The First Billion (34 page)

“Police!” shouted the aggressor. “Do not move!”

43

You’re sure he’s here?” Konstantin Kirov asked his brother Leonid as they entered the murky staff auditorium on the ground floor of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s headquarters at Yasenevo. The room was at once enormous and stifling. Worn maroon carpeting ran beneath Kirov’s feet. Wood-paneled walls hovered over him. The time was 2 P.M., but imprisoned in the eternal dusk, he had to remind himself that outside the clouds had cleared to usher in a warm summer’s afternoon.

“Oh, he’s here,” replied Leonid. “I spoke with him ten minutes ago. He was upstairs checking on some old friends.”

“But there are no cars,” Kirov protested. “No sign of his security detail. He’s the president, for God’s sake. He’s not a ghost.”

“He’s also one of us. He likes to use his tradecraft now and then. Keep himself fit. In practice.”

“Nimble,”
came a voice from the darkened recesses of the auditorium.
“Like a cat.”
A familiar figure strode onto the stage at the far end of the room. “I can’t tell you how advantageous it is being able to get away on occasion. To disappear. It keeps everyone on their toes. Friends. Enemies. Everyone.”

The president of the Russian Republic jumped off the stage and advanced on Kirov, fixing him with an odd gaze. He was a slender man with sloped shoulders and a retiring manner. All the same, he demanded the room’s focus. There was an unpredictability about him, a hidden strength crouched in his rolling walk, a shy ruthlessness in his eyes. Kirov shook his hand and, from somewhere deep in his Russian blood, obeyed the command to bow his head.

“Seventy-two hours,” said the president. “All is in order, I trust?”

“Interest is strong,” answered Kirov. “Our bankers report heavy demand for Mercury on all fronts, both institutional and private. A ‘bellwether,’ some are even calling it.”

“And why shouldn’t they?” asked the president. “Oil prices remain high. Our GDP is growing at eight percent. Unemployment is falling like a stone and the ruble is stronger than it has been anytime since the new era began. You say demand for Mercury is strong, I say not strong enough.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kirov. “And so does the investing public.”

The president ran a hand up and down Kirov’s lapel. “I don’t want to hear about any of your shenanigans on this one.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Kirov, casting an eye to his brother for backup. Leonid remained silent, his chin dug into his chest.

“I’m talking about Novastar,” said the president in a hushed voice. “Not happy with the fortune you’re taking out of our aluminum industry, so you’re stealing from our airlines, too?”

“A lie,” said Kirov. “The airline needs to be restructured, that is all. A few new routes, a little less staff.”

“I have your word?”

Kirov nodded, and felt the curse of the damned fall upon him. It took every fiber of his being to keep his eyes locked on the president’s. “In fact, I welcome Baranov’s investigation.”

The president patted Kirov’s arm, his brow lifted skeptically. “Don’t go too far, Konstantin Romanovich,” he whispered. “It’s me, Volodya. Remember? The mayor’s bagman from Petersburg. If I’m not mistaken, I had the pleasure of ferrying some of your donations to Mayor Sobchak before his untimely passing. You and I know you’re robbing Novastar blind. Just keep it quiet. And if you can’t, then quiet Baranov.” His hand found Kirov’s neck, and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry. You’ve become much too valuable to your country to put in jail. For the moment, at least.”

Quiet Baranov?
Had he heard correctly? Kirov mumbled some words, thanking the president.

“You are a good Russian.” The president took Kirov’s head in his hands and kissed him three times upon the cheek. Releasing him, he walked back toward the stage. “A billion dollars,” he said. “Not bad for a new beginning. Do you hear that, comrade Lenin? Or should I say
Mister
Ulyanov? We’ve been relegated to stealing scraps from the capitalists’ doorstep.” Turning his gaze, he stared up at the wall behind him It was barren, save for the shadow of a familiar profile where a memorial sculpture had once hung. “Without Lenin, who are we? A country of bumbling democrats and corrupt capitalists? A band of impoverished states linked only by the tragedy of our common history?” The president was gathering steam as he spoke. He was giving a speech to convince, even if he was the only one who needed convincing. “We are Russians,” he declared. “We did not stop being a superpower when we ceased to be communists. We did not cast off our ideological fetters only to lose our national identity.”

If communism didn’t work, neither would democracy, Volodya went on. Both were too extreme. He would steer a middle course, but the hand on the tiller would be a firm one. The press would be reined in, the media made an organ of the state once more. As another had said some seventy years before, “the trains would be made to run on time.” Some might call it fascism, others benevolent despotism. He saw it differently. Two thousand years of history had made the Russian a serf at heart. He did not simply respect authority—he craved it. And in return for his subjects’ obedience, he, Volodya, the fifty-year-old president of Russia, would act as Lord and rebuild their country. He would make sure they ate, see to their education, and care for their sick.

“Most importantly, we will give them something to be proud of,” he said. “Nothing less than the country’s future is riding on this offering. The state is grateful, Konstantin Romanovich.” And here the president’s voice turned to ice. “But be sure of one thing: Should anything go wrong, I shall hold you personally responsible. You and you alone.”

44

The cell was twelve feet by eight, by Gavallan’s measure, curdled cement painted a blinding nautical white floor to ceiling. One wall offered the comforts of a fold-down metal cot—no mattress; no blanket; no pillow—another a stainless steel toilet and matching sink. The door was battleship gray, a solid steel curtain with a rectangular spy hole cut into it. They’d taken his wallet and passport, his belt, his shoes, and his watch. The gun had earned him a kick in the ribs. Cuffed in the backseat of the police car, he’d looked on as a search of the rental car had turned up the authentic due diligence reports Pillonel had cached in his chalet. It went without saying they’d uncovered the compact discs, too. Isolated and alone, Gavallan was back at square one.

Metal groaned, a latch fell, and the viewing slat slid back to reveal a pair of pouchy brown eyes.

“I want to speak to the U.S. Embassy,” Gavallan shouted, springing to his feet and rushing the door. “I’m an American citizen. I’d like to know why I am being held.”

“Relax,” grunted a put-upon voice. “You are thirsty? Want a Coke? A Fanta?”

“I want to call my embassy. I get a call, don’t I?”

“Sure you do. In a couple of days. Perhaps a week.”

“A week? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Next thing you’ll be asking for a lawyer.”

“Damn straight I want a lawyer,” said Gavallan. “Ever heard of innocent until proven guilty?”

An amused chuckle trickled through the slat. “Yeah, but not around here. We suspect someone’s guilty, we put him in jail,
then
we collect the proof. Sometimes it takes a month. Sometimes a year. It depends. I wouldn’t worry,
mon ami:
It’s not us who wants you. It’s your friends in America. The longest you’ll be here is two months. They’ll extradite you before then . . . unless, of course, you fight it. Now sit down and relax. I bring you a Coke, anyway.”

“Just give me a phone.”

The slat banged shut, and Gavallan slammed his fist against the door. Calm down, he urged himself. No one’s going to find you guilty of a murder you didn’t commit. Five minutes in front of a judge and you’ll be free.

But he wasn’t worried about himself so much as Grafton Byrnes. It was the fear of being trapped that rattled him, of being powerless to affect his friend’s destiny. It was the stock dream of being chased down a street, your pursuers getting closer and closer while your flailing legs carried you nowhere. It was the terror of the silent scream.

In a little more than sixty hours, Mercury Broadband was set to go public. Kirov would get his two billion dollars. And Grafton Byrnes would have outlived his usefulness.

All Jett Gavallan could do was sit quietly and lament it.

It was a perfect day for golf. At 5 P.M. in Zurich, the sky remained a regal blue, not a cloud to be seen. The temperature had crested at a lovely 75 degrees. The air smelled of pine and grass, and occasionally of the lake a few miles below them. Hay, freshly cut and rolled, sat ready for pickup in the fields nearby.

On the fourteenth green at the Golf & Country Club Zurich, located in the quaint township of Zumikon in the hills above his country’s banking capital, Hans-Uli Brunner, Swiss minister of justice, spent a second longer studying the line of his putt. Ten feet for a birdie. Taking a breath, he approached the ball, settling his feet a shoulder’s width apart. He looked at the hole, then at the ball, then at the hole again.
A birdie.
On a two-handicap hole, no less, where he already got a stroke. Sink this one and the match was his.

He steadied his head.

He drew back the blade of the putter.

As he stroked the putter toward the ball, an ominous tune chimed from within his golf bag. The first bars of “Beethoven’s Fifth.” The blade met the ball askew and it sailed three feet past the cup.

“Damn it!”

Stalking to the fringe of the green, he unzipped his bag and answered the call. “Brunner,” he said gruffly.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend? And all this time I thought the Swiss were so polite. A nation of innkeepers?”

Brunner looked back toward the pin, where his playing partners were scowling openly at him. “Excuse me,” he called, a gloved hand cupped to his mouth. “An emergency.”

Though friends of thirty years, the three players did not disguise their displeasure. It was against club rules to carry a cell phone on the golf course, though in Brunner’s case, a grudging exception had been made.

Zumikon, as the course was referred to, counted itself the most elite golfing establishment in Switzerland. Accordingly, the rules of golf were worshiped with a sanctity accorded the Ten Commandments. No better proof could be found than the Englishman brought over each April on a seven-month work permit to serve as club manager, normally a retired military man with long golfing experience. Only an Englishman would do. He was their mantle of legitimacy, their direct link to the “ancient cradle of golf.”

Brunner hurried a few yards down the fairway until he was out of earshot of his fellow golfers.

“Good afternoon, my dear fellow,” he said with a smile, the frustration of his missed putt eons away. He’d recognized the voice immediately, and knew it might promise many good things. “What a pleasant surprise. How have you been?”

“In truth, better, Herr Minister. I’m calling on a matter of some delicacy.”

“Go ahead.”

And for two minutes, His Honor, Bundesrat Hans-Ulrich Brunner, member in high esteem of the seven-man council that served as Switzerland’s executive branch, listened as his “close friend” outlined his problem and how he wanted it resolved.

“Geneva, you say. He’s wanted for murder? Yes, yes, I can understand that you want to deal with this on your own. Get him back into your neck of the woods. Good idea. As it happens, I have some close friends in the canton. It will be difficult, but I may be able to arrange things.”

“I hope the usual arrangements are acceptable?”

Brunner glanced back at the green. He thought of the missed putt, the heated expressions, the apologies owed. Surely he would have to buy the foursome drinks, maybe even dinner.
A call on the fourteenth green.
They would talk about it for days. “The usual” was hardly adequate.

“It is the weekend,” Brunner explained, “and we are talking about Geneva.” His apology was pained and heartfelt. “
Alors, la Suisse Romande.
These Calvinists . . . I’m sorry to say they are notoriously difficult to convince.”

“Will a million francs suffice?”

Brunner looked at the three golfers glaring in his direction. One raised his arms as if to say “What the hell is going on?” Brunner waved them onward. He would pick up his ball and return to the clubhouse at once. It was a sin not to finish a round, especially when he had a chance to take them all, and on such a beautiful day . . . but alas, duty called.

“You’re too generous,” Brunner responded at once. “Now, as to the account details . . .”

It was 8 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time, and in San Francisco the fog had returned. It hugged the streets, curling through alleys and climbing the city’s steep hills like a fibrous, undulant snake. Approaching the end of Broadway in Pacific Heights, Roy DiGenovese pulled his car into the driveway and killed the engine. He took a moment to finish his double espresso, then wiped his mouth and climbed from the car. He was tired. The flight from Miami had been long and bumpy. A guy six-foot-two just didn’t fit in the back of a commercial airliner—at least not in seat 32J he didn’t, sandwiched between an Hispanic
Hindenburg
and the rapper DMX’s biggest fan. Maybe someday he’d warrant business-class travel. Maybe someday he’d get to ride in that Lear Mr. Dodson had been going on about. And maybe someday he’d be a Supreme Court justice. DiGenovese laughed at himself. It wasn’t so bad being an optimist, he thought. Just keep it real.

Two cars had parked behind him, and their occupants met him on the sidewalk. This morning, they had no need to hide, no call to sneak in the back way. Leading his team of five special agents, DiGenovese knocked on the front door.

An Hispanic woman opened up a few seconds later. “Good morning,” she said. She was older, dressed in blue slacks and a 49ers sweatshirt. Her eyes were cautious, scared.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early, ma’am,” said DiGenovese, smiling and showing his badge. “We’ve come to take a look through Mr. Gavallan’s belongings. It shouldn’t take too long, an hour or two at most. We hold a warrant from a United States Federal Magistrate giving us a right to search the premises. Here’s my card. If you’d like, you can call my supervisor. His name is Mr. Dodson. He’s at the number written right there on the back.”

“Mr. Gavallan, he is okay?”

“He’s fine, ma’am.”

DiGenovese made it a point to be polite. His mother had spent her working life cleaning homes and offices, and as a child he’d accompanied her on her rounds. He would never forget the dismissive glances, the rude comments, the smug ill will of the moneyed classes.

The woman studied the card for a moment before shrugging and yielding the door. “Okay. You can go.”

“Thank you. We’ll try to leave things as we found them.”

DiGenovese set off through the house, directing his men to take the bigger rooms first: living room, den, guest bedroom, office. He wanted the master bedroom for himself. Gavallan was a former military man. If he kept a gun, odds were it was nearby, either in a night table or a closet.

The house was open and casual, with just the right amount of furniture, not cluttered like the homes of a lot of rich people. The floors were mostly wood, the décor kind of Spanish, giving the place a hacienda-like feel. By the time he reached the bedroom, DiGenovese had decided it was just his style. If, that is, he were to ever become a multimillionaire.

Inside the bedroom, he made straight for the night tables. He pulled out each drawer in turn, finding a few books, a handkerchief, a box of allergy medicine. He moved to the opposite side of the king-size bed. That night table was empty, not even a used Kleenex. Lifting the mattress, he ducked his head and checked for a gun. Nothing.

To the closet. Shelves to the left. A hanging bar to the right. He ruffled through the stacks of shirts and sweaters, at first setting them neatly on the floor and then, growing frustrated, flipping them onto the ground. No bullets. No holster. Nada.

DiGenovese paused, catching sight of himself in the mirror, seeing the furrowed brow, the look of stormy determination. Actually, he didn’t want to find the gun. But not finding it drove him crazy just the same. Go figure.

He moved into the bathroom.

Drawers. Nil. Medicine cabinet. Nil. Beneath the sink. Nil.

“Roy!”

The call came from Gavallan’s office. DiGenovese hurried to the oak-paneled study, collaring his excitement. “What do you got?”

“Check it out,” said Rosemary Duffy. She was a short, stocky woman, thirty, with cherubic cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. “Gavallan’s holster. Minus the piece.”

DiGenovese rushed forward and examined the leather. It was creased and worn from long years of cradling a pistol. He rubbed a finger inside it, and it came away oily. “What do you think? A long time since the pistol’s been removed?”

Duffy smelled the holster. “A week. A month. Hard to tell.”

Within minutes the study became a charnel house of wild, barely disciplined activity. Books were pulled off the shelves. Pillows pulled from the sofa and gutted. The stereo yanked from its tethers. This time it was DiGenovese who got lucky. Pulling a well-thumbed copy of the Bible from the shelves, he spotted a hidden compartment in the wall. “Rosie,” he called. “Get over here. Do your stuff.”

Within a minute, Duffy had opened the compartment. Reaching in her hand, she came out with a cardboard carton six inches long, three inches wide and three inches high. The word “Remington” was neatly printed on each side of the box.

DiGenovese opened the carton of 9mm shells.

Half the shells were missing.

“Sonuvabitch!”

Howell Dodson put down the phone. He felt light-headed, bewildered, and ashamed. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Why hadn’t he listened more closely to Roy DiGenovese’s warnings earlier? Why, even after the murders in Delray Beach, had he been so slow to warm to Gavallan as the prime suspect?

A holster with no gun, DiGenovese had told him.

A half-empty box of bullets.

And now this.

Dodson stared at the manila envelope that had arrived a few minutes earlier stamped “Department of the Air Force: Confidential” and the sheaf of papers that comprised Captain John J. Gavallan’s service record lying neatly on the desk beside it. Pushing his bifocals onto the bridge of his nose, he began to read the papers again. Once was not enough. His conscience was as obdurate as his investigative instinct and it demanded he be presented with the error of his ways a second time.

He stopped a few pages in, his index finger frozen halfway down. The entry was innocuous enough: “Summer Semester 1985 / USAF SOC /Grade: Pass.” And below it, in capital letters, signifying a commendation: “HONOR GRADUATE.”

Translated, the entry stated that during the summer between his junior and senior year at the Air Force Academy, Jett Gavallan had attended the Air Force equivalent of Army Ranger training—the Special Operations Air Command course—and graduated at the top of his class.

When Dodson asked DiGenovese about the Air Force commandos, his assistant whistled long and low. “They’re hard-asses, sir. Mostly trained for rescue ops, but rescue ops in hot situations. Lot of gunplay, hand-to-hand combat, that kind of thing. Mean muthas, if you get my drift. Best thing I could say is I’d let them back me up any day. They’re pros.”

A little probing got Dodson the following: Special Operations Air Commandos were trained to scuba dive and parachute, to support themselves off the land for periods of up to three months, and to master land navigation and map reading. That wasn’t all. They were also taught to be experts in small arms and had to qualify as sharpshooters with an M16.

Jett Gavallan wasn’t just a pilot. He’d trained as a commando. To use sophisticated weapons. To kill with his hands.