The First Billion

This is the Jett Gavallan I don't know, she mused. The Air Force Academy grad who never whispers a word about his time in uniform. The jet jock who clams up at the first mention of the war he fought. He's going back, she realized. He's suiting up for battle.

"Klicks being what?" she asked. "Kilometers?"

He nodded without looking at her.

"Just don't let me miss the turnoff," she said, though she knew the way to Aubonne as well as to her own home.

"I won't."

Jean-Jacques Pillonel did not live in Aubonne, but in Lussy-sur-Morges, a quaint village situated high on the vine-covered slopes of Lac Leman (she would never call it Lake Geneva) about halfway to Lausanne. She knew the spot only because one of her art teachers had lived there, a man named Luc Caprez with whom at the age of eighteen she'd had her first affair. Luc and his briar pipe, who spoke of the courage to live a dangerous life, dangerous meaning to brave the landscape of your ideals, to pursue your dreams no matter where they led. Luc, who lectured her even while making love.

She kept her foot firmly on the gas, taking the car to 160 kilometers per hour as she passed the exits for Nyon, Gland, and finally, Rolle, where she'd gone to school for four years at Le Rosey. She glimpsed the campus to her left. The schoolhouses were done up as old villas and sat on a plateau cut into the hill. She took in the steep mansard roofs, the limestone façades, and the window boxes heavy with purple and red geraniums.

But it wasn't the sights so much as the smells that lent her a melancholy feeling and sent a current of doubt rustling across her belly. It was the smell of sun-warmed soil carried by an easy lake breeze; of Saturday afternoons trawling the back alleys of Geneva; of Sunday mornings saddling horses at the stable.

It was, she realized, the long-absent smell of her youth.

Cate caught sight of her eyes in the mirror and was frightened at their intensity. When had she adopted the mantle of crusader? she wondered. Had she finally embarked upon the "dangerous life" she'd promised herself she would one day lead? Or was she just tagging along with Jett for the ride?

Until now, she'd been content to fight through others. At the K Bank, she'd transferred her dissatisfaction to Alexei and let him do the dirty work. As a reporter, she hid behind the banner of the paper, relying on its influence and reputation to forward her watered-down causes. In her bid to derail Mercury, she'd recruited Ray Luca to fire her broadsides. As always, she preferred to remain one step removed, a gray eminence sheathed in fear.

But overnight things had changed. The battle had landed on her doorstep with a thud, a personal invitation stained with the blood of innocents. RSVP Konstantin Kirov, Moscow. There was no more escaping, no more hiding behind another.

This was the dangerous life.

Yet it was not guilt that had led to her decision. It was you, she said to Gavallan's silent profile, seeing in his strained, concentrated features the determination that had brought him so much success, the confidence that had led him to the brink of disaster, and the generosity of spirit that had captured her heart. I came because of you. Because I can't let you go on with all you don't know. Because your foolish confidence isn't enough to save you. Because I love you and you're all I have left.

As she settled into her seat, Cate's eyes once more found the sparkling asphalt. Grimly, she saw the days ahead playing out. All paths led in the same direction, ended at the same destination. What would happen when he found out? How could she explain? Above all, Jett was an honest man. He detested liars. She was sure she detected a new coolness between them since she'd brought up Alexei. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. How could he ever love a woman whose entire life was a lie? Sooner or later, he would discover the truth. And she would never have a chance to win him back.

"There it is," said Jett. "Aubonne. A thousand meters."

Cate signaled and guided the Mercedes off the highway. "Which way now?" she asked, sliding into the left lane.

"A left under the bridge, then bear to your left again."

I know, she wanted to say. I used to live here.

She was struck by a desire to touch him. She reached out a hand, only to pull it right back. Let him go, she told herself silently. He looked at her and she tried to smile. "I'm glad I'm here," she said.

For a moment, Jett's eyes softened, and a question danced beneath his lips. As quickly, it was gone.

"Turn here," he said, spotting a sign with the name of Pillonel's village. "Morges is at the top of this road. Pillonel's house is at 14 Rue de Crecy."

"Roo-duh-Cray-cee," she repeated, correcting him, her schoolgirl's accent still perfect.

Gavallan eyed her remotely. "You never told me you spoke French."

Cate shook her head, laughing sadly. What the hell? Sooner or later, he was going to find out everything anyway.

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