The First Billion

Since then he'd been fighting to keep his head above water. The company was still making money, just not enough. He was sized for growth, not stasis. Euphemisms like "ramping up," "burn rate," and "top-heavy" and their connotations of boom and bust weren't solely the preserve of Silicon Valley.

He could imagine the earnings review later that morning. Retail brokering was coming back nicely, but nothing like it had been. IPO activity was only just recovering. M &A was off 20 percent the last two years. Only trading was making money, landing on the right side of the latest big leg up. As each managing director reported his or her results, their eyes would creep toward Gavallan. He knew the downcast glances, the uncomfortable silences, the nervous laughter by rote, each person wondering when the ax would fall, and whose head it would be thumping into the wicker basket. God, he hated being the executioner.

"We're not running a charity," Byrnes had said during their last meeting.

Gavallan was all too aware of the fact. Three times in the last year he'd dipped into his savings to fund increases in Black Jet's capital. He'd liquidated his portfolio of stocks, sold off a large chunk of real estate in Montana he'd been planning to build on for his retirement, and cashed out of a promising hedge fund. This morning, he would take the final plunge- a second mortgage on his home. After that… An old adage about tapping a dry well came to mind.

Arriving at the Embarcadero, he was pleasantly surprised to find an empty space in front of the building. He parked hastily, telling himself that the space was an omen of good things to follow. Entering his attorney's office, Gavallan laughed at his desperation. He knew there was no such thing as good luck. Just good timing.

***

Special Agent Roy DiGenovese, on temporary assignment to the San Francisco field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, double-parked the silver Ford Taurus a safe distance shy of Gavallan. Keeping the engine running, he rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. A glance in the side-view mirror confirmed that DiGenovese was Sicilian in looks as well as name. His hair was black, his eyes the color of midnight wine, his beard pushing up stubble three hours after he'd shaved. He had the brooding, patient gaze of a hunter, and a hundred years ago he might have been found wandering the rugged landscape of southern Sicily clad in chamois pants and a sheepskin vest, a lupara slung over one shoulder, tracking the wolves that regularly ravaged his family's flock. Today, DiGenovese might still be called a hunter, but his prey was decidedly human, and his arsenal more subtle than his ancestor's twelve-gauge shotgun.

Armed with a Juris Doctor and an MBA from New York University, a CPA's credential emblazoned upon his breastplate, Roy DiGenovese was the newest member of the FBI's Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime. Prior to his studies, he'd spent time in the U.S. Army, earning his Ranger's tab and serving with the 75th Ranger Regiment at Fort Benning, Georgia. Three years into what he hoped to be a lifelong career with the FBI, he was trim and muscular, and possessed of the same killer instinct as the wild-ass teenager who used to rappel out of helicopters in the dead of night, an M16 on his back and a K-bar strapped to his calf.

Setting the cigarette in the ashtray, DiGenovese picked up a scuffed Nikon from the seat beside him and brought it to his eye. The speed-wind whirred nicely as he fired off a dozen stills of Gavallan hauling himself out of the crazy old car with the gullwing doors. Even through the shutter, the man looked tired and in need of a break. It was easy to understand why. Seven days of following Gavallan had convinced DiGenovese he'd made the right decision not to take a job on Wall Street. Twelve hours a day cooped up inside a skyscraper was no way to go through life. The guy's desk might be made of mahogany, but the chain that tied him to it was pig iron, all the same.

As soon as Gavallan disappeared inside the sleek office tower, DiGenovese exchanged the Nikon for a two-way radio. "Zebra two, this is Zebra base, come in."

"Zebra two, roger."

"Maid gone?"

"Two minutes back. On her way to pew number seven at St. Mary's as we speak."

"Good. Tell her to light a candle for us, we who are about to sin."

Gavallan's maid, a middle-aged Guatemalan illegal named Hortensia Estrada, hadn't missed morning mass a single day that week. The service lasted between fifty and sixty minutes, leaving DiGenovese's men plenty of time to do their work.

"You're good to go, Zebra two," said DiGenovese. "Time at target is thirty minutes. I repeat: three-zero minutes. Are we clear?"

"Roger, Zebra base. Three-zero minutes. Walk in the park."

***

Are you sure you want to do this?" Sten Norgren asked, clutching a sheaf of manila folders, legal envelopes, and stray papers to his chest.

"Just give me the documents, Sten. It's not that big a deal."