The First Billion

Digging his hands into his pockets, Grafton Byrnes began a slow circuit of the room. "This is an accusation of material fraud. The Private Eye-PO isn't just saying that Mercury isn't up to snuff, he's implying we knew all about it, too, and kept our mouths shut. If those photos are genuine, there's no way Mercury can be doing the business it claims. Two hundred thousand clients in Moscow? Hell, they couldn't service twenty with that stuff. These accusations are tantamount to saying the company's entire P &L is a bunch of garbage. We've got to imagine that most of our customers will either read this or get wind of it and come to the same conclusions themselves. In a few hours, every one of Bruce Jay Tustin's salesmen will be fielding calls asking for us to comment on the Private Eye-PO's claims. Whether we believe Kirov or not, we've got to check on Mercury."

"Agreed."

"And not under his personal auspices, I'm afraid. Tell him you'll pass on the jet. I'll give Silber, Goldi, and Grimm a call instead." Byrnes was talking about the Swiss accounting firm that had performed the due diligence on the deal. "They're in Geneva; it's only a two-hour flight for them. They can have this sorted out by the end of business tomorrow."

"No go," responded Gavallan. "I don't want to bring an outside firm into this. It's too late for that. We can't have anyone thinking we have even the slightest doubts about Mercury, not this far into the quiet period. One of us has to go. Like you said, our head is on the chopping block as much as Mercury's."

"One of us?" Byrnes did not look pleased.

"I'd go if I could, you know that. I've got the dinner on Wednesday."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Since when did hospitals start honoring border trash as 'Man of the Year'? I'll miss heckling you. I had a few choice tomatoes saved for the occasion." Byrnes collapsed onto the sofa, resting his chin on folded hands. "And how will your friend Kirov feel about this? He's bound to find out."

"He won't like it, but he'll understand," explained Gavallan. "He knows what's involved to get a listing on the Big Board. In the end, he'll thank us for it."

"I hope so. I don't relish getting a guided tour of the Lubyanka."

Rolling his eyes, Gavallan opened the drawer and took out a plane ticket. He'd known all along the actions required of the firm. He'd just wanted Byrnes's opinion on the matter. "Flight goes at one," he said, waving the slim jacket. "Consulate opens at eight. You'll need a visa. If you hurry, you might even have time to get home and pack."

Byrnes picked up the ticket off the desk, opening the sleeve and reading over the flight details. "You're a crafty prick, you know that?"

"What do you expect? I learned from the best."

***

Recalling the moment forty-eight hours earlier, Gavallan caught his reflection in the glass. He was surprised at the man staring back. He looked tired and worn, older than his years. The weight of office, he told himself. The price for making a fortune before the age of forty. And the price for losing it? he wondered. What's that? Do you get some of your youth back? Learn how to take a few days off? Regain the affections of the woman you love?

Gavallan put a stranglehold on his thoughts. Self-pity was a loser's luxury. He heard Byrnes telling him to "toughen up" and felt the wise eyes boring into him.

Graf, where the hell are you? Give me a call and tell me everything's all right.

A minute passed as Gavallan considered taking a dozen actions: canvassing the larger hotels in the Russian capital, contacting the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, even calling the Moscow Police directly. All were premature. If Byrnes had checked out of the Baltschug, he had a good reason. It was silly to worry. He'd give his best friend until noon to call or check in, then reassess the situation.

A firm hand rapped on his door. "Morning meeting's about to start, boss."

"Yeah," said Gavallan, without turning. "Be right there."

Returning to his desk, he made a quick check of his agenda. As always, his schedule was packed to bursting. Quarterly earnings review at ten. A powwow to go over acquisition candidates for a new client at eleven. Roundtable with the executive board to discuss new business opportunities at two. And, of course, the black-tie dinner that evening for which he had yet to write a speech.

But even as he catalogued his day's appointments, his thoughts vaulted six thousand miles to the onion domes and cobblestoned streets of a city he'd known forever, but never visited. Moscow.

Graf, he shouted silently. Talk to me!

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