"Who are you?" Alex demanded, making no effort to disguise his fury.
"FBI," came the prompt reply. Two sets of identification were quickly flashed, then quickly put away.
"Why are you here?"
"Welcome to America, pal," said one of them with a nasty sneer. "We had a tip you and the wife were harboring a fugitive."
"That's ridiculous."
"Yeah? Seemed real enough to us."
"Do you have a warrant?"
"What are you, a lawyer?"
"Show me your warrant or get out."
They rocked back on their heels and laughed. Take a strike at us, their body language screamed. Look what we did to your home, look at your wife's horrified face, and do what any real man would do. Go ahead, run across the room-throw your best punch. We'll slap your ass in cuffs, cart you off like trash, and, as an undesirable, have your ass on the next flight to Moscow.
Alex was mad enough to do it, but at that moment a third man strolled out of their bedroom. Alex glanced in his direction, and froze. The man was tall and thin, dressed in a rumpled trench coat, and wrapped in his arms was their home computer. He looked, in fact, remarkably like his old friend Colonel Volevodz-but it couldn't be. Not here, not now. This was America.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch." Amazing-he even sounded like Volevodz, right down to the clipped arrogance.
Alex drew a few heavy breaths and struggled to get himself under control. He felt a large lump in his throat. He snapped at Volevodz, "I thought your friends in external security were territorial. What are you doing here?"
In Russian, Volevodz replied very coolly, "You're a wanted felon. I'm here to take you back."
"Then you're going to be disappointed," replied Alex in English.
"Am I?" Volevodz stayed with Russian so the Fibbies couldn't understand a word. He had arrived two weeks before, after a call from Tatyana to Tromble offering his services and expertise.
The Konevitches' year of dodging and ducking was over. No more hiding behind his wife's name. Nicky's boys had been chasing ghosts in Chicago for a year, cowering in an embattled outpost in a forlorn corner of the city, and coming up empty. What they could not do, the FBI handled with speed and ease. A polite inquiry to the INS revealed the Konevitch address, working situation, and immigration status. Another call to the IRS revealed the full details of their financial status. All information the FBI gave Volevodz that he passed on to Nicky, via Tatyana. Hide-and-seek was over, a new game was about to begin.
One way or another, dead or alive, but on a plane to Russia, Konevitch was going to lose.
"I don't think I will," Volevodz countered, arrogance rising to full pitch. "You've tangled with the wrong people. There will be no second chance, Konevitch. You're a fool, you should have taken the deal."
"Think again. I have political asylum."
"I strongly advise you to come along willingly. This is inevitable, believe me. Make it easier on all of us."
"Get out of my apartment. Now."
A switch to English. "What will you do, Konevitch? Call the police? These are the police," he said, nodding his sharp chin in the general direction of the two agents by the window.
They smiled and waved. Real smartasses.
Elena bared her teeth and said to the two agents, "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Even in Russia, citizens aren't treated this way anymore."
"How much did you pay for this place?" one of the agents asked without a trace of curiosity. It was a statement of fact, an accusation, or, worse, a verdict.
"None of your business," Elena shot back.
"Nine hundred and seventy thousand," the agent replied, scowling. "Almost a million bucks. Lotta money. Cash, too. Where'd it come from?"
Alex placed a hand on Elena's arm-they were deliberately goading her. It would do no good to answer, so she stifled her reply.
"You stole it," the agent said, directing a long finger at Alex. "You robbed your own investors. You fled with hundreds of millions of dollars. You're crooks who lied to the immigration board to procure your status. You're nothing but lying thieves."
Elena had passed the point of rage. She was going to have her say, no matter what. "That's a lie. I don't know what this man told you, but he's a liar. You're stupid and he's a liar. Get out."
More smiles from the two agents. Large slack jaws, bunched shoulders, simple responses-actually they did look a little stupid.
Before things escalated, Alex decided to put an end to this. He stared coldly at the pair of agents. "Am I under arrest?"
No reply.
"Under investigation?"
The start of a nod, before it quickly turned into a crick of the neck that needed to be rubbed.
"It's time to call my lawyer," Alex announced, moving with feigned confidence toward the phone.
About two seconds passed. "There'll be time enough for that later," one of the agents said. It sounded like a threat.
Alex kept moving toward the phone. The agents appeared nonchalant, but the threat of a loudmouthed attorney showing up at this scene clearly unnerved them. No wonder. Without a warrant they had broken into a private residence, vandalized thousands of dollars' worth of property, then begun questioning a suspect without reading his rights. Worse, a foreign official without any legal status had been invited to the smashmouth party.
Any lawyer worth his salt would have their balls on a plate.
Alex lifted the phone and faced the two agents. "Give me your names. My lawyer will want them," he demanded.
They shuffled their feet and seemed to shrink. They exchanged matching looks of confusion.
"We'll be going now," one of them mumbled, one foot planted, ready to bolt.
"Not with my computer, you won't," Alex insisted.
"We're seizing it as evidence. Have your lawyer take it up with our lawyers," one said derisively. Having gotten the last word, and after firing off a final set of contemptuous looks, they walked quickly out of the apartment. Volevodz had that thin smile as he filed past Alex and Elena.
Alex slammed the door behind them, a loud shot that shook the walls.
Elena couldn't take her eyes off the mayhem in their apartment. Her only photograph of her parents had been torn out of the frame; it was on the floor, ripped into dozens of tiny pieces. The vindictiveness of it turned her stomach.
"Alex, I'm scared."
"So am I."
"What does this mean?"
"It means it's not over."
"Why would the FBI allow that man inside our home?"
"I don't know."
"We need to see MP, right away."
Alex lifted the phone.
Elena began picking up.
MP was at home, babysitting the kids while his wife shopped for groceries. He promised to drop everything and meet them at his office in two hours.
18
The office of MP Jones was on the second floor of a seven-story commercial building, almost dead center in the middle of M Street. MP was a graduate of Georgetown Law, a prestigious school, though not top five. He did it the hard way, four years of night school while he slaved at two menial jobs. Four years of pinching pennies. Four years of sprinting from class to McDonald's, where he pushed the torts and contracts to the back of his brain and shoved Big Macs and greasy fries across the counter. Four years of the cruel monotony of mac and cheese, of sleepless nights, of vying with full-time kids from wealthy families and wondering if this was the right choice. But he made it.
He graduated bottom third, but at least he had no onerous student debts. No interviews with big firms landed in his lap; sadly, no interviews at all. He had, however, passed the very difficult D.C. bar exam the first time around.