The First Billion (12 page)

14

Look, Mr. Gavallan, it’s simply too early to start looking for your friend,” said Everett Hudson, a consular officer with the United States Embassy in Moscow. “Twenty-four hours? I don’t think they consider a man missing in Russia for a
week
. Until then they just think he’s drunk.”

Hudson had a squeaky, somewhat unsure voice. A Yalie on his first assignment with the foreign service, guessed Gavallan. Or a baby spy still wet behind the ears. “Mr. Byrnes is not a Russian,” he said gravely.

“Of course he isn’t,” agreed Hudson. “Look, I’ll forward the description you gave me to the police, and I’ll be more than happy to phone the larger hotels. But I remind you, Moscow is a large city. It covers nine hundred square kilometers and has over ten million inhabitants all included. There’s a lot of places to hide.”

“Mr. Byrnes isn’t hiding. He came to Moscow on extremely urgent business. He is a reliable man. He was due to call me this morning. As he hasn’t, I have to assume something . . .” Gavallan hesitated, searching for the right word. “Well, that something
bad
has happened to him. He’s a former Air Force officer. He’s . . .” Gavallan didn’t bother finishing. He had already offered a nutshell explanation of Byrnes’s reason for visiting Moscow; it would serve no purpose to offer any further testimonial to his character. “Something’s just wrong, okay?”

“Can I be honest with you, Mr. Gavallan?”

“Please.” Gavallan took a sip of Coke and set down the can. The clouds had moved on, leaving the sky a pale-washed blue. Whitecaps and a considerable chop attested to a steady offshore breeze. Feeling tired, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off, he kneaded the top of his knuckles while ordering himself not to explode.

“Moscow is kind of a strange city. I’ve been here four years, and you wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve seen. What I mean to say is that sometimes people go a little crazy when they get here.”

“Crazy?”

“Well, not crazy, but they tend to let go. Especially men. You see, it’s kind of a free city these days. After so long under the thumb, the Muscovites have gone a little wild. Let their hair down, if you know what I mean.”

“What is your point, Mr. Hudson?”

“Your friend Mr. Byrnes is forty-four years old, correct?”

We’ve gone over that.

“Yes.”

“And you mentioned he was divorced?”

We’ve gone over that, too.

“Yes.”

“Without wanting to sound rude, there’s a lot of trouble a forty-four-year-old man can get into over here. If I called the police right this minute and said I was looking for a man like Byrnes, a well-to-do American, first time to Moscow, staying at the Baltschug, missing twenty-four hours, they’d laugh at me. They think every American is in town for one reason and one reason only: to shack up with their women. And they’re not half wrong. Why, last week I had a call from the head of human resources for a major accounting firm in New York. She wanted to know if I might be able to explain why so many of her younger managers refused transfers out of Moscow. What was so special about the town that made them so reticent to leave? She said if she knew maybe she could make people stay in their Cleveland office longer.”

“If you’re trying to insinuate that Mr. Byrnes is off on some drunken jag through Moscow’s fleshpots, you’re mistaken.”

“I’m suggesting no such thing,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m just saying relax. Wait a little longer. Honest, Mr. Gavallan. It is too soon to be worried.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Hudson. I’ve known my friend for a long time and I know when to worry.”

“Really?” Hudson’s voice grew contemplative. “It’s my experience that you never really know anybody. I mean not really. At least not in Moscow. Here anything’s possible.” Hudson’s voice lost its dreamy cast and Gavallan could almost picture him perking up at his desk, sitting straighter, putting on the consular officer’s permanent-press smile. “I’ll look for your friend—you have my word. Just don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

“Thank you, Mr. Hudson. You have my number.”

After he hung up the phone, Gavallan spent a moment wondering if what Hudson said was true—about never really knowing anybody. Naw. It was bullshit. If there was one person he did know, it was Grafton Byrnes. Something had to be very wrong for him not to have called by now. Robbery, kidnap, murder. One by one he turned over the possibilities. There was one, however, he had not yet named. It lurked hidden in shadow in the corner of his mind, but he refused to grace it with serious thought.

“Jett,” came Emerald’s efficient voice on the speakerphone. “I’ve got Moscow on the line. Mr. Kirov.”

It was Gavallan’s turn to sit up straighter. Taking a last sip of Coke, he threw the empty can in the trash bin on top of three others—Mountain Dew, A&W Root Beer, and Big Red—then slid back his chair and stood. “I’ll take it, thank you.” He snapped the receiver to his ear. “Konstantin, you’re up late.”

“I suppose you know all about this. It’s a disgrace, really. Why didn’t you call with the news?”

Kirov spoke slowly, his voice so quiet as to be a whisper, and immediately Gavallan sensed the control, the ironfisted discipline, that governed his emotions. Danger, he told himself. But for another moment, he didn’t respond. He was unsure whether Kirov was referring to Grafton Byrnes’s unannounced visit to Moscow or to the Private Eye-PO’s latest broadside.

“I was interested in getting your opinion,” Gavallan said noncommittally. “Besides, I thought it could wait until tomorrow morning your time.”

“My opinion? What do you think my opinion is? I’m incensed. I am as angry as I have ever been in my life. He really is too much. He’s gone too far this time. What I want to know is if anybody out there is stupid enough to believe him.”

The Private Eye-PO. Kirov had read the lastest posting on the web.

Gavallan let go his breath, fighting his disappointment. He’d been sure Kirov had called to say that Byrnes had contacted him about his visit to Mercury’s Moscow NOC. “Unfortunately, a good many do. Fidelity cut their order this morning. Not a good sign.”

“And you? Do you believe it?”

“No, I don’t. But I’d like you to tell me I’m right.”

“Of course you’re right.”

“And you’ve purchased exclusively Cisco routing equipment for your Russian IP backbone?”

“I don’t know if we’ve purchased Cisco exclusively. We buy from Alcatel, Sun, and a dozen others. But we do buy from Cisco, and I can prove it. I’m calling to say that I’ve asked my chief technical officer in our Geneva office to fax you copies of our purchase receipts from Cisco for the past two years.”

“The receipts? Yes, that would be wonderful. Very helpful. Thank you, Konstantin.” He swallowed. “Still, if anything is amiss with your platform in Moscow—
anything
—we can shelve the offering and wait a few months. Demand for Mercury is strong enough that we’ll be able to reschedule the issue.” The words came hard, tumbling out of his mouth like stones.

“Shelve the offering? Out of the question. We have concrete plans for the money, or have you forgotten what is contained in our prospectus? Shelve the offering? Why ever would you even suggest such a thing? You believe him, is that it? You believe what the Private Eye-PO has said?”

“No, Konstantin, I don’t. I want the deal to go through as badly as you. But as a licensed securities dealer, it’s my duty to make sure everybody’s talking from the same page, that’s all.”

“And we’re paying you very generously for that duty. Moscow is up and running. Everything is a hundred percent operational. Have you got the fax yet?”

Just then, Emerald hustled into the room and laid a sheaf of papers on Gavallan’s desk.

“I’m looking at it now for the first time. Give me a minute.”

Gavallan’s eye passed from one page to the next. The receipts detailed the purchase of over a million dollars worth of various routers and switches. The client was Mercury Broadband Geneva. The manufacturer, Cisco Systems.

All at once, a smile broke out on his face, and he had to work very hard not to burst out laughing. The Private Eye-PO was wrong. He was dead wrong. Someone had fed him a load of malarkey.

“They look good,” said Gavallan, as the weight lifted from his shoulders. He read the documents a second time, still not quite believing them. Only one thing bothered him. It was a small detail, but he had spotted it nonetheless. The receipts were dated February 12 of the current year, yet the summary posted by the Private Eye-PO showed sales for the past three years. He dismissed the discrepancy, if it was one. Before his eyes, he had receipts that clearly confirmed Kirov’s statement that the Moscow NOC was “up and running.”

“They’ll make everyone feel a lot better,” he said. “I’ll post these as a response to the Private Eye-PO on our web page by the end of business today.”

“I hope so,” said Kirov. “And what about the Private Eye-PO? What do you plan on doing to him? Surely you do not expect us to sit still while our good name is besmirched.”

“I have some people on it already. With any luck, we’ll have him located by tomorrow, day after at the latest.”

“And then? All of us have our part to play to insure Mercury’s future. We expect you to take any and all measures to silence this man. Nothing can stand in the way of Mercury Broadband’s going public. Nothing.”

“And nothing will,” said Gavallan. “I’ll see to it the Private Eye-PO’s mouth is shut—
permanently,
if I have my way. In the meantime, these receipts refute his accusations nicely. I’d say we’re back on track.”

“Good,” said Kirov. “It’s time to put an end to this tomfoolery. There’s already been enough snooping.”

The line went dead. Hanging up, Gavallan failed to experience the sense of victory, the burst of joy, that Kirov’s call and the Cisco receipts should have brought. Instead, a bitter, unsavory taste lingered in his mouth, and he was left with a question.

Exactly what snooping had Kirov been talking about?

Roy DiGenovese stood at the window of a vacant office suite on the forty-first floor of the Peabody Building, peering directly into Jett Gavallan’s office seventy feet away. The banker was walking back and forth, one hand to his neck. It was clear he was either very pissed off or very worried about something. “Are you getting a good read now?”

“Yeah, wind’s died down so I’m right on target. Hold on.” Mills Breitenbach, a tech specialist from the San Fran field office, put a hand to his ear while fiddling with some knobs on a metal device camouflaged to look like a Sony minidisc player. At his feet rested a twelve-inch satellite dish, its cone pointed in Gavallan’s direction.

“Hurry up, damn it,” said DiGenovese. “Don’t want to miss what he’s saying.”

“Give me a sec. I’ve got to up the amperage on the beam. Here it comes. Showtime! You’re on
Candid Camera
.”

Breitenbach punched a button, and Jett Gavallan’s voice filled the office. “No, Konstantin, I don’t. I want the deal to go through as badly as you. But as a licensed securities dealer, it’s my duty to make sure everybody’s talking from the same page, that’s all.”

There was silence as the party on the other end of the phone spoke. DiGenovese noted the exact time. “We’ll pick up the other end of this when we get the transcripts from the tap tomorrow,” he said to Breitenbach.

Again, Gavallan’s voice filled the room, sounding eerily close. “I have some people on it already. With any luck, we’ll have him located by tomorrow, day after at the latest.”

Breitenbach raised the silver casing to his lips and gave it a kiss. “You are the best, baby!”

The device that allowed the men to listen to a conversation being held seventy feet away through two plates of glass each an inch thick was called a unidirectional lasersat. Shooting a sensitive laser at the window of Gavallan’s office, the lasersat read the infinitely subtle vibrations in the glass caused by human speech, then matched the vibrations against a sonic database, or “dictionary,” and translated them into distinct words. Measuring the tonal frequency of each syllable, the lasersat was able, to a degree, to re-create the speaker’s voice.

“I’ll see to it the Private Eye-PO’s mouth is shut—
permanently,
if I have my way,” came Gavallan’s voice, tinny and emotionless, but recognizable. “In the meantime, these receipts refute his accusations nicely. I’d say we’re back on track.”

“You getting a load of this?” asked DiGenovese. “These guys are cozier than a pearl and an oyster. Fuckin’ Clemenza and Vito Corleone.”

Breitenbach smiled and patted the lasersat, a father proud of his baby. “You got what you need?”

“Oh, yeah,” said DiGenovese, dark eyes blazing. “More than that. A lot more.”

15

He came to.

The world was as he had left it, a dark, rank confessional, choked with the smoke of a hundred foul Russian cigarettes. He didn’t know how long he’d been out—if after the pain had become too much he’d slept, or if it was just a period of nonexistence, where everything inside you kept ticking but your brain shut itself off. His legs burned. The rope that tied him to the chair cut into his calves, restricting circulation. He had that tingly feeling in his toes you get when your feet fall asleep, but they’d been tingling like that all night, and now the tingling had sharpened, so that even though he hadn’t stood for hours, his feet screamed as if he were walking across a field of broken glass. His arms were where he’d left them, too, stretched taut in front of him, hands laid flat on a coarse plank, wrists secured by means of leather lanyards strung through the wood. His face throbbed. The right eye had swollen closed. He tried to open his eyelid, but nothing happened. Engine one, shut down and unresponsive.

Boris had left the left eye alone.

Boris from Metelitsa.

Boris, his unblinking Torquemada.

He was seated across the table, his posture rigid, his pale, soulless gaze alert, appraising, mocking, and finally condemning. The gaze never changed. It was the one constant in his swirling, unending nightmare, the hard blue eyes never leaving him even when the pain had become too much and his vision had gone blurry, and the scream had exploded inside him, and mercifully, oh God, yes, mercifully, he’d left the waking world.

Seeing him stir, Boris sat forward. He looked at him sadly and shook his head, as if saying, “One more hard case.”

“You call now?”

The voice was as dead as the eyes. It was not a request, nor a plea, nor a command. Slowly he unrolled the chamois leather case containing his tools.

Pliers.

X-Acto knife.

A vial of rubbing alcohol.

A roll of gauze.

A lamp hung above the table, the bulb weak, stuttering. A relentless, pulsating backbeat seeped through the walls, causing the lamp to sway as if they were at sea rocking on an easy swell. Somewhere above him, people were dancing. He thought of his children, children no longer, then pushed their faces from his mind. They did not belong here. He would not tarnish them with this filthy place.

The cone of light swung right, and he looked at the hand splayed on the coarse plank. It was hard not to think of it as another man’s hand. The thumb, raw, exposed, slick with blood, and lying next to it the thumbnail, extracted with a backstairs surgeon’s precision, broken into two rough-hewn pieces.

At some point, he’d taken a clinical approach to things. An objective view. The pain was his, no mistaking that: the shaft of fire bolting up his arm, the paralyzing scream starting far down in his belly, the cry desperate to escape, discovering the mouth stuffed with a rubber ball and secured with a length of duct tape. Yes, the pain was all his. But as the pliers dug deeper beneath the nail, as the X-Acto knife sliced away layer upon layer of stubborn connecting tissue, as Boris pulled and yanked and twisted, his apathetic, unshakable gaze never wavering, he’d given up the hand.

The beat from above grew louder. The walls quivered with the thud of the bass and he could make out patches of the music. “West End Boys.” Boris half sang a few words.
Vest-ent boyz.
He stopped and stared hard.

“You call?”

Grafton Byrnes listened to the music a moment longer, savoring it, knowing it to be the last taste of a sane universe. In the dark hours of his captivity, he had fashioned a plan, but it required patience. And patience meant more pain.

Eyes burning with defiance, he shook his head.

Boris reached for the pliers.