The First Billion

Kirov was not blind to the threat. He shuddered to think what might happen to the Mercury Broadband IPO should his offices be raided by government troops. The press would be forewarned. Pictures would be broadcast over Russian television by noon and in America by nightfall. The offering would be postponed, or more likely canceled. Two billion dollars gone. And why? Because Kirov had conducted himself according to standard Russian business practice? Because he'd dared to prosper in perilous times?

He blinked, and despite himself his eyelids stuttered. Whatever else might happen, the IPO had to go through. Too many people were relying on its success. He, to build the first great company of the new millennium and to gild his path through the corridors of power. Others, to advance ambitious plans of their own, plans that would restore luster to the country's sword and shield.

Fathoming for the first time the insidious nature of the forces arrayed against him, he shed his mantle of insecurity and donned his fighting gear. If Baranov expected him to roll over and give up, he was sorely mistaken. Kirov had been fighting intimidation his entire life. As a Jew. As an intellectual. And as a businessman.

"Your threats are reprehensible," he declared in a soft, dangerous voice. "But nothing more than I expected from one of Brezhnev's bullyboys. I remind you we live in a democratic society these days. I've even heard a rumor we have rights."

"Thieves have no rights!" Baranov stood, his chair tumbling behind him. "Return to the state that which is its due and the inquiry will disappear. You have my word."

"Your word? Your word is as reliable as the false accusations you've been tossing at me all afternoon." Only his mother's ingrained good manners prevented him from spitting on the floor. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer: the musty room, the weak lightbulbs, the worm-eaten furniture. Any moment, Khrushchev himself would walk through the door and start banging his shoe on the table.

Standing, Kirov buttoned his jacket. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I have a pressing engagement."

Lowering his head, he rushed from the room. There was a spy burrowed inside Mercury, and Konstantin Kirov had to root him out.

14

Look, Mr. Gavallan, it's simply too early to start looking for your friend," said Everett Hudson, a consular officer with the United States Embassy in Moscow. "Twenty-four hours? I don't think they consider a man missing in Russia for a week. Until then they just think he's drunk."

Hudson had a squeaky, somewhat unsure voice. A Yalie on his first assignment with the foreign service, guessed Gavallan. Or a baby spy still wet behind the ears. "Mr. Byrnes is not a Russian," he said gravely.

"Of course he isn't," agreed Hudson. "Look, I'll forward the description you gave me to the police, and I'll be more than happy to phone the larger hotels. But I remind you, Moscow is a large city. It covers nine hundred square kilometers and has over ten million inhabitants all included. There's a lot of places to hide."

"Mr. Byrnes isn't hiding. He came to Moscow on extremely urgent business. He is a reliable man. He was due to call me this morning. As he hasn't, I have to assume something…" Gavallan hesitated, searching for the right word. "Well, that something bad has happened to him. He's a former Air Force officer. He's…" Gavallan didn't bother finishing. He had already offered a nutshell explanation of Byrnes's reason for visiting Moscow; it would serve no purpose to offer any further testimonial to his character. "Something's just wrong, okay?"

"Can I be honest with you, Mr. Gavallan?"

"Please." Gavallan took a sip of Coke and set down the can. The clouds had moved on, leaving the sky a pale-washed blue. Whitecaps and a considerable chop attested to a steady offshore breeze. Feeling tired, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off, he kneaded the top of his knuckles while ordering himself not to explode.

"Moscow is kind of a strange city. I've been here four years, and you wouldn't believe the stuff I've seen. What I mean to say is that sometimes people go a little crazy when they get here."

"Crazy?"

"Well, not crazy, but they tend to let go. Especially men. You see, it's kind of a free city these days. After so long under the thumb, the Muscovites have gone a little wild. Let their hair down, if you know what I mean."

"What is your point, Mr. Hudson?"

"Your friend Mr. Byrnes is forty-four years old, correct?"

We've gone over that.

"Yes."

"And you mentioned he was divorced?"

We've gone over that, too.

"Yes."