The First Billion

A tall concrete wall painted white surrounded the complex. Entrance was gained through a reinforced gate guarded by two Marine sentries and untold plainclothes security guards. Spotting the Stars and Stripes flying behind the wall, Gavallan pulled into the right lane and cut his speed.

"You ready, pard?" he asked, catching Byrnes's eyes in the rearview mirror. "When I stop, you skedaddle. Don't let anyone stop you from getting inside those four walls. They touch you, scream bloody murder."

"Don't worry about me. That there is sovereign territory of the United States of America. I'm as good as home."

Gavallan shifted his gaze to the side-view mirror and the gray Chaika sedan that had been on his tail, precisely three cars behind him, for the last thirty minutes. He looked at the two men inside the car- dark suits, dark glasses, short haircuts, chilling caricatures of the once and future totalitarian state. He looked back at Byrnes, not betraying a thing.

"Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable. I want you out of there tomorrow morning."

"Swissair flight 1915 to Geneva," Byrnes recited. "Departs at nine-fifteen; arrives ten-fifteen local time."

They'd gone over the formalities several times already. Byrnes was to ask to see Everett Hudson, the consular officer with whom Gavallan had spoken when he was in San Francisco. He was to explain that he had been kidnapped and to ask for immediate medical attention. Any requests to have him speak with the local police were to be politely but vigorously turned down. The embassy would supply clothing and a place to sleep.

"If they give you any trouble about issuing a new passport overnight, tell them to call the senator." Gavallan figured his contributions to the winning side had been hefty enough to guarantee him at least one favor. Besides, the senator was a former mayor of San Francisco. It was the least she could do for one of the city's own.

Byrnes leaned against the door, his fingers gripping the release. "You're sure about what you're doing?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's the only way." Then a lick of pragmatism tempered his confidence and he added in a subdued voice, "You might want to have a word with the defense attaché. Give him some advance warning. I'll have the other side warmed up and waiting."

"Just keep it low and slow. Even if we are all buddy-buddy now, remember, you're not flying the friendly skies of United. And watch out near the Polish border- they scramble on a heartbeat these days."

"You know, some people might think you're still my CO."

Byrnes didn't smile. His eyes did not flicker. "Good luck."

Gavallan stopped the car directly in front of the embassy, but only for a second. "Go. Get the hell out of here."

The passenger door opened and Byrnes was gone, running across the sidewalk to the Marine security guards. Gavallan accelerated. In his rearview mirror, he watched his close friend pass into the compound and disappear from view. It was only then that he voiced his newest suspicions to Cate. "Bad news."

"Oh?"

Discreetly, he poked a thumb behind him. "We've got company."

60

Mr. Kirov, it is an honor to welcome you to New York and to Black Jet Securities," boomed Bruce Jay Tustin as he greeted Konstantin Kirov outside the main entrance of 11 Madison Avenue.

"The honor is mine," said Kirov, climbing from the limousine. Shaking Tustin's hand, he glanced up at the building, a noble façade of steel and glass. "It's a privilege to be here."

"If you don't mind, let's get upstairs. We're in a bit of a hurry. We've got a lot of people waiting for the big event."

"Do I have time to button my jacket?" He was always taken aback by the American ability to be overly polite and unbearably rude at the same time. He followed Tustin through the swinging doors and into the lobby, where Tustin pinned a badge on his jacket and shepherded him past the security desk.

At three-thirty in the afternoon, the lobby was pleasantly busy. A steady stream of men and women churned past Kirov. White, black, mulatto, Asian, Hispanic- as many ethnic mixes as in the former Soviet Union. There was an eagerness to their faces, an alacrity to their step, a forthrightness in their demeanor, that both amazed and frightened him. Such confidence in the world. Such faith that the system would not disappoint. He was sure every one of them held a valid claim on dreams of expensive cars and luxury apartments and vacations in Paris. No doubt they already possessed color televisions, PCs, cellular telephones, digital cameras, Japanese stereos, and closets full of fine clothing, most of which they never wore. They owned refrigerators choked with fresh vegetables, eggs, milk, cheese, leftover Chinese food, soda, and foreign mineral water. Still, they ate out twice a week. They had bank accounts and ATM cards and Swiss watches and cable TV. Many owned automobiles. In short, they had everything. And look at them. Hungry as wolves for more. Bravo!