The Hunted

26

The thrashing was horrible. Nothing less than deeply humiliating. It was the first time Kim Parrish had met the attorney general and FBI director. Oh, let it be the last, she prayed as they verbally tore into her. She gritted her teeth and mentally cursed both of them. Neither was in her chain of command, but they were enormously powerful people, and it stung.

Her own director chose to stand off to the side, eyeing the line of fire and avoiding it at all costs.

She had turned fifty years old only two weeks before. Same age as the attorney general. Twelve years older than Tromble. Yet they lashed into her like a little schoolgirl who had failed to finish her homework.

"It's not all lost," Parrish protested weakly, almost vainly, avoiding their damning eyes. "He's still in custody. We'll have our day in court again."

"His ass should already be on a plane back to Russia," Tromble yelled, slapping a hand on a table. "You blew it. A knockdown case, and you just blew it."

"It wasn't my decision to bring in the Russian prosecutors. I had them on the ropes until Jones used that ace."

"How did Jones learn about it?" the attorney general asked, plainly puzzled.

Kim Parrish shrugged. "You tell me."

Tromble stared down at his shoes. The profligate product of the wiretaps on Jones's office had been quietly reviewed that afternoon by a team of ten agents. No mention of it. Not in Jones's phone calls. Not even in private conversations inside his office. Not a hint, not a word.

He glowered at the INS director. "Your operation leaks like a sieve. Wasn't this Jones guy once one of your lawyers? Obviously one of your people tipped him."

"Maybe it was one of your people," Parrish's boss punched back, just as nasty now that the thrashing shifted toward him. "Myself and Miss Parrish were the only ones who knew. I sure as hell didn't let him know."

"When do these Russians arrive?" Laura Tingleman asked, cutting off the discourse. She hated confrontation.

"Could be months," Tromble replied, and with that, he suddenly had a new idea.

"Then another month or two for them to pass off their knowledge to one of your attorneys," Tingleman calculated to the director of the INS, choosing her language carefully, deliberately avoiding Parrish's eyes. That pointed "one of your attorneys" line was a clear shot-this girl either kicks it up a notch or find a replacement.

"Sounds about right," Parrish's boss replied, notably not going to Parrish's defense.

"So this might take six months?" Tingleman asked.

Tromble smiled and nodded. "Maybe longer. A year is a possibility. You'll have to call this judge," he advised her. "Tell him to be patient. Emphasize the importance of this thing."

She nodded.

Parrish's boss said, "I'll assign two more attorneys to Parrish's team. That'll speed things up."

Tromble looked at him like he was an idiot. "No you won't."

"I won't?"

"As long as Konevitch is in custody, what's the rush?"

"Hey, I've been your whipping boy every day to get this thing done. Why the sudden change of heart?"

The question did not faze him in the least. "Miss Parrish has been under unbearable pressure. Look at her, she's obviously exhausted. But the timing's no longer in the defense attorney's hands, is it? She needs to take her time, get this thing done right."

The sudden shift to kindness was unnerving. Tromble walked across the room and slapped Kim Parrish on the back. "Good luck, Counselor. Knock a home run next time, or else."

The meeting was suddenly over, to everybody's surprise and Kim Parrish's complete delight. She nearly left a smoke trail she moved out so fast.

Then it was just Tromble and the attorney general. Alone. The two of them, together, all by themselves in the big office filled with overwhelming burdens and responsibilities.

Tromble turned to her and observed, "The judge released Konevitch to your custody. The second you give the word, he's going into a federal prison."

"Well, there's that very nice one in Pennsylvania. The one where all the Wall Street fat cats go. Out in the countryside. I hear it's lovely in a pastoral sort of way."

Tromble said, not very pleasantly, "You're not really going to let some pissant immigration hack boss you around, are you? Just roll over and bark for that guy?"

That stung. Tromble was right, though; he was a lowly immigration judge in a backwater court. And she was, after all, the attorney general. Her eyes were glued to his face. "What do you have in mind, John?"

"You understand how important this case is?"

"Remind me."

"The Russian mobs are climbing all over our coastal cities. They're the newest thing, and it's not pretty. They earn a ten on the viciousness scale. And now they're battling us, the Italian Mafia, and the black gangs, and the Colombians and Mexicans to get a foothold. The Russians are very good, and very, very violent. They learned how to thrive in the most totalitarian country on earth. Don't forget that. Imagine what they can accomplish in our wide-open liberal democracy. We're frighteningly vulnerable. Let them get traction, let them have an inch, they'll become another rooted criminal institution inside this country. Another cancer that's impossible to dislodge."

"And Konevitch is the key to this?" she asked, leaning on her plump elbows and watching him carefully.

"Yes, the Russians are quite clear on this. He's a very guilty man, Laura. The man stole hundreds of millions. They get Konevitch, and in turn we get twenty agents in Moscow, with full access to their intelligence about the Mafiya. They'll assign liaisons to us, and we'll trade information back and forth. It's a gold mine. We'll break the back of these Russian goons."

"I see."

"Understand this, too. This guy Konevitch is sticking his finger in our eye, Laura. It's a disgrace. The press is watching. A damned foreigner exploiting our own legal system to make you and me look like eunuchs. It's very dangerous for us."

She sank about two more inches into her seat. Her forehead added about ten wrinkles. Left unsaid was that Tromble himself had issued the boneheaded directive to cream the Konevitches on the front pages, and attracted all the public scrutiny. He regretted it now-it had been a terrible mistake-but the die was cast. If Konevitch wanted to make this a pissing contest, a waterfall was about to land on his head.

Tromble placed a hand on her shoulder. "You decide what damned prison he's going to. If he wants to play games with you, stick it to him."

"You're right," she said, feeling a sudden burst of something called determination.

"Pick the worst, festering pisshole in the federal system. Put him in with the worst scum in our society. Someplace hot as Hades, with crap for food, and unrelenting violence. Let him rot and suffer until he begs us to throw him out of this country."

"I suppose a little softening up might encourage him to see our side," she agreed.

Mikhail had managed at last to hide listening devices inside the big black limo. For months he had looked for a chance. There just had been no openings. And it had to be unquestionably fail-safe; getting caught would blow everything apart. But the driver had dodged into a coffee shop one cold afternoon, leaving the engine running and doors unlocked. Mikhail gently eased over, ducked down, and quietly opened a rear side door. He jammed one bug into the deep crevice between the rear cushions. For insurance, he attached another tightly to the undercarriage of the front seat.

The range was only half a mile, and that was on a clear day. It gave him two important edges, though. He could hear what they were saying and record every word. And he no longer had to keep the limo in sight during the weekly meetings on the Moskva. They were oblivious to his presence, so far. But Mikhail intended to die peacefully in his bed at a ripe old age.

The limo was parked there, right now, a few meters to the right of its regular spot overlooking the river. Mikhail was parked three blocks away, the receiver/recorder in his lap, volume turned up full blast. He was sipping carefully from a large thermos of coffee and listening intently. Golitsin, then Tatyana, then Nicky sat in the rear, in their usual order, performing their usual ritual, nursing drinks, arguing back and forth, plotting their next big heist.

Nicky, in his distinctively caustic tone: "I thought you said it was going to be easy. Kid's play."

Golitsin: "All right, I lied. So what?"

"So what? Nine of my guys dead. Two of my chophouses blown to pieces, that's what. Somebody's screwin' with my dope business, too. I had half a million stolen from a pusher last week. Every time I hit Khodorin's company, I get hit back, twice as hard."

Tatyana, in a soothing tone obviously intended to unruffle the feathers: "What makes you think Khodorin's behind it, Nicky? He's just a businessman."

"'Cause we keep finding notes pinned on the corpses. 'Lay off Central Enterprises, or we'll kick your ass.'" A brief pause. "Hey, you know what? They are kicking my ass."

Golitsin, in an annoyed, slightly absent tone: "He never called."

Tatyana: "Who never called who, Sergei?"

"Yuri Khodorin. He never called my man to handle his company's security."

Nicky: "Yeah, well, sure as hell he called somebody. Somebody connected. I'll tell ya who he called. A real vicious prick."

Tatyana: "Well, we can't let him off the hook. Not now. The man is worth billions, Nicky."

"You know, you keep sayin' that. But I don't see your ass out on the street, takin' the lumps this guy's dishing out. I'm tellin' ya, this guy's smart."

Golitsin: "How smart?"

"Last week, a few of my guys went to lay a little dynamite in that warehouse. Same one we talked about last week. It was a massacre."

Mikhail laughed so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. He had overheard their plan the week before, and quietly passed it along to his old friend from police days who was now handling security for Khodorin-with brutal effectiveness, based upon what he was hearing.

Tatyana: "Is it possible another syndicate is going to war with you? That sometimes happens, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, good point, I hadn't thought of that." A brief pause. "Stick with what you know. No syndicate leaves messages warning me to lay off this Khodorin guy."

Tatyana: "Come on, Nicky. We've invested months in this. Central Enterprises is perfect, just perfect. Five hundred million in cash reserves. Cash, Nicky, cash. We'd be idiots to walk away at this point."

Nicky: "It's his fault"-presumably pointing a finger at Golitsin-"wasn't he supposed to get one of his snoops inside? Whatever happened to that, huh?"

Yes, whatever did happen to that, Mikhail wanted to yell in their faces.

But for a few long moments there was silence. Mikhail chuckled. He'd almost do this job for free. He couldn't wait to share this tape with Captain Yurshenko, the recently appointed head of security at Central Enterprises. They would crack a bottle of vodka, sit back, and bust a nut over the poisonous frustration on the other side.

Eventually, Golitsin, turning the tables: "All right, I'll find a way to get some people inside. Now what's the story with Konevitch?"

Nicky, speaking to Tatyana in an accusatory sneer: "Yeah, thought you said he was taken care of."

Tatyana: "It's under control. Tromble called this morning. Konevitch is in a federal penitentiary in Atlanta. Tromble swore he placed our friend in the nastiest hole in the universe."

Nicky, who presumably knew something about this subject: "I hear they got some places over there that are just unbelievable."

Tatyana: "We're cooking up the case to be presented to their courts right now."

Golitsin: "I have experts with decades of experience in this. Why don't I help you?"

Tatyana: "I don't think that's a good idea. The team that manufactures this evidence has to go over and present it to their lawyers. If you build your own lies, you should know your own lies, don't you think?"

Loud chuckles all around. Three days languishing at the federal transit center in Atlanta-while Justice hotly debated which of its many prisons was the most awful at that particular moment-proved to be a godsend. Despite frequent requests, nobody would tell Alex his eventual destination.

Two days after his appearance in court, he had been hustled out of the Alexandria jail by a pair of federal marshals whose only words to Alex were, "Say good-bye to the good life." A quick flight on a Bureau of Prisons 737 to a private hangar in Atlanta International was followed by a fast trip in a shiny black van to the sprawling prison facility in Atlanta. The moment he entered the transient center for what he was warned would be a brief stay, Alex knew he wasn't headed for the pleasurable resort the judge had ordered.

He was locked in a small cell with a repeat sex offender named Ernie, who favored small boys but settled for little girls, depending on his mood at the moment. Ernie was a leper, a small, oddly ebullient man despised and avoided by everybody. Even Alex could not bring himself to speak with the twisted pervert.

The transient prisoners moving through this portal to hell were a mixture of hardened two- and three-timers, seasoned vets, and others like Alex, wide-eyed newbies about to be thrown into a frightening new world.

The old-timers adored the chance to show off their experience, and they acted like garrulous college kids returning from spring break. They hollered back and forth, spitting out stories, exchanging names of acquaintances in this prison or that. The only verboten topic was any mention of their newest crimes. Alex listened carefully to every word, every boast. He studied how they moved, their mannerisms, how they wore their prison garb. He took careful mental notes and absorbed every nuance. Head down, always, but stay alert. Avoid eye contact at all costs-a wrong glance in this milieu was an invitation to rape, or worse. Among enemies, among guards, among friends, it didn't matter-act indifferent, no matter what. Better yet, be indifferent, and trust no one. And the golden rule: never, ever, under any circumstances, snitch.

On day four, Alex's toe was jerked out of the water. He was led out of his transient cell by a pair of stone-faced guards, escorted through a number of cellblocks and hallways, across a large courtyard, and, after four hours of tedious processing-including another shower, another delousing, and another invasive body search-was shoved into his new home.

Ernie, his former cellmate, smiled and welcomed Alex to his new cell. The cold, unpleasant relations between Alex and Ernie had been duly noted by the authorities. Being trapped in a small cell with this pervert would surely kick up the misery level a few notches.

Ernie had arrived two hours earlier, enough time for a little interior decorating. The walls were already plastered with pictures of little boys and girls clipped from magazines.

Based on the most recent indices of prison violence and brutality-and only after the chief of Justice's Bureau of Prisons twice swore it was the pick of the litter-Atlanta's medium-security prison earned the booby prize.

The truth was that by almost every measure, Atlanta's high-security facility had an impressive edge over its adjoining medium-security counterpart-three more murders over the past year, eighty percent more vicious assaults, nearly thirty more days in lockdown, and an impressive seventy percent lead in reported AIDS cases.

That year, Atlanta's high-security prison was, without question, and by any conceivable measure, the worst canker sore in the entire federal system.

The medium-security facility, however, offered a big advantage, one that swung the argument in its favor. Because it was medium-security, Alex would be forced to mix freely and openly with the prison population. Two hours every day in the yard, socializing with killers, gangbangers, big-time dope dealers, rapists, child molesters, and assorted other criminals. Showers twice a week in a large open bay, with minimal supervision. Three meals every day in the huge mess, where violence was as pervasive as big southern cockroaches.

Alex Konevitch, they were sure, would be petrified. A rich boy from Russia who had pampered and spoiled himself silly with unimaginable luxuries. Nothing in his background had prepared him for this. They were sure he would panic and end up begging for a seat on the next plane to Russia. Or maybe he would run afoul of one of the inhabitants and be shipped home in a casket. Who cared? The Russians never stipulated dead or alive.

The tipping point, though, was the large concentration of Cuban criminals. The facility contained the usual toxic mix of Crips and Bloods, a large, swaggering White Power brotherhood, and an assortment of lesser bands that huddled together under a hodgepodge of quirky banners and social distinctions. But the Cubans ruled. They terrorized the other groups, ran roughshod over the guards, got a piece of all the prison drug traffic and black-market action, and generally did as they pleased.

The ringleaders were a long-term institution, a troupe of thirty cutthroats shipped over on a special boat by Castro at the tail end of the Mariel Boatlift. The Immigration Service had been tipped off about their impending arrival by a Cuban convict who hoped his little favor would be met by a bigger favor. This was Castro's biggest flip of the bird, he warned without the slightest exaggeration; a group of handpicked incorrigibles, men who had been killing and raping and stealing since they were in diapers. The dregs of the dregs-once loose on America's streets, the havoc would be unimaginable.

They were picked up the second they climbed off the boat onto a lovely beach just south of Miami, and sent straight to Atlanta's prison. It was unfortunate, but since they had been denied the opportunity to commit crimes on American soil, no legal justification existed to place them in a high-security lockup, where they clearly belonged.

On the second day of Alex's incarceration, a guard, acting on orders from the warden, tipped the Cubans that the new boy in cell D83 was worth a boatload of money. By Alex's third week in the new facility, the Choir Boys of Mariel, as they were known, decided it was time for the new arrival to make their acquaintance. Alex was one minute into his shower when three men surrounded him. "What can I do for you boys?" he asked, trying to pretend polite indifference, when every cell in his body screamed run. Just run. Don't look back, don't even breathe, just run.

The jefe of the trio, a small, wiry man with greasy black hair laced with gray, and long ridges of knife scars on his forehead and left cheek, stepped closer to Alex. "What you in for?" he asked with a strong Cuban brogue.

"Nothing."

"Nothing. Just visiting, huh?"

"All right, I was framed."

A light chuckle sounding like chalk scratched on a blackboard. "You and all the rest of us."

"It's true. I haven't even been to trial yet."

"You're Russian," the man observed, shooting past the normal prisoner baggage and getting to the point.

"I was. Now I'm American."

The man took another step toward Alex, ending up about a foot away. "I'm Cubano," he announced with a nasty smile and his chest puffed up. "I hate Russians. Biggest pricks in the world. You kept that bastard Castro in power."

The prisoners around Alex suddenly began shutting down their showerheads and bolting for the towel room. A fire alarm at full blast could not have emptied the place faster. The three men surrounding Alex were fully clothed in prison coveralls, hands stuffed deep inside their pockets. They stank of old sweat and a thousand cigarettes. Apparently, they didn't visit the showers very often.

Alex swallowed his fear and kept rubbing soap in his armpits. "No, you mean the communists kept him in power," he said and glanced around. Act indifferent, he kept reminding himself. Don't look scared, don't crack a smile, control your breathing. Pretend that standing naked in front of these three goons is no more threatening than a lap around the prison track. The guard who had been loitering at the entrance had mysteriously disappeared, Alex suddenly noticed.

"And what? You weren't a commie?"

Alex shook his head. "Definitely not."

"Yeah, well, what's that?" He wagged a finger at the hammer and sickle on Alex's chest.

"A present from some angry former commies," Alex informed him, eyeing the other two men, who had fanned out a bit and now blocked his exit in any direction.

"For what?"

"Because I bankrolled Yeltsin's election to the presidency."

"You, by yourself?" A quick, derisive snicker directed at his friends. "Just you, eh?"

"That's right, just me. I gave him the money to defeat Gorbachev."

This revelation was intended to defuse the confrontation, but instead produced a nasty sneer. "And you know who I am?"

Alex soaped his arms and decided not to answer.

"Napoleon Bonaparte. You ended communism in Russia, and me… well, I'm the short little prick what conquered Europe."

The man laughed at his own stupid joke-his friends joined him, loud guffaws that bounced off the walls. Alex forced himself to smile. "Actually, you're Manuel Gonzalez. But you go by Manny. Born in a small village, Maderia, you're forty-six years old, thirty-six of which you've lived inside prison. You've killed with guns, rope, and knives, but prefer your bare hands. You like two sugars with your coffee, no cream. Your favorite TV show is Miami Vice, though I suspect you always root for the bad guys." He paused and broadened his smile. "Have you heard enough things you already know about yourself?"

Manny's mouth hung open for a second before he reacquired his normal aplomb and its accompanying sneer. The sneer had a violent edge to it. "Smart guy, huh?"

"I've asked around a bit." With as much casualness as he could muster, Alex placed the soap on the metal tray on the wall. "I suggest you do your homework, too." He stuck out his hand. "Alex Konevitch. Have one of your boys look me up on the Internet."

"Already did that," he said, ignoring the hand. "You're rich, Konevitch, filthy rich. You ripped off hundreds of millions. I'm impressed. That's why we're having this little mano-a-mano. Question is, are you also generous?"

"We seem to have a tense problem, Manny."

"Maybe my English is not so good. What's that mean?"

"A bunch of former KGB goons stole my money and my businesses. The little that was left was seized by the FBI. I was rich, and now I'm broke."

Manny did not appear overly pleased with that response. He pushed his face within an inch of Alex's. "I'm not a man you want to lie to."

"Believe me, I know that."

Manny looked ready to whip out whatever was inside his pocket. "Yeah? Then you better-"

"Slow it down, Manny. Think about it. A man with hundreds of millions, would he be here, in this rotten excuse for a prison? This is America, land of the free and the brave, of all the justice you can afford. The rich boys are all eating steak and getting nice tans in the federal country clubs. I'm here, with you. Put two and two together."

Rather than respond to that, Manny glanced at the man standing to Alex's left, a large, hairy monster named Miguel. Physical appearances aside, Manny was the muscle, Miguel the brain. They had been longtime compadres in Cuba, arrived on the same miserable little boat, and for almost two decades had shared a cramped, smelly cell on the second floor. Manny had the top bunk and stayed out front. He did the bullying, the enforcement, bought off the guards, and terrified the other gangs. Miguel slept on the bottom, and spent most of his time in the library thinking up schemes and scams. It was he who researched Alex's background after the guard tipped them off. And it was he who devised this coarse plot to shake Alex down.

After a moment, Miguel leaned forward and butted in. "Were you really the cashbox behind Yeltsin?" Not a word about that had been mentioned in any of the many articles about Konevitch Miguel had read on the Internet.

Sensing the sudden shift in power, Alex turned and faced Miguel. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"But maybe not, eh?"

"You're perceptive. After all, look where it got me," Alex replied, shrugging indifferently, as if he'd be as happy here, among these men, as lounging with a bunch of gorgeous ladies in skimpy bikinis at a Caribbean resort. He was nearly gagging on indifference. "The same former KGB thugs who stole my money put me here."

"Why they put you here, man?"

"They want me back in Russia, where they can get their hands on me, or dead."

"That right?" Miguel leaned his large bulk against the wall and thoughtfully twisted the small goatee at the end of his chin. With that admission this tall Russian had just made a fatal slip. A dozen questions suddenly popped into Miguel's mind. Would the Russians pay to have this guy whacked? Who did Miguel and his friends have to contact? How much was Konevitch worth dead? That was the big question.

Maybe the situation still held possibilities.

Alex was beginning to feel awkward. He was naked, vulnerable, and dripping wet. Who knew what they had hidden in those pockets? Any one of these three brutes would happily slit his throat and casually watch his blood spill down the drain. He reached over and shut off the spigot. "Mind if I get a towel and dry off?" he asked.

"Why not?" Miguel grunted and winked. "Who's stopping you?"

Alex began edging around him, carefully, in the direction of the towel room. "What do you want with money, anyway?" he asked over his shoulder. "You're in prison, what good does it do?"

The Cubans followed about a step behind. "Don't you know anything?" Miguel answered, wondering exactly how much this Russian, dead, might be worth. "Money's everything. Inside the joint, outside-makes no differences. Good lawyers, cigarettes, dope, smuggled-in girls, even guards."

Alex seemed to consider that a moment, then, rapidly changing the subject, asked, "Have you ever heard of AOL? America Online?"

Manny and the third, unnamed man exchanged puzzled looks. Totally clueless. Miguel thought he might've heard of it, a hazy recollection at best. But in an effort not to appear dumb, he produced a knowing nod. "Sure. What about it?" he asked, as if he could write a textbook on the subject.

"It's the new thing, an Internet company that's making money hand over foot. The stock could easily quadruple in the next few years, maybe more."

Miguel turned to his colleagues. "Advice from a hustler who ripped off millions back in Russia. Does this guy think we're stupid, or what?"

"You're forgetting something. I also made hundreds of millions."

This got a slight nod. He'd read that on the Internet.

"Point is," Alex plowed ahead, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist, "you're losing out. The stock market's on a tear. You're trying to squeeze a few dollars from losers on the inside. The easy money's outside, the big money. It's perfectly legal and above board."

"Cons in the joint ain't allowed to buy stock," Manny chimed in angrily, as if that ended the discussion. From everything Miguel had told him about this Russian, he had been expecting the once-in-a-lifetime payday all convicts live for. Manny had lain awake on his bunk the night before, sweating in the intense heat, dreaming of the money and what he could do with it.

Like the rest of the Mariel Boys, Manny had an appeal for release grinding its way through the courts. They had collectively pooled their resources to hire a lawyer, a distant third cousin of one of the gang. The cousin offered an impressive discount, bragged about his many legal victories, and made lots of rowdy promises. He turned out to be a total loser. Between booze and gambling, Mr. Loser lost track of their paperwork with disturbing regularity; the only thing he turned out to be good at was consistently missing the deadlines for filings.

Mr. Loser had to go.

Miguel had asked around until he found the perfect mouthpiece. Mr. Perfect was a cutthroat from Miami who billed four hundred an hour and produced miracles. He was owned by the Colombians, a gaudy loudmouth who had earned quite the reputation for keeping their killers, mules, and pushers out of jail. Legal mastery was part of it; knowing which judges and prosecutors to help with their home mortgages and kids' college bills, the larger part. In his spare time, he was allowed to freelance as much as he wanted.

It was an outside shot, at best. Mr. Perfect was quite expensive. The billable hours would pile up. The case could drag on for years. And for such a large group, a band of thugs who definitely had not distinguished themselves as model prisoners, the bribes would be mountainous.

Mr. Perfect, though, was their only hope. The Cubans talked endlessly of walking out the gate and retiring in a small, lazy southern Florida town. Life would be so good. They would muscle their way into a few strip clubs and pawnshops, drink cerveza from dusk to dawn, cavort with the strippers, and put the ugly old days behind them.

Alex kept a close eye on Manny, who looked angry and frustrated that their mark turned out to have shallow pockets. He grabbed another towel and began briskly rubbing his hair. "You mean you can't invest under your own name," he corrected Manny in an even tone. "Have a lawyer handle your money. They represent you, they can't blow the whistle. It's in their oath."

Miguel shot Manny a look that said: This sounds interesting, so cool it, for now. "And how would this work?" he asked.

"It's simple. Surely you already have money and maybe you already have a lawyer in mind."

"Maybe we do," Miguel replied, exchanging looks with his pals.

"I have a friend on the outside who will set up a trading account. I'm assuming you have a way to communicate with the outside. It needs to be instantaneous. We'll be buying and selling every day. Throw in whatever cash you have. I can name ten stocks right now that are set to explode, and the spreads in commodities have never been better."

"How do we know you won't lose our money?"

"You know what a stop-loss order is?"

Miguel was through pretending he knew things he had never heard of. A slow shake of the head.

"With each purchase, you designate a trigger price that he programs into his computer. If the stock falls to that level, the broker is required to sell." Alex jabbed the air with a finger. "One push of a button and he dumps everything."

"That's all we have to do?"

"I told you it's easy, Miguel," Alex assured him, leaving Miguel to ponder the interesting question of how Alex knew his name. They had not been introduced. Nobody had mentioned his name. How much did Konevitch know about the Mariel Boys? The suspicion struck him that the Russian had been expecting this shakedown, maybe even prepared for it.

No, nobody was that cunning.

Alex walked over to the clothing locker, picked up his underwear and dirty coveralls, and began dressing. "But don't worry," he continued. "The stocks I pick will never trigger a sell order. Tell your lawyer to watch the action for a month. If he likes what he sees, he can join the fun. Better yet, cut a deal. In return for handling his investments, he'll handle your case."

"And you," Manny asked. "What do you get?"

"Protection," Alex told him, tying his shoes. "Also use your influence to arrange a new cellmate. Ernie gets on my nerves. I'm tired of tearing down pictures of little children."

"Easy," Miguel answered for all of them. "One more question."

"Shoot."

A nice smile, followed by a quick shift of mood and demeanor. "You know what happens if you lose our money, Mr. Smart Guy?"

"I have a fair idea. Do I look worried?"

He really didn't. Not in the least. The end of Elena's first month in the South Arlington rental apartment and she was beginning to feel at home.

The D.C. housing market was hot as a pistol and her real estate agent had pleaded with her not to drop a hundred thousand off the asking price. It was the Watergate, after all; why throw away money? Her neighbors would never forgive her; not to mention the Realtor's own bitter feelings about the seven grand shucked off her own fee. Elena dug in her heels and stood fast. Lured by the great discount, inside two days, ten couples lined up for a shot. A brief, vicious bidding war erupted. The escalation quickly shot through the roof. The dust settled $120K later, at least $20K more than average Watergate prices for a cramped two-bedroom.

The winners were a young Bolivian couple with no children but plenty of money and an open desire to tell everyone back home they were part of the la-di-da Watergate crowd. Elena drove a hard bargain. A hundred thousand down, in cash, she insisted, before the titles were checked and the closing moved along at its usual constipated pace. The young couple hesitated only briefly before Elena mentioned how much she liked the terms offered by the runner-up bidder. A hundred thousand in cash landed on the table.

Their business affairs had always been handled by Alex. She was proud she had done so well. She promptly put down twenty thousand on a top-of-the-line server built by Sun Microsystems, and arranged for furniture from a cheap rental warehouse. MP helped her locate an apartment, not far from his own shabby home in a run-down neighborhood. At seven hundred a month the price was right, and Elena signed the lease under the name Ellen Smith. A few of MP's clients with expertise in such matters swiftly produced a driver's license and social security card to match her new name. Charge cards could be traced, and therefore were too dangerous. She vowed to live on cash.

The landlord wasn't fooled and neither did he care. Half his tenants were illegal aliens. As long as they paid cash, in American bills, on time, they could claim to be Bill Gates for all he cared. The phone service, both cellular and home, and Internet service, were opened by and billed to MP's firm.

The only remaining trace of Elena Konevitch was her car insurance. She called the company, said she had moved, and gave MP's office as her new address.

The killers were out there. With Alex locked up, she was the only one they could reach, she thought. The killers were professionals with loads of experience. They knew countless ways to find her and would peek under every rock. She was on her own for the first time; every decision would be hers. She needed to be disciplined and careful.

In her college days, Elena had taken courses in computer language, and had been quite good at it. A fast trip to a local mall and her apartment quickly flooded with books about programming and all sorts of other computer esoterica.

She had one last thing left to do. Sipping from a cup of tea, she unfolded a note Alex had passed her in court. She dialed the number he had written out and waited patiently until the connection went through.

A male voice answered, "Mikhail Borosky, private investigations."

"Hello, Mikhail. It's Elena Konevitch. Alex asked me to call."

"Yeah, I just learned he's in prison," Mikhail replied. "He okay?"

"Fine. Probably safer inside than out here."

There was a pause for a moment before Elena said, "From now on, direct your calls and send all your materials to me, addressed to Ellen Smith." She quickly gave him her new apartment address, her e-mail account information, and then said, "The materials you've already sent are hidden in a safe-deposit box at a bank. I went through everything three days ago."

"It's incredible isn't it?"

"You're incredible, Mikhail."

"No, this is all Alex's idea. He's incredible."

Enough incredibles. "Things have changed," Elena told him, very businesslike. "I'm handling this now. Alex has kept me informed of your general activities, but it might be best if you filled me in on all the details."

"This could take a while."

"With Alex in prison, I find I have lots of time on my hands. Start from the beginning."