"How did Jones learn about it?" the attorney general asked, plainly puzzled.

Kim Parrish shrugged. "You tell me."

Tromble stared down at his shoes. The profligate product of the wiretaps on Jones's office had been quietly reviewed that afternoon by a team of ten agents. No mention of it. Not in Jones's phone calls. Not even in private conversations inside his office. Not a hint, not a word.

He glowered at the INS director. "Your operation leaks like a sieve. Wasn't this Jones guy once one of your lawyers? Obviously one of your people tipped him."

"Maybe it was one of your people," Parrish's boss punched back, just as nasty now that the thrashing shifted toward him. "Myself and Miss Parrish were the only ones who knew. I sure as hell didn't let him know."

"When do these Russians arrive?" Laura Tingleman asked, cutting off the discourse. She hated confrontation.

"Could be months," Tromble replied, and with that, he suddenly had a new idea.

"Then another month or two for them to pass off their knowledge to one of your attorneys," Tingleman calculated to the director of the INS, choosing her language carefully, deliberately avoiding Parrish's eyes. That pointed "one of your attorneys" line was a clear shot-this girl either kicks it up a notch or find a replacement.

"Sounds about right," Parrish's boss replied, notably not going to Parrish's defense.

"So this might take six months?" Tingleman asked.

Tromble smiled and nodded. "Maybe longer. A year is a possibility. You'll have to call this judge," he advised her. "Tell him to be patient. Emphasize the importance of this thing."

She nodded.

Parrish's boss said, "I'll assign two more attorneys to Parrish's team. That'll speed things up."

Tromble looked at him like he was an idiot. "No you won't."

"I won't?"

"As long as Konevitch is in custody, what's the rush?"

"Hey, I've been your whipping boy every day to get this thing done. Why the sudden change of heart?"

The question did not faze him in the least. "Miss Parrish has been under unbearable pressure. Look at her, she's obviously exhausted. But the timing's no longer in the defense attorney's hands, is it? She needs to take her time, get this thing done right."

The sudden shift to kindness was unnerving. Tromble walked across the room and slapped Kim Parrish on the back. "Good luck, Counselor. Knock a home run next time, or else."

The meeting was suddenly over, to everybody's surprise and Kim Parrish's complete delight. She nearly left a smoke trail she moved out so fast.

Then it was just Tromble and the attorney general. Alone. The two of them, together, all by themselves in the big office filled with overwhelming burdens and responsibilities.

Tromble turned to her and observed, "The judge released Konevitch to your custody. The second you give the word, he's going into a federal prison."

"Well, there's that very nice one in Pennsylvania. The one where all the Wall Street fat cats go. Out in the countryside. I hear it's lovely in a pastoral sort of way."

Tromble said, not very pleasantly, "You're not really going to let some pissant immigration hack boss you around, are you? Just roll over and bark for that guy?"

That stung. Tromble was right, though; he was a lowly immigration judge in a backwater court. And she was, after all, the attorney general. Her eyes were glued to his face. "What do you have in mind, John?"

"You understand how important this case is?"

"Remind me."

"The Russian mobs are climbing all over our coastal cities. They're the newest thing, and it's not pretty. They earn a ten on the viciousness scale. And now they're battling us, the Italian Mafia, and the black gangs, and the Colombians and Mexicans to get a foothold. The Russians are very good, and very, very violent. They learned how to thrive in the most totalitarian country on earth. Don't forget that. Imagine what they can accomplish in our wide-open liberal democracy. We're frighteningly vulnerable. Let them get traction, let them have an inch, they'll become another rooted criminal institution inside this country. Another cancer that's impossible to dislodge."

"And Konevitch is the key to this?" she asked, leaning on her plump elbows and watching him carefully.

"Yes, the Russians are quite clear on this. He's a very guilty man, Laura. The man stole hundreds of millions. They get Konevitch, and in turn we get twenty agents in Moscow, with full access to their intelligence about the Mafiya. They'll assign liaisons to us, and we'll trade information back and forth. It's a gold mine. We'll break the back of these Russian goons."

"I see."

"Understand this, too. This guy Konevitch is sticking his finger in our eye, Laura. It's a disgrace. The press is watching. A damned foreigner exploiting our own legal system to make you and me look like eunuchs. It's very dangerous for us."

She sank about two more inches into her seat. Her forehead added about ten wrinkles. Left unsaid was that Tromble himself had issued the boneheaded directive to cream the Konevitches on the front pages, and attracted all the public scrutiny. He regretted it now-it had been a terrible mistake-but the die was cast. If Konevitch wanted to make this a pissing contest, a waterfall was about to land on his head.

Tromble placed a hand on her shoulder. "You decide what damned prison he's going to. If he wants to play games with you, stick it to him."

"You're right," she said, feeling a sudden burst of something called determination.

"Pick the worst, festering pisshole in the federal system. Put him in with the worst scum in our society. Someplace hot as Hades, with crap for food, and unrelenting violence. Let him rot and suffer until he begs us to throw him out of this country."

"I suppose a little softening up might encourage him to see our side," she agreed.

Mikhail had managed at last to hide listening devices inside the big black limo. For months he had looked for a chance. There just had been no openings. And it had to be unquestionably fail-safe; getting caught would blow everything apart. But the driver had dodged into a coffee shop one cold afternoon, leaving the engine running and doors unlocked. Mikhail gently eased over, ducked down, and quietly opened a rear side door. He jammed one bug into the deep crevice between the rear cushions. For insurance, he attached another tightly to the undercarriage of the front seat.

The range was only half a mile, and that was on a clear day. It gave him two important edges, though. He could hear what they were saying and record every word. And he no longer had to keep the limo in sight during the weekly meetings on the Moskva. They were oblivious to his presence, so far. But Mikhail intended to die peacefully in his bed at a ripe old age.

The limo was parked there, right now, a few meters to the right of its regular spot overlooking the river. Mikhail was parked three blocks away, the receiver/recorder in his lap, volume turned up full blast. He was sipping carefully from a large thermos of coffee and listening intently. Golitsin, then Tatyana, then Nicky sat in the rear, in their usual order, performing their usual ritual, nursing drinks, arguing back and forth, plotting their next big heist.

Nicky, in his distinctively caustic tone: "I thought you said it was going to be easy. Kid's play."

Golitsin: "All right, I lied. So what?"

"So what? Nine of my guys dead. Two of my chophouses blown to pieces, that's what. Somebody's screwin' with my dope business, too. I had half a million stolen from a pusher last week. Every time I hit Khodorin's company, I get hit back, twice as hard."

Tatyana, in a soothing tone obviously intended to unruffle the feathers: "What makes you think Khodorin's behind it, Nicky? He's just a businessman."