The Hunted (58 page)

After a moment, Alex asked, “And Tatyana Lukin? What about her?”

“Fired and arrested. The tapes and photos Mikhail gave her former boyfriend worked like magic. He also sacked the attorney
general.”

Alex finally allowed himself a smile. He had caused two deaths and destroyed two lives. Of course, they had tried to kill
him, numerous times, and made his life as miserable as they could. The smile was distant and cold, though—the grim smile of
a very different man from a few years before. “So that’s it,” Alex said. “No more enemies in Moscow.”

“We’re safe from them forever, Alex. We only have to worry about here.”

Alex stared down at his flip-flops a moment. He asked Elena, “How much time do we have left?”

She checked her watch. “Forty-five minutes, more or less.”

He walked to the table and picked up a chair. He carried it to the door and jammed it quietly but firmly in place underneath
the large brass knob.

He turned around and looked at Elena. “Are you hungry?”

“Not in the least. You?”

The food was shoved out of the way. Elena’s pantsuit flew off in two seconds; the prison suit took even less time. They landed
on the tabletop and put their heart and soul into using forty minutes to make up for fourteen months apart.

Left unsaid, but certainly understood by both of them, was that this might be their last time.

MP called his first witness.

The rear door of the courtroom opened and Kim Parrish walked quickly down the aisle. Caldwell’s head spun around so fast he
nearly snapped his neck. He traded a look with Tromble, now seated directly to his rear.

Neither man was the least bit happy to see her.

She was duly identified and sworn in, then sat perfectly still in the witness chair while MP warmed up.

“You’re an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“And you worked at the INS legal office?”

“Same place you used to work. The district office that includes the District of Columbia.”

“And you once handled the case of Alex and Elena Konevitch?” “At one time I was the lead attorney for their persecution—I
mean, prosecution,” Kim replied, deliberately mixing up her nouns. She looked at Alex. He smiled and offered a thankful nod.

“But no longer?”

“No.”

“Why not? Isn’t it unusual to be removed from a case you initiated and took to immigration court?”

“Nearly unheard of. I asked to be reassigned from the case.”

MP raised an eyebrow. “You asked? From such a big, important case? Why? I imagine any INS lawyer would die for a case like
this. All this attention, all those hungry reporters out on the steps. Mr. Caldwell, over there, is so giddy he can barely
contain himself.”

“Objection,” Caldwell howled, scowling at MP.

“Sustained.”

MP ignored Caldwell and acted like the objection was meaningless. “Why did you ask to be removed, Miss Parrish?”

“Because… because, over time, I became convinced Mr. Konevitch was being—”

“Objection!” Caldwell yelled again, nearly bouncing up and down in his chair.

“Grounds?”

“Miss Parrish is in violation of attorney-client privilege.”

“Sidebar,” the judge snapped. The huddle formed beside the bench.

MP brought Matt. Because he didn’t want to be outnumbered, Caldwell brought Bill, one of the useless Justice boys who did
his best to appear fierce and disguise his general sentiment, which was thoroughly confused. He had no idea who this lady
was, what was at issue, and even less idea of his role in this case.

The judge examined the four faces, then whispered to Caldwell, “Make your argument.”

“Her knowledge of this case was gained through her employment by her client, the state.”

“Mr. Jones?”

“Her employment was terminated. She’s free to testify as she likes.”

“She remains bound by her oath as an attorney,” Caldwell insisted.

“You should have thought about that before you people sacked her,” MP shot back.

“I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Caldwell,” the judge intervened, strongly wanting to do the opposite, but he couldn’t will
the law against Caldwell’s side.

“I’ll restrict my questions,” MP said, trying to mask his disappointment. Matt nodded at him. Good move.

“She should be dismissed,” Caldwell complained.

“She’s a private citizen now. She can testify,” His Honor said. “But within limits. Be careful, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll be watching,” Caldwell sneered at MP.

“Watch hard,” MP sneered back. “I enjoy an attentive audience.”

They returned to their respective seats. MP spent a moment rearranging his thoughts, then asked, “Miss Parrish, do you recall
a team of Russians sent over to help with this case?”

“I do, yes. Five of them in all. An investigator and four prosecutors.”

“And do you recall who paid for this?”

“The FBI.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, their full expenses. They’ve been here about a year.”

“Where are they staying? Such a long way from home, what are they doing? Don’t they get bored?”

Kim’s eyes narrowed. She sent her answer like a rocket straight at Tromble. “At the Madison Hotel. Four of them, in separate
thousand-dollar-a-night suites. For almost a year now, and they’ve racked up incredible bills. They eat at our most expensive
restaurants, fly away first-class to Vegas every weekend, whoring, gambling, and drinking unimaginable amounts of liquor.
Every bit of it is billed to the FBI.”

“A rough estimate. How much would you guess the FBI has wasted on these crooked clowns?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained. Watch your language, Mr. Jones. How much, Miss Parrish?”

“Millions. Many millions of taxpayer money. As I said, they’ve been here a year, living like spoiled kings.”

MP returned to his seat.

Frankly there was no reason on earth for Caldwell to cross-examine Kim Parrish. His earlier, well-timed objection had slipped
a noose around MP and put her in a box. No real damage had been done. Who cared about the Russians? Let them impregnate half
the showgirls in Vegas. Bet the whole national treasury and lose it in a bad roll of the dice. Big deal. It had nothing to
do with whether Konevitch should remain in prison.

But he was angered that Kim Parrish chose to turn on her own department. It was betrayal and he damn well knew how to make
her pay for it. Time for a little discreditation.

He stood and asked, “How did you become a defense witness?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“It’s very simple. Did Mr. Jones contact you, or vice versa?”

“I contacted him. After I was—”

Before she could finish that thought, Caldwell cut her off. “Are you still employed at the INS, Miss Parrish?”

“No, I quit.”

“You mean you were fired. You went to Mr. Jones because you were angry and wanted revenge.”

“I mean I quit. Then Mr. Tromble fired me.”

“No, you were fired by the director of the INS.”

“I don’t recall you being in the room. I was fired by Mr. Tromble because he refused to allow me to resign from what I considered
a shoddy case.”

Caldwell immediately turned red. He looked at the judge. “Strike that response from the record.”

“You asked the question,” the judge replied, “and you challenged her to elaborate. I’ll allow it.”

A stupid mistake. But so what? The damage was minimal. An ambiguous little defeat in the midst of a big, clear-cut victory.
At least his well-timed objection had smothered her from exposing the really damaging stuff.

Kim was dismissed and MP called his next witness. Parrish walked back up the aisle and was passed by a poorly dressed, diminutive
man slowly shambling in the opposite direction.

Petri Arbatov was sworn and seated.

MP spent a moment walking him through his background—for the edification of the judge and audience, he dwelled on it at some
length. KGB for twenty years before his sudden defection. A law degree from Moscow University, but no mention of the law degree
from Catholic University.

MP didn’t ask, and Petri didn’t offer.

The crowd in the court hung on every word. With few exceptions, none had ever seen a real live KGB agent, up close and personal.
Petri was their first peek at a living, breathing KGB agent—and he looked so small, so crushed, so sad. Who could believe
this was the fierce demon portrayed in all those Cold War cinema thrillers and spy novels? Why hadn’t we won the Cold War
thirty years earlier? Having spent no time in courtrooms, Petri looked nervous and his opening responses were halting.

Next, a few warm-up questions to put the witness at greater ease. How Petri came in contact with this case, his interview
with Kim Parrish, and so forth.

MP said, “So you were hired to translate the documents given to the INS, via the FBI?”

“It is how I make my living these days. I translate for American firms doing business in Russia.”

“Are you still a practicing attorney?”

“No. I quit the profession sixteen years ago.”

“Why?”

“The work I did for the KGB, I suppose. It left a certain taste.”

“What kind of work would that be?”

Petri looked around the court for a moment and let the suspense build. “My job, Mr. Jones, was to frame people,” he answered
slowly, drawing out the words.

Petri spoke quietly, and the reporters bent forward as they spent a few minutes delving into that legal specialty. Fascinating
stuff. People were on the edge of their seats, and never budged. How to frame a perfectly innocent man, ten easy steps to
a sure-fire trip to a gulag, or worse.

Then, from MP, “And what did you conclude after you reviewed the material about Konevitch from Russia?”

“Objection,” Caldwell barked.

“Grounds?” Willis asked, leaning his chin on his fist.

“Uh… attorney-client privilege again.”

His Honor peeked down at Petri. “Remind me, please. Are you still a practicing attorney, sir?”

“Not for many, many years. These days I’m a simple translator.”

MP confidently asked, “Did you sign a contract that precluded you from sharing what you learned?”

“No. I merely stated my price and Miss Parrish hired me.”

The judge said, “Then overruled. Please answer the first question.”

Petri looked at Alex seated at the table. “After looking at everything, I concluded that Mr. Konevitch was being framed.”

“Why?”

“There is a certain stench to such things, Mr. Jones.”

“An odor? An actual smell? Explain that.”

Petri directed a finger at Colonel Volevodz seated at the rear, now in his capacity as an official observer. “Take that man,
Mr. Jones. He might tell you he works at the Ministry of Security, but he was definitely career KGB before this. He might
claim he’s merely enforcing the law, but his hands are covered with blood. It’s a stink no shower will erase.”

Every neck in the court craned to examine Volevodz. A more charming man might have smiled or chuckled disarmingly—at a minimum
shaken his head in pretended disbelief. Volevodz tried to bore holes through Petri with his skinny, mean little eyes.

Oh yeah, no doubt about it. There’s the guy from the Hollywood thrillers—KGB down to his undershorts.

“But the documents?” MP asked. “Did they actually smell?”

“Well, you see, the key is to produce a perfect case. These four prosecutors your FBI is caring for, they are experts at this.
That’s exactly what they did.”

MP led him through this for a while, the craftsmanship of how to string a noose with lies, forgeries, and planted evidence.
Then he shifted on a dime and asked, “Incidentally, were you present when Miss Parrish was fired?”

“I was there, yes. Seated right beside her. But she wasn’t fired.”

“The prosecutor claimed she was.”

“He’s wrong, or he’s lying. She quit.”

“Why did she quit?”

“She reported to her boss that this case was phony. Cooked up. A sham.”

MP paused to allow this to sink in, then asked, “What happened?”

“She is an honorable person, Mr. Jones. She did something I never had the courage to do.”

“Which was what, Mr. Arbatov?”

“She tried to get the case dropped.”

MP affected a look of huge surprise. “The attorney in charge wanted it dropped?”

“Yes.”

“Well… why wasn’t it dropped?”

“She was brought into a room with that man”—he pointed out Tromble, who was trying desperately to ignore him—“and her INS
bosses. She begged them to drop the case. They refused quite rudely. She then asked to be reassigned, as is the prerogative,
indeed, the responsibility of any attorney who believes a case is improper. They yelled at her. She resigned, then that man”—another
damning finger aimed at Tromble—“screamed at her that she was fired.”

MP thanked him and walked away. Petri sat quietly and looked at Alex. Alex looked back, nodding his head, a silent acknowledgment
to an old countryman who had refound his conscience.

When offered the chance to cross-examine, Caldwell passed. He knew next to nothing about Petri Arbatov. What he did know was
that the man was a legal minefield, and further questioning would only reinforce the damage.

Besides, the damage wasn’t really that bad. Tromble looked like a mean horse’s ass; like that was news to anybody. And maybe
he lied a little on the stand. But that was Tromble’s problem, not Caldwell’s.

Frankly, the more he thought about it, Caldwell was quite pleased. There was room for only one ego on this side of the case—one
shining exemplar of truth and justice—and this skinny, tired little Russian just blew Tromble right out of the saddle.

When time came for the summary, Caldwell would strongly note how the Russian “expert” had offered an opinion—not a fact, but
a baseless opinion pulled out of thin air after concluding the case was, in his own words, too perfect. And he was heavily
outnumbered. The word of a self-confessed framer of innocent men against that of the entire Russian government; a reformed,
democratic government, he would stipulate quite loudly, not the corrupt old dictatorship this Petri Arbatov had sent people
to the gallows for.