Court was brought to order and things settled down quickly. Willis stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his usual habit before rendering his decisions. A powerfully affecting moment-the former priest searching for guidance and wisdom from on high. Tromble, by contrast, looked perfectly miserable, squirming in his seat, unable to get comfortable.

The eyes came down. "After listening to all the tapes and giving the issue due consideration, I've decided to accept the tapes into evidence."

Alex leaned far back into his chair. Elena actually released a squeal of joy.

But as the court had heard only one tape, the significance of this decision was mysterious. The reporters remained mute.

He looked at Alex. "Sir, will you please stand?"

MP squeezed Alex's arm. The "sir" seemed to be a good sign. He stood.

"Let me begin by expressing my deepest apologies." Willis adjusted his robes and paused briefly. "Let me add a strong personal recommendation. I expect you and your attorney to file a civil suit against the FBI and Department of Justice. You have been wronged, sir. No amount of money will make up for it but it won't hurt, either."

Tromble was seated in his chair, struggling to square the competing demands of appearing confident and powerful while trying also to be completely invisible.

The judge then began addressing the court, speaking quite loudly, and ever so clearly, so that even the farthest reporter in the back wouldn't miss a word or legal nuance. He began with a long summary of everything on the tapes. He had notes, though he referred to them only rarely, primarily when a precise quote was preferred over a generalized summary. There had been a conspiracy of staggering proportions in Moscow; Konevitch was its first victim. His fortune was stolen, his companies taken away, only after he was brutally tortured. The conspiracy reached into the highest offices in the Kremlin; "we have these problems ourselves sometimes," the judge explained, "Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and so on. This case represents another of those watershed historical embarrassments."

He shared the names of the conspirators, struggling with the Russian names, and outlined their scheme. Next he spent a few moments dwelling on how exactly American law enforcement got duped into being a tool for the conspirators. A good duping requires a gullible dupe, he pointed out; the director of the FBI was that man. A quick description of the quid pro quo: they get Alex, whatever the costs; Tromble gets to sprinkle a few more agents in Moscow. A brief summary of how Tromble violated countless laws and procedures to persecute Alex and Elena Konevitch. There were too many breaches for the judge to count, but a full accounting would be prepared later by competent figures with enough time to wade through all the tapes and other evidence.

In effect, the INS, the FBI, and the Justice Department-the very people represented by the attorneys at the prosecution table-were suddenly branch offices of a cabal of evil people in a foreign land. MP had offered the judge a few pointers back in the chambers, and he threw out some of the more egregious ones: the constant shuffling through increasingly miserable prisons to turn up the heat; punishments inflicted by various wardens under orders from Washington; wiretaps in their apartment; illegal searches; the senseless destruction of their home and property; their money seized by the federal government and their business enterprise shut down and bankrupted.

For ten minutes, not a soul looked bored or even mildly inattentive. Twice the director of the FBI tried to walk out-both times he made a meek retreat back to his position after a stern and angry judge issued a strong warning.

Jason Caldwell sulked in his chair and listened to the bright, shining future he had envisioned collapse in ruins. He could see the evening news that night; him holding forth on the courthouse steps, the picture of brimming confidence promising a quick, punishing victory; then flash to a bunch of mealymouthed legal monkeys dissecting his overwhelming destruction in court. He knew it was going to be horrible-absolutely horrible.

He was right; it was.

Judge Willis ended with another long apology to Alex, then ordered his immediate release from custody.

He grabbed his robes and left.

Tromble dug his heels in and rushed for the door, shoving aside reporters who were bombarding him with questions. He turned to a deputy in the hallway. "Is there a back entrance to this place?"

The deputy smiled. "Sure is."

"Where?"

"Find it yourself, you prick." The kisses, hugs, and relieved expressions of appreciation at the defense table-along with a round robin of the usual victorious congratulations among Alex, Elena, MP, Matt, and Marvin-lasted five minutes. Marvin eventually lifted a stately arm and quieted them down. The old pro got a strong grip on Alex's arm and solemnly pledged he would personally file and oversee the suits against the FBI, Justice, and INS.

One big suit, a monstrous case for compensatory damages, he promised with a gleam in his eyes.

"What are our chances, and when's the payoff?" asked Alex, ever the businessman.

Marvin smiled and rubbed his hands. "It's not a question of chances or when," he replied. "How much is the only question." He would demand and fight with conviction for ten million; after enough blood was shed, he would give them a break and settle at five million.

"Still pro bono?" Alex asked.

Marvin flashed a ruthless grin. "Not a chance."

Elena said to Marvin, quite firmly, "But you will forget your usual third. You'll take twenty percent or I swear I'll hire another firm tonight."

One look at her and Marvin had absolutely no doubt she meant every word. "Deal."

A mob of reporters descended and was driven off only after MP solemnly vowed he would stand on the courtroom steps all night. They could ask questions to their heart's content and he would bloviate until the moon came out. Before the night was over, he would be booked on five talk shows, and take calls from six book agents and five movie studio chiefs.

Marvin called the lawyers together into a tight huddle. They spent a brief moment trading ideas back and forth, planning what would be a very busy morning of filings.

When they turned around, Alex and Elena were gone.

The snow was three feet deep and dry, and though it was only fall, the snow machines were roaring full-blast and tourists in Aspen were at high tide. Neither Alex nor Elena had ever been near skis, much less on them. Both were good athletes, though. After three weeks of mastering the art, they were roaring recklessly down the black slopes like they owned the place.

Elena had argued vigorously for someplace warm. Her preferred option had been a small, pleasant, neglected Caribbean island where the natives were friendly and had no idea who they were, and wouldn't care a whit if they did.

Her preferred option two was one of those private, gated resorts in Florida. A nice one with a thick forest of palm trees, a thousand holes of golf, a well-stocked bar, and a beach where they could drink themselves silly on rum and pina coladas and roast themselves into shriveled prunes.

Alex had experienced enough heat and wouldn't hear of it. A federal prison in Georgia, followed by another in the heart of Chicago, and finally, the worst oven of all, a scorching summer in Yuma.

His Russian roots screamed for someplace where icicles hung off your nose. Exploiting her desire for privacy, he had briefly argued for an Arctic expedition, but Elena did not warm to that idea. The argument shifted slowly southward, working its way through Alaska, then, one by one, through the provinces of Canada, and refused to budge another degree once it hit Colorado.