The First Billion

Gavallan punched a button on the speakerphone. "Emerald," he began. "Book me a-" He stopped dead, deciding it might be wiser for him to make his own travel arrangements. "Emerald," he started anew. "I've got to run out for a while. Actually, I'm feeling pretty lousy. Forward any calls to me at home. Thanks."

Replacing the receiver, he picked up his jacket and satchel, turned off the lights to his office, and shut the door behind him.

From here on out, Gavallan was on his own.

22

We're using the same guy," announced Roy DiGenovese when he stuck his head into Howell Dodson's office at four-thirty in the afternoon. "Gavallan's paying the same fella we got on contract to the Bureau. Vann. Jason Vann."

Lifting his feet off the desk, Dodson slid his chair forward and afforded DiGenovese his fullest attention. "Do tell, dear boy. I smell progress."

Dodson had been reviewing the casework on Kirov and Mercury, trying to figure out what Gavallan's role in the whole thing was and whether or not it might be wise to alert his friends in the SEC or the Treasury Department about it. It was a thorny issue. The Bureau didn't need any multibillion-dollar lawsuits accusing its very own Howell Ames Dodson IV of maligning, defaming, tarnishing, or slandering a wholly legitimate enterprise. Every request he'd made to Baranov to send some of his investigators over to Mercury's Moscow operations center had been met with deafening silence. The man hadn't lifted so much as a finger. He cared only about Novastar. Mercury was the Americans' problem.

Dodson had the tape from Mercury Broadband USA, the allegations of a paid informant, and that was it. The skeptic inside him refused to follow in DiGenovese's rabid footsteps. When it came to fashioning a winning indictment, they were no better off than they were four weeks ago. Effectively, the decision had been made for him. He didn't dare open his mouth to another federal agency about his concerns over Mercury Broadband. For now, they would remain an in-house matter.

"Vann found the Private Eye-PO," DiGenovese continued, taking a seat opposite Dodson. "His name is Raymond Luca. He's a resident of Delray Beach. M.I.T. grad, and get this… an ex-con."

"And what does Mr. Luca do, pray tell, when he's not playing the Private Eye-PO?"

"No idea. Just got a name and an address. Vann said he could find out more, but he's already run over his hourly commitment and it would run us another few thousand dollars."

"Very well," said Dodson. "Run Mr. Luca's social security number through the IRS, do a thorough credit check on the man, contact M.I.T.'s alumni relations board. Someone can tell us how he earns his daily bread." He shifted in his seat, unsatisfied. "What else did Mr. Vann have to tell us?"

"Nada. Just gave me the same info he gave Gavallan."

"And how much did Mr. Gavallan pay our Mr. Vann?"

"Didn't ask."

"Next time ask," ordered Dodson, wondering if Vann might be holding something back. "And find out where Vann likes his funds wired. I don't take to people double-timing the Bureau- goes against my sense of patriotism. While you're talking to our colleagues at the IRS, why don't you have them take a peek at Mr. Vann's latest 1040s. Might be nice to have some leverage in the future."

DiGenovese had been writing all this down on a notepad he carried in his left hand. Finished, he looked up. "Next flight down to Miami's at seven-fifteen. I booked us two seats."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard Gavallan," DiGenovese said, in a tone as surprised as his superior's. "He wants to permanently shut Luca's mouth."

"And do we have any evidence that Mr. Gavallan's going anywhere near Florida these next few days?"

"Well, no. I mean, not yet. We don't get transcripts of the wiretaps until twenty-four hours after they're picked up. I thought it would be a good idea to have a talk with Luca, let him know that he might be in some danger."

Dodson shot DiGenovese a stern glance as if to say he'd been silly even to think of flying to Florida that evening. In fact, his reluctance to leave so quickly was rooted in his domestic situation. His wife, Clara, was a woman of the times, and would raise holy hell if he popped down to Florida without advance warning. She didn't stand for unannounced departures, late nights at the office, or working more than a half day on weekends unless absolutely necessary- and "necessary" meant that an agent's blood had been spilled.

"Calm down, Roy. If you're so worried about Mr. Luca, give him a call on the telephone. Tell him to lock his front door. I would, on the other hand, enjoy speaking with Mr. Luca about where in God's name he's been getting our confidential information. Book us first thing in the morning."

"You don't think he needs protection?"

"No, Roy, I do not. Now off you go. Book us those seats for tomorrow."