The First Billion

In another bedroom, in a less surveilled wing of the house, Konstantin Kirov lay awake, unable to sleep. Through a drizzly haze he was visited by a revolving medley of faces- Baranov, Volodya, Leonid, Dashamirov- each taking a turn to lambaste and curse and threaten him. Scariest of all was the father of modern Russia himself, Lenin, all too alive, rising from his dank tomb and waving an angry fist at him. "Mercury must go through!" he shouted as if addressing a band of discontented dockworkers in Petersburg. But instead of bread and peace, he was extolling the benefits of free market economics, of unfettered capitalism. "The offering is essential for the well-being of the nation. The president demands it. Your brother demands it. The future of the Rodina depends on it. On you, Konstantin Romanovich. On you."

Sitting up, he pushed back his sheets and rubbed his eyes. He didn't know why he was worrying so. He had Gavallan. He had Byrnes. The Private Eye-PO was no more. True, he had a few loose ends to tie up, but soon those would be eliminated as well. He'd tracked Jean-Jacques Pillonel and his wife to a hotel near the Zurich airport where they were spending the night awaiting a 9 A.M. departure to Mahé in the Seychelles. With a sly smile, Kirov silently advised all bettors not to wager on the Pillonels making the flight. Seats 2A and 2B would remain unoccupied, their occupants last-minute no-shows.

And then there was Baranov. Yuri Ivanovich Baranov, the prosecutor general who didn't know when enough was enough. In the morning, Kirov would have a word with him, too, and that would be another problem taken care of once and for all. Mercury would go through exactly as everyone demanded, Lenin included!

Instead of lamenting his fate, Kirov urged himself to celebrate it.

One thing still bothered him: Katya. His beloved and unloving Katya. Sadly, he recalled the sting of his hand across her cheek. I'm sorry, my love, he apologized, seeing the blood curling from her lip, her eyes wide with shock and pain and fury.

Oh, Ekaterina Konstantinovna, why can you not understand your father? Why can you not see the sacrifices that must be made to insure our people's welfare? And our family's? Is it wrong to desire a nice station in this life? To earn enough to provide a few luxuries to brighten our short days? Can you not see that I am a visionary, a leader, and, as will be evident in a few short hours, a patriot, too?

Floundering for an answer, Kirov scowled, then rose from the bed. Crossing the room, he sat down in front of a bank of small video monitors, twelve in all, discreetly hidden behind a false wall of books. His daughter's room was dark. She had covered several of the cameras, but not those embedded in the crown molding. Playing with the controls, he was able to zoom in on the bed. Faintly, he made out her sleeping form, and next to her, Gavallan. It really was a pity about their not marrying. He could have used an investment banker in the family. He had little hope of Katya- or Cate, as she called herself these days- falling for the next director of Black Jet Securities.

Turning up the volume, he heard only steady breathing.

"Sleep, Katya, sleep," he whispered, kissing a finger and touching it to the monitor.

Kirov returned to bed and soon fell into an uneasy slumber. The dream came as he knew it would, the walls closing in on him, the ceiling falling toward the bed. He could smell the damp, taste the rot of centuries. Somewhere deep inside a voice promised him he would never go free.

Lefortovo.

***

Gavallan rose from the bed and padded to the bathroom. Darkness his cloak, he found the sink, lowered himself to a knee, and set to work. The first screw came off easily, the second cost his fingertips a layer of skin. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he jostled free the capton- a slim rectangular piece of metal that controlled the vertical motion of the drain- and laid it beside him. So much for the grip. Now he needed a blade. His hands ran from the U-shaped PVC drainage pipe to the smaller bore fishnet cables that supplied the water. A long slim rod, smooth and round as a screwdriver, ran between them, a bolt attaching it on either end. Only brute strength would free it. Sliding himself farther under the sink, Gavallan fastened his hand around the rod, counted to three, and yanked it furiously downward. The rod broke off cleanly, with hardly a snap.