The First Billion

He thought of the pistol, of the cylinder that held five bullets instead of six. It was an old rancher's trick. You always left the barrel that was in the firing position empty. That way there were never any accidents. To advance the cylinder, you had to pull the trigger.

He wanted the gun.

He wanted the bullet. One bullet.

Mr. Kipling knew what to do in such an instance. Mr. Kipling, every soldier's favorite.

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,

And the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Panting, he recited the quatrain aloud. Again and again. Until he had no more breath left to talk with. His stride slowed. His legs grew heavy. His chest burned.

An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

He heard the roar of a motor and looked behind him. Xenon beams swept over the grass; the murderous engine growled. He ran harder, dodging to the left, shooting quick glances over his shoulder.

"No," he said aloud, sucking in short, dry breaths. "God, no."

The lights dodged left, too.

Byrnes ran.

53

He hit me. Six years and not even a hello. Just a slap across the face."

Cate walked into the bedroom, a hand to her mouth. She looked gray, pale, her eyes drifting here and there. Gavallan was at her side in an instant. Taking hold of her hand, he pulled it from her mouth and examined the wound. A nasty cut marred her lower lip. It had stopped bleeding, but without a stitch might open again. Closing the door behind her, he ventured a quick look into the hallway. A shadow sunk back into the doorway of the next room. One of Kirov's security boys. So far he'd counted nine of them patrolling the corridors.

"Come in," he said, leading her to the bathroom "Let's get that cleaned up."

"Kind of you, Mr. Gavallan. It's not often a disloyal, disgraceful slut gets any TLC, especially at two o'clock in the morning."

He moistened a washcloth and dabbed at her lip. He had no words for her, no way to assuage her tortured feelings. Abruptly, she pushed him away and stormed into the bedroom.

"I'm leaving," she said. "Damned if he can keep me here." She spotted her travel bag and scooped it up. "After all, I'm a traitor to his blood. An unrealistic dreamer who's getting back at her father for simply protecting his own interests. He shouldn't want anything to do with me." She reached the door and turned the knob. Locked. She tried again and again, finally slamming her fist against the wood-grained panels. "Let me out," she cried. "I'm going home. My real home. My name isn't Kirov. It's Magnus. Do you hear? I'm an American now."

Gavallan laid his hands on her shoulders, turning her slowly, taking her in his arms. "Sit down. Have a glass of water. It's going to be all right."

"No, it's not. It's not going to be all right. He's going to kill us. Like he killed Luca. Like he killed Alexei. Like he kills anyone who's in his way."

"No, Cate, he's not going to kill us. He just wants to frighten us a little."

She turned, staring at the walls, knowing as well as Gavallan that the room was wired for sound, and probably for pictures, too. "You win, Daddy," she said. "I'm scared. I'm scared as hell."

Gavallan got her to the bed and gave her some water. After a few minutes she recovered her calm. Her eyes cleared and her breathing eased. "Shit, that hurts," she said, touching her lip. "The little prick."

She caught Gavallan's eye, and they laughed. After a minute he walked to the television and turned it on. He flicked through the channels looking for something loud or raucous enough to allow them to talk or at least whisper freely. He stopped at Channel 33, a smile flitting across his face. A basketball game was under way, Lakers versus the Knicks. Game three of the finals. Turning up the volume, he retook his place on the bed next to Cate. "Tell me what your father had to say."

"He's rebuilding the country and we're stopping him. Mercury's his greatest professional achievement and we're letting a few minor details sour our view of the whole enterprise. We don't see the big picture. I'm the criminal, not him. I'm the one guilty of treason. Of harming the Rodina. He's gone insane, Jett. I swear it. 'L'état, c'est moi.' He practically uttered the words himself."

"What about tomorrow? Do you know where he's taking us?"

"No. He didn't say. We didn't end the conversation on an up note. He implied I should be glad not to be in Ray Luca's shoes with all I've done. What about Graf? Oh, Jett, I'd forgotten him for a moment. How is he?"

"Alive, from what I gather. More than that your father didn't say, except that we'll be seeing Graf tomorrow."

"Thank God," said Cate. "What else did you say to him? I hope you didn't threaten him."