The First Billion

"Now, now, Jett. You don't expect me to show you all my cards, do you? Suffice it to say it's someone who can run the show perfectly well in your absence. Besides, you shouldn't be too angry if your friends decide not to follow your orders."

Seething, Gavallan circled the grouping of furniture. Who did Kirov have his hooks into? Bruce? Tony? Meg? Had the words not come from Kirov's mouth, Gavallan never would have thought it possible. Despite his fury, his heart beat slowly. His hands were cool and dry. His vision had sharpened. It had been eleven years since he'd felt this way. It was his calm in the face of a coming storm. "Battle-bright," they called it.

"And just what do you think is going to happen down the road?" he asked. "Mercury won't last two weeks once it goes public. You'll have analysts crawling over your operations like flies on shit. They're a tough group- nosy, ambitious, eager to make their reputation at your expense. They'll suss out the company's problems in no time."

"I'm not worried. With proceeds from the offering, we'll quickly shore up any remaining operational deficiencies."

"The money Mercury receives from the offering is slated for acquisitions that will insure you meet your forecast growth rate. That's cash to move forward, not to come up to speed. Miss one quarter's estimates and the stock will fall into the cellar. Miss two and it's all over. The price will dip below a dollar and you'll be delisted from the Exchange."

"I can assure you we have no intention of missing our estimates," said Kirov. "As per your own instructions, we have a few surprises in the pipeline. 'Unexpected' good news that will increase our earnings and allow us to beat our own optimistic expectations. What did you call it, Jett? 'Sandbagging'?"

"Sandbagging" was a common enough practice, a simple trick designed to goose the price of new issues six months out. The idea was to keep a little good news in your back pocket: a juicy contract about to be signed, word of another cable route about to be granted, a new and unforeseen use for a company's proprietary technology- anything that would augment your revenue stream and boost your earnings. Six months down the road, when the time came to issue your first earnings report, you peeled away the blinds and announced that "due to the dramatic customer response" to your new software or router or "fill-in-the-blank," your earnings had beat forecasted estimates by a nickel. The stock jumped 10 percent and everyone was smiling. Bankers. Customers. The investing public.

"Sandbagging's one thing," retorted Gavallan. "Lying about your customers and your revenues is another. What are you going to say about your problems with Novastar? Having the prosecutor general riding your tail doesn't quite fit with your investment scenario. It's my experience that investors prefer to see CEOs of newly listed companies in the boardroom, not in jail."

Kirov laughed softly, but his irritation was beginning to show. He was blinking incessantly, his fingers appraising the knot of his tie. "I agree that jail isn't part of our 'investment scenario.' If you're talking about Mr. Luca's article, I read it, too. 'Mercury in Mayhem,' I believe it was titled. A shame no one else will have the pleasure. Boris is very thorough. He promises me he erased the story from Mr. Luca's computer and that he confiscated every copy in the apartment."

"Wrong again," said Gavallan. "Even Boris couldn't stop Luca from E-mailing the article to his friends before he was killed. It's a matter of time until it turns up on the Net."

"So what?" spat Kirov. "One more rumor floated by a dead lunatic. One more piece of jetsam drifting over the ether. The public will pay it no mind. As for Yuri Baranov, I don't think he's going to be holding office much longer. I have it from a reliable source that the president is dissatisfied with his performance. Let me be the first to proclaim the investigation into Novastar Airlines closed."

Gavallan stared into Kirov's eyes, catching a glint of real malice. He wasn't sure what Kirov was hinting at- Baranov's impending firing or his murder. He knew only that he was dealing with a killer, a man utterly without morals for whom murder was a legitimate business tool.

"I think there's been a little misunderstanding between us," he said, walking up to the oligarch, standing close to him to emphasize the difference in their heights, in the beams of their shoulders. "I'm the guy's got you by the short and curlies, not the other way around."

"Is that right?" Kirov kept his eyes locked on Gavallan's, neither man giving an inch.