"So we need a team of Russian prosecutors?"

"Pretty much. Assuming they have a good case, they display their evidence to our INS attorneys, and our people handle the heavy lifting in the courts. This takes time, though."

"How much time?"

"Sometimes years. Varies by case."

Tromble stared down the table at this busybody pushing her nose into his business. "The case will be heard again in one week. Konevitch doesn't have a leg to stand on."

"What if you're wrong?" his boss's legal aide asked, not backing down.

"No reasonable judge will decide against us."

"All right, consider an unreasonable one."

"Fine. If you insist, I'll call Russia and get a team over here right away," he conceded. The concession was of course entirely meaningless. He had not the slightest doubt that the Konevitches would land in Moscow long before a Russian team landed in D.C.

The meeting broke up with the solicitor general and head of Civil Rights in a corner, trading insults, and nearly fists, over Chief and Mrs. Stare at My Moon. Tatyana was heavily preoccupied when her phone started ringing off the hook. She tried to ignore it, but eventually stopped what she was doing, rolled over, and put it to her ear. "What? Who is this," she snapped in Russian.

"Please hold for the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," a female voice stiffly instructed her in English.

The voice of John Tromble popped on a moment later. "Hello, Tatyana. Heard the news about your boy Konevitch? Made a big splash in the news on this side of the water."

"How did you get my home number?" she asked, unable to disguise her irritation.

"When I couldn't get you at the office, my boys in the embassy tracked it down."

"All right. Yes, I see that you've got him in jail. Why haven't you just shipped him here?"

"It's complicated. Not as easy as I thought. Listen, I need a big favor."

He explained what he needed, a team of Russian prosecutors, and Tatyana listened. Eventually, she replied, "Is this absolutely necessary?"

"Probably not. He goes back to court in a week. No way in hell he won't be deported. But the judge might act crazily. Call it a precaution, insurance."

"It will take time to get the case together."

"How much time?"

"A month or two, probably. Maybe a little longer."

"I thought you folks were already prepared to fry him in your courts. What's the problem?"

"John, please. The case is ready for Russian courts, not yours. Your rules of evidence are different, and we'll have to tailor it accordingly. There are also certain pieces of evidence we would find it embarrassing or troublesome to show foreigners. Dirty laundry we really don't want to showcase at a time when we're trying to attract foreign investment. Those problems will have to be cleaned up."

"Okay, yeah. I understand that."

"You can keep him in jail, can't you? A lot of powerful people here are opposed to letting you keep the FBI outpost in your embassy. I'm doing my best, but, John, it's a real uphill battle. Such a clear lack of mutual cooperation won't go over well."

Tromble started to say something, but she cut him off. "President Yeltsin asked me about this case just yesterday," she lied. "He keeps asking if he needs to discuss it with your president."

"Hey, we'll find a way. I don't care if I have to bribe the judge or kill his wife. I'll find a way."

"Whatever it takes, John, whatever it takes. I'll put together a team of prosecutors and get them over there as soon as possible."

They rung off. Tatyana stretched, then rolled over, back into the muscular arms of Sasha Komenov, her boytoy soccer star. He drew away. "Who was it?" he asked in a petulant mood. He didn't speak English and understood not a word.

"Just some idiot law enforcement administrator from America."

"Oh, you're screwing him, too?" Sasha snapped. Lately, he was turning a little sulky about Tatyana and her extracurricular sleeping habits. It had never bothered him before, but after discovering a gray hair a few weeks before, he found himself suddenly torn with possessive urges.

"You're cute when you're mad. Come on and screw me now." She laughed.

Sasha crossed his arms and pouted. "Don't joke. I'm tired of sharing you."

"You're a fool. You've seen my boss. He's bald and fat and not the least bit interesting. He's so terrible in bed I have to pinch myself just to stay awake. He's so disgusting, I become nauseated afterward. I'm only doing this for us, Sasha."

"You've been saying that for years."

"And it's true. Listen, we're moving in on a huge fortune right now. Billions, Sasha, billions. My cut will be hundreds of millions, and as soon as I have it, I'll dump that old moron and quit my job. You and I will buy a big yacht and sail around the world. We'll never be able to spend it all. We'll die rich and happy."

The recorder in the basement whirred and caught every word. The limo had been cruising around Moscow for an hour. It wandered aimlessly, in no particular direction, eating up pavement until the meeting in the back was finished. After picking up Sergei Golitsin at his big brick mansion, it had sped crosstown, straight to the comparatively smaller home of Anatoli Fyodorev, Russia's attorney general. He climbed inside and off it sped.

The tracking device on the undercarriage made it too easy to trail. After an hour it pulled back up to the curb in front of Fyodorev's home. Out stepped the attorney general, stretching and straightening his suit. And then Golitsin's big head peeked out. The old man said something, they both laughed. He handed Fyodorev a thick envelope. Right there, on the curb, the idiot actually opened it so he could count the cash.

Click, click, went Mikhail's trusty camera.

Court reconvened at ten o'clock in the morning on the second. Elena had driven herself and parked in the underground INS garage. She was dressed not in orange but in a modest dark blue frock that complemented her beauty, her blonde hair, her slim figure. She sat directly behind Alex, who was in his usual orange jumpsuit. They exchanged quiet whispers and handwritten notes while they waited for the festivities to begin. Alex had been permitted to shower and shave this time-though only after MP threatened his jailers with a noisy lawsuit for deprivation of dignity.

Kim Parrish sat at her table with the same youthful assistant perched anxiously to her right. Piles of paper along with several large boxes were stacked off to the side.

MP had offered her a warm, friendly greeting when they entered. She met it with stony indifference. She was openly furious with him over that nasty, rotten, one-sided Times article-earlier in the week, Agent Wilson had confided to her how MP had called in a favor from the Times reporter and arranged her public thrashing. She could barely stand to be in the same room with him.

As before, Judge John Everston entered punctually through a side door, hustling along, anxious to begin. He studied his court again. No reporters this time. None of Tromble's punks, either, he noted with satisfaction-nobody but a plump, middle-aged, long-haired fellow in the visitors' section who was sipping noisily through a straw stuck in a Diet Coke.

"Who are you, sir?" His Honor asked.

"An author," the man replied in an almost indifferent manner. "I'm halfway into a legal thriller that involves a few immigration matters. Saw this case mentioned in the Times. Thought I'd pop in and pick up a little authentic juice."

The man looked seedy, wildly disorganized, and poorly groomed. His threadbare blue blazer bore long streaks of mustard stain, and he was vigorously scratching his fanny. Sure looked like a writer.

When the judge did not throw him out, the man quickly settled his ample rear back into his seat. He dug a notebook out of a side pocket and loudly flicked his pen open. On the frames of his glasses were two miniature cameras. Tucked in his breast pocket, a highly sensitive microphone was capturing every word. In a small office two floors above, three federal agents were huddled before video screens, watching and listening to the proceedings with great amusement.