The First Billion

Dodson cut him short with an icy glare. Like every agent who worked for the FBI, he thought twice these days about whom he did and did not arrest. After Whitewater and the special prosecutor's spending forty million dollars of the public's money for little more than a cum-stained dress and a couple of iffy convictions, the government had become more demanding before allowing its lawyers to get involved. These days, the powers that be were asking for a 90 percent probability of conviction before they'd even look at a case. Law enforcement had become a business. Guys like Howell Dodson had to demonstrate a good ROA if they wanted to move up in the ranks, "ROA" meaning "return on attorneys," not assets. And that "return" was convictions.

"Trouble with you, Roy, is that you've got too much piss and vinegar running through your veins. This isn't some Sunday afternoon raid in downtown Mogadishu. We are conducting a sound and systematic investigation into the alleged wrongdoings of some very sophisticated personalities. Time we slow down, examine the evidence."

"Yes sir."

"Well, amen," sang Dodson. "Finally, we agree on something." And he offered his subordinate an approving nod to let him know there were no hard feelings.

Dodson had come to the Bureau late in life, abandoning a promising career as a CPA with an international accounting firm to help balance the scales of justice. Taxes were his bag, but sometime after his thirtieth birthday he'd undergone a conversion. The private sector wasn't for him, he decided. Helping one bigwig after another whittle down their tax exposure brought scant satisfaction. He certainly didn't need the money. The Dodsons were comfortable, thank you very much, Southern planters who'd moved from corn to tobacco to semiconductors without a backward glance. So on a whim, he quit, joined the FBI, and became a thirty-one-year-old neophyte loping over the O-course at Quantico, acing his criminal justice exams, and taking target practice with an H &K 9mm. Time of his life.

As chairman of the Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime- or the "ratfuckers," as some wiseacre in forensics had nicknamed it- Howell Dodson's mandate was to corral acts of racketeering associated with business endeavors aimed toward the West. In sixty months of operations they'd jailed crooked oil salesmen, murderous rug merchants, and every type of illegal operator in between.

Of late, however, pickings had been lean. Nine months had passed since the last arrest was made, and talk had surfaced about shuttering the task force, assigning its members to more productive areas of the Bureau. Feelers were put out to Dodson about taking a posting to Mexico City as the Bureau's liaison to the Federales. It was a lateral move in title, but came with a higher pay-grade salary and a diplomatic allowance. Dodson read it as recompense for his two fingers and wanted none of it. Margaritas, mariachis, and menudo, he summed it up, cringing at the prospect. No, gracias.

Mr. John J. Gavallan hadn't been the only man cheering when Kirov entered his life.

"Roy, I want you to humor me," said Dodson, easing back in his chair. "If you're so sure Gavallan's in cahoots with Kirov, start from the get-go and make your case against him. It'll be good for you to polish those argumentative skills. But make it quick. The missus is due in any minute."

Dodson had recently become a father for the second time. At the age of forty-two, he'd been presented with twin baby boys to go along with his sixteen-year-old daughter. Every day at noon, Mrs. Dodson stopped by to leave her boisterous infants with their father while she whipped by Lord & Taylor and Britches of Georgetown to pick up a few household necessities.

"I'll do my best," said DiGenovese, rising from his chair and striding to a bookshelf. Between legal tomes and hefty accounting manuals, room had been cleared for a changing pad, a stack of diapers, and wipes.

"Gavallan's company has hit the skids," he began, pacing slowly, using his hands effectively. "Three years ago, he was on his way to joining the big boys; now he's treading water while guys are passing him left and right. In the last nine months, he's made three infusions of cash into the company to counter quarterly losses and keep his underwriting status with the SEC. Around twenty million and change if I'm not mistaken. The banking records we subpoenaed show he hasn't taken any salary in six months. Bottom line: The guy's hurting and he needs a savior."

"If I might interject. Black Jet was hardly the only company interested in Mercury. All the big-name firms were courting Kirov. Any of them would have jumped at the chance to take his company public."

"And loan him the fifty million to boot?"

"It is a bank's business last time I checked," said Dodson.