The First Billion

"And is it the same one who has leaked the information regarding Mercury?"

"I certainly hope so."

"And the American?"

"At the dacha. You may have him when he's no longer needed."

Dashamirov bowed his eyes, which was as close as he ever came to saying thank you.

Chechen by birth, a Muscovite by upbringing, Aslan Dashamirov was fifty-two years old, the same age as Konstantin Kirov, and the two had been in business since Kirov had first moved to Moscow- or "the Center," as it was called- from Petersburg. Dashamirov had no pretensions of civility. He was a criminal born and bred, a Vory v zakone- a thief of thieves- a man sworn to conduct his life outside the pale of law and order. Still, he carried a title in the contemporary Russian business world, a position that was acknowledged by none, yet respected by all. Aslan Dashamirov was a krysha- or "roof"- and every businessman engaged in the pursuit of profit somewhere in the Republic kept a man like him on his payroll, whether by choice or not.

A krysha performed a variety of functions. He obtained permits, persuaded politicians, sweet-talked creditors, and harried debtors. He offered protection against racketeers, bargained with corrupt law enforcement officials, secured banking privileges at friendly financial institutions, and helped negotiate the treacherous corridors of the judicial system. His methods were crude but effective, and ranged from bribery and extortion to torture, kidnapping, and murder.

The fee for his services was 15 percent off the top of all Konstantin Kirov's businesses.

"So you're confident the deal will be a success?" he asked.

"Absolutely," declared Kirov. "Absolutely."

"I believed you the first time," said Dashamirov. "Not the second. What is Baranov after?"

"Novastar," volunteered Kirov. "He believes a hundred twenty million is missing from the company's accounts. I told him he was crazy."

"Dollars or rubles?"

"Dollars."

Technically Novastar counted as one of Kirov's private investments. As a long-running enterprise until recently 100 percent controlled by the state, it had never required any of Dashamirov's subtle legerdemain. No scrupulous customs men to brain with a lead pipe. No stubborn inspectors to "bribe" with a blackjack and brass knuckles. No defiant board members to convince with the help of a slender glass mixing rod and a hammer.

"I'm certain Baranov is mistaken about the missing money," Dashamirov said at length. "I know you would never skim a little cream from Novastar without sharing your rewards. We are brothers, nah? Such behavior among kin is unthinkable." He scratched at his mustache, crumpling his brow as if pained. "Still, we cannot allow problems with one business to interfere with another, certainly not at such a delicate moment in our company's history. That is why you hired me. To look after your interests, nah?"

"Why else?" agreed Kirov.

"First we will find our rat," announced Dashamirov. "Then we shall ask him where he got the idea that someone is siphoning a little money from Novastar, and why he wishes to share such silly notions with the government."

At that instant, a siren wailed, the keening so close, so loud, so unexpected, as to make Kirov bunch his shoulders and duck involuntarily. Another siren joined in. Tires screeched. Doors slammed. An entire Army corps was assembling on the pavement beneath his window.

"A raid," Kirov said calmly, remembering Yuri Baranov's veiled threat. And to himself, He will pay. This will not go unpunished.

Dashamirov remained immobile as Kirov moved in three directions at once. One hand depressed the internal alarm while the other found the phone. Dialing a number, he strode to the window and looked outside. Two sedans and three vans were parked by the entry. Soldiers were charging up the stairs.

"There's a corridor beneath the building that will take you to the Arbat."

Without a word, Aslan Dashamirov scurried out of the office.

Placing the phone to his ear, Kirov waited for an answer. The number he had dialed connected him to a modern office complex hidden in the forest just north of Moscow, a suburb known as Yasenevo. The sleek gray buildings housed the offices of the FIS, or Foreign Intelligence Service, one of the successors to the KGB, or Committee for State Security. An officious voice answered. "Da?"

"Leonid, listen and do not say a word. Yuri Baranov and his men are outside my offices. He's come with his OMON brutes and they're making a show of gaining entry. Send over some of your people immediately, a dozen young men with a little fire in their blood."

Ten years his elder, Major General Leonid Kirov was the ranking officer of FAPSI, the Federal Agency for Government Communication and Information, an offshoot of the former KGB's Eighth Chief Directorate.

"Calm yourself, Konstantin Romanovich. Tell me again what is happening?"