the valley. The sun was out. The snow sparkled
and glistened. Hundreds of skiers below them were doing all the silly things people do when balanced on two thin boards—collapsing,
racing, struggling to stay upright, occasionally producing bone-crunching collisions.

Alex was in no hurry to get down the hill. He sat down and watched the sun move lethargically through the sky. Elena sat beside
him. They held hands. Both knew the time had come for The Talk. It had been put off for weeks while they slept, nearly killed
each other with sex, drank too much wine and champagne, ignored work, and remembered why they loved each other so much. But
they sensed the differences. More than two years of being chased and hounded, terrorized and threatened, and then the long
enforced separation, had changed them. The marriage needed time to adjust.

The year alone had created a more self-reliant, more independent and stubborn Elena. She had lived by herself, started a thriving
business, and outsmarted the people who wanted to kill her. It was impossible to shrink back to her former self; nor did she
care to.

As for Alex, the vestiges of brutal torture and fourteen months in prison were hard to shake off. Elena wasn’t certain he
ever would. The smiles came slowly, the eyes never stayed still. He watched strangers with distrust, eyeing their hands first;
Elena was sure he was looking for a shank.

“Do you want to stay here?” Alex finally asked.

“You mean America?” Elena replied.

“There are other countries. We could take a chance on Russia again.”

“My family’s still there. All our friends, too.”

“Those are important considerations.”

“It wouldn’t be good for you, though, would it?”

“I think not. Russia’s changing, Elena. The crooks and KGB are taking over again. Yeltsin’s a failure, a placeholder until
they’re ready to make their move.”

“And we might have to go through the same thing again?”

“We’ll be smarter next time.”

“But so will they.”

“Yes, they will. You pick. I just need someplace where I can make money.”

“That’s your problem, Konevitch.”

“I didn’t know I had a problem.”

“You’re looking at this backward. Think of it as someplace we can spend money.”

“We’re not rich yet, dear. Only two and a half million in the bank. It’s not enough to live on forever.”

“The lawsuit might net another five to ten million.”

“The government will fight it to the bitter end. It could take a decade. We might lose.”

“MP thinks a book and movie deal might bring in up to ten million.”

“A book deal will take at least two years and might amount to very little. Movie deals aren’t worth the paper they’re written
on.”

“You’re a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist.”

After a moment, Elena pointed at the small village below. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very beautiful. Like a small French or German village shipped over and planted in heaven.”

“How about a house here?”

“A cramped two-bedroom apartment would cost at least a million. After fourteen months in a cell, I demand space.”

She surveyed the town below. She pointed at a cluster of large chalets that climbed up the slopes on the west side. The homes
were immense, spaced far apart, pine trees towering over the high roofs, no more than a ten-minute walk to the bottom slope.
“How about that neighborhood?”

“At least ten million.”

They fell back in the snow, held hands, and stared straight up at the sky. “Alex?” Elena said.

“What?” Alex said.

“I forgot to tell you something.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Mikhail had a talk with Golitsin the day before he died.”

“I know. Those were his instructions. Give Golitsin a good scare. Fool him into believing Nicky was behind it.”

“Well, I told him to talk to Golitsin about something else, too. So Mikhail brought along a few of his friends, and they…
well, they encouraged Golitsin to chat a little about our money.” She paused to admire the sky. “You know how persuasive Mikhail
can be.”

Alex slowly sat up. “How persuasive was he?”

“Oh… enough. Golitsin gave him 225 million reasons to go away and leave him alone.”

Alex turned and stared hard at his wife. “Mikhail found our money?”

“I let him keep five million. He more than earned it, you know.”