The First Billion

Finished, she took a step back, checking for any sign of the fear she felt bubbling inside of her. Her eyes were clear and registered their usual nonchalance. Her smile was in place, and she was glad to see it still conveyed the promise of mischief, a hint of merriment. She found her face too serious as a whole. The high cheekbones, the narrow nose, the widely spaced eyes- all conspired to lend her a haughty, insolent regard that she felt was the opposite of her true personality.

No, she concluded, giving herself a final looking-over, there was scant sign of fear. And she was cheered by her mastery of her emotions.

Strolling from the bathroom, Cate stopped at the dresser and picked up her handbag. She spent a moment checking the contents- recorder, notepad, digital camera, phone, pager, wallet, hairbrush, tic tacs. All present and accounted for.

Just then, her pager buzzed. She picked it up and checked the digital readout. "Urgent information about our mutual friend. Let me know when to send." Excitedly, Cate set down her purse and keyed in a response, then dashed downstairs and stood by the fax machine. A minute later, the phone rang and the fax began to stutter.

The writing on the paper was Cyrillic, the stationery that of the "Prosecutor General of the Russian Republic," but the message was written in English. Dated May 31, the transmission was a copy of a memorandum from Yuri Baranov to "Deputy Assistant Director Howell Dodson of the FBI, Chairman, Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime."

Cate held her breath, reading the body of the text.

"Pursuant our inquiry re: subject Kirov, Konstantin R., evidence forwarded my offices regarding Novastar Airlines graded sufficient to obtain warrant. Issuing date 7 June. Details of operation to follow. Suggested timetable: Week 23."

Operation? She wondered what they had in mind. Week twenty-three had begun Monday of this week. Damn it, she cursed, why was she always behind the curve?

Cate reread the fax. While there was nothing on the page mentioning Mercury by name, it was a damning document nonetheless. Investors would shy away from an offering for a foreign corporation whose chairman was being investigated on charges of corruption and money laundering by his own government.

Moving to her PC, Cate scanned the document into her hard drive. For all her effort, she was still unsure of the good it would bring. She was sowing doubt, when she needed to be bringing evidence. The article on metrics would help, even if it didn't mention Mercury. More certain was the pain her efforts would cause Jett. He'd lose the deal and his bridge loan to Kirov. He might even have to part with his company. Wouldn't it simply be easier to call Jett up and have a heart-to-heart?

About what? the steely voice inside her demanded. He's been warned. There's nothing more you can do.

Cate ignored the voice. One look at Jett Gavallan last night had brought back all her strenuously suppressed feelings. Lowering her eyes, she remembered the touch of his fingers, the defiant glance when she told him to drop the deal, the tide of blood in his eyes. She told herself it wasn't fair for any woman to demand so much of herself.

The hard voice laughed. Fair? What's fair? She only had to call to mind her own past- her struggles, her denials, her battle to rebuild a career from scratch, to carve a new identity for herself- to know that "fair" was not a promise life often kept. But there was more to it than that. There were some things she could never say, no matter how much her heart demanded.

Cate regarded the fax, and her sentiment fled. "Too bad," she whispered, hardening herself to the task. Jett was a big boy. He'd been warned. From here on out he would have to take care of himself. She'd done enough already, even if he didn't know it.

Straightening her back, she accessed her E-mail program and uploaded the fax. After addressing it to her friend in Florida, she hit the send key, confident that he would know how to make proper use of it.

24

The raiding party assembled quietly and with precision. In all they were twenty-two men, divided among three vans and two BMWs from the prosecutor general's office. Crack troops from OMON- the special militia created by Mikhail Gorbachev and now attached to the Ministry of the Interior- the men were dressed in black utilities with matching bullet-proof vests and Kevlar helmets. Nazis for the new millennium. Flash grenades were pinned to their waists and machine pistols dangled from their hands.

The assembly point was Mayakovskya Square, a kilometer from Mercury Broadband's offices. Yuri Baranov moved among the militiamen, offering grunts of encouragement, pats on the back, the occasional grim smile.

"On no account are you to fire a shot," he repeated time and again, until his gruff, tobacco-wearied voice grew sore. "We are all sons of the Rodina, the motherland, even if some of us have lost our way."