The First Billion

The two men were seated facing each other at the rear of the roomy cabin. Cate was up front with the sofas and conference tables, Tatiana her assigned guardian.

"Sorry, Mr. Jett. You are not to talk to her." Sweat coursed from his forehead and his complexion had gone sallow. "Right now, you stay in seat."

"Just give me five minutes," Gavallan persisted, undoing his safety belt, standing. "It's important. I'll be right back."

Despite his sickly mien, Boris was up in a flash, thrusting an open palm against Gavallan's chest. "You sit. Understand? You talk to Kirova when you get to Moscow. Okay?"

Gavallan knocked away the offending hand. "Yeah, I understand."

Sitting down, he refastened his seat belt. Boris waited a moment, glowering above him. The plane hit an air pocket, fell for a second, then pancaked, shoving Boris into his seat. His hands scrambled for his seat belt. His mouth was open, breath coming fast and hard.

"You should be scared, buddy," Gavallan whispered.

He knew he should be scared, too, but right now anger was kicking fear's ass in the emotional war raging inside him. Leaning his head to the right, he caught sight of Cate, seated forward in a separate grouping of sofa and lounge chairs closer to the cockpit. Even now, she looked as if she had things under control. Eyes closed, hands laid calmly on the armrests, head back, she looked as though she was taking a nap. He knew she had to be frightened to death. Why didn't she just show it like anybody else?

Suddenly, it was painful even to look at her.

He stared out the window. The wings were torquing something awful. The pilot had flown them directly into the maw of a thunderstorm. Either he was one crazy mother or he was under instructions to get his new passengers to Moscow as quickly as possible. Either way, he was reckless- the pilot's cardinal sin- and Gavallan hated him for it.

A bolt of lightning struck the aircraft, a hellishly bright flashbulb that bathed the cabin in pure, electric luminescence. Then came the thunder, a rollicking, tumultuous clap that seemed to explode inside the cabin itself. The plane rolled into a thirty-degree bank, the nose going down, down, down. Skeins of Saint Elmo's fire flitted around the bulkhead, a freakish blue and white light emanating from every piece of exposed metal. The port engine whined furiously, the turbine seeking purchase somewhere in the maelstrom of conflicting air currents. The fuselage shuddered as if God had taken the plane in his hand and was shaking it to within an inch of its life.

Gavallan looked around. Soldier Boris's eyes were closed, his chest pumping up and down, hyperventilating. Fore, Tanya had gone whiter than the dead. Her diamond blue eyes were wider than they'd ever been, the cords of her neck stretched to breaking. Her mouth was parted, and over the rattle and hum he could hear her moaning. Anytime now, he figured, she'd either break out into hysterics or throw up all over herself.

He caught Cate's eye. She was scared all right, and despite his distrust of her, his unremitting fury that she had deceived him not once but time and time again, he wanted to be next to her.

The shaking worsened. The starboard overhead luggage bin fell open. A handheld fire extinguisher tore loose from its clasps and crashed onto Boris's head. Oxygen masks dangled from the ceiling. In the galley, plates tumbled from their shelves, shattering. A chaotic choreography danced to the nerve-jangling accompaniment of Tatiana's grating scream.

Then, just as suddenly, there was calm. The plane righted itself. The nose came up and they resumed a steady climb. The engines purred. Sunlight flooded the cabin.

Unbuckling himself, Gavallan crossed to the Russian. Boris was shaken, and a gash on his forehead was seeping blood. Bastard, thought Gavallan, too bad it didn't break your neck. Finding his handkerchief, he pressed it to the cut. "Keep pressure on it."

"Spaseeba," said the Russian, removing the compress, seeing the blood and swearing. "You want to talk, you go now," he said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder toward Cate. "Maybe you don't have so much chance later. I take Tatiana to the bathroom. Clean her up. Go. I owe you favor."

Gavallan waited until Boris passed him, an arm around Tatiana's shoulder en route to the lavatory, then walked fore and took a seat facing Cate. He wanted to make light of the bumpy ride, to offer her his pilot's confident smile and say, "That was nothing," but the words caught in his throat. He'd left his store of niceties back on the tarmac, along with his willful naÏveté. One question needed to be asked.

"Did he know about us?"

Cate looked at him for a moment, not saying anything, her flashing eyes boring into him with unsettling frankness. "Who? Father?" She gave a tired laugh. "Yes, Jett, he knew."