The First Billion

Silence reigned as John J. Gavallan, the firm's founder, majority shareholder, and guiding spirit, was sent their prayers. But only for five seconds- then the voices began to swell again. Standing at once among and apart from the assembly, Kirov felt a violent tick in his brain. Enough of the preliminaries. It was time to get to the main event. What had they priced the damn security at?

Finally, Tustin clinked his glass one more time.

"They say 'All's well that ends well,' " he intoned. "And, ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you this evening with news that the Mercury Broadband deal will end very well indeed!" Pulling a note card from his jacket, he slipped on a pair of bifocals. "I don't need these, but I hear they make me look sexy," he said, to a chorus of groans. Then he read: "After a three-week road show that took our executives from Shanghai to Stockholm, from Pittsburgh to Peoria, and after a total of seventy-four investor meetings, I am happy to offer the following comments: The Mercury order book stands at forty times oversubscribed. We have an unprecedented thirty ten-percent orders. And on one-to-one meetings, we scored a cumulative hit ratio of ninety-two percent."

Translated, Tustin's words meant that they had orders for forty times as many shares as they would allocate. Thirty of their clients had asked to take as much of the offering as Black Jet would give them. And 92 percent of the firms with whom Mercury executives had met to pitch the offering had put in orders. By any measure, it was an extraordinary success.

So much for the Private Eye-PO, scoffed Kirov silently. So much for Baranov and Gavallan and even Katya. There would be no mourning any of them. They had brought their fates upon themselves. No one ever said empire building was without pain.

Tustin continued over the sustained hollering and applause. "I guess there's only one piece of information left to give you guys. For that, let me turn the floor over to Tony." He walked over to Llewellyn-Davies and gave him a big bear hug. "Two Names, you done good."

"But seriously, folks, we have had some difficulties with Mercury," Llewellyn-Davies declared as his smile faded and his cheeks grew taut. "Like it or not, though, the time has come for us to put a price on this thing. So here goes. Based on the market's appetite for Mercury stock and using some valuation models of businesses in similar spaces, we've finally come up with something." He shot Meg Kratzer a glance. "This is going out on the hoot and holler, isn't it?"

Meg held up the speaker box. "You're going out live, Tony."

"Great," he said. "Super. So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, pricing. Ladies and gentlemen… Mr. Kirov… tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, shares of Mercury Broadband- ticker symbol MBB- will be issued at thirty dollars a share. Three dollars above our highest estimate!"

Llewellyn-Davies crossed the room and placed himself in front of Kirov.

"Mr. Kirov," he said formally, as if asking him to swear in court. "As chairman and majority shareholder of Mercury Broadband, do you accept the price?"

Kirov had already done the math. Thirty dollars a share brought the total offering to 2.2 billion dollars. Deducting Leonid's share and the underwriting expenses, he would still pocket over a billion dollars. And that was just for the 33 percent of the company that was being offered to the public. Were he to value a hundred percent of the shares, Mercury had a theoretical worth of nearly seven billion dollars.

"Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn-Davies, Mr. Tustin," he said. "On behalf of all my employees and colleagues at Mercury, I accept."

Applause erupted. Whistles and catcalls.

And taking a sip of champagne, Kirov thought, Screw Vanderbilt. Fuck Mr. Gould. I'm a Rockefeller now.

61

Sorry, sorry. It is too late. We are closed today. You go home to Moscow. Come here tomorrow."

He was tall and mustachioed and the name tag on his washed-out flight suit read "Grushkin, Colonel Pyotr R." His English was outstanding, if not his grammar. Bending to check a register on his desk, he scratched at his generous crop of iron gray hair and said, "No, come Wednesday instead. Tomorrow, I am booked. Mr. Hamada from Tokyo."

Gavallan and Cate were standing inside the cluttered operations office of the Grushkin Flight Academy, formerly known as Hulskvoe Air Force Base. The room smelled of sweat, cottonseed oil, and the lingering exhaust of high-octane jet fuel. One step inside had turned Gavallan's stomach to water. He was back where he'd never wanted to be again in his life.