The Hunted (38 page)

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry, Alex. They can’t ship us home over this,” Elena said trying to sound confident.

“I think they can do whatever they want.” They wouldn’t have long to speak, and Alex was avoiding her eyes, trying desperately
to build up his nerve. He had spent the whole weekend considering this conversation. Rehearsing it. Playing with variations
on the same theme.

There were no other alternatives, and he finally blurted it out. “Elena, I want a divorce.”

She considered this a joke and laughed.

“I’m serious. We’re getting a divorce.”

“Forget it.”

“I intend to ask MP to find a good lawyer to arrange it. Uncontested, it should sail through quickly. Don’t fight me on this.
My mind’s made up.”

“Alex, this is so stupid.”

“I said don’t fight me on this, Elena. They’re using you to get to me. The moment we’re divorced they’ll forget about you.”

“Did you meet somebody in lockup? Another man? I know how good you look in orange coveralls. I won’t be thrown away for some
weekend fling.” She was laughing again.

“Damn it, I—”

“Shut up, Alex. Just shut up.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. The van was moving. They bounced along in tense silence
for a few interminable moments.

With her eyes still shut, Elena said, “We’ll never have this conversation again. I mean it. I love you, and if you ever bring
up the ‘divorce’ word again, I’ll kill you. We’re going to suffer through this together. I don’t care what happens as long
as we’re together. Nod your head if you understand, or should I just kill you now?”

Alex bent forward and refused to look at her. The silence dragged on.

Alex eventually said, “You look good in orange, too.”

“Check out my new jewelry.” She rattled her chains, then bent over and they shared a kiss. Bad jokes, but neither was in the
state to think up good ones.

After a moment, Alex said, “I think there’s a chance you might get out on bail.”

“Me? What about you?”

“MP’s not hopeful. Neither am I. Jail might even be the best place for me right now. Did you recognize anybody in the crowd
of reporters the other night?”

“From Budapest, that blonde she-bitch.”

They probably had only a few minutes left. There was a lot Alex wanted to discuss and he began speaking quickly. “You’ll have
to go underground. And you’ll have to sell our apartment,” he told her. “I know you love it, and I’m sorry. But you’ll need
the money to survive.”

“I hate that apartment. I’ll be happy to unload it. After four days in a small, cramped cell, I suddenly love the idea of
wide-open space.”

“Set a low price and dump it quickly. Then find a cheap rental, one you can get out of quickly. You’ll need all the money
you can get your hands on. My legal costs are probably going to be enormous.”

“What about Orangutan? No longer an option?”

“It’s history. But I’ve got a new idea. Probably even better than Orangutan Media, something I’ve been toying with for a while.”

The van was beginning to slow down. In a fast rush of words, Alex shared the rough details of his idea. Elena nodded. She
would have to learn a lot quickly. The concept was great, though. It would mint money, if she could pull it off.

The van wheeled into an underground garage beneath the INS building. Alex and Elena were separated, taken upstairs in different
elevators, then deposited in different cells and left alone to stew with worry.

Thirty minutes later, a guard arrived, unlocked the cell, and escorted Alex down several long, well-lit corridors to a small
courtroom. Elena was already there, seated at a table beside MP. Their lawyer had his back turned to Elena and was engaging
in a conversation with an attractive, older, dark-featured female seated at what Alex presumed was the prosecution table.
A considerably younger male colleague in a dark suit sat to her right, looking nervous and out of place.

Alex sat beside MP, who quickly bent around him and said to the prosecutor, “Kim Parrish, I’d like you to meet my client,
Alex Konevitch.”

Alex held out his hand and looked her dead in the eye. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The room was small. They were about three feet apart. She nodded but took a step back, said nothing, and studiously avoided
his hand. Go ahead, MP was thinking from the sideline—take a nice long look at the man you’re about to persecute. You’ll be
responsible when he lands in a coffin. He’s young and handsome, and his wife is young and beautiful—they have so much to live
for—but go ahead, ignore your conscience. Get them killed.

She understood exactly what MP was doing. A long awkward moment, then she suddenly buried her nose in the blank legal pad
on her table.

A moment later, the judge entered through a side door. There was none of the procedural rigmarole Alex had observed on American
TV. No announcement, no standing. No long perorations or lawyers being introduced. Apparently, immigration cases adhered to
a less formal pattern.

Judge John Everston IV presided. He spent a brief moment surveying his court to be sure everything was the way he liked it.

Alex’s and Elena’s eyes were glued to the face of the man who held their lives in his hands. He was neither handsome, impressive-looking,
nor even mildly judicial-looking, with a long, droopy face, thick, arched eyebrows that lent an impression of severe fierceness,
scarecrow gray hair, and small eyes hidden behind bifocals that seemed impossibly thick and bleary.

John Everston had started out as an immigration attorney thirty years before, a fine, precise, hardworking lawyer whose service
was eventually rewarded with a judgeship. His lawyer career had been spent in the prosecution trenches. He came from a long
line of deeply rooted, well-heeled southern Virginia aristocrats. And though everybody assumed otherwise, banishing immigrants
had been a job he utterly loathed, and nearly always was ashamed to perform. He carefully hid a soft spot for the miserable
masses who flocked to America for a thousand different reasons and suddenly found themselves at risk of being booted out.
Left alone, they generally turned into perfectly respectable citizens. The law had forced him to separate families, to dispatch
honest, hardworking people back to a life of hopeless squalor, and occasionally to send them back to conditions that meant
certain death. Thirty years of practicing law on both sides of the bench had converted him from a mild liberal to a fairly
rabid one.

And like every liberal judge in the country—in his opinion, like any judge with half a brain—Judge Everston detested John
Tromble and he loathed the attorney general for failing to reel him in.

His eyes took in the court recorder, the bailiff at his station along the wall, the attorneys at their appropriate tables,
and the young husband and wife huddled miserably in their atrocious orange prison apparel. He finally settled on a small group
tucked in the back of the small visitors’ section—a pair of bespoke gentlemen in nice suits and a young lady dressed decidedly
more flippantly in ragged jeans, a torn T-shirt, and plastic flip-flops.

The judge directed a long finger in their direction. “It’s not often I get visitors in this courtroom. When I do, I always
like to make your acquaintance. You look like a reporter,” he suggested to the young lady; from the way she was attired, she
could be nothing but. Jeans and a ripped T-shirt—he had threatened lawyers with contempt just for wearing distasteful ties.

Sally, the court recorder, and Harry, the bailiff, exchanged curious glances. The judge had never, ever before even acknowledged
visitors on the few rare occasions any showed up. Now he was actually conversing with them.

“I am,” the lady answered promptly and proudly.

“What paper do you represent?”

“
New York Times
.”

He would’ve publicly laid into her about her indecorum, but the
Times
was so reliably and frantically liberal, she could wear a birthday suit for all he cared.

“Good for you,” he pronounced. The judge’s gaze slowly shifted to her left. “And you two gentlemen?” he asked, directing a
bony finger at the men.

“FBI,” the older one said, sort of shuffling his feet at the unexpected attention.

The judge’s head reared back. He squinted through his thick glasses and peered down his long, skinny nose. “And to what do
I owe the rare pleasure of a few of Mr. Tromble’s boys in my court?”

“We’re just… merely observing,” he replied.

“Observing what?”

“It’s…” The agent blinked a few times. He had a law degree, though admittedly, he had sailed straight into the Bureau after
law school. Aside from a few occasions on a witness stand, he had never actually been forced to address a sitting judge. He
took another stab, saying, “We, that is, the Bureau, has an interest in the status of this case, Your Honor.”

“An interest. I see. And what interest would that be, Agent, uh…?”

“Special Agent Wilson. It, uh, well—”

“Speak up, Agent Wilson. This is a small court, and I’d like very much to hear your replies. I’m actually dying to hear your
reply. In ten years on this bench, I don’t believe I’ve ever entertained visitors from your Bureau. This is a small, unimportant
court, and the proceedings are normally quite tedious. I’m on the edge of my seat to learn what’s so special about today.”

It was becoming increasingly apparent that the judge was not overjoyed with their presence. Every eye in the small court was
on Wilson. He desperately wanted to crawl under his seat.

“Your Honor, the accused is wanted for certain crimes in Russia, crimes that are under our scrutiny.”

The long finger popped back up like a pistol. “In this court, he’s not the accused, Agent Wilson. This is not a criminal trial
and I don’t want you to prejudice my judicial neutrality through any misleading impressions. In here, he’s simply a man who
may or may not have overstayed his visa.”

“Yes, I under—”

“Does he have a criminal record in this country?”

“Uh… no.” A brief pause. “Not that we’ve yet discovered anyway,” Wilson said, implying otherwise, and visibly proud that he
was recovering nicely.

“I see. Well, it is not my jurisprudence or interest to try crimes that might or might not have been committed on foreign
soil. Unless I misunderstand the law, I believe the well-known prurience of your Bureau also ends at the water’s edge. Surely
an agent of your distinguished agency might understand that,” he announced, looking far down his nose.

“What I meant—”

“I really don’t care what you meant. I care only about what you say. Precise legal terminology is important. Surely they taught
you something about that in that FBI school all you boys go through.”

Wilson was silently cursing Hanrahan for making him be here.

The judge waved a thick folder in the air. “I took the opportunity to review this case file. All your statements are in here,
seven INS agents and yours, Agent Wilson. Eight of you, altogether. Eight! Eight of you involved in arresting this young,
frightened couple. They look harmless enough. And, as I understand it, the charge for my consideration deals with nothing
more serious than expired visas. Am I missing something here? Please tell me I am, Agent Wilson. Have they smuggled in one
of those suitcase nuclear bombs? Committed mass murder or run one of those odious rape camps in Bosnia? Surely, they have.
Please assure me I’m missing something here.”

No, you’re not missing a thing, Wilson thought, now visibly miserable. Not a damn thing, you mean old goat. His back was rigid.
He could barely force himself to keep his eyes on this judge. He had faced down Mafia thugs, kidnappers, dope pushers, and
never blinked. He was plainly terrified of this judge.

“I am only here because I was ordered to attend, Your Honor.”

“And who gave you this order?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“You’d rather not?”

“That’s right, Your Honor.”

His Honor rested his elbows on the bench and placed his sharp chin in his hands. “Is this some pressing matter of national
security?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” His small eyes bored into Wilson like rockets.

“Uh, no.”

“Precision, Agent Wilson. Which is it, yes or no?”

“It’s not. Uh, no.”

“I see.” His Honor toyed with his pen a moment. Wilson was examining the door. His legs were tensed, ready to bolt. It was
barely ten feet away. He was almost certain he could be outside, sprinting to his car, before the judge could fire off another
question.

His Honor slipped off his glasses and leaned far forward. “Let me make this clear, Agent Wilson. Listen closely and pass this
on to those whose names cannot be uttered in this court. The freedom and dignity of two human beings are at stake here. They
are guests in our land, so the reputation of our great nation is at stake. If I find any hint of remotely unethical behavior,
I’ll make you wish you never heard of Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch. I watched the news reports over the weekend, and frankly, I
am dismayed and alarmed. I seriously hope nobody in this court was attempting to humiliate or pressure these poor people.
Are we clear on this?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I mean it.” The public whipping was over. Wilson looked thoroughly whipped. His Honor redirected his eyes toward MP. “Mr.
Jones, you may begin now.”

The sound of Wilson’s sigh of relief echoed throughout the room.

Without rising or missing a beat, MP said, “Thank you, Your Honor. I’m sorry we’re wasting your time this morning over such
a trivial, ridiculous matter. The issue is whether or not my clients overstayed their visas.” MP slapped his right hand with
a theatrical thump on a pile of documents on the defense table. “I have here all the requisite forms proving they have valid
visa status. Also documentation proving they applied for and were unanimously approved for permanent residency in the United
States. I’d like to get this charge dismissed immediately so my clients can go on with their lives.”