The First Billion

Jean-Jacques Pillonel's weekend home rested at the end of a short gravel drive, a majestic chalet nestled among the vines with an unobstructed view of the lake. Twin Jags were parked in front of a detached garage. Away to one side sat a barn coupled with two smaller outbuildings. Stacks of crates leaned against one of them, faded pictures of grapes stenciled on the splintered wood. Gavallan figured it must be where he kept the press and bottled the local tipple. All in all, impressive. More the residence of a country squire than the managing director of an accounting firm.

"Jett, but what a surprise," called Pillonel as Gavallan climbed from the car. "And is that Cate I see? You two are together again? Mais tant mieux. Come in. Come in. The door is open."

The squire was easy to spot. He stood on the first-floor balcony, clad in khaki work pants and a denim shirt, the nobleman's obligatory sweater tied around his neck. One hand was raised in polite greeting, though Gavallan knew he had to have been wondering who the hell was doing something so decidedly un-Swiss as dropping by without an invitation.

Waving hello, Gavallan allowed Cate to precede him up a groomed path framed by a rose garden in full bloom. She was his calm, the antidote to the rage that had been building in him since they'd landed and that had taken firm grip of his every muscle. Left to himself, he would have run up the path, broken down the door, and wrung Pillonel's neck until he confessed his every last crime, guilty or not.

Detective Skulpin was right, he said to himself. It had to be you. You handled the on-site inspections. You sounded the all-clear. You toyed with the pictures.

"Really, I am surprised," Pillonel announced from the head of the stairs. "You are here on vacation? Why didn't you phone me in advance? You're both very naughty."

He was a handsome man, tall, slim, with a bit of the dandy about him. He had a full head of hair that was a shade too black for a fifty-five-year-old and gray eyes that sparkled a little too brightly. He liked to wear ascots when they dined out at night, Gavallan remembered, and he smoked Silk Cuts with an ivory cigarette holder.

"Unfortunately, we're here on business," said Gavallan, climbing the stairs, doing his best to return the hearty handshake. "Mercury."

"Ah. I see," said Pillonel, light as a feather. "The big deal. Cate, may I take your jacket?"

"No thank you," she answered, nearly wincing as he kissed her cheeks in greeting.

"Come along. I was just finishing breakfast." Extending an arm, Pillonel showed them to the balcony. A table littered with croissants, jams, napkins, and a pot of coffee sat near the railing. The lake lay a mile away, a shimmering blue crescent stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. Beyond it, through a mid-morning haze, rose the snowcapped peaks of the French Haute Savoie. The good life, thought Gavallan.

"Claire will return shortly," said Pillonel. "She's out with the dogs. You remember my wife?"

"Of course," said Gavallan, calling to mind a slightly built, argumentative woman with prematurely gray hair and skin the color of alabaster. He walked to the edge of the balcony and made a show of surveying the surrounding vineyards. "So this is where the Pillonel wine comes from?"

"Yes, the famed Chateau Vauxrien." Pillonel pointed out the boundaries of his estate. "We have only ten hectares. It's a modest parcel, but if the sun shines through September and we don't have too much rain, we can make some good grapes. You would like a glass? I have some open just inside. Last year's vintage. A bit young, but nice. Jett? Cate?"

"No thanks," they both said.

Gavallan turned his back on the vineyard and, crossing his arms, fixed Pillonel with a grave stare. "We've got some major problems with the Mercury deal. I spoke with Graf Byrnes on Wednesday night. He was in Moscow checking out whether the rumors we'd been reading on the Net were true."

"I told you- it's rubbish. Nothing to worry about."

"Graf doesn't agree. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the deal was bad. Unfortunately, circumstances didn't permit him to tell me how bad or what exactly was wrong. Before I cancel it, why don't you tell me what you really know about the company."

"What I really know? Why, we discussed it on the phone the other day. The Private Eye-PO's accusations are ridiculous- frankly, laughable. You can't be serious about canceling the IPO?"

"Oh, you bet I'm serious. The deal's over." Gavallan took a step closer to Pillonel, eyes wandering over every inch of his face, searching out where he kept his guilt hidden. "What do you think Graf could have found, Jean-Jacques? I mean, you promised me on Wednesday everything was hunky-dory. What could it have been? Everything's 'up and running,' right?"

A brisk shake of the head. "I don't know." Swiftly, he added, "Yes, everything is up and running. You said Graf was not able to tell you what was wrong. Why not?"