The First Billion

Which brought Gavallan back to the photographs. He had another picture in his manila file, also purporting to show the interior of the Moscow network operations center. This one positively beamed with the latest in Internet hardware- Sun servers, Cisco routers, Lucent switches- and it was this photo he'd showed to his investors.

"I'd like to leave a message," he said. "Please tell him Mr. Gavall-"

"Mr. Byrnes is not in the hotel," the Russian operator interrupted.

"Yes, I heard you. If you don't mind I'd like to leave a-"

"No sir, you do not understand," cut in the operator again. "Mr. Byrnes has checked out."

"That's not possible. He's not due to return to the States until tomorrow. Please check again." And before the operator could protest, he shouted, "Do it!"

"Very well." The "sir" was distinctly missing.

Confused, Gavallan ran his eyes over the computer screen, reconfirming he hadn't received any E-mails from Byrnes. His instructions had been clear: Once Graf picked up something about Mercury- good or bad- he was to let Gavallan know. Immediately.

"Sir? Our records indicate that Mr. Byrnes checked out of the hotel yesterday evening at eleven-thirty."

"Eleven-thirty? You're sure?"

Moscow was eleven hours ahead of San Francisco; 11:30 P.M. in the Russian capital meant lunchtime in the office. Byrnes had called in four hours before that, at around eight yesterday morning, to report that he'd arrived safely and would start his investigations the next day. The notion that he'd checked out without spending the night was as unsettling as it was absurd.

"Mr. Byrnes is no longer a guest with us," replied the operator. "If you'd like to speak with our general manager, I'd be happy to connect you."

"No. That won't be necessary."

" Po Zhausta. Da Svidaniya."

Gavallan put down the phone and strode to the window. For a long time, he remained still, looking out over the city. Through the rain, he could make out Telegraph Hill, and beyond it the bow lights of a supertanker advancing slowly out to sea. Farther to his left, pale red beacons glimmered atop the cable towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Staring at the melancholy panorama, he experienced a sudden tremor, a shiver that rustled his spine and caused him to cross his arms and hug himself as if fending off a stern winter's breeze. It was the same yawn of anxiety that had passed over him two days earlier, when on a foggy Monday morning he'd first broached the idea of a trip to Moscow to Grafton Byrnes.

3

So you've seen it?" Gavallan had demanded as Grafton Byrnes entered his office.

"Yeah, I've seen it," answered Byrnes with a calm Gavallan did not share. "Not the best PR one of our deals has ever gotten, but not the worst, either."

"I'm not so sure. Timing couldn't be worse, that's for certain."

Byrnes strolled across the room with the easy authority that was his trademark. He was taller by an inch, dressed in a navy crew neck sweater over a white oxford button-down, brown corduroy slacks, and Belgian loafers polished to a spit shine. His face was craggy and lean, with eyes that appraised but never accused, and a smile that forgave all sins.

"Want something to drink? Pellegrino?" Gavallan spun in his chair and opened the compact refrigerator hidden in his credenza. "I've got one those new lattes in a bottle. How 'bout that?"

Byrnes took up position behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Nothing with caffeine, thanks. I'll take a mineral water. No, no… one without any bubbles."

Gavallan handed him a bottle of Ozarka and selected an ice-cold can of Orange Crush for himself. He considered his teenager's sweet tooth his only vice. Vintage European automobiles, chilled Russian vodka, and Stevie Ray Vaughan playing the blues at excruciating volumes counted as passions, and were thus exempt.

"Skoal, brother," he said, lifting the can of soda pop.

"Skoal, my man."

It was a joke between Texans, "Skoal" being both an informal "Cheers" and the tried-and-true chewing tobacco of their youths.

Gavallan had known Grafton Byrnes his entire adult life. They had met at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, where Byrnes had played regimental commanding officer to Gavallan's plebe. Every time Gavallan mouthed off, it was Byrnes who administered the punishment. A hundred push-ups on the deck. A thousand-yard sprint in shorts and tennis shoes through waist-high drifts of midwinter snow. Two hours of reciting the Uniform Code of Military Justice while doing Roman chairs against the commons room wall. If harsh, the abuse was well-intentioned. It was Byrnes's job to make sure Cadet John J. Gavallan made it through the Zoo, and to that end he tutored him in calculus, instructed him on how to properly hold his knife and fork, and taught him to iron a razor-sharp crease into his trousers.