The clerk, a large, feisty black woman, lifted up MP's motion and automatically plunked it into a deep wooden in-box, a vast reservoir filled to capacity with other such requests, motions, and lawyerly stuff. "First time here?" she asked without looking up.

"Uh… yes."

"This ain't no courtroom. Plain English works fine in here."

MP looked slightly deflated. "It's a habeas corpus motion." She chewed a stick of gum with great energy and stared intently into a computer screen. The sign on her desk suggested she was named Thelma Parker.

"I heard what you said," Thelma noted. "How long's your guy been in?"

"A year and two months."

"Uh-huh." Thelma did not appear overly impressed. "What facility he at?"

"At the moment, based on a federal contract, the state prison in Yuma. It's his third prison."

The reaction was delayed, but she slowly shifted her gaze from the screen and directed it at MP. "His third? Inside a year? That what you sayin'?"

"To be precise, inside fourteen months."

"What'd he do? Kill a warden?"

"An alleged visa violation."

"Come on, you bullshittin' me."

"On my momma's grave."

"That's an immigration matter. What's your guy doin' in a federal joint?"

"That's what we'd like the government to explain."

"He a U.S. resident?"

"That's one point of contention. The government said yes. Now it's saying no."

She poised her chin on a pencil. "That prison in Yuma, it's a badass place."

"So Alex tells me. He's locked up in D Wing, mixed in with the most rotten apples."

She leaned forward, almost across the desk. In a low, conspiring, all-knowing whisper, she said, "Truth now. Who'd your boy piss off?"

MP played along. He bent over and whispered back, "John Tromble."

"Figures." She picked MP's motion out of the pile and smacked it down on her blotter. She paged through it, frowning and considering the request with some care for a moment. "Gotta cousin works over at the Bureau," she eventually remarked.

A sharp pain suddenly erupted in MP's chest. Idiot. Why hadn't he just kept his big mouth shut?

After a moment Thelma Parker added, "He hates that Tromble. Says he's the worst thing happened since J. Edgar pranced around in a skirt. Tell you what, you done this before?"

After manning this desk for fifteen years, she had seen thousands of lawyers pass in and out of her office. One sniff and she could smell a cherry a mile away.

MP allowed as, "My usual cases are in immigration court."

"Thought so. You never done this before?"

"Pretty much."

A large, plump elbow landed on her desk and her large chin ended up poised on a curled fist. "Now, don't you worry. Way this works is, your motion goes to a judge. Now, you could maybe get lucky and it might end up in the box of, say, oh, Judge Elton Willis. He's a fair and judicious man. Then, assuming this thing gets stamped expeditious"-she winked at MP-"which might maybe happen about three seconds after you walk outta here… well, then the government gets three days to respond. Got all that?"

"Three days," MP said, winking back.

"Then it's show-and-tell time. This kinda motion moves fast. You got your stuff together?"

With all the humility he could muster, MP replied, "It's going to be an ass-kicking of historical proportions. They'll carry Tromble out on a stretcher."

"Uh-huh." A slow nod. "You got help? Sure hope you do."

"Pacevitch, Knowlton and Rivers. A classmate from law school's a partner over there. They're lending a hand, pro bono."

"Well, that's nice." Her eyes hung for a moment on the JCPenney polyester threads that hung loosely on MP's narrow frame. She smacked her lips and said, "No offense, but you gonna need a few thousand-dollar suits at your table." In a career that alternated between roaring barn burners and droning recitations of intolerable boredom, Boris Yeltsin was producing the biggest thud yet. At least he was sober this time-what a rare and welcome change, his chief of staff was thinking, as he rocked back on his heels and briefly scanned the crowd. Nearly all of them were staring edgily at their watches. A few seemed to be asleep on their feet. He looked longer and harder, and for the life of him could not find one person who seemed to be listening to Yeltsin.

His boss liked him along for these things. Principally it gave him a reliable drinking partner for the long ride back to the Kremlin. Plus he could always rely on his trusted chief of staff to lie and say the speech was stirring and deeply inspiring. They were a pair of wicked old politicians. The lies flowed easily and landed comfortably.

A man in a black leather jacket bumped up against him. He took a quick step sideways, to get some room. The man edged closer.

The man suddenly turned and looked at him with a spark of vague recognition. "Hey, didn't I see you with Tatyana Lukin the other night?"

"Who?"

"Tatyana Lukin. You know, she works for you." The man studied his face more intently and continued, "I'm sure it was you. Walking into a hotel together on Tverskoy Boulevard. Same place you and she spend every Tuesday and Thursday together."

"You're mistaken," he replied in as much a hiss as a whisper. He tried unsuccessfully once more to edge away.

"No, there's no mistake. Here." The mysterious man pushed a plastic case into the hands of the chief of staff. All trace of phony uncertainty was gone. With a mocking smile, the mystery man whispered, "You'll want to listen to these alone. Believe me, you won't want company. You're mentioned a lot on these tapes."

Before he could reply, Mikhail jogged away in the direction of the road, where he jumped into an automobile with the engine running and sped off.

The chief thought about just tossing the case away. Fling it as far and as hard as he could; forget about it and walk away. Instead he opened the lid and peeked inside-just two unmarked cassette tapes and a few photographs. He tucked it into his inside coat pocket and decided he'd get rid of it after he got home. Who knew what was on those tapes? Why risk having some stranger find them? Who knows how bad it might be?

He arrived home at nine that night, fixed a tall glass of vodka, and removed his jacket. He felt the weight of the plastic packet; he had nearly forgotten it. He withdrew it from the inside pocket and walked directly to the trash can. He promptly dropped it inside, then stared down at the case for a moment. He should listen to it, he decided: maybe the man that afternoon was a blackmailer. Who knew?

The photos fell on the floor when he pulled the tapes out, and he let them lie there until he knew what this was about. He selected the first tape and inserted it into the cassette player on his desk, sat back into his desk chair, and sipped quickly from his vodka.

It whirred quietly for a moment before a petulant male voice he didn't recognize said, "Who was it?"

"Just some idiot law enforcement administrator from America." This would be Tatyana: no doubt about it. He reached over and turned up the volume.

"Oh, you're screwing him, too?"

"You're cute when you're mad. Come on and screw me now." A loud laugh. Definitely Tatyana's throaty laugh.

"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."