The Hunted

"He is what we would call a high-profile criminal back home. If we let him slip away, we would hear about it from the Russians in a million unfortunate ways. It would probably cripple our efforts against the new wave of Russian criminals."

"This is called reciprocity, is it not?"

"That's one word for it. If we want them to hand over our crooks, we have to hand over theirs. If we want their help to combat crime in our streets, we need to help them."

"That seems like common sense," Caldwell remarked, as if anybody would argue otherwise. "Now, why was Mr. Konevitch placed in federal detention?" Avoiding the "prison" word was a nice touch. Detention sounded so much more pleasant: little more than a mild inconvenience for Alex while things were sorted out.

"My understanding is that the immigration judge ordered this step. You should ask him why."

"Would you care to guess?"

Another thoughtful pause. "All right. The escape rate from federal facilities is demonstrably lower than county facilities. Our Russian friends tell us that Konevitch has hundreds of millions stashed away. Sad to say, he could probably buy his way out of almost any county jail in the country. And if he disappears again, he won't make the same mistake of living out in the open next time. I expect he would flee the country, change his name, maybe get a face-job, and find haven in a more criminal-friendly country, say Brazil, or a Pacific island. He's got plenty of money to spread around and buy favors and protection. It might be impossible to find and bring him to justice."

"Should he remain in prison? As a former federal judge, you're certainly qualified to answer."

Judge Willis's head snapped up and jerked hard to his left. The question was rude and an impertinent breach of protocol. True, this was Caldwell's first performance in a federal court. But he should still know better. And Tromble definitely knew better. If he answered, either way, it was an unforgivable violation of legal courtesy. This was, after all, what Willis was here to decide. Judges, even former ones, do not prejudge or inhibit or attempt to preempt other judges. Certainly never in public. And above all, not in their own courtrooms.

Tromble pretended he didn't see Willis or understand the slight, though he betrayed himself with a slight smile. "It would be an unimaginable blunder to let him out before his immigration status is decided. Only a fool would even consider it."

Willis's eyes shifted from Tromble to MP Jones. He exerted every pound of silent pressure he could muster to encourage the attorney to rise from that chair and unleash a loud, heated objection. Come on, boy, for godsakes, let him have it. The question and answer begged for an objection. Willis needed that objection. He so badly wanted a chance to slap down Tromble right here, in the presence of the entire court, that he nearly screamed objection himself.

Jones just sat, wide-eyed, listening attentively with a flat expression. At least for a change he wasn't idiotically scrawling doodles on that stupid legal pad. But not a word. Not so much as a raised eyebrow or parted lips.

"Your witness," Caldwell said, and nearly strutted back to his table.

Judge Willis continued to stare at MP. In a clenched tone that managed to convey both disapproval and regret, he commented, "I imagine Mr. Jones, in the interest of saving our time, has no desire to cross-examine."

Very slowly, MP pushed himself out of his seat. "Maybe a few questions, Your Honor."

"Well"-for a moment the judge was almost too stunned to reply-"proceed then."

MP didn't budge from his table. He glanced down at Alex, who seemed to shrug as if to say: Okay, why not?

"Mr. Tromble," he began, openly ignoring the official title, "your presence today suggests this is a very important case to you."

"More important than some, less than others," Tromble said, grinning and choosing a nice middle ground.

"As FBI director, at how many other trials have you appeared as a witness?"

Tromble wasted a moment rubbing a forefinger across his lower lip, as though this question required considerable thought. "I guess none."

"You guess?"

"All right, none."

"How'd this case come to your attention?"

"I don't exactly recall."

"You don't? Being the director of the FBI and all, I thought you were a smart guy. You recall nothing?"

"It might surprise you, but the FBI handles tons of cases a year. Nobody expects me to remember every detail."

"Do you recall any conversations with any Russian government officials about Alex Konevitch?"

He scratched his head. "Not exactly."

"Inexactly would be fine."

"I don't recall any."

"Then may we assume you did have such conversations, but just can't recall them?"

"No, you may not."

"Again, Mr. Tromble, did you or did you not discuss the Konevitch issue with the Russian government? Yes or no."

"No. If I did, it was only a passing reference."