The First Billion

Luca put the fax away. He could only hope that when the raid mentioned in the memo took place, he would learn about it. Picking winning stocks, while worthy of admiration, was one thing. Revealing fraud and corruption on an international scale was quite another, and it turned Luca's role from profiteer to patriot. He was defending his country against a new Red Peril. Any aspersions about his past would be bleached clean by the mantle of "Nation's Defender."

On a personal note, it would be Ray Luca's pleasure to cancel Mr. Jett Gavallan's largest IPO. There was a symmetry to the affair that pleased Luca's mathematical mind.

One thing was certain: It would be a helluva way to launch the Private Eye-PO's investment newsletter.

Refocusing his eyes on the collage of screens, Luca felt a new energy plucking him up. He might not ever become a billionaire, but from where he stood in his beat-up Docksiders and floral-print shirt, "millionaire" sounded damned impressive. He'd done the math a thousand times. By multiplying the number of daily hits on his website by the standard browser-to-buyer conversion rate of 2 percent, he'd arrived at the figure of three thousand wise men and women willing to fork over five hundred dollars a year to receive the Private Eye-PO's twice-monthly newsletter. A cool one and a half million in revenues for a start.

Luca felt giddy at the prospect. If nothing else, at least he'd have the money to win visitation rights with his daughters.

It was then that he remembered his sell order for Merck. In the ten minutes he'd been daydreaming, the market had moved against him. Merck was trading at 38½ and falling fast. He sent in his order and was filled at 381/8. Instead of making five hundred bucks, he'd lost almost two thousand.

Luca dropped his head into his hands. It was time his luck changed.

26

Gavallan arrived at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach a few minutes before midnight. Once in his room, he set down his bags, opened the windows, and stepped onto the balcony. The smell of gardenias and the sound of the sea washing onto the beach greeted him. He always forgot how far south Florida sat, how tropical it could feel. It was hard to believe he was still in the States and not in some island paradise. A second later the first mosquito buzzed his ear and landed on his cheek. So much for paradise. He slapped at it, then went to the bedside phone and checked for messages left at his home. The first was from Tony Llewellyn-Davies.

"Jett, where the hell have you been all day? Thought you were sick in bed, laid up with a summer flu. Anyway, Jett, if you're not in bed now, go there immediately. I've got a piece of bad news. Jack Stuyvesant called from Lehman about the bridge loan to Mercury. Seems his board gave it the thumbs-down. They won't accept the ten-million-dollar tranche to Mercury. Meg told him that Graf had called and said that everything was hunky-dory. She tried to get him to take a smaller piece instead, five million, even three, but Stuyvesant said Lehman wouldn't lend Kirov twenty bucks if it was guaranteed by the full faith and credit of the U.S. government. That's not all, I'm afraid. Barron Bleriaut at Merrill is out, too. Same reasons. At least he was polite about it. Said if we got all the news sorted out about Mercury, he'd be back in. So that's it. Looks like us poor sods are left holding the bag. Fifty million of our best Yankee greenbacks in Mr. Kirov's pocket. 'Course, it will be all to our favor once we get Mercury public, that much more change in our pockets. You might want to call Jack or Barron if you get a chance. A word from the lord of the manor might be in order. Cheers."

Gavallan slumped onto the bed, the phone dangling from his hand. Lehman was out. Merrill was out. Black Jet was left holding the entire fifty-million-dollar bridge loan to Kirov. But maybe it was just as well, he figured. Save an extra lawsuit or two down the road. Running a hand through his hair, Gavallan wasn't sure he could believe the string of bad luck. His right eye twitched, then twitched again, and he realized he'd developed a tic. Maybe this was what it felt like to be shell-shocked.

Fifty million of our best Yankee greenbacks in Mr. Kirov's pocket.

That's it, Gavallan said to himself. That's the death knell. He could almost hear the bells pealing.

Unless somehow he could turn the company… No, Gavallan admonished himself, discarding the idea as quickly as it had come. It's foolish to keep hoping.

With great effort, he took off his clothes and climbed under the sheets. Sometime later, he fell asleep.

***