The First Billion

"You?" It was odd, not to say completely out of the ordinary, for a senior partner of an internationally prominent accounting firm to hole up in a client's offices and physically inventory its assets. That was a job reserved for "newbies."

"With my associates, of course," Pillonel added quickly. "We have a new office in Moscow, so it was a side trip. Like I say, a favor."

"And you saw all their operations, including the network operations center?"

Suddenly the Swiss adopted a belligerent tone. "Hey, Jett, we put our signature on the offering memorandum. Last time I checked, our name still meant something- or do you pay just anybody two hundred fifty thousand dollars for their help?" The voice regained its diplomatic flavor. "You are worried for nothing. How can Mercury earn so much money without having the equipment to do so? You can't harvest wheat without a thresher- know what I mean? Mercury is doing a hell of a good job, I tell you. Look at their metrics: over four million hits a day. You know I have an order with you to buy a lot of shares."

"And we'll see you get filled," said Gavallan. "Thank you, Jean-Jacques. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, tout le monde."

For a moment, there was only silence. The sound of pens tapping the table. Legs crossing. Meg Kratzer lit a cigarette and took pains to direct her smoke toward the ceiling.

There it was, Gavallan told himself. The managing director of Europe's largest accounting firm had just confirmed that Mercury's Moscow operations were up and running. Gavallan asked himself why he hadn't called Jean-Jacques Pillonel in the first place. Because you can only trust your own, a cynical voice reminded him. Because people lie.

More and more, he was certain the Private Eye-PO had to be someone he knew, someone with a personal ax to grind.

"So, are we back at square one," he asked his colleagues, "or did we just cross the finish line?" Unspoken, but hanging up there near the ceiling with Meg's cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of his half-eaten burrito, were the words "postpone," "shelve," and "cancel."

"Where the hell is Byrnes?" griped Tustin.

"Give him time," said Llewellyn-Davies. "He'll get back to us."

"It's ten o'clock in Moscow. How much time does he need?"

"Relax, Bruce," said Meg. "I'll take Jean-Jacques's word over the Private Eye-PO's anytime. I'm sure Graf will only confirm what we already know."

"Maybe," said Tustin grudgingly. "But I still want to hear from him."

So did Gavallan. Every minute that passed without word from Byrnes fueled his worry over his friend's well-being. Still, he was pleased with the give-and-take of the discussion. If there were any doubts about Mercury, it was best that they surfaced within the confines of the office.

"So, Sam, what's your call?"

"Tough one."

Tannenbaum was the firm's resident bohemian. With his tight jeans, flannel shirt, and flowing blond hair, painstakingly groomed and tied into a ponytail, he looked like a refugee from Big Sur. "We seem to be stuck between believing in ourselves and believing the Private Eye-PO. From what I can gather, Mercury is everything we say it is. You think so. Meg thinks so. Jean-Jacques thinks so. Jupiter Metrix says so. It's a 'go deal.' At the same time, we feel compelled to trust the Private Eye-PO because he's been accurate in the past."

"Jesus, Shirley, you're getting me hard," whined Tustin. "Say what you want to say and let's get on with it."

Tannenbaum shot him a withering look, but refused to be hurried, either by Tustin or by any of the other curious faces staring at him. "Unfortunately, I don't know what to say except that we need to find the Private Eye-PO as quickly as possible and ask him where he's getting his information."

"Only one problem," said Gavallan. "We still don't know who he is."

"Can't we shut him up?" asked Meg. "Slap an injunction on him for false and deprecatory statements? I mean, what he's doing isn't any different from some wiseass issuing a phony earnings warning."

"Sure," said Tannenbaum. "But again, we have to find him first, then we have to get an injunction, and eventually we have to take him to trial. We don't have the time. The balloon is going up in five days."

Gavallan was suddenly restless. Frustration cramped his shoulders and clawed at his neck. Rising from his chair, he walked slowly round the table. All roads kept leading back to the same place. The deal was sound. The Cisco receipts were bullshit. So were the pictures of the Moscow NOC. Some asshole getting his jollies trying to hurt Black Jet or Mercury. It didn't really matter who he was, or why he was doing it. Which left Byrnes. No one knew better than he how important the deal was. Absent his word to the contrary, there was only one way to go.

"Okay, everyone, that's a wrap," Gavallan said. "We all decided on this?" Approaching the table, he extended his hand over its center. "Tony?"

"It's a go, Jett." Llewellyn-Davies laid his hand on top of Gavallan's.

"Bruce?"