The First Billion

"A hundred rubles he doesn't do it," Mnuchin said, a loving hand appraising the stubble of his new crew cut.

"You're on. Konstantin Romanovich is every bit as cold as the General. If he were here, I wouldn't be surprised if he did the job himself."

"Never. No man can kill his own daughter. Frankly, I think he's sick. I would have told the General to fuck off."

"The hell you say," Orlov said with a smirk. "You would cut your dick off with a butter knife if General Kirov told you to."

Shrugging his agreement, Mnuchin picked up the binoculars. "Anything for Mother Russia." A moment later, his posture stiffened and the grin dropped from his face. "They're leaving."

"Already? Impossible. They've been there hardly thirty minutes." Orlov picked up the logbook and noted the time: 12:47. Laying the journal by his side, he drew on his seat belt, taking care that it did not interfere with the pistol he wore beneath his left arm, and checked that the mirrors were adjusted properly.

"False alarm," called out Mnuchin. "Only one vehicle."

"You get the signal?"

"Not yet."

The komitet had its own man inside Kirov's organization. He had promised to signal when the executions had been carried out: Two flashes of his high beams would mean that the American and Kirov's daughter were dead. The Suburban rushed past, its midnight-tinted windows making it difficult to get a clear look into the interior.

"Give the plates to dispatch," said Mnuchin, settling back into his seat. "If they want, they can assign a team."

Orlov called in the license plates and advised central dispatch of the events. The report would be forwarded to their superior officer, who would either contact General Kirov with the news or make a decision for himself. Either way, it meant another few hours of sitting in the car. "You think we should call up there? See what's going on?"

Mnuchin trained his binoculars on the dacha. All he could see were the broken fence and the tail end of the second Suburban. "Why? We wouldn't want to interrupt their fun."

***

The cell phone rang again.

Cate checked her watch. It was nearly four o'clock. They were driving south on the M4 motorway, nearing the Moscow city limits. For miles they would see no one, then traffic would come to a halt as they came upon a convoy of ten or twelve broken-down trucks, tailpipes spewing exhaust, tires wobbling precariously, lumbering down the center of the road. Jett would steer the Suburban onto the shoulder, negotiate the borderland of waist-deep potholes and basketball-size rocks, until once past the trucks he could reclaim his position on the pavement.

"Leave it," said Gavallan.

Cate stared at the phone as if it were a bomb. She knew her father. She knew his impatience. He was not a man who allowed "atmospherics" to stand in his way. "No," she said brusquely, surprised at the force of her reply. "I won't."

And before Jett could make a move, she picked up the phone and put it to her ear.

"Da." It was another woman's voice, rougher, more unpolished than her own. If it didn't sound exactly like Tatiana, it didn't sound like Katya Kirov either.

"Give me Boris," ordered her father.

"He is busy," Cate responded.

"Is Gavallan talking?"

"Not yet."

"Tell Boris to hurry up."

"Sure."

"And my daughter…"

"What about her?" Cate stared out the window, willing her soul to become as desolate as the passing countryside.

"Please make it as painless as possible. Surprise her if you can. It is better if she does not know it is coming. As her father, it would please me. It is the least I can do."

"You are too kind."

A long silence followed. As Jett stared daggers at her, Cate wondered if she had gone too far, if she'd tipped her hand. Then her father's voice came back, as focused and self-centered as before. "Have Boris call me as soon as he's done. I've been having a terrible time getting through. The pilot says it's the aurora borealis acting up this time of year. If there is a problem, have him try me at my hotel. He has the number."

Cate hung up.

"What did he say?" Gavallan asked.

Cate met his eyes. "He wants Boris to call him when we're dead."

***

Moscow.

Rush hour in the Center. Ten minutes inside the city limits and Gavallan decided it was every third world hellhole he'd ever known. Jakarta. Bangkok. São Paulo. Traffic was snarled. Militiamen stood impotent amid the blaring horns and packed metal, smoking cigarettes. The pollution was choking and oppressive. Inside the narrow urban canyons, the sky was bleached a puke yellow, a swirling sea of grit, garbage, and carbon monoxide. The heat was oppressive. Combined with the noxious smells, the jangling din, the stop-and-go traffic, it left Gavallan off balance and wary.

"There's the embassy," said Cate, pointing ahead of them at a large traditional yellow and cream colored building on the right-hand side of the road. "That's the main building there. But the consular offices are around the corner."

"Where do I park?"

"You don't. Just pull over."