The Hunted (55 page)

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“I thought he stole 250 million dollars. Where’s the remainder of Konevitch’s money?”

“It’s not Konevitch’s money, sir.”

“No?” A look of surprise. “Well, whose money is it?”

“It’s money he robbed from poor people in Russia. They trusted him and are now bankrupt. We won’t know where he stashed it
all until we get him home and he confesses. Only then can those poor people be repaid.”

Caldwell let that fester a moment—all those miserable victims back home starving and freezing while they waited for Alex to
give them back their money—then said, “Are you familiar with a company named Orangutan Media?”

“I most certainly am.”

“How are you familiar with this company?”

“It became the subject of police interest a few years ago.”

“How did this come about?”

“The result of a tip from a source inside one of our crime syndicates. A Chechen mob, a nasty group involved in a number of
criminal activities, from kidnapping to drugs to murder.”

“Sounds like our Mafia.”

“You should be so lucky. Compared to these people, your Mafia’s a Boy Scout group. After the tip, a wiretap was installed
and the police heard Konevitch arranging payments and transfers of cash. He was using Orangutan as a front to launder syndicate
money.”

“What was the nature of Orangutan Media?”

“Reputedly it was an advertising company. And it was established in Austria to evade our scrutiny. The syndicate money came
into the company under the guise of client contracts. Orangutan turned around and gave the same money right back to the syndicate
as subcontractors. It was all very neat.”

“It sounds quite elaborate.”

“Not really. It’s a very common shell game. Child’s play for a sophisticated financial mastermind like Konevitch.”

“And you have Mr. Konevitch on tape discussing these arrangements with a syndicate?”

“Right there on your table,” he said, pointing at the defense table. “The taped discussions are in Russian, of course, so
I left them back in Russia. They would be incomprehensible to you, anyway. I therefore turned over paper transcripts to your
people.”

“Yes, you did.” The aide took the cue and hauled a bunch of papers to the bench. “We introduce these translated transcripts,”
Caldwell said very slowly, with another flash of teeth. “As well, I submit statements collected by state prosecutors from
a number of Orangutan Media employees confessing to the schemes inside the company.”

He held his breath and waited in anticipation for Jones to jerk out of his chair. Without the tapes there was no way to verify
that the written transcripts were accurate, or indeed whether any tapes even existed. There had to be an objection this time—a
noisy protest infused with enraged anger would follow, he was sure.

In fact, Jones looked ready to jump out of his seat before Alex reached over and grabbed his arm. Alex briefly whispered something
into his ear. MP relented, relaxed back into his seat, and went back to doodling on a yellow legal pad.

Caldwell silently congratulated himself. A brilliant move, and he couldn’t believe he got away with it. Having the chief prosecutor
in the witness chair obviously nullified the discrediting strategy Jones had pulled off in immigration court. Welcome to the
big leagues, pal.

Caldwell triumphantly announced, “I’m through with this witness,” and returned to his seat.

Judge Willis peered down from his perch at MP. Jones was still focused intensely on his yellow legal pad, which now was cluttered
with aimless squiggles and shapes. “Mr. Jones, do you wish to cross-examine?”

MP looked up. “What?… Uh, no, thank you, Your Honor.” “You’re sure?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

Willis rubbed his eyes for a moment. “You heard what the witness presented?”

“I did.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to ask him a few questions?”

“Very sure.”

“Is this your first time in federal court, Mr. Jones?”

“Yes sir. Very first. It’s much nicer than immigration court. Quite lovely.”

“I’m glad it appeals to your tastes. Do you understand how our procedures work?”

“I believe I do, Your Honor.”

“Once I release this witness, he cannot be recalled.”

“Then please do it quickly. I don’t know about you, but he was becoming tiresome, Your Honor.”

This caused a twitter of laughter among the reporters.

His Honor did not appear to get the joke. “I advise you, Mr. Jones, to think harder about questioning the witnesses than trying
to entertain us with humor.”

“Can I be blunt, Your Honor?”

“You can try, Mr. Jones.”

“I don’t wish to waste your time.”

“To the contrary, Mr. Jones, I’m here to listen to both sides. It’s an adversarial system, by design. I encourage you to participate.”

“Well, I don’t want to encourage him to tell more lies.”

“I see. The witness is released.”

Caldwell rose to call his next witness, but the judge put up a hand. “Hold on a moment.” His eyes turned to Alex. “Can you
please rise?”

Alex stood.

Judge Willis leaned far forward on his elbows. “Are you aware your attorney has no experience in federal jurisdictions?”

“In fact, he emphasized the same thing last week.”

“I’m sure you’re in a great hurry to get out of prison, Mr. Konevitch. I’m just wondering if this hearing might be premature.”

“On the contrary, my arrest and imprisonment were premature, Your Honor.”

“Do you have adequate knowledge of our legal system?”

Alex directed a look at Tromble, who was seated, legs crossed. “I’ve been imprisoned the past fourteen months, without trial.
You could say I am quite familiar with this legal procedure. Soviet law operated the same way.”

Willis pinched his nose and forced himself not to scowl. “Are you content with your representation? The question is on the
record, Mr. Konevitch. Because if you try to appeal my decision based upon incompetent representation, it will now be clear
that you knowingly settled on Mr. Jones.”

MP blinked a few times at what was obviously intended as a very public putdown. It was humiliating to be treated as a featherweight
but that wasn’t the most painful part. Worse, part of their strategy cooked up by him and the PKR boys relied on Alex having
valid claim to poor representation. So far, MP had availed himself of every opportunity to portray utter incompetence. Let
the prosecutor get away with as much as was legally advisable, do your best to sit and look stupid.

A great idea, in concept, that was suddenly falling apart.

After a moment, Alex stated very clearly, “I’m happy with my counsel,” then collapsed into his chair.

And so it went for the remainder of the morning. An hour break for lunch before Caldwell resumed calling more witnesses who
confirmed and reconfirmed and elaborated powerfully on the inescapable fact that Alex Konevitch was a crook, a flight risk,
a criminal who had to be incarcerated or he would flee and never be heard from again. Three FBI agents were paraded to the
stand, followed by two Foreign Service officers with recent experience in Russia, each of whom had observed firsthand the
public furor caused when Konevitch disappeared with the money.

MP politely and firmly declined to cross-examine each one. The clock read 4:30 when the last prosecution witness was excused
from the stand.

Judge Willis checked his watch, then said, “Sidebar with the opposing attorneys.”

MP and Caldwell joined His Honor in a small, tight cluster beside the bench.

The judge glared at MP. “Did you not in fact submit this motion for habeas corpus?” he whispered.

“I certainly did, Your Honor,” MP whispered back.

“Why, Mr. Jones?”

“Why? Because my client has been incarcerated in federal prison for fourteen months. He’s been bounced through three different
prisons, each progressively more hazardous and miserable than the last. He’s been submitted to several bouts of solitary confinement,
and deliberately assigned cellmates categorized as Level Five inmates. I’m sure you’re aware that prisoners reach this distinctive
category only after they prove they are a grave danger to other inmates and to the guards. In short, somebody in our federal
government wants my client dead or willing to submit to instantaneous deportation.”

“Those are grave charges.”

“I believe that’s an understatement.”

“Now, may I be blunt with you?”

MP nodded.

Still in whispers, His Honor unleashed a day’s worth of quiet anger. “Since you requested this hearing, you are supposed to
do something other than sit and doodle on a yellow pad, Mr. Jones. The American legal system is designed to allow a spirited
defense. You are obligated to occasionally object to statements that are challengeable, and cross-examine witnesses and poke
holes in points you believe are contestable or unsubstantiated. I am dismayed by your behavior. I find it egregiously outrageous
and, frankly, incompetent.”

“I apologize. I promise I’ll try to appear more engaged.”

“I’m sure your client will appreciate that.”

He turned to Caldwell, who was biting back a smile. He could barely contain himself. His bosses had warned him that Jones
was wily and tough and full of surprises. This was the guy, after all, who booted Kim Parrish’s ass out of the ballpark. “Hey,
who’s the tough guy now?” the scourge of Mexico wanted to ask. He was tempted to move two inches from Jones’s face and just
break out into laughter.

“Mr. Caldwell, do you have more witnesses?”

In fact, three more he planned to question that afternoon. But, hey, what the hell—he could dispense with all of them. After
the catastrophic damage he had administered—none of it challenged, all cleanly admitted—why pile more humiliation on top of
ten thousand tons of misery? They were nothing more than confirmation witnesses, here to build on already well-substantiated
facts. The judge was ready to rule in his favor right now.

“One more. It can wait till morning.”

“Then unless you gentlemen disagree I intend to adjourn until nine a.m. tomorrow.”

Neither attorney objected in the least.

His Honor looked at MP again. The look was anything but kindly and compassionate. “You had better do some soul-searching tonight.
You requested this hearing. If I don’t see a spirited attempt on your client’s behalf in the morning, I’ll cite you for contempt.”

The instant the judge dismissed the court and the side door closed behind him, the mad scramble was on. Like the shot that
starts a race, Caldwell scuttled for the door. He raced through the wide hallways, shoved open the huge outer doors, and nearly
lost his balance as he went careening down the big steps.

Three dozen cameras and reporters converged on him at once. He pushed back his hair and produced his most handsome smile for
the friendly cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jason Caldwell, and I’m prosecuting this case. I’m sure you have lots of
questions. One at a time, and don’t interrupt my replies.”

Tromble crashed out the doors just as Caldwell finished his windup. Without even glancing back, Caldwell very smoothly said,
“Surely you all recognize our beloved FBI director. He has been providing assistance to me on this case. Limited assistance,
though it has been somewhat helpful. I just want to express my appreciation. If you haven’t heard, in fact, he will be my
first witness tomorrow morning.”

Tromble wanted to punch him. Grab his throat and begin throttling. Instead he forced a smile, produced a firm, dutiful salute
for the cameras, and sprinted off to his limousine, yelling over his shoulder, “Sorry, I don’t have time for questions.”

Caldwell remained on the steps for two hours. No question was too trivial to answer. No reporter too insignificant for an
endearing smile and a long, thoughtful reply. He bravely withstood the fury of interest until the reporters remembered their
deadlines and wandered off into the Washington evening.

I
t was called the Tsar’s Suite. At an enormous five thousand square feet, it was furnished with rare and wondrous antiques,
loaded with marble and teak, and crammed to the rafters with a staggering array of personal luxuries. Two separate baths,
either one big enough to swallow and wash a squadron of sweaty horses. An entire wall of picture windows overlooking the glorious
Moskva River and Moscow’s twinkling lights.

The sumptuous dinner had been prepared by a four-star chef and delivered by three waiters who hung over the table, willing
to cut the meat and spoon-feed the thoroughly spoiled customers. Whatever they wished for, a dollop landed on their plate,
delivered by a gold ladle. A sip of wine and the crystal goblet was instantly topped off.

By ten, the chief of staff and his mistress were stuffed and sated, slightly lightheaded from the wine and champagne, ready
to retire to the sumptuous pillow bed in the gargantuan bedroom. The chief dispatched the waiters with huge tips.

Tatyana was cradling a snifter of sherry and staring wistfully out the window at the sky full of stars. “This was a wonderful
idea,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

“The most romantic thing we’ve ever done.”

“What can I say? I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I love you, love you, love you.”

He stared across the table at her. “Will you marry me?”

“I would love to.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Just… obviously not right now.”

“Why not now?”

“Yeltsin needs you. The country needs you. I won’t be a distraction from your important work.”

“I can handle it. After all, we see each other at work.”

They had been through this same argument a hundred times, a conversation they had rehearsed so often it was stale. A brief
loving glance at her paramour. “But I’m not sure I can. We’ve been through this. In case you haven’t noticed, darling, I stay
pretty busy, too.”

His elbows landed on the table. “You’re sure there’s nobody else?”