The First Billion

"The job's for a trader on our Swiss franc book," Gavallan had said. "Pays fifty thousand a year plus a fifteen percent bonus if you don't lose us too much money. If you have to miss work, get someone to cover for you. If you can't find someone to cover for you, call me. Understood?"

Llewellyn-Davies had nodded, his jaw clenched, eyes welling. "Monday is it, then?" he'd asked, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

"You kidding?" Gavallan had exclaimed, standing and walking to the door. "You're starting now. Take off that necktie and come with me."

Gavallan looked at Llewellyn-Davies now, wondering if maybe he was remembering the same moment. Seven years later, Tony wasn't simply alive but a vital component of Black Jet Securities and one of Gavallan's most trusted lieutenants. For a few more seconds, neither man spoke, and the silence that invaded the room was soft and comforting.

"Jett, do you think it might be true?" Llewellyn-Davies asked finally, in his mildest brogue. "You think Kirov's having us on, then?"

"Is it true?" For once, Gavallan didn't have an answer. Shrugging, he was unable even to mouth the requisite denials. The answers, he knew, lay elsewhere. In the past. In his judgment. In his greed.

And instead of looking at the delicate features of Antony Llewellyn-Davies, he was meeting the brooding, religious gaze of Konstantin Romanovich Kirov the night they had first met six months before.

8

You are Mr. Gavallan, I think."

"Mr. Kirov. It's an honor."

The two were standing in a plush reception hall on the campus of Stanford University. Kirov had been invited to deliver the annual Grousbeck lecture on foreign affairs. As his subject, he had chosen the current state of the Russian legal system, and his performance had been impressive, an impassioned sixty-minute discourse hitting all the buzzwords a liberal California audience was dying to hear. The need for an independent judiciary, ratification of the nation's highest judges by a legislative authority, freedom of the press, the right to free speech. It was the Federalist Papers dressed up in an Italian blazer, Cartier links, and Lobb shoes, and topped off with an irresistibly cosmopolitan Russian accent. Kirov was still glowing from the standing ovation he'd received.

"Such a joy to speak to an American audience," he said, patting his brow with a folded handkerchief. "If only my countrymen understood the importance of democratic institutions as well as yours. I must always remind myself that you have two hundred years' experience to put your ideas into practice. Russia has a thousand years of an altogether different experience: oppression, tyranny, poverty. In short, the boot." He balled his hands into fists and stamped his foot dramatically on the wooden floor, but his optimistic grin promised Gavallan and the circle of devotees around him that if Konstantin Kirov had anything to say about it, "the boot" would soon be a thing of the past.

"Shall we find someplace private to speak?" Kirov asked Gavallan, and grasping him amicably by the arm, led him from the crowded reception room into a quiet hallway outside. "There, that is better. Now we can talk. Man to man."

Kirov was a slim, compact man with narrow shoulders and an economical step. Leaving the reception area, Gavallan remarked upon the strict posture and bowed head, the carriage of the arms tucked close to his body, and rushed ahead to open the door, as if ushering a clergyman or someone whose life conveyed a sanctity of purpose greater than the never-ending quest for the almighty dollar. This higher calling was also visible in Kirov's face. It was grave and focused, the skin so pale as to be translucent, the eyes dark, deep-set, and menacing as a witches' hollow. His hair was a raven's black. Cropped close to the skull, it accentuated the sharp cheekbones and drawn jowls. But there was fun in him, too. His mouth was puckish, as if ready to smile given the slightest reason. His eyes could surprise you with their playfulness. And he had a fine, boisterous laugh, louder than one would expect from such a small man. Mostly, though, what Gavallan sensed about the man was a monastic self-control, a zealot's singularity of purpose.

"I've heard much about you, Mr. Gavallan," Kirov went on. "Believe me when I say the honor is all mine. Thank you for making the trip to see me. Since you have come, I take it you are familiar with my company, Mercury Broadband?"

"Naturally," said Gavallan, aware he was being patronized. He sure as hell hadn't driven to Palo Alto to brush up on the principles of American democracy. "You've built an exciting platform for the industry. We're all very impressed."

The mandate to take Mercury public was the hottest ticket on the street. All the big boys wanted in. Credit Suisse, Morgan, Goldman. Gavallan considered it a miracle in itself he'd been able to secure an hour of face time with the Russian tycoon.