The First Billion

"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?"