"Do you have adequate knowledge of our legal system?"

Alex directed a look at Tromble, who was seated, legs crossed. "I've been imprisoned the past fourteen months, without trial. You could say I am quite familiar with this legal procedure. Soviet law operated the same way."

Willis pinched his nose and forced himself not to scowl. "Are you content with your representation? The question is on the record, Mr. Konevitch. Because if you try to appeal my decision based upon incompetent representation, it will now be clear that you knowingly settled on Mr. Jones."

MP blinked a few times at what was obviously intended as a very public putdown. It was humiliating to be treated as a featherweight but that wasn't the most painful part. Worse, part of their strategy cooked up by him and the PKR boys relied on Alex having valid claim to poor representation. So far, MP had availed himself of every opportunity to portray utter incompetence. Let the prosecutor get away with as much as was legally advisable, do your best to sit and look stupid.

A great idea, in concept, that was suddenly falling apart.

After a moment, Alex stated very clearly, "I'm happy with my counsel," then collapsed into his chair.

And so it went for the remainder of the morning. An hour break for lunch before Caldwell resumed calling more witnesses who confirmed and reconfirmed and elaborated powerfully on the inescapable fact that Alex Konevitch was a crook, a flight risk, a criminal who had to be incarcerated or he would flee and never be heard from again. Three FBI agents were paraded to the stand, followed by two Foreign Service officers with recent experience in Russia, each of whom had observed firsthand the public furor caused when Konevitch disappeared with the money.

MP politely and firmly declined to cross-examine each one. The clock read 4:30 when the last prosecution witness was excused from the stand.

Judge Willis checked his watch, then said, "Sidebar with the opposing attorneys."

MP and Caldwell joined His Honor in a small, tight cluster beside the bench.

The judge glared at MP. "Did you not in fact submit this motion for habeas corpus?" he whispered.

"I certainly did, Your Honor," MP whispered back.

"Why, Mr. Jones?"

"Why? Because my client has been incarcerated in federal prison for fourteen months. He's been bounced through three different prisons, each progressively more hazardous and miserable than the last. He's been submitted to several bouts of solitary confinement, and deliberately assigned cellmates categorized as Level Five inmates. I'm sure you're aware that prisoners reach this distinctive category only after they prove they are a grave danger to other inmates and to the guards. In short, somebody in our federal government wants my client dead or willing to submit to instantaneous deportation."

"Those are grave charges."

"I believe that's an understatement."

"Now, may I be blunt with you?"

MP nodded.

Still in whispers, His Honor unleashed a day's worth of quiet anger. "Since you requested this hearing, you are supposed to do something other than sit and doodle on a yellow pad, Mr. Jones. The American legal system is designed to allow a spirited defense. You are obligated to occasionally object to statements that are challengeable, and cross-examine witnesses and poke holes in points you believe are contestable or unsubstantiated. I am dismayed by your behavior. I find it egregiously outrageous and, frankly, incompetent."

"I apologize. I promise I'll try to appear more engaged."

"I'm sure your client will appreciate that."

He turned to Caldwell, who was biting back a smile. He could barely contain himself. His bosses had warned him that Jones was wily and tough and full of surprises. This was the guy, after all, who booted Kim Parrish's ass out of the ballpark. "Hey, who's the tough guy now?" the scourge of Mexico wanted to ask. He was tempted to move two inches from Jones's face and just break out into laughter.

"Mr. Caldwell, do you have more witnesses?"

In fact, three more he planned to question that afternoon. But, hey, what the hell-he could dispense with all of them. After the catastrophic damage he had administered-none of it challenged, all cleanly admitted-why pile more humiliation on top of ten thousand tons of misery? They were nothing more than confirmation witnesses, here to build on already well-substantiated facts. The judge was ready to rule in his favor right now.

"One more. It can wait till morning."

"Then unless you gentlemen disagree I intend to adjourn until nine a.m. tomorrow."

Neither attorney objected in the least.

His Honor looked at MP again. The look was anything but kindly and compassionate. "You had better do some soul-searching tonight. You requested this hearing. If I don't see a spirited attempt on your client's behalf in the morning, I'll cite you for contempt." The instant the judge dismissed the court and the side door closed behind him, the mad scramble was on. Like the shot that starts a race, Caldwell scuttled for the door. He raced through the wide hallways, shoved open the huge outer doors, and nearly lost his balance as he went careening down the big steps.

Three dozen cameras and reporters converged on him at once. He pushed back his hair and produced his most handsome smile for the friendly cameras. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Jason Caldwell, and I'm prosecuting this case. I'm sure you have lots of questions. One at a time, and don't interrupt my replies."

Tromble crashed out the doors just as Caldwell finished his windup. Without even glancing back, Caldwell very smoothly said, "Surely you all recognize our beloved FBI director. He has been providing assistance to me on this case. Limited assistance, though it has been somewhat helpful. I just want to express my appreciation. If you haven't heard, in fact, he will be my first witness tomorrow morning."

Tromble wanted to punch him. Grab his throat and begin throttling. Instead he forced a smile, produced a firm, dutiful salute for the cameras, and sprinted off to his limousine, yelling over his shoulder, "Sorry, I don't have time for questions."

Caldwell remained on the steps for two hours. No question was too trivial to answer. No reporter too insignificant for an endearing smile and a long, thoughtful reply. He bravely withstood the fury of interest until the reporters remembered their deadlines and wandered off into the Washington evening.

It was called the Tsar's Suite. At an enormous five thousand square feet, it was furnished with rare and wondrous antiques, loaded with marble and teak, and crammed to the rafters with a staggering array of personal luxuries. Two separate baths, either one big enough to swallow and wash a squadron of sweaty horses. An entire wall of picture windows overlooking the glorious Moskva River and Moscow's twinkling lights.

The sumptuous dinner had been prepared by a four-star chef and delivered by three waiters who hung over the table, willing to cut the meat and spoon-feed the thoroughly spoiled customers. Whatever they wished for, a dollop landed on their plate, delivered by a gold ladle. A sip of wine and the crystal goblet was instantly topped off.

By ten, the chief of staff and his mistress were stuffed and sated, slightly lightheaded from the wine and champagne, ready to retire to the sumptuous pillow bed in the gargantuan bedroom. The chief dispatched the waiters with huge tips.

Tatyana was cradling a snifter of sherry and staring wistfully out the window at the sky full of stars. "This was a wonderful idea," she said.

"Isn't it?"

"The most romantic thing we've ever done."

"What can I say? I love you."

"I love you, too."