The First Billion

Baranov spent another minute or two examining the shredders, digging his hands into the basket and coming up with wads of slivered paper. "We will take this, too. I know some people who can reconstruct these documents."

"All yours," said Kirov munificently. He was beginning to sweat. He could only pray that the most secret of his documents had already been shredded. Reconstructing them would take a year's time. A year! Anything could happen by then.

"Now, I wish to go to your IT center," said Baranov.

"Do you mind if I ask what it is exactly you want?"

"You know damned well what I want. Now let's go. I believe it's on this floor, just down the corridor."

"If you know your way around so well, I'll allow you to find it yourself." Kirov had no intention of helping Baranov do his job. He had opened the barricade when requested. He had greeted the man cordially. No charges could be brought for obstructing justice. The rest the prosecutor could do on his own. Fuck him!

Baranov left one of his deputies behind in the accounting office and hurried into the long, airy corridor. Kirov followed. A few offices were open, windows raised to let in the warm afternoon breeze. From outside came the sound of car doors slamming, voices shouting, and footsteps entering the building.

Finally!

Kirov hastened to a window. A delegation of ten young spies from the FIS had confronted the OMON troops outside. Their leader was a handsome blond man in business attire. His deputies were similarly dressed, but were less handsome and had exchanged neckties in favor of Kalashnikov assault rifles. Shoving broke out between the two groups. One FIS man fell to the ground, pistol-whipped. Then it was the OMON's turn, losing a storm trooper to more conventional means: a well-aimed kick to the balls. Voices rose, then fell.

"Good boy, Leonid," said Kirov softly.

"What is it?" demanded Baranov, bustling alongside.

"See for yourself."

Baranov looked down at the sparking confrontation. "Leave them," he called to his men. "There is to be no fighting. We are all comrades. Let them be." He stormed out of the office, looking this way and that before getting his bearings. He arrived at the entry to the data center as the delegation from Yasenevo poured out from the elevator nearby. Trying the handle, he found it locked. "Konstantin Romanovich, I demand you open the door."

Kirov checked his watch. Fifteen seconds until the files were deleted. He took a breath, rummaging in his pockets for a key. "Ah, here it is." He managed another delay fitting the key into the lock. "There."

Kirov opened the door.

The tech in the red Adidas shirt sat at his desk, studying a manual. "Ah, Mr. Kirov. I have bad news," he said, springing to his feet, his clever eyes taking in Baranov and his deputies. "Terrible, really."

"What?"

"A bug has hit our computers. I'm afraid we have lost all our data."

Baranov stared first at Kirov, then at the technician, and then at Kirov again. Without a word, he turned and left the room.

***

Kirov found Janusz Rosen waiting for him in his office.

"Yes, Janusz, what is it?"

"Good news, sir. Great news, even. I found him."

After standing by impotently as Yuri Baranov had carted off two dozen boxes full of Mercury Broadband's financial records, Kirov needed some good news. "Who?"

" 'Who?' " Rosen registered a look of gross disappointment, his glasses falling to the tip of his nose. "Why… him."

"Him," of course, was the Private Eye-PO. "About time. What is his name? Where does he live?"

"His name is Raymond J. Luca. An American, naturally. A resident of Delray Beach, Florida. I found him trawling the web early this morning. Another investor invited him into a private chat room and I was able to sneak in."

"Don't look so proud of yourself," said Kirov. "That's what I pay you for, remember?"

***

Minutes later, Kirov stood alone in his office, phone to his ear. He had banished Rosen with a handshake and the promise of more shares in the Mercury IPO. He had told his secretary to hold all calls. The room was silent, a quiet compounded by the absence of sirens and army boots.

"Damn it, girl, answer."

Five rings. Six.

"Da? Allo."

"Tatiana, you don't know how happy I am to hear your voice. I hope you haven't any pressing plans for the evening."

"Konstantin? Is this you? I am tired. I have had a long day. What is it, please?"

Rude, wasn't she? Sometimes he found it hard to believe she was a convent girl. Then again, he hadn't hired her for her good manners.

"Tatiana, I have a trip in mind for you. A junket abroad, actually. Tell me, my little bird, how do you feel about Florida?"

25

Ray Luca was in the zone.