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."

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-"