The Hunted

"It's in the hands of INS," he fibbed, smoothly and persuasively. "We're providing assistance from the side; only when they ask, though. Believe me, it's waterproof."

"How can you be so sure?" the aide countered. Every eye in the room swiveled to Tromble. How indeed?

Though the Justice Department was purportedly above the fray of politics, this was a liberal administration, and the White House had packed the senior appointed ranks with legions of die-hard, woolly-headed lefties. Tromble was the exception, the lone, fierce duck out of water. The others in the room detested him, and secretly, on a more ambivalent note, nearly all were convinced he was the right man for the right job-a tireless, efficient, ruthless hatchetman who ran his besuited stormtroopers hard. Behind his cover they could spout all the tree-hugging, abortion-loving, big government nonsense they wanted. In the first two years of his incumbency, national crime rates had plummeted a historic nine percent.

A Nazi he might be, but at least he was their Nazi.

"This guy Konevitch," Tromble explained with an air of authority, "was worth hundreds of millions before he fled. Nobody with clean hands makes that kind of money over there. Nobody. He's definitely a crook."

Heads nodding all around. Though few of them had ever set foot in Russia, the roomful of news junkies was well aware of Russia's sad descent into crooked madness. The rampant shootings in Moscow streets. The swift rise of the Mafiya. Vast fortunes being made by a handful of conniving thieves-a kleptocracy, Russia was now being called, and with good reason. Naturally this Konevitch man had to be crooked.

"He's the number one most wanted criminal in Russia. It's Russia, so that's saying something," he continued to the nodding heads. "There is no chance he is innocent. And from what we've learned from our Russian friends, he's already got a foothold here."

Laura was only too happy it was something so simple and straightforward for a change. She asked, "What help can I provide?"

One of her many legal advisors-a she, it happened-scraped forward in her chair, gazing suspiciously down the long table at Tromble. After carefully reading the article, she wasn't sure this was such a slam dunk. "We lack an extradition treaty with the Russians," she announced.

"So what's the best way to proceed?" her boss asked.

"Essentially, we have to prove the merits of Russia's case before an American judge," the aide answered.

"How hard is that?"

"It's been done before. Not with Russia inside this country, but we often use this strategy ourselves. In Colombia, for example, when we want a drug lord renditioned to our courts. We dispatch a legal team there, do a little show-and-tell before a Colombian judge, then they transfer custody to us."

"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?"