The Hunted

"All right. They'll be tried in court. Probably convicted. They didn't kill anybody, so probably they'll end up in prison."

Petri made no reply.

"Look," Kim said, more forcefully and with a show of considerable indignation, "all these crates of evidence from the Russians. Proof of intention, right? Why go to such enormous lengths and trouble if they don't intend to put them on trial?"

"As you say," Petri replied with a slight grin. The answer was now so obvious, it was staring her in the eye. She knew it. After all these months of sweat and hard work, and of unrelenting pressure from her bosses, it was only natural for her to suppress it. But pieces of it kept bubbling to the surface. Little fragments. Niggling doubts and caustic uncertainties.

The frustration was killing her. "Damn it, Petri, Konevitch stole the money. He's guilty. He plundered his own bank, he ripped off hundreds of millions."

"Is that so?"

She waved a hand at the crates stacked neatly in the corner. "Bank records. Statements from his own employees. Computer printouts of his transactions, police reports, three full investigations from three different government agencies. What more do you want?"

"You're absolutely right, Kim. Who could want more? It's all here."

"Damn right it is."

"A perfect little package, gift-wrapped, and handed to you on a silver platter." This skinny little lawyer who once made his living building perfect cases just wouldn't let go.

"Too perfect, isn't it?" she asked, bending forward and rubbing her forehead.

"Tell me how many cases you've tried."

"Hundreds. I don't know."

"Any cases where every detail matched up so well? Every date coincides, every witness saw exactly the same thing, every investigator came to identical conclusions? Everything so perfectly, so amazingly lined up? For a supposedly brilliant man, Konevitch left behind an astonishing ocean of evidence."

She was suddenly more deeply miserable than she had ever felt. It was inescapable now. She was fighting back a flood of tears. "No case is ever perfect."

She had reached the end of the journey. Petri sat back for a moment, allowing her to ponder the ugly magnitude of her discovery. Americans were so naive about these things.

He then commented, "We never actually tried the cases in court, you know. Not our job, Kim. We built the perfect little cases and handed them off to others. Those trial lawyers, they all loved us. Such flawless gifts we gave them. They couldn't lose."

"I don't understand. Why hand them off? You said you were a great lawyer. Since you created it, you knew the material better than anybody."

"I often wondered that, you know. They never told us why. Perhaps they thought the man who designs the guillotine shouldn't actually be forced to pull the lever and have to stare at the head in the basket. Communists. They could be so incoherently humane in completely inhumane ways."

Kim wanted to jump out of her chair and bolt. Just run away from this case. Run as fast and as far as her feet could carry her.

He rolled forward in his chair and placed a hand on her knee. "They'll murder them, Kim. Oh, they might go through the motions of a trial… or they might not. They'll kill them, though, as sure as you and I are sitting here."

There was one question left for her to ask, one dark mystery to solve. "But Konevitch could be guilty, couldn't he, Petri?"

"You know the golden rule of my old KGB section?"

She forced herself to stare into his dark, sad eyes, to hear the wisdom of a soul soiled and ruined long before they ever met.

"Never frame a guilty man." The first run at Alex Konevitch came shortly after sunrise. It came three weeks to the day after he stepped out of the dark prison van in Yuma. It came in a large sweltering room filled with sweaty men, less than a minute after Alex loaded his tray with his usual selection of soggy French toast and watery scrambled eggs, only seconds after he sat in his usual seat, at his usual table.

The offer had been smuggled in to the Russians a week before by a balding, nervous-looking guard named Tim. A double divorce drowning under a serious gambling addiction, Tim owed his bookie, Marty, five thousand bucks after a sure-thing pony did the big choke on the backstretch. Before he placed the bet, Tim had vaguely wondered if his bookie had mob connections. Good guess. Turned out Anthony "the Crusher" Cardozzi was Marty's second cousin, a lifelong business associate, and quite serious about men honoring their debts. A month overdue on his vig, Tim now was seriously wondering if his state medical insurance would cover the destruction. Thus, when Marty relayed the offer-a favor for a friend, Marty intimated-Tim almost suffocated with relief.

Five thousand bucks forgiven, and two perfectly functional kneecaps-incredible generosity, just for delivering a simple message. Sure, no problem, Tim replied, vowing to give up gambling, and knowing he wouldn't.