The First Billion

And then he saw it. Pump Station 2. A necklace of orange lights glimmering far on the horizon. A wisp of smoke rose from the power plant. No homing signal could have been better. Despite his training, Team Leader Abel's throat swelled and grew tight.

He raised three fingers.

***

Passing through the doors at 18 Broad Street, Gavallan received his visitor's badge, walked through the metal detector, then slid through the turnstiles that governed admittance to the Exchange. He'd been on the floor a dozen times over the years, yet he never entered the building without getting a certain buzz in the hollow of his stomach. It was no different this morning, except that coiled among his normal feelings of awe and respect was the unmistakable frisson of danger.

Dodson followed him closely, showing his badge, and Roy DiGenovese entered next. Mr. Chupik had stayed in the car. He'd needed only three minutes to open Pillonel's files. Scrolling page by page, transfer by transfer, deposit, by deposit, through Novastar's banking history, Dodson had looked on with a reverent gaze, saying the same words over and over again: "Well, ain't that sweet."

"Miss Magnus doesn't care to join us?" Dodson asked once the three men had assembled in the small foyer just inside the entryway.

"I think she'd prefer to wait outside. She's seen enough." Gavallan didn't add that Kirov was her father, or that she had plenty to do on her own outside the building. Some things the FBI didn't need to know.

"A rough few days, Mr. Gavallan?"

"You can say that."

"I know you had wished to speak with Mr. Kirov alone. Fine by us. Still, I'm sure you'll be happy to know we've taken some steps to see that Mr. Kirov does not flee the premises. If you'll just follow me for a moment."

Dodson led the way down a short corridor, stopping at an unmarked door and knocking once. An African-American agent wearing a navy windbreaker with the yellow letters FBI stenciled on its breast poked his head out the door and said, "Kirov's here. We got him on the closed circuit. He's just leaving the specialist's booth. Did you get what you wanted?"

Dodson grinned while patting the man's shoulder. "You have no idea, Agent Haynes." The grin disappeared, and Dodson found his no-nonsense self. "Our operation is a go. Alert building security that we will be making an arrest. It might be wise to trade your windbreakers for some trading jackets. And bring along a few of your men. Calm, brisk, and orderly, Agent Haynes. Am I clear? We keep our weapons concealed at all times."

As the agents conferred, Gavallan peeked into the waiting room. Eight men and women dressed in the same navy windbreakers stood around drinking coffee, shooting the shit, and checking the pumps on their street-sweeper shotguns. It was the FBI's Tuesday morning coffee klatch.

"They're going to stay in here, right?" he asked.

"Strictly backup. I'm sure we won't have the slightest need for them."

"All right then," said Gavallan. "Let's go."

67

Cate waited in front of the visitors' entrance to the Exchange, pacing back and forth, craving a cigarette, though she'd never smoked in her life. The morning air was cool and invigorating, the sidewalk bathed in the shadow of the surrounding skyscrapers. Still, she was sweating. Every minute or so, she checked her watch. Where was he?

She searched the parade of faces, men and women walking purposefully up and down the street. Businessmen in three-piece suits, tourists in shorts and T-shirts, artists carrying sketchbooks and easels. At the corner of Wall Street and Broad, street vendors were selling black-and-white photos of Manhattan, magazines, financial texts. The pavement pulsated with the vibrant human cargo. Hugging her arms around herself, Cate wondered if she was doing the right thing. She knew very well the consequences of her actions. Once taken, there would be no going back.

"He'll serve two or three years, tops. And there's no guarantee of that," Pillonel had scoffed in the archives of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's headquarters. "Besides, it's not the government he should be afraid of, it's his partner."

She thought of the nasty little dacha north of Moscow, the crude torture chamber with its floor stained black by blood. She remembered Alexei and Ray Luca. She forced herself to imagine the countless others who had suffered or died at Kirov's hands, and the countless more who would surely follow. The blood ties to her father, frayed and fragile, unraveled yet further and finally broke, taking with them her doubt. Someone had to stop her father. At last, she had a way.

A tented canopy had been erected on the sidewalk. Beneath it, two long tables were stacked high with caps and T-shirts bearing the Mercury logo. Handsome young men and women were giving the merchandise to passersby, along with brochures describing the company. Cate looked on, disgusted. It was a fraud, a farce, a fairy tale with a very unhappy ending.