The First Billion

"You have not heard? Jean-Jacques is dead. He was in Zurich on his way to a short vacation. A robber surprised him and Claire in their hotel. They were both killed. It's terrible. I shudder." The baritone cracked and a tear rolled down Pillonel's cheek. He tried to keep a brave front, but a moment later a sob racked his chest, his stern mouth quivered, and he began to cry in earnest. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping at his eyes. "I don't know why I came to work. My wife told me to stay home. She said I was a fool to come."

"My condolences," said Byrnes, without sympathy. He wasn't surprised Pillonel was dead. The news hadn't hurried his pulse a beat. If anything, he experienced a brief and satisfying surge of justice done, even if it was cruel on his part. Jean-Jacques Pillonel was as responsible for his ruined thumbs as Boris. He deserved partial credit for the deaths in Florida, and if things didn't turn around quickly, they could stick him with the dismantling of Black Jet Securities, too.

Cautiously returning his gaze to his host, Byrnes caught a passing glimpse of his own reflection in the window. Dressed in a charcoal Brooks Brothers suit, hair neatly combed, thumbs discreetly bandaged, he actually looked presentable. A short discussion with the embassy's legal attaché, a man Byrnes pegged as the local CIA resident, had produced a diplomatic passport, an interest-free loan in the amount of a thousand dollars, and a ticket to Geneva the next morning with an onward connection to New York (including an armed escort onto the plane). A hot meal, a soft bed, and ten hours' sleep had done the rest. Moscow, Boris, and the dacha were quickly fading into a corner of his memory he hoped to rarely visit.

"There, I am better," Pierre Pillonel said after a minute, taking a last swipe at his nose. "Please excuse me."

The two men sat at a lacquered maple conference table, taking their time to unbutton their jackets and nap their slacks, uncap their pens, and take a sip of the mineral water that had been poured for them prior to their arrival.

"So?" said Pillonel, a false, professional smile pulling at his cheeks. "How may I be of assistance to you?"

"As you may know, Black Jet Securities is set to take Mercury Broadband public later today on the New York Stock Exchange," Byrnes began. "It's a large deal. A two-billion-dollar equity offering."

"I've read about it. Should I be asking to buy some shares?"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be such a good idea."

"Non? Why not?"

"Sadly, we've come into possession of evidence showing that Mercury is not exactly the company we sold our investors. Konstantin Kirov, Mercury's chairman, has been siphoning large sums of money from another of his investments, Novastar Airlines, and using the funds to inflate Mercury's balance sheet."

"When you say a large sum, you mean how much exactly?"

"Hundreds of millions of dollars."

"Dieu," Pillonel said under his breath.

Byrnes nodded in agreement. At least they were talking the same language. "Naturally we're canceling the offering. This morning before the opening bell, we'll announce that the IPO has been shelved indefinitely. It will be an embarrassment to Black Jet and a setback to Mercury Broadband, which we feel is still a vibrant, attractive company. We're quite upset at the development. As Mercury's bankers, we feel we should have spotted the problem earlier. If we'd chosen our partners more wisely this wouldn't have happened."

Byrnes let the words hang there, checking for a response from Pillonel- a sympathetic shrug, a world-weary sigh, an admission that "Yes, this could happen to any of us"- but the Swiss banker remained unmoved, his gaze not giving away a thing.

"Black Jet Securities has an obligation to shelter Mercury from Kirov's misdeeds," Byrnes continued. "We want to do everything possible to insure that Mercury's future as a viable enterprise does not suffer because of its chairman's bad behavior. I like to think the Russian government has a right to the money stolen from Novastar."

The mention of money lit a fire behind Pillonel's eyes. Abruptly, he sat straighter, lifting his chin from his neck. "But of course you are right. One cannot condone such behavior. These oligarchs are too much. They think the entire country is their own private fief. They steal a little from here, a little from there. Their conduct is deplorable." He took a sip of water and shrugged fatalistically. "But how do you hope to convince Mr. Kirov to give back the money?"

"I don't. He's a crook and a murderer. He'd never give it back. But I can convince you."

"Me?"