The First Billion

by Christopher Reich

  “You’re the writer,” he said, sipping at his cocktail. “Me, I just have a couple of drinks and let my silver tongue carry me where it may.”

  “Silly of me to ask. But be careful, Jett. Too much booze loosens the tongue. You might let a few words slip about all the fires you’ve been putting out.”

  “What fires are those?”

  “You tell me.”

  Gavallan registered confusion. “I thought you were a columnist,” he complained. “Sounds to me like you’re looking for a way to get back on the front page. That why you’re here?”

  “No,” she said. “I slipped by the guards to pay my respects to a pretty neat guy I used to go out with. I think it’s great what you’ve done for the hospital.”

  “Least I could do, really,” he said, searching out her gaze, wanting to stare headlong into her vivid eyes, hoping to find that the connection was still there. But Cate was careful to keep her eyes aloof and darting across the crowd, only briefly engaging his.

  “I’ve been reading that stuff on the web about the deal you’ve got coming to market,” she said. “I hope you’re being careful, Jett. I always told you to steer clear of Mercury.”

  “Come on, let’s not start that again.”

  Cate began to say something, then bit her lip. Offering a noncommittal shrug, she ordered a Stolichnaya straight up, no ice, no chaser. Her drink.

  Catherine Elizabeth Magnus was a handsome woman, more striking than beautiful. With her angled features, pale complexion, and high cheekbones, she called to mind an exotic strain of royalty. A princess from Liechtenstein, a Gräfin from Pomerania, an Italian contessa. Her posture was immaculate, her step light, yet directed. When she walked it was for the audience she’d grown used to long ago. And it was the coupling of patrician bearing with her commoner’s unpretentious personality that he found so attractive. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Cate Magnus was the class Jett Gavallan never had.

  She’d worked as a reporter at the Financial Journal for as long as he’d known her, writing a weekly piece for the paper she called “Gold Rush.” Every Friday, she filled twelve column inches on the front page of the Journal’s second section with offbeat, funny, and often poignant stories about the ins and outs of surviving in the capitals of the new economy: Silicon Valley, Seattle, Austin, and the few city blocks in Manhattan someone had baptized “Silicon Alley.” Her subjects ranged from how the skyrocketing price of real estate was making millionaires out of middle-class home owners to the social etiquette of pink-slip parties to the personal peccadilloes of the new and obscenely rich. The rise and fall of Black Jet Securities would make perfect fodder for her column.

  “Speaking of fires, I had an interesting call this afternoon,” he said, allowing himself to move a few inches closer to her. “Between you and me, everything the Private Eye-PO has said is bullshit. Complete and utter garbage.” He went on to explain about the receipts, his conversation that morning with Jean-Jacques Pillonel, and Konstantin Kirov’s personal guarantee that everything was “up and running” in Moscow.

  “Kirov himself told you? Well then, I guess you don’t have to worry at all.”

  “Don’t start about Kirov. Please, Cate. Not tonight.”

  “All I said was that you shouldn’t trust him. He’s an oligarch, for Christ’s sake. How do you think he got where he is?”

  “He is a businessman, and a damned good one. Neither of us has any idea of the conditions he has to work under over there. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but Mercury speaks for itself. It’s a gem.”

  “It sure does.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means he’s ruthless and conniving, and maybe even a little more than that. He’s a good businessman all right. If that’s what you call it.”

  “Cate!”

  Her eyes flashed, and he could feel her straining to rein in her temper. “Okay,” she conceded. “You win. Just be careful. Word is you’re risking a lot on this deal.”

  “Whose word is that?”

  “Everyone’s. No one’s. You know how it is. The street’s got wind you’re putting a lot on the Mercury deal. I just was curious if the rumors are true.”

  It was Gavallan’s turn to shrug. But looking at her, at her lustrous black hair, her keen eyes, her pale, pillowed lips, he had a sudden desire to tell her everything. A need even. Whether she knew it or not, he valued her counsel more than that of any of his colleagues at Black Jet. She was smart. She was well-informed. She was discreet. They’d been together over two years, and though privy to his every insider secret, she’d never once abused his trust.

  Cate who was trustworthy.

  Cate who was loyal.

  Cate who was the most sensuous lover he’d known.

  Unable to restrain himself, he ran a hand across her cheek and let it glide through her hair. “I miss you.”

  “Jett, no,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering. It was a plea, a denial, a memory.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s dance.” And before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and led her to the parquet floor. Continuing its tribute to “Old Blue Eyes,” the orchestra launched into “A Foggy Day.” Gavallan drew her closer. In seconds, their hands had found familiar places, their bodies secret havens.

  “So what do you want to know?” he asked.

  Cate looked taken aback. “You’re serious?”

  “Have I ever kept anything from you?”

  “That was when we were . . . That was before,” she said.

  Before. He hated the word. “You will, however, have to recite the sacred oath.”

  “Oh, Jett, come on.”

  “Sorry. You know it’s important to me. I am an Eagle Scout, you’ll remember. The oath, please.”

  Cate looked uncertainly to her left and right, then raised her right hand to her shoulder, arranging the fingers in a familiar salute.

  “On my honor I will do my best

  To do my duty to God and my country

  and to obey the Scout Law;

  To help other people at all times;

  To keep myself physically strong,

  mentally awake, and morally straight.”

  Gavallan nodded his approval. “At least I know your time with me was not completely misspent.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I guess the first thing you should know is that I’m pretty much tapped out. That much of the rumors is true.”

  And with that he launched into a recitation of the entire day’s events: Byrnes’s disappearance, the meeting at Sten Norgren’s, his taking out the second mortgage, the particulars of his personal and professional liquidity crunch. He left nothing out.

  “So, I guess you had a pretty dull day,” she said afterward.

  Seeing the mischief in her eyes, he laughed. For the first time since he’d woke, he felt as if things might turn out okay.

  17

  They’d danced three songs in a row. The entree was being served, and suddenly they were the last couple on the floor. Gavallan didn’t need to look toward his table to know that Nina was staring daggers into his back. Let her, he thought. I’ll take Cate. She can have Giles. Only Tony will be the poorer off.

  “So let’s get this straight,” Cate was saying, “you floated Mercury a fifty-million-dollar bridge loan with no collateral—I mean, other than their stock? Shoot, Jett, I’d be worried, too, about what the Private Eye-PO says.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gavallan countered. “Mercury earned sixty million in profit last year on revenues of three hundred ninety million. No one’s disputing that. They couldn’t have earned it without the Moscow market. It’s one of their biggest.”

  “I hope you’re right, Jett. I really do. Because God forbid that Mercury isn’t every inch the company your prospectus says it is, and you bring a fraudulent company public. And in this case I mean ‘public’ with a capital P. Two billion dollars’ worth. Because your life will be over as you know it and everything you hold dear will
be taken away from you. Your money. Your company. Everything. The only good news is that you won’t have to worry about that second mortgage anymore. You’ll have rent-free accommodations for the next seven years or so. Depends on the judge.”

  Gavallan listened to her assessment, his worry growing because it was the same one he’d made himself. Earlier, he’d told Tustin and Llewellyn-Davies they had to be true to their client. But Cate’s skepticism, coupled with his partner’s lingering silence, lent him second thoughts, Cisco receipts and Jean-Jacques Pillonel’s word notwithstanding.

  “A guy I know is tracking down the Private Eye-PO,” he said. “Once we find him, I plan on having a heart-to-heart, just him and me, find out why he’s going after Mercury before I have a judge slap an injunction on his ass.”

  “Why do you think he’s going after Mercury?” Cate demanded. “Because he has the goods on them.”

  “Actually, we were looking into the possibility it might be personal, a grudge or something against Black Jet, or maybe even me.”

  “Oh, come off it. A grudge? Sometimes you really piss me off.” The voice had hardly risen, but her eyes had narrowed and a rigid control had taken hold of her body. Dropping her hands, she turned and walked off the dance floor, weaving through the maze of tables to the hallway outside the ballroom. Gavallan knew she meant for him to follow.

  She was waiting outside the ballroom, hands on hips, head cocked defiantly.

  “Jett, I want you to listen to something I have to say. And I want you to promise me you won’t get mad. You sent Graf to Moscow to check on Mercury’s operations there and now you can’t find him. Gone from the hotel. Not calling back. Whatever. Point is he’s disappeared while he was supposed to be looking into Mercury.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And at the same time the Private Eye-PO issues another warning about Mercury. He’s never wrong, that guy. You know it and I know it. Accuracy is his hallmark.”

  “So?”

  Cate’s eyes widened. “Do I have to connect the dots? Maybe Graf’s disappearance isn’t a coincidence. Maybe the Private Eye-PO has the goods on Mercury. Maybe Kirov called you to make sure you were still on board.”

  “That’s enough, Cate. Now you’re talking like a fool.”

  “Am I? Think about it, Jett. Just think about it.” The challenge hung between them, the ensuing silence warming her concern from professional to personal. Nearing him, she rested a hand on his jacket and neatly brushed a hair from his lapel, so that for a moment, he dared believe she might still love him.

  “So what’s your advice?” he asked.

  “I’ll only tell you if you promise to take it.”

  “Forget it,” he said, turning to go back to the party. “I already know what it is. Drop the deal. I’m not going to do it. I can’t.”

  “Postpone the offering,” she pleaded. “Let me put you in touch with some of our guys in Moscow. Let them look into it. They’re hooked into the whole scene.”

  Gavallan bit his lip, bitter, confused, wanting to say a million things, not daring to say a word. “The offering is going through, Cate. Like I said, Mercury’s a gem. I know it, even if you and the Private Eye-PO don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a speech to three hundred of our city’s snootiest before they get too sloshed to understand a word I say.”

  And opening the door, he walked back into the ballroom.

  In Potomac, Maryland, and across the ethereal veins of the Internet, the roundtable between Jason Vann’s cast of disgruntled characters and the man calling himself Spade was growing more heated.

  Al: Listen to me, kid! You want the inside skinny on Mercury, I’ll tell you. You’re way off base on this one. My sources tell me Mercury’s double the deal you think.

  Spade: Whoopee for you! We’ve all got our sources, honey. And mine is indisputable.

  Val: Listen to Al. Where you get silly pictures? I see this and laugh.

  Heidi: What picture?

  Mario: Go to his website and take a look—www.PrivateEyePO.com. You’ll see!

  Spade: Thanks, chum. Always nice to know what side your toast is buttered on. As for ye of little faith, the picture cometh straight from the hand of God. Cross my heart and hope to die.

  Jason Vann rubbed his hands together, a worried look narrowing his eyes. He was desperate to angle the Private Eye-PO into a private chat room.

  Al: If it’s “straight from God” you want, come with me, big mouth, and I’ll show you something that’ll make you close your yap.

  Spade: I go everywhere and nowhere. You got the goods, send them to my address at Hotmail.

  Al: You want to keep up that winning percentage, you’d be wise to jump my way. You’re not the only one with inside info. I’ve also got some documents from Mercury. And they tell me the opposite of what they tell you.

  Val: I come, too. I also know people at Mercury.

  Spade: Who? Give me the name, cutie pie. Don’t make me beg.

  Val: Janusz Rosen. A Pole like myself. He is programmer. Damn good one, too!

  Jason Vann stared at the last sentence, wondering who the hell “Val” was, why he was so keen on butting into Mercury’s business. If Val was Rosen, then the boys at Mercury were probably running their own gig to track down the Private Eye-PO. Surely, “Spade” knew this.

  Al and Spade engaged in a few more volleys, the shadowy Val lurking close by, until by sheer force of will Al broke down Spade’s barriers. Immediately, Vann created a private chat room for Al and Spade to enter, then slammed the door closed before Val could sneak in. Once they were inside their cozy, private corner of cyberspace, Spade relented.

  Spade: Your 411 better be white hot, chum. Send me the stuff to Ponyfan@earthlink.com, and give your return address. If it’s as good as you say, I’ll fill you in on the nitty-gritty with Mercury.

  Vann jumped out of his chair, roaring. “Gotcha, you big m.f. You are so nailed!” Vann had a dozen buddies at Earthlink. A few calls and he’d have Ponyfan’s IP address before he knew it. From there, it would be smooth sailing. By morning, he’d have all the info he needed to earn his fifty-thousand-dollar bonus from Mr. John J. Gavallan: the Private Eye-PO’s name, home address, and phone number.

  Child’s play!

  The line for the valet car park stretched from the curb to the lobby. Gavallan stood near its head, Nina at his side. She’d barely said a word since he’d returned from his extended tête-à-tête with Cate. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about how to avoid a good night kiss. Giles was dutifully back with Tony. Meg and her husband, Harry, stood arm in arm, mooning at each other like love-struck teenagers. A cell phone chirped, and every man, woman, and valet froze, listening to hear if it was theirs. Gavallan answered. “Yeah?”

  “Jett? That you?”

  “Graf?” he asked, the relief spontaneous, bringing a wide smile to his face. “Graf, where the hell are you?” He laughed out loud, thinking it was wonderful. Byrnes was okay. He was safe. The fucking shaman had answered his prayers.

  “Where do you think? The heart of the evil empire: Moscow. Back in the USSR.”

  Gavallan turned his back on the crowd and walked a short distance up the sidewalk. “You were supposed to call this morning, you prick. You had us all worried.”

  “Sorry. Had to double-check on a few things before I got back to you. Didn’t want to give you any information until I knew for sure. Look, I’ve scoped out Mercury’s operations. I made it out to the network operations center. Place is in Timbuktu, I don’t mind saying. I’ve seen their offices in town. It’s all like we thought it was. The Private Eye-PO is full of shit. Mercury’s up and running.”

  “So the deal’s a go?”

  “Green light all the way.”

  “Fantastic,” said Gavallan, controlling his urge to holler. Turning his head, he saw the others locked in a group stare in his direction. He waved a hand and gave a big thumbs-up.

  “You there?” asked Byrnes.

  “Hell,
yes. I’m definitely here.”

  “I knew you’d be happy. Listen, Jett, everything’s copacetic over here. Copy?”

  “Yeah, I copy, pard. Thanks for the great news. I’ll get that champagne all iced up; you bring back the caviar. Two billion, man. Our biggest fish ever. Can you believe it? Just let me know when you’re getting back.”

  And then the words sunk in and Gavallan held his breath while the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end.

  Everything’s copacetic.

  “I’m going to stay the weekend if you don’t mind,” Byrnes went on. “Moscow’s a hell of an interesting place. Thought I might check out some of the sights tomorrow. Saturday, Kirov’s invited me out to his summer house in the country. An honest-to-God dacha—can’t miss that. By the way, he sends his regards. He’s delighted that we decided to take a look for ourselves. Says we’re welcome anytime.”

  “Tell him thank you.” It was another man speaking Gavallan’s words. “So he wasn’t upset when he found out you’d flown over to check out Mercury without letting him know beforehand?”

  “I told you he wouldn’t be,” said Byrnes. “He wanted me to tell you that Mercury must be as transparent as any of its counterparts in the West.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, he did. Anyway, I thought I’d fly into New York and meet you for the launch party.”

  “Sure thing,” said Gavallan, searching for words, stumbling. He felt hollow, shaky. A rod of pain, searing and white-hot, fired inside his skull. Wincing, he touched at his forehead. “Um . . . yeah, sounds good, see you Monday. Oh, and call Emerald and give her your flight details. We’ll send a limo to pick you up at JFK. When you see Kirov, ask him if he’s free for dinner.”

  Gavallan waited for a response, but the line was broken and only static answered his words. Besides, it didn’t really matter. Grafton Byrnes had told him everything he needed to know.

  Everything’s copacetic.

  18

  Gavallan was walking the ward.

  His pace was slow, his steps measured. The click of his heels against the linoleum floor sounded to his anguished ears like the final ticks of a time bomb. With every step, he was tempted to draw a last breath, to squeeze tight his eyelids in anticipation of the blast to come. But what would it destroy? he wondered. What was left that hadn’t already been torn apart by his own merciless conscience? What might it damage that hadn’t been shredded eleven years ago?