"What were you doing in there?" the FBI agent demanded two inches from her face.
"I changed clothes."
"What else?"
Elena could not resist a big smirk. "Isn't that a rude question to ask a lady who was in the bathroom?"
Mr. FBI rolled his eyes and barked at the INS agents, "Search the bathroom."
Two minutes later, one of the agents reappeared, sheepishly gripping a wet cell phone in his hand. "This was hidden inside the toilet."
It was senseless to ask Elena if she had made a call. And equally a total waste to ask whom she had called. At that moment, their lawyer probably had his foot glued to the metal as he raced to the apartment.
"Slap her in cuffs," the FBI agent ordered. "Time to get out of here." As they were led out the doors on the ground floor, somebody had obviously alerted the press. They were there in force, it was 3:15 in the morning, and they were swapping jokes about the infamous Watergate, sipping coffee, playing with the klieg lights, waiting for the fun to begin.
It had been a slow, dry week for the news cycle-the Hollywood brats were behaving surprisingly well; plenty of murders, but none gruesome or weird enough to break the threshold of public monotony with such things; and of course Washington hosted its usual political scandals involving graft and sex, but nobody cared about that anymore. The boys from the Bureau publicity machine had gone into overdrive and kicked up huge interest in this fast-breaking story. The Runaway Millionaire, they had called Konevitch. The number one most wanted man in Russia. A beautiful celebrity couple, and better yet, the news bureaus were promised all kinds of inside leaks and dirt to fan the public interest and give the story long legs.
A blonde woman lingered at the rear of the crowd, gripping a big pistol under her jacket, silently cursing that there were so many witnesses. The hell with them all, Katya swore to herself. Her orders from Golitsin were clear and unequivocaclass="underline" make their deaths look like an accident, or a robbery gone wrong, or a joint suicide pact by the obviously distressed couple. But in her long, fruitful career of killing and assassinating, no target had ever pushed her buttons this way. The humiliation of the escape from Budapest was bad enough. But the full year of misery in Chicago, and to learn now that it was all because Mr. Smartass inside that big building had outsmarted her, again. Oh, she was long past caring what Moscow wanted. If she saw any chance for a clean shot, she would take it-just blast away with her forefinger glued to the trigger. Just keep firing until the Konevitches had more holes than a doughnut shop, then flee into the night and hop the fastest transport headed to Mexico. She rather enjoyed the idea that it would all be caught on camera.
She would somehow acquire a copy of that tape. She intended to spend the rest of her life watching herself blow them both to hell.
Suddenly, the doors flew open. Tightly surrounded by the clutch of agents, Alex and Elena were led outside, then halted for a brief cameo. Cameras flashed, film rolled, and dozens of unanswered questions were flung at the INS and FBI people. Katya tried pushing herself through the mob, but the reporters were veterans at this game; with the brutal skill of NFL linemen they shoved and pummeled her backward till she landed on her ass.
Alex and Elena were pushed through the crowd then shoved into the backseat of a large blue sedan. An FBI spokesman stepped forward and began issuing a statement as terse as it was obviously rehearsed: "Mr. Alex Konevitch is wanted for serious crimes back in Russia. He and his wife embezzled hundreds of millions from innocent investors and fled here. They've been living like jet-setters in America, hiding in one of the most luxurious buildings in the city, hiding from the Russian authorities and pretending-"
The door slammed shut and Alex could hear no more.
Next, a fast trip to the INS building, where the suddenly notorious couple were swiftly photographed, fingerprinted, and processed into the INS system for deportation.
Alex was handed a pair of orange coveralls and allowed to step into the men's room for a quick change. When he emerged, Elena was gone. He was led back outside and stuffed into a van, shackled to a floor bolt, then sped quickly to the Alexandria jail, where he was shoved into a holding cell filled with other miserable men, a mixture of Hispanics, Chinese, Albanians, and sundry other violators of the apparently whimsical immigration system.
22
The guard rattled his keys and called for Prisoner Konevitch to step forward. Alex pushed through the crowd of disconsolate men and appeared at the door. He had not showered in three days. He had barely slept, quick catnaps frequently interrupted by another prisoner stumbling over him, or a fresh internee being jammed into the overcrowded cell. He looked tired and unshaven, his hair greasy and limp. He smelled of stale sweat and urine.
He stepped through the door and two guards shackled his hands and feet before he was led in a series of awkward shuffles to the visitor area.
MP Jones was seated at a table, briefcase in lap, frowning and clutching his hands together. "Alex, I'm sorry this took so long."
"Elena called you Friday night, MP. Don't tell me you're sorry, tell me what happened."
"Games. I called every number I know at INS. Nobody would tell me where they took you. You should be in a D.C. cell. That's where you're domiciled and where you were arrested. Instead, they moved you here, to Alexandria, to throw me off the scent. Was it bad?"
"It hasn't been pleasant. I don't care about me. Get Elena out of this."
MP wouldn't look him in the eyes. "That's going to be difficult."
"Why? Arrange bail. Murderers get out on bail. Our apartment is paid for. Use it as collateral and get her out."
"Don't think I haven't already tried, Alex. Remember all those reporters outside the Watergate? The Feds are turning you into a showcase. You were big news over the weekend, all those crime and legal channels on cable had a field day. You got creamed in the papers and TV." He held up a picture cut from a newspaper. It showed Alex and Elena being led from the Watergate, cuffed and looking guilty as hell. "Apparently, they want the Russian government to know they're playing hardball."
"They want me, MP. Elena has done nothing wrong."
"The answer's no, Alex. They claim you're a flight risk."
"They can let her go. They'll still have me in jail."
"Alex, you're not listening. They want her in jail, too."
Understanding what MP was saying came slowly, but it finally struck with full force. He tried to swallow the huge knot in his throat. It wouldn't go away. The U.S. government was using Elena as a hostage, as leverage to force him back to Russia. He prayed her conditions were better than his. He hoped she was in a private cell. His cell was filthy and so thoroughly overcrowded that the men took turns sleeping on the hard floor. They fought with one another for a turn at the toilet, trading insults in an array of languages that only contributed to the frustration. The room was cold and noisy: between the sounds of a toilet constantly flushing and the constant drone of fearful men sharing loud complaints, sleep was nearly impossible. The food was awful, microwaved garbage mixed together on a tin tray.
MP pushed on. "By law, they can hold you four days before a release can be applied for. I've demanded a hearing tomorrow. They can't say no."
"What am I charged with?"
"An expired visa."
"But you can easily prove that's false?"
"Of course. As long as everybody sticks to the truth, it should be easy."
"Get Elena out, MP. I don't care about me, I don't care what it takes, get her out."