The First Billion

Still on his knees, Gavallan reached out a hand and touched her cheek. "You can't hold yourself responsible for someone else's actions. Maybe you asked him to go to the police, but he made that decision himself."

"Maybe, but still…" Cate shuddered. "I never realized how bad I might feel. Even now." She reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "I see now I should have told you. I'm sorry, Jett. Forgive me?"

He nodded, filled with affection for her. Not a sexual yearning, but a stronger, deeper emotion, an encompassing happiness simply that he was there with her.

The cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped into the cabin. "We're an hour out," he said. "Weather looks fine in Geneva- a few clouds, otherwise it should be a sunny day in Switzerland. Mr. Dodson, you have any idea when you'll want us to be ready to take off again? We'd be appreciative if you could give us some idea of our destination ahead of time. We're required to file a flight plan, even if we don't stick to it."

The relationship was strictly business, mercenary all the way. Once they were airborne, Gavallan had bribed him with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. Ask no questions and he'd tell no tales.

"Be fueled up and ready to go by four. I'll give you a call later this morning to let you know where we're headed."

"That's fine. Couple hours are all we need."

The pilot left. Gavallan took off his watch and reset it for Geneva time. "An hour to go," he said. "Think this bird's got a decent shower?"

Cate pointed to the rear of the aircraft. "Give it a shot. Might as well get your money's worth."

He headed to the shower, but pulled up suddenly, hoping she might be getting out of her seat to join him. "Cate…" he started, but she was still seated, her eyes not on him but glued to the window, staring into the orange dawn.

He could only wonder what she was thinking.

38

You are happy, my friend?" asked Aslan Dashamirov.

"Relieved," Konstantin Kirov replied. "I slept better knowing there was no longer a risk of someone slipping our papers to the police. It was a difficult business. I'm glad we've solved the matter."

It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning. The two men walked arm in arm across the muddy field outside of Moscow where Dashamirov had set up one of his used-car lots. A row of crapped-out automobiles ran next to them. Fiats. Ladas. Simcas. None with less than a hundred thousand miles on them, though the odometers showed no more than a quarter of that. Scruffy pennants dangled from a line strung overhead. A ways back, tucked conveniently amongst a copse of baby pines, stood a blue and white striped tent where prices were negotiated and payments made, often in tender as suspect as the cars themselves: televisions, refrigerators, stereos, cigarettes, narcotics, women.

"I'm not so sure," said Dashamirov.

"Oh?"

"No one talked. Not one of them admitted to working with Baranov or with Skulpin. Only the innocent are so brave."

"You didn't give them the chance." Kirov hated himself for playing up to the Chechen. He was a brigand, really, an uneducated hood.

Dashamirov looked at him as if he were a wart on his finger. "I am thinking we did not find the right person."

So that was why his krysha had called the meeting, thought Kirov. He should have known the man wouldn't be so easily put off. Of course, Dashamirov was right. He was always right. This time, though, Kirov had beaten him to the punch.

He'd put his finger on the traitor, a young securities lawyer working in-house on the Mercury deal, and had taken care of the problem himself. Quickly. Neatly. Quietly. A single bullet to the man's brain delivered in the comfort of the traitor's own flat. None of this barbaric business with a hammer. Imagining the fierce blow against the skull, Kirov shivered, a spike of fear running right through him to the pit of his belly.

He stared at Dashamirov. The mustache, the crooked mouth, the eyes at once dead, yet so magnificently alive. The man was a beast. But a smart beast. He was correct in his assumptions. Only the innocent were so brave. The lawyer had spilled his guts after a few threats and a bloody nose. Had Dashamirov pressed him for details about the money missing from Novastar, it would have been Kirov getting the hammer yesterday morning.

The hammer.

He ground his teeth.

"What's important," said Kirov, "is that Mercury will go forward without any further problems. For that I have you to thank."

"I was thinking rather about Novastar," said Dashamirov, dropping his arm to his side, quickening his pace as the rain picked up. "The question of the missing funds haunts me, my friend. Where there is one rat, there may be more. Perhaps someone in your organization is stealing the money from the airline. A hundred twenty-five million dollars is too large a sum to take lightly."

"Perhaps," replied Kirov thoughtfully, "though that would be difficult. I alone have signature power over the airline's bank accounts."