The First Billion

"Not long at all. Then why the trip to Severnaya? It's awfully far to travel if there's no oil there."

"An exercise in prevention, younger brother. While we may wish for higher prices, others abhor the idea. One in particular has taken to the notion of self-sufficiency. Unfortunately, they have the resources. It would be devastating to our country should they exploit them. We must see to it they do not consider the option." Leonid finished chewing a bite of sausage, then asked offhandedly, "Speaking of America, you do have Mr. Gavallan here, don't you?"

Kirov felt himself jolt, his stomach rebel.

"Don't look so surprised," Leonid continued. "Just because the komitet's stinking bankrupt doesn't mean we don't do our job. Is he here or out at the field observation post with the other one? Excuse me, I mean your 'dacha.' "

"Mr. Gavallan is here. He'll be joining his colleague at the dacha."

"And Katya?"

"As well."

Leonid set down his cutlery, pulling the napkin from his neck and wiping his mouth clean with one stroke. His plate was spotless. "They are dangerous. Either of them can compromise the operation."

Kirov wanted to disagree. Never would he allow Cate or Gavallan to interfere with Mercury. Then, he realized Leonid wasn't talking only about Mercury. He was talking about Severnaya, the preemptive exercise he had cooking on the cusp of the Arctic Circle. Somehow the two had become hopelessly intertwined.

"Gavallan, of course," he added, a bit uncertainly. "I had no intention of continuing our working relationship. But Katya… Naturally, she'll remain in Moscow under my supervision."

"Cut the crap, Konstantin. You know what has to be done." He leaned across the table, his square gray head looming foremost in Kirov's vision. "No one can compromise the komitet, younger brother. Our name may have changed, but our principles haven't. I'm sorry, but that's that. After all, this is the second time the little missy has tried to put you away. You should be happy to have an excuse to be rid of her."

"Come now, Leonid, let's be realistic. Gavallan is one thing, but family… Katya is my only daughter. She's strong-willed, of course, but nothing more-"

"No buts, younger brother. Remember where you live. The only family you have is the state." Leonid stood, buttoning his jacket. "So I can tell him you'll take care of matters? Clean things up? We don't like to leave a mess. That hasn't changed either."

Kirov swallowed hard, the taste of his bile acidic, repellent. He felt tricked, massively deceived. A victim. "Yes. Tell the president to have no worries."

"He'll be most grateful. Good luck, and remember, you are representing the country. The president will be watching on television. Oh, I almost forgot." Leonid reached into his jacket and handed his brother a small blue velvet box.

Opening it, Kirov saw a colonel's polished golden oak leaves. "What's this?"

"Message from the president. You work for us now."

***

She heard it all. Not every word, but snippets here and there. Enough to piece the conversation together. Enough to grow as frightened as she'd ever been in her life.

"He's going to kill us," she repeated silently, as if repetition would make the certainty less ghastly. In her panic, she reverted to her journalist's guise. There's a word for it, she told herself. When a father kills his child… there's a word for it. But her distress was such that she couldn't remember what it was. Plain old "murder" fit the bill, and that was bad enough.

Kneeling inside the den, Cate kept her head tilted toward the heating vents. She had come downstairs ten minutes earlier, Boris her escort. Her father wished to speak with her, she'd been informed. Alone. But as Boris locked her in, she caught the back of her uncle Leonid charging into the living room. He was unmistakable. The blue suit. The stiff shoulders. The iron gray hair.

Her father and uncle had been estranged during her childhood. Curious as to what common bond had brought them together, she'd pressed her ear to the grate. Listening, she had forced herself not to cry out at the tales of barbarity bandied about by the two men.

The doors to the den opened.

"He is ready to see you," said Boris, motioning to follow him across the foyer.

"Of course."

It was moving day in Sparrow Hills. At nine o'clock, the clubhouse was a picture of commotion. The twin front doors stood open wide, the muscular growl of a supercharged V-8 flooding the entry. The snout of a black SUV pulled into view. Car doors opened and slammed. Boots slapped the pavement. A steady stream of her father's bullies entered and exited the house, at least half sporting Uzis slung over their shoulders. Luggage was brought downstairs. Another Suburban arrived.

At last, her father emerged from the living room.

"Good morning, then," he said, with an affable smile. "I apologize for my behavior last night. I was distraught. I hope at least that you slept well."

It was an act. A murderous masquerade. "Fine. And you? Sleep of the innocent?"