No answer.

Kevin tried to appear unfazed. “What I thought I might do,” he said, “is go to your Embassy and make a formal request on your behalf that they investigate and arrest the persons responsible for your kidnapping, I don’t imagine your government wants to condone this kind of thing. Do you have any problem with my doing that?”

No answer.

“Good,” said Kevin, trying to get a rise out of Draga. “I’ll let the Embassy know I have your full approval.”

No answer.

“I also want to file what is known as a ‘graymail’ motion. It’s a request for information on you in the files of the major intelligence agencies in the world like the CIA.”

Draga looked over at Kevin, showing interest for the first time.

“It’s a routine motion in a case involving international events. The strategy is to try and put the prosecutor in a position where they have to choose between revealing sensitive intelligence information and dismissing the case. Once in a great while, the intelligence agencies won’t reveal the information and the case gets dismissed. But most of the time the intelligence agencies deny having any records relevant to the case, and the motion is rejected.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that intelligence agencies have information on you?” Kevin asked.

No answer. Draga turned away and resumed his study of the ceiling.

“Well, I’ll give it a try, anyway. Then, after all the pretrial motions are decided, your trial will begin. I’m not sure when that will happen. I would guess that your trial would start sometime next spring. They don’t have the death penalty here at the Tribunal. That’s one piece of good news. But, if you’re found guilty, I think you can expect a life sentence.”

Draga turned and walked out of the room. He had not said a word to Kevin.

Undaunted, Kevin bicycled over to the Yugoslavian Embassy. As he passed the huge stately buildings of the Embassy district of The Hague, he thought more about Draga’s arrest. If he could prove that the U.N. forces had planned and encouraged Draga’s kidnapping and arrest, he could file a motion to get the case thrown out. And what if he succeeded? Was he doing too much here? he wondered. He dismissed the worrisome thought, knowing that the motion would surely be denied. Besides, it was the kind of thing that defense attorneys did. Too, he liked the idea of tweaking the insufferable prosecutors.

The building housing the Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro was an old three-story brownstone in need of repairs, and surrounded with ragged landscaping. Like some poor cousin, it stood alongside the stately embassies of Germany, Colombia, Finland, and the Ukraine. The economic sanctions imposed against the government of Slobodan Milosevic appeared to have taken their toll.

Kevin tried the front door, but it was locked. He found an intercom near the door and pushed the button. A female voice said something in Dutch.

Kevin spoke into the intercom. “My name is Kevin Anderson. I’m a lawyer for a citizen of your country who is in jail here in The Hague. He needs your help. Can I speak to someone about his situation?”

There was a long pause. Then, there was a click from the lock on the door.

Kevin opened the door and entered.

A short man with a gray mustache and goatee greeted Kevin in the hall. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a bright yellow sport coat. A large pot belly pushed his pants down below his waist. “I am Zoran Vacinovic, Special Assistant to the Ambassador. How can I help you?”

Kevin offered his hand. “I’m Kevin Anderson. I was appointed to represent Dragoljub Zaric at the War Crimes Tribunal. As you probably know, he was kidnapped within the borders of your country and handed over to U.N. forces. On his behalf, I wish to file a formal request for your government to investigate his kidnapping and to prosecute those responsible.”

Vacinovic paused. He did not look like much of a diplomat to Kevin.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think my government will cooperate with an American lawyer?”

“Well, our interests in this are the same. If I can prove that U.N. officials conspired to kidnap my client, then perhaps I can prove that the arrest was illegal and win his freedom. Then, maybe it will not happen again in the future to one of your citizens. That would be a good thing for your country, would it not?”

Vacinovic stroked his goatee. “That would be a good thing.”

“Then will you forward his request to the proper authorities?”

Vacinovic eyed Kevin warily. “Mr. Anderson, a lot of people are not happy that an American lawyer was assigned to represent Mr. Zaric. I’m not sure how long you’ll remain in that capacity.”

“Well, anything you can do to uncover the circumstances of Mr. Zaric’s arrest will be very helpful to whoever ends up representing him.”

Vacinovic walked to the door and opened it. “I’ll see what we can do. Good day, Mr. Anderson.”

It felt like a diplomatic brush-off, and Kevin left disappointed. Draga would be better off with a Serbian lawyer. At least his lawyer would have received a warmer reception at the Embassy.

For the rest of that week, Kevin worked at the Peace Palace, a magnificent building with a large clock tower jutting into the gray skies of The Hague. It housed the World Court, formally known as the International Court of Justice, which decided civil disputes between countries, and contained a law library containing the largest collection of international law books in the world.

As he walked through the building, Kevin felt like he was in a true temple of justice. A marble statue of Lady Justice greeted visitors on the main staircase. Elaborate murals by French artists depicted the wisdom of settling disputes with judges, rather than by war. Stained glass donated by Great Britain depicted the world as it had been torn by wars, and as it looked when people lived in harmony and settled their disputes civilly.

Kevin was inspired by the bust of Mahatma Gandhi he came across in one of the corridors of the Peace Palace. The sculptor had captured the peacefulness and simplicity of Gandhi’s persona. Gandhi had persevered in the face of much greater adversaries than Bradford Stone and Vladimir Krasnic, and had survived much greater indignities than being laughed at in court, or rebuked by a judge.

So could he.

Ellen started school the next week. Some of her friends from camp were in her sixth grade classes, and the school had assigned each new student a returning student as a Student Ambassador. Ellen had scored well on two placement tests that the school gave her, and was assigned to the advanced Math and Spelling classes. “I even have a seventh grade spelling book,” she told Diane and Kevin proudly that night.

On Thursday, Kevin waited for the postman. The prosecutor’s response to his motion for an identity hearing was due. When the postman came in the afternoon, there were two envelopes for Kevin, one big and one small.

The small one was from Vladimir Krasnic. Kevin read Krasnic’s motion on Draga’s behalf asking that Krasnic be assigned as his counsel, but curiously, there was no signed request by Draga. Kevin doubted that Judge Davidson would allow Draga to change counsel unless he personally signed the request. Had Draga changed his mind?

The big envelope was from the Office of the Prosecutor. Kevin flipped through the pages and saw that there were two stapled packets. One was a response to his motion.

When he came to the second packet, Kevin gasped. It was entitled:

“Motion to Disqualify Attorney Kevin Anderson for Conflict of Interest.”