The First Billion

Byrnes delved into his jacket pocket for a translucent envelope and flipped the minidisc onto the table. "Jean-Jacques was working in cahoots with Mr. Kirov to help Mercury defraud Black Jet and the investing public. They cooked the books together and Kirov paid Jean-Jacques to falsify the due diligence Silber, Goldi, and Grimm performed on Mercury. When Mr. Gavallan presented Jean-Jacques with the evidence this past Saturday, your brother broke down and revealed what he'd done. Somehow Konstantin Kirov got word of his duplicity. Your brother wasn't going on vacation. He was getting the hell out of the country. You don't really think Jean-Jacques was killed by a thief, do you?"

Byrnes stared at Pierre Pillonel. It was hard to believe he and Jean-Jacques were twins. One was the model of continental sophistication, the other its opposite. "If you look at the disc, you'll find that Kirov transferred the money he stole from Novastar to your bank."

"To the Banque Privé?" Pillonel slid the disc back to Byrnes. "I'm sure I wouldn't know. I am not his account manager. Many of our clients hold numbered accounts. I don't have to tell you of our secrecy requirements."

Lies. Lies. Everywhere lies, rued Byrnes. Since when had dishonesty become the currency of discretion? He waited a moment, taking a deep breath. He felt depressed. Deeply and achingly depressed. Leaning across the table, he whispered, "Cut the bullshit, Pierre. You know Konstantin Kirov is a client of yours. Your brother sent him to you nine months ago to open an account and I wouldn't doubt it if the three of you went out and broke bread together and told each other how you were going to screw the world."

Pillonel shook his head and lifted a finger. His mouth even moved, but he couldn't bring himself to protest.

"You are a partner at the bank, correct?"

"Yes," said Pillonel. "Managing partner, in fact."

"And as such you are liable for the firm's debts and grievances, non?"

"It is a private bank," said Pillonel. "I am a partner. Therefore I am liable. It is the law."

"Then let me make this clear," Byrnes went on, his voice as cold and hard as a diamond. "If you don't wire every cent of the money Konstantin Kirov stole from Novastar Airlines back to the airline itself, I will make sure that you are shown to have been involved in Kirov's scheme from the very beginning. Whether you really were or not, I don't know and I don't care. But if you don't cooperate, I will do my best to link your brother's fraudulent behavior with your own and tie all three of you together into one great big daisy chain. Family being family, and twins being especially close…" Byrnes shook his head, letting the threat of a public trial, the front-page articles, the two-minute reports on the evening news finish the sentence for him. "Don't answer now. Check the disc. It's all there."

Without another word, Pillonel left the conference room. Byrnes stood and looked out at the lake, calm and glassy, promising a hundred summer idylls. He was wondering where Gavallan was, if he'd made it to New York, and if even then, he could pull off his plan. Or more precisely, if Cate would allow him to.

And after that? Byrnes asked himself. What are you going to do? Go back to work? Sit back down at your desk as if the last seven days hadn't happened? He wasn't sure. He knew he wanted to see his kids. He thought about making amends with his wife and chucked the idea posthaste. That part of his life, at least, was over. He decided Pierre Pillonel hadn't been so wrong to venture to his office while in mourning for his brother. There comes a point in life when your work and your self- your own idea of who you really are- grow so intertwined as to be inseparable. Byrnes realized he'd reached that point a long time ago. When you spend twelve hours a day, day in and day out for seven years, you pretty much become the job. And so, where to? Home, thought Byrnes. To San Francisco. To Black Jet. If Jett could succeed in saving the company, he wanted to be there at his side to help.

Five minutes later, Pillonel returned, accompanied by a dour, rail-thin man whom he introduced as Monsieur Buffet, the bank's in-house counsel. The attorney shook Byrnes's hand once, as if sealing a bargain. He had dark, depthless eyes, and as he spoke they remained drilled on Byrnes. "You realize that the bank abhors criminal behavior in every shape and form. That we do not as a matter of highest principle deal with persons of anything but the most sterling character. And that we knew nothing- I repeat, nothing- about Mr. Kirov's activities vis-à-vis Novastar Airlines."

"Yes, I realize all that," said Byrnes. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

"And should the bank agree to your request, that should in no way be construed as demonstrating either our knowledge of or our complicity in Mr. Kirov's affairs."

Again, Byrnes nodded.