The prosecutor took a step backward and stared hard at Ustinov. He waited several seconds before he spoke, the disbelief heavy in his voice.

“I don’t think I heard you correctly. I thought I heard you say you worked alone. Is it not true that someone was with you in the testing room when Mr. Andretti discovered you? Who was that?”

Ustinov spoke more firmly now. “As I have told you, this girl, she was only a clerk, someone Andretti hired because she is Russian and she vork cheap. And because she had nice legs. Me, I try to…how you say?…get in her pants, bragging about money I make with system. No way she could be involved. She is only talented in one area…filling up tight sweater.”

Several people in the gallery laughed out loud. Even the spinster smiled and shook her head. It was the closest thing to juice in an otherwise dry week. The judge spluttered and tried to rein the proceedings back to their mundane norm. He ordered Dmitri Ustinov to restrict his answers to the questions.

The prosecuting attorney had lost interest. They had never believed Andretti anyway. There had been no reason to involve any of the other OptiMarx employees in the scheme, especially any of the entry-level Russian coders. Ustinov had clearly done what he did alone. The other two, Stern and Smythe, were the leeches, ready to suck out the money, until the Russian decided to skim some off the top on his own. Besides, most of the Russian programmers the company hired had turned up with immigration problems and had managed to disappear by the time anybody got around to talking with them.

The attorney wrapped up a few other loose ends, and by noon, all the testimony was completed. The judge called for a lunch break. Closing statements would start at two o’clock.

No one took notice of the spinster when she stood to leave. She casually dropped an envelope on her chair as she gathered up her knitting and made her way out the door. She disappeared into the ladies’ room around the corner from the courtroom. Half an hour later, a pretty young brunette in a flattering business suit emerged from the ladies’ room. She walked confidently out of the Federal Building and hailed a cab.

The young woman sat back in the seat. Her voice carried a noticeable Russian accent as she told the driver, “JFK. I have a flight I need to catch.” She held a folder on her lap. It contained first-class tickets on British Air to London and on to the Seychelle Islands. The remote tropical islands, deep in the Indian Ocean, were a perfect place to continue her disappearing act.