His body was jerking involuntarily but Lev didn't feel a thing. No pain, no tingling, not even a mild sense of relief as his bowels and bladder emptied.

The big man was leaning over him, looking down into his eyes. "Hey, Alex," the man asked over his shoulder, "know this guy?"

"I've never seen him before."

"He knows you, for damn sure. He was about to shiv you."

In Russian, Lev managed to croak, "Call a doctor."

The big man looked bewildered. "What?"

Alex eased the big man aside and bent down until his face was two inches from Lev's. "Who are you?" he asked, also in Russian.

"Call a doctor. Please. My body's not working."

"Give me your name."

"Can't breathe," he managed to gasp, and he was right. His spinal cord was severed; his face was turning bluer by the second as spinal shock settled in. "Hurry."

"Why me?" Alex asked.

"Money," Lev confessed.

"From who?" Alex asked, not budging, not making the slightest move to save him.

"I…" Lev tried to force a breath, but his lungs no longer functioned. "No idea."

The big man tugged at Alex's arm. "Let's go. Don't be standing here when the guards come."

"One last question," Alex promised the big man, then, staring into Lev's dying eyes, asked, "Are there more of you?"

Lev did not answer. The final act of his miserable life would not include snitching on his colleagues. He would not give Konevitch the satisfaction.

It was in his eyes, though.

Oh yes, there were definitely more killers out there. They waited until they were back in the privacy of their small cell before either said a word. They sat on the lower bunk, kicked off their shoes, and pretended for a moment that it had never happened. Benny had not just killed a man. Nobody was trying to execute Alex. Life was every bit as good as it was yesterday, and tomorrow would be the same.

Eventually, Alex started it off. "Benny, I owe you my life."

"Just protecting my investment," Bitchy grunted as though it was nothing. His face betrayed him; he was obviously quite pleased.

"How did you know?"

"Oh, that. Well, the riot. There's usually one before a killing in here."

"I meant how did you know I was his target?"

"Didn't, necessarily. Protecting my quarterback in large mobs is how I make my living. You get an eye, or you don't get a contract. Who was that guy?"

"A Russian. I never met him."

"Why'd he want to shiv you?"

"Money, Benny-somebody put a bounty on me."

"A big one?"

"Quite large, probably."

"That's not good."

"Tell me about it."

"Any idea who's fronting the cash?"

"A very good idea, yes."

"Can you make them back off?"

"Sure, after I'm dead."

"Anyone else know?"

"I have that impression. The boys who started the riot, for sure."

They pondered the walls for a moment. Benny obviously was wondering what he had gotten himself into, hooked up with a Russian with a sumptuous bounty on his head. And Alex, just as obviously, was analyzing the same issue. How had the Russians found him? After a moment, that question answered itself. Somebody in the U.S. government had tipped them off; no other possibility made sense. But why now? And why here, in this miserable excuse for a prison? He was incarcerated, awaiting trial. In all likelihood, his next date with a judge would be followed by a quick trip to Russia. He posed absolutely no threat-or none they should know about, anyway.

Wait a few more months, and they could kill him at their leisure, in Moscow, in a small cell, in the prison of their choice. Kill him however they wanted, slow or fast, where nobody would ask questions later. So why now?

Benny broke the prolonged silence. "Will they try again?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I should find another cellmate."

"Good idea. I won't hold it against you."

Another moment of quiet passed. Alex studied his bare toes. Bitchy stood up, stretched, and produced a loud yawn.

"Thing is, Alex, you're trapped in here with these guys," Benny said, stretching his immense arms over his big head. "You can hide for 364 days, and on the 365th they catch you alone, in the shower, on the john, walking out of a meeting with your lawyer. That's it, game over." Then, as if Alex wasn't listening, "It's too easy."

"I'm already scared out of my wits, Benny. Thanks for making me hopeless."

"Just thought you should know."

"Now I know." By 9:00 p.m. that same night, when Kim and Petri finally were allowed into the power chamber, the inquisitors were already settled comfortably in their chairs. After spending thirty minutes crashing in quiet huddles about how to manhandle an unruly INS attorney who was threatening mutiny, they had reached a decision.

Tromble sat at the middle of the table, tapping a pen, boiling with barely controlled fury. The head of INS, and the assistant district director, with the distinctly unhappy honor of being Kim's immediate boss, hunched down to his left. To his right sat the slightly inebriated chief of the Russian prosecutorial team, and a Colonel Volevodz, who had been frantically dispatched by Tatyana after a disturbing call from Tromble.

All were seated with unpleasant expressions on one side of the conference table. The other side was barren.

Two empty chairs were arrayed in the middle of the floor across from them; the setting resembled a kangaroo court. In fact, it was. Kim and her translator were actually led in like prisoners by an FBI agent, one of Tromble's errand boys who in the hallway had coldly introduced himself as Terrence Hanrahan.

The arrangement was frightening. It was meant to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and very briefly, it did.

Kim more or less stumbled timidly into one chair. Petri, with a sad, resigned expression, collapsed into the seat beside her. The INS director opened with a withering glare. "Miss Parrish, do you realize how much time, money, and effort's been put into this investigation?"

A cautious nod. "Of course I do. Nobody has worked harder on it than me."

"And now you say you want the case dropped?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, sir."

"Because it's too perfect," he noted, dripping disbelief and skepticism all over the table.

"Because the whole thing is phony. The Konevitches are being framed by these people," she said, directing a finger at the two Russians at the table.

"What's the matter? Not enough evidence?"

"To the contrary, too much. It's too pat, too polished. It's obviously manufactured."

"Well, I heard of cases being dropped for lack of evidence. But for too much, and it's too good?" He shook his head from side to side, frowning tightly. "It's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

Petri and the two Russians glared across the table at each other. The lead Russian prosecutor suddenly lurched forward and snapped, "He is the one behind this." Other than an array of imaginative curses, in more than four months it was the most English Kim had heard pass his lips. And it was flawless, with barely a hint of an accent.

"Who's he?" Tromble asked, staring at the skinny, diminutive figure in the chair.

"That man," the Russian growled, directing a shaking finger at the small figure across from him. "The translator. The traitor. He defected fifteen years ago. His life's calling is to harm his motherland. If she's listening to him, she's crazy. He's obviously poisoning her brain."

Volevodz quickly jumped on the bandwagon and the two Russians spent about three minutes hurling insults and invective at the tiny Russian. Petri endured it with an unpleasant smile.

The river of castigations quickly became tedious, and Tromble eventually grew tired of it. He pushed forward and leaned across the table, redirecting the fire at the right source. "You're supposed to be a prosecutor, Miss Parrish, a lawyer. Remember your job. Leave the judgments to the men in robes."