Brian Haig - The Hunted

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 naive 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.

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."