The First Billion

When he turned back, he saw that she'd opened her purse and was handing him her pink compact. "What should I do with these?" she asked, a thumb flicking her makeup kit open. Tucked inside were the minidiscs Pillonel had given them from Silber, Goldi, and Grimm.

"Jesus, you still have those?"

Cate nodded eagerly, her eyes darting over his shoulder. "Take them. Quickly."

Gavallan recalled the painstakingly correct and intimate strip search to which he'd been subjected in Geneva. He'd assumed Cate, as a fellow prisoner, had suffered like treatment. "No. They're better with you," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "If anything happens, get them to Dodson."

"But-"

"Cate. Keep them. Use them if you get a chance." He held her eyes, signaling he had no illusions about what awaited him when they landed.

Rising, he headed aft, loitering in the cramped gangway long enough to allow her to conceal the financial records that were their only proof against Konstantin Kirov and the key to the salvation of Black Jet Securities.

49

What do you mean he's not in your booking facility?" Howell Dodson demanded, the phone to his ear. He was very angry. His cheeks had points of red in them, and he jabbed at his distant interlocutor with the arm of his bifocals. "You only got him yesterday. Would you be so kind as to tell me what goes on in the Swiss penal system between Saturday night and Sunday afternoon?"

"He was released on order from the government," responded the unnamed party who had fielded Dodson's call. "I am sorry."

"Released? To whom? When? I'm the government who wants him. Do you mean to tell me some other country has issued a warrant for Gavallan's arrest?"

"Non, non. You misunderstand," the polite French-accented voice chirped. "Our government ordered his release. The Swiss government, Monsieur Dodson."

Dodson chewed on his eyeglasses, fighting a rearguard action against fury, guilt, and incredulity. Gavallan was gone? It couldn't be. Lord help him, it just couldn't be. He looked toward the matching strollers parked in a corner of his office. The boys were having their morning nap, bless their souls, while their mother attended a Baptist service in Georgetown. Outside, a cloudy sky promised rain. At nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, the streets of the nation's capital were asleep.

"Who signed for his release?" Dodson asked, in a calmer voice to avoid disturbing his two dozing generals.

"Un instant, je vous en prie. One moment."

Waiting, Dodson walked across the room and gazed down at Jefferson and Davis bundled up in their powder blue blankets. It was hard not to lean over and give each a kiss on the cheek. Gone barely two days and he had missed them like the dickens.

Learning that Gavallan had been detained and incarcerated by the Swiss gendarmes, Dodson had returned to Washington the night before. It had turned out Gavallan was their man after all. He owned a gun similar to that used in the Cornerstone shooting. The gun was missing- ergo, he had taken it with him. He'd received training as an elite commando. And of course, he had every reason to want Luca dead. Though as yet circumstantial, the evidence was overwhelming.

In Geneva, the slippery voice returned to the phone. "A lawyer named Merlotti signed for Mr. Gavallan."

"And he's with the government?" Dodson asked.

"Non, non. You misunderstand. He's a private citizen, of course. A prominent attorney, actually."

"But you said Mr. Gavallan was released to the government."

"Non, non. You misunderstand," the man said again in his singsong voice. "I say that the government permitted Mr. Gavallan to be released to Mr. Merlotti."

"And for whom does Mr. Merlotti work?"

"That I do not know."

Of course not, Dodson grumbled inwardly. No doubt it would constitute a violation of your canons of secrecy, confidentiality, and inbred chicanery. "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't get your name yet?"

"LeClerc. Georges LeClerc."

"Well, Mr. LeClerc," Dodson said, "if I cannot speak with Mr. Gavallan, would you be so kind as to connect me with your own Detective Sergeant Panetti?"

"That is not possible. Sergeant Panetti is on holiday."

"Will he be back tomorrow?"

"Non, non. You misunderstand. He is on summer holiday. He will return in three weeks."

If Howell Dodson "misunderstood" one more time, he vowed to himself, he was going to catch the next plane to Geneva and beat LeClerc over the head with the phone until he understood that the FBI meant business. Then the words sunk in.

"Three weeks!" Dodson shouted, losing his cool, then checking his voice and darting a glance at the twins. Jefferson stirred and began to cry. "You've got to be-"

The light went on in his head, and he stopped arguing. It was a put-up job. LeClerc was running interference for some very powerful, very nasty shit who'd pulled some strings high up in the Swiss government to have Jett Gavallan released. Some VVIP who did not want anyone knowing his identity.