"You are an idiot, Tommy. Nineteen years in the INS trenches. You should've left ten years ago, gotten a life."
"Yeah? Hey, seriously, how's the money out there? Great, right?"
"Just okay. The kids love their new private schools, Terry considers our mansion in Great Falls to be too ostentatious, and I'm looking around to replace my six-month-old Jag with a Mercedes. The Jag picked up a small scratch on the bumper and it's just too embarrassing to be seen in. What do you think? Mercedes 500, or splurge and go all out for a 600? It gets better mileage, that's what I hear."
Tommy laughed. "You're a lousy liar. Still got that same tiny shoebox in Arlington?"
"Yeah. The air-conditioning compressor went on the fritz last year, but we Joneses are tough. We'll sweat it out until Terry wins the lottery."
"Don't depend on her luck, pal. She got herself knocked up on your fourth date."
"Thanks for pointing that out."
"And that dented-up Chrysler minivan? That clunker still getting by the inspectors?"
"What do they know? We're driving it, anyway. Hey, you ever hear of a guy named Konevitch? Alex Konevitch."
A long moment of silence. Amid a loud roar, Tommy finally answered in a low whisper, "He your client?"
"Who scored?"
"Damn-that was a Yankee bat boy. The Orioles, remember? He your client or not, MP? Curious minds demand to know."
"Yeah, he is."
"Drop him. Just drop him, and run far, buddy."
"What's going on, Tommy? Tell me."
"I don't care if you were my brother. It's hush-hush, times ten. No can do. Mucho trouble's about to land on his head. Your guy's got problems he can't begin to imagine."
"Like that, huh?"
"Insist on cash, and make him pay you up front, MP. He has the dough, believe me. And count it real close-he's a rotten thief."
"Who's handling him?"
"Kim Parrish. That's not good news for you, either, pal."
The name was familiar: a vague memory, though. She had come aboard during his final year, when MP was more concerned with putting the INS in the rearview mirror than acquainting himself with the new associates he intended to leave in the dust. Like all new attorneys, she started out with the soft cases where she wouldn't embarrass the service-immigrants who snuck over a border or allowed their green cards to expire or committed some petty offense. Inside six months-record time-she was bumped up to the big leagues, the narcotraffickers, the big-time tax cheats, high-profile cases reserved for the best and brightest. She was old for a starting attorney, forty-five, maybe fifty. She was also smart and good, very good. Single, no children, intense, and very married to the law.
In a knowing tone, MP asked, "Who's pushing the case?"
"Are you deaf? I can't tell, MP. I swear I can't."
"Tommy, Tommy. That Gonzalez case, remember it? The one where you let the ball drop and the director wanted your-"
"Damn it, MP, I know I owe you. I'm not gonna say. Can't, just can't."
"I understand. I really do."
"Good. Believe me, if there was any way, I'd tell you everything."
After a brief pause. "So what aren't you gonna say?"
"You're a dogged bastard, you know that?"
"I can barely stand to eat with myself. Spill it, Tommy."
"All right, all right. For starters, I'm not gonna say the director was dragged over to Justice last week. I'm not gonna say the attorney general and FBI director reamed him purple 'cause he let this slimeball lie and cheat his way into asylum. I'm definitely not gonna say that this guy has the entire machinery of the Justice Department after his ass. I hope you're listening, MP. He's toast."
"Thanks for everything you didn't say, Tommy. I'll sleep better tonight knowing it's such an easy case."
"He's going home."
"He's got me as a lawyer."
"I'm telling ya, he's going home. Nothing you do will stop it."
"Watch me."
"You'll hurt yourself, pal. You're jumping in front of a steam-roller. The heat on this guy's nuclear. Take the cash up front, then take a fast dive. Don't still be standing for the second round."
Tommy punched off, but MP still felt compelled to say, "I owe you one."
He called Alex and Elena and they filed back into his office. MP paced behind his desk, trying not to look overly concerned. The wrinkles on his forehead told a different story. They held hands as they fell back into their chairs.
"It's bad isn't it?" Alex asked.
"I'll be frank. Yes."
"How bad, MP?"
"The director of the FBI and the attorney general want you gone." He let this sink in, then continued, "I'm wondering why. Any ideas?"
"Yes, a few. My enemies in Moscow have powerful allies inside the Kremlin. They've obviously pulled strings with your government."
"But they can't ship us back, can they, MP?" Elena rocked forward in her chair, her hands tightly clenched beneath her knees. "They gave us political asylum. And there's no extradition treaty. If they send Alex back to Russia, they'll kill him."
"Those are the obstacles in their path. Ordinarily they're very powerful," he said, nodding thoughtfully, trying to balance optimism with his growing awareness of how serious this might be. He battled a temptation to jump out of his seat and scream, "Pack your bags and race for Canada. You haven't got a prayer."
"But…?" Alex said.
"But they'll look for ways around them."
"What are these ways?"
"Every case is different, Alex. I can't predict. But I advise you to get your affairs in order. This can get ugly." The first blow arrived Monday morning. Elena went to the bank to cash a check. They wanted to stay and fight, but they were realists. Flight might become their only option. To exercise that option they would need money, a hoard of cash, enough to get across the border and get settled. A withdrawal of ten thousand or more would trigger an immediate report to the IRS, and Alex was losing faith in all American authorities; so $9,999 it was. The teller, a plump young girl with a polite smile, punched the account number into her computer. The smile disappeared. She looked up with a puzzled expression. "Sorry, I can't cash this."
"You… What do you mean?"
"Your account's frozen." She was pointing at the screen Elena couldn't see.
"Frozen? How is it frozen?" Elena thought maybe her English was failing her, that maybe "frozen" was some enigmatic banking term like "overdrawn." A minor inconvenience that could easily be cleared up. "We have hundreds of thousands in that account," she insisted.
"Yes, I know. But the police or somebody has ordered the bank not to disburse any money from your account. I'm very sorry."
She felt like crying. Not here, though-not in front of all these strangers. She rushed outside and called Alex on her cell. She explained what had happened. He told her not to get upset, this had to be a misunderstanding. He would call MP, who would work a little legal magic and fix it.
They hung up and Alex immediately placed a call to his bank in Bermuda where the vast bulk of their money was parked. He was thanking God he had kept the account offshore, deeply relieved that he had not moved all that cash to an American bank where the interest rates were impressively higher. His business brain told him it was costing him thousands of dollars a year in lost income. A reckless waste. He had been sorely tempted a dozen times to just do it. Now he was pleased he had followed some darker instinct.
An assistant manager answered and quickly placed Alex on hold. A senior manager came on the line. "I'm sorry, Mr. Konevitch."
"What do you have to be sorry about?"
"There was nothing we could do."
"About what?"
"Well…" A lame cough. "Your account, sir, it's frozen."
The discussion lasted five minutes. Only an hour before, the governor of Bermuda had called in the head of the bank and read him the riot act. He himself had just gotten off the phone with a senior American Justice Department official who kicked him around like a third world tin can. Though Bermudan banking laws were notoriously loose, he was told that, in this case, the rules would tighten up. Ugly threats were traded back and forth, but in the end the outcome was preordained. Neither the governor nor the Bermudan banks wanted to be listed as havens for criminal money. It mattered not that they were-being accurately labeled was what they deathly feared. Tourism would dry up. Bermudan exports would sit on American docks, rotting. Bermuda, so dependent on rich Americans, would shrivel to a wasteland of empty beaches and foreclosed hotels, massive numbers of angry, unemployed people, etcetera. The governor remained steadfast for about three seconds before he crumbled under the onslaught of threats.