The First Billion

From her seat in the executive jet bound from New York to Miami, Tatiana stared transfixed at the limitless plain of water spreading below her in every direction. She had never seen the ocean, and it made her feel small in a way she never had before. Not forgotten or useless or empty, which was how she felt when she had driven across the endless Russian countryside traveling from her convent school near Novosibirsk to Moscow. But small in a way that left her comfortable and secure, feeling part of something large and wondrous, and maybe even magical.

The ocean, she decided, made her feel happy. It was an odd sensation.

Next to her, Boris Nemov yawned, then looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock. Good. We will land in thirty minutes. Did you get any sleep?"

Tatiana said yes, lying. She was much too agitated to sleep. She could not get Konstantin Kirov's words out of her head. She had never heard him so angry.

"This man is trying to harm us. Not just me, Tatiana, but you, too, and Boris, and everyone in our family at Mercury. He is spreading lies about the company. It is because of him that the American came to Moscow. You know, my sweet bird, that I abhor violence as much as you do, but sometimes…" His voice had trailed off, and she could feel his hurt, his fear, his apprehension.

"Boris will tell you what you must do," he'd gone on. "It will be quick, but messy, and for that I am sorry. Get in. Do the job. Get out. The Americans will think it was one of their own. This type of thing happens every day there. 'Running amok,' they call it."

Tatiana glanced at Boris, who had his nose buried in an American newspaper. "What do you find so amusing in the paper?" she asked.

"Amusing?" Boris cast her a sidelong glance. "Why, nothing. This is the Wall Street Journal. Business news. Nothing amusing at all." He began to read the newspaper again, but stopped after a moment, lowering it to his lap. "I am not going to stay with Konstantin Romanovich forever, you know."

"Oh?" Tatiana was surprised at the admission. Herself, she never intended on leaving Kirov. One of his TV crews had found her in a Petersburg brothel, a twelve-year-old runaway doing ten tricks a day. Incensed, Kirov had seen the house shut down and taken her in as his private ward. He gave her lodging, clothing, food. He was kind. (Which meant he'd never tried to sleep with her.) He was important, and she greatly enjoyed being in the employ of someone who commanded so much respect. No, she reassured herself, she would never leave. "What will you do?"

"A few more years and I am going to start my own company," he confided in an excited whisper. "Security, I think. For Westerners doing business in the Rodina. Maybe insurance. Our people will need insurance one day. I am not certain yet." Giving her arm a friendly punch, he smiled. "Maybe we work together. I give you a job."

"Maybe."

"Not what you are doing now. You cannot continue with your work forever. I think you should move into public relations. You are young. You are pretty. How many languages do you have?"

"Four, maybe five, if you count Baku."

"There, you see. If nothing else you can be a translator."

Tatiana smiled, wanting to convey a measure of interest. In truth, the prospect sounded appallingly dull. Business. Public relations. A translator. Her world possessed a more pungent vocabulary. Slut. Thief. Whore. Words that had been tattooed across her soul long ago. And more recently, killer.

She made a show of returning her magazines to her carry-on bag, then leaned back her head and closed her eyes. Enough talk of the future. Of dreams that might never come true. It was time for work. Time to begin steeling her mind to the task ahead.

Killing came easily. All she had to do was imagine a man's body on top of hers, his brow knit in concentration, his mouth open, dripping with lust, his eyes swallowing her whole as if her beauty was his for the taking. She would feel his pounding, taste his sweat. Her vision would grow hazy, the periphery dissolving into a grainy white cloud. Only her target would remain in focus. At the final moment, she would drift outside of herself and watch as another woman pulled the trigger.

Boris had told her it was rage, because she was upset about her time in the convent. She wasn't to blame, he said; anyone who had spent fourteen years in a state-run orphanage would feel the same. She recalled the bowls of kasha, twice a day, every day, the haircut every six months, the dull scissors shearing her hair to the scalp, the bar of lye that came next to burn away the lice, taking two layers of skin for good measure.