The First Billion

"My father forbids you to talk," Cate explained a moment later. "To me or to anyone. Graf is in the shed. He says if you want the same punishment as him, all you have to do is keep speaking."

"Ponimayu?" Boris repeated, firing two fingers into his chest. "You understand now?"

"Loud and clear."

Boris jumped onto the porch and waved his arm for them to follow. "Inside."

The Uzi nipped at Gavallan's back and he took a step forward, bending to help Cate with her bag. "I'll get it," he said. He needed the bag every bit as much as the shank that was cutting into his waist. The bag was his decoy. A prop to buy him time.

"Thanks," she whispered, her smile a present.

Gavallan crossed the threshold and looked around. The floor was wooden, swept clean and covered with a sisal throw rug. Four battered desk chairs were scattered about the place. A trestle table took up one wall. On it was a propane-fueled heating ring, a few dishes, and a tray of cutlery. A portable Honda generator sat in a corner, along with a space heater and two jerry cans he presumed were filled with gasoline. A pile of dirty magazines littered another corner. Man's fundamental needs had been reduced to heat, food, and jerking off.

"Nice place," said Gavallan. "Tell me, is it a time-share or do you own it outright?"

"You will only stay a few days," said Boris.

"We shouldn't be staying here at all. You know your boss is in trouble. Come on, Boris, it's time to call it quits. Let's all get back into the cars and go back to Moscow. I'll buy you a drink at the Kempinski."

Gavallan waited for him to say "Shut up," to throw another punch. But this time Boris merely laughed. "You think I should quit? And do what?"

"You've got a good head for the market. Use it. With your knowledge, I bet you could find a job as a broker in no time."

"With you? With Black Jet?"

"Why not? It's better than staying with Kirov. Where do you want to start? San Francisco? New York? Let's get Mr. Byrnes and head back to town."

"New York, eh?" Boris hummed a few bars of "On Broadway." Un Brod-vey. Abruptly, his gaze darkened. "Mr. Kirov is not in trouble. You are in trouble, Mr. Jett. Go with Ivan. He show you to your room."

"Boris, listen to me-"

"Shut up, Mr. Jett."

All trace of the Russian's former good nature had vanished. Gavallan knew why: He was steeling himself for the job ahead. Putting on his armor. As Ivan led the way down the hall, Gavallan grabbed Cate's hand. "Hang in there," he said.

The first room offered a cot, a table, and a wooden bucket. The second was less accommodating. A peek inside revealed a sturdy wooden chair with broad, flat armrests and a stiff back bolted to a concrete floor. He'd seen chairs like it before, but usually they had straps for your arms and legs and came with a metal bowl and a few electrodes to clamp on your freshly shaven head. The floor was stained black and sloped toward a drain in its center.

"Jett… oh, Jesus, no." Cate's gait faltered, and Gavallan rushed to support her. "Go," he said, propelling her forward. Sensing he had a moment, he put his mouth to her ear. "Hit the floor when I tell you."

"What?" Cate asked, brow knitted.

Seeing Ivan's eyes on them, Gavallan backed off and didn't answer.

Ivan opened the door to the room at the far end of the corridor. "Come," he said, motioning them closer.

Cate ventured a look behind her and Gavallan nodded for her to go on, his eyes gifting her with the confidence he was lacking. She stepped into the room and, moving to the left, disappeared from Gavallan's sight. A last check over his shoulder showed Boris hovering near the front door, distracted, barking instructions to Tatiana and her suitors.

There were two cots placed against opposite walls with a window in between them. Cate stood to his left, arms crossed over her chest. She was nervous, her sea green eyes flicking this way and that.

"Which one is mine?" Gavallan asked, pointing at the beds. His body had gone rigid; his hands itched for action. His jaw still tingled from Boris's punch, and fighting blood stirred inside him. Ivan stood in front of him, the Uzi pushed back to his side, his forearm resting on top of it.

"Ex-cuze me, I no-" he began to answer, his fractured English bringing an ugly grin to his lips.

But by then Gavallan was already moving.