"Go with the overstayed visa."
"That's INS's territory," Hanrahan observed, quite rightfully.
"Good point. They have to get involved eventually. Why not now?"
Hanrahan slowly nodded. There was obviously more going on here than he was being told. The director was playing this close to the vest, but that wasn't unusual. In an effort to learn more, he asked dubiously, "So we pick him up on a simple immigration violation?"
"We'll throw on all the additional charges we want later. And we'll bring the press into this thing, maybe put out a statement that throws all kinds of dirt at Konevitch. I just want them in the judicial system for now."
"Them?" A brief pause and a look of disbelief. "Both of them?"
"Isn't that what I said?"
"What crime did she commit?"
"She married him."
Hanrahan cleared his throat and stood his ground. "So you want us to use her to pressure him? I wanna be sure I heard this right."
Tromble played with a paperweight on his desk. "Did I say that?"
Hanrahan didn't dare answer.
Tromble lifted up a document and pretended to read it.
Hanrahan wouldn't budge-they were skirting on the thin edge of the law already. Now Tromble was trying to shove him across it. He was two years from retirement. He had it all mapped out: a small home on a golf course in Florida, as little private consulting as he could get away with, divorce the hag he married, and find a new hottie who looked good in a skimpy bathing suit or wearing nothing at all. He wasn't about to put it all at risk. He wanted an unequivocal order in the presence of the two witnesses against the wall.
When it became clear they would stand against that wall all night, Tromble finally relented. Without looking up, he said, "He entered our borders under false pretenses. She accompanied him, and she participated in his falsified testimony for asylum. That makes her party to the conspiracy, and her role merits similar treatment."
"Got it. When is this supposed to happen?"
"Tonight. Late tonight. It's Friday and his lawyer won't be able to do anything until Monday." The knock came at three in the morning. Alex threw on his bathrobe, again, and again tiptoed to the door. A quick peep through the spyhole-Marty Brennan, the co-op maintenance man, peered back with a worried expression.
Alex opened the door. "What is it, Ma-"
Marty was suddenly shoved aside by a crowd of eight people who barged inside, seven men and a stout woman dressed like a man. The agents fanned out and raced into every room in the apartment, which did not take long as it was so small.
From the bedroom, Elena screamed. Alex made a move in that direction before he was restrained by two men with thick shoulders and rough hands. They yanked his arms behind his back and with well-practiced efficiency fitted flex-cuffs around his wrists. "Who are you?" Alex yelled.
"Immigration Service," replied a voice from the small kitchen.
"We've done nothing wrong. We have political asylum."
"Past tense. You had asylum," the man corrected in a snarling tone, moving back into the room and positioning himself before Alex. "That's now suspended, pending review."
"Fine. We also have visas. The passports are in my briefcase," Alex told him, using his chin, awkwardly, to indicate the case resting precariously on the now three-legged living room table.
The man walked to the briefcase, deftly snapped it open, and withdrew two booklets. He flipped through until he came to the pages with the American visas-a millisecond of study before he looked up and frowned. "These are obvious forgeries."
"So is the American Constitution, apparently."
"Search the place," the man directed his people. Everybody but one man in the corner snapped to and began rummaging through drawers and overturning furniture, again.
Alex informed them, "The FBI tossed our place over two weeks ago. What do you expect to find?"
No answer. Alex turned away from the destruction and studied the one man who leaned against the wall, not participating. He wore a cheap gray suit like the others, though he was clearly more observer than participant. Alex directed his voice at him and said, "You must be FBI."
The man looked a little uncertain, then replied very amiably, "Good guess."
"I want to call my lawyer. He has all the papers regarding my asylum and legal status. I'm sure you want to see those papers, right?"
"Nope. Not tonight."
"What about my rights, sir?"
"Illegal immigrants don't enjoy rights."
"I want to be clear on this, sir. You're denying me the right to counsel?"
In one of many conversations with MP, the lawyer had advised him that something like this might happen. Ignore the indignities and offensive behavior, stay cool, don't get confrontational, no matter how bad the goading gets, MP had advised quite insistently. It won't sound good at an immigration board hearing, or in a courtroom, that Alex, an immigrant, lacked respect for American authorities. Stay firm and polite. Gently remind them of your rights, and remember how many legal procedures they violate; later, we'll drag them through all that dirt in a courtroom.
But at that moment, Elena was tugged out of the bedroom and into the small living room by the female agent who looked like a drag queen in reverse. Elena wore only her nightie, a skimpy, nearly transparent garment that left little to the imagination. A few of the male agents were openly leering at her. Elena didn't care. She stared back with a ferocity that would make an armored tank wilt with shame.
The FBI agent also was sneaking quick lurid peeks at her, at least he was before Alex snapped, "Even the KGB didn't employ so many perverts."
The agent, who was named Wilson, shifted his eyes to his shoes and turned slightly pink.
"Are you married?" Alex asked him. No answer, so Alex again prodded, "Do you have a wife?"
"Yes." Still staring down at his laces like a shamed child.
"Would you enjoy seeing your wife treated this way?"
"How were we to know what she was wearing?"
"But you know it now, sir. And like sick perverts you're all leering at my wife. If you had any decency you'd allow her to go into the bathroom and get dressed."
Agent Wilson could not stop staring at his shoes, the tips, the laces, the stitching along the sides. His orders were clear and brutal. Humiliate Konevitch. Goad and provoke him into doing something stupid-any pitiful attempt at resistance, disrespectful behavior toward the agents, or, better yet, some mild act of violence. The charges against him were precariously flimsy, trumped-up bullshit that was dangerously toothless, if truth be told. His boss, Hanrahan, had demanded something a real judge could sink his teeth into.
But that "pervert" word really stung. Now looking at anything but the nearly naked, gorgeous blonde in the room, he said to the female agent, "Let her get some clothes and change in the bathroom."
Elena was led off, stomping angrily down the hall.
Alex leaned against a wall and resigned himself to watching the INS agents tear his apartment apart. The few pieces that weren't already broken-and those he and Elena had carefully and lovingly repaired-were now destroyed beyond repair. It was hard, grim work and, to their credit, nobody smiled or laughed this time.
After about five more minutes of frantic homewrecking, the sounds of somebody pounding hard on a door at the rear of the apartment brought a sudden halt to the action. A deep woman's voice was frantically yelling, "What are you doing in there? Open up. I said, open this damned door! I mean it, I'm not fooling around."
The FBI agent, Wilson, suddenly lost his polished cool and dashed back to the rear bathroom. After a few moments of loud confusion accompanied by more ignored demands to open the door, Alex heard a loud crash. A moment later, Elena was dragged back into the living room, fully dressed now, in jeans, a loose sweatshirt, and a petulant expression.