Pliers.
X-Acto knife.
A vial of rubbing alcohol.
A roll of gauze.
A lamp hung above the table, the bulb weak, stuttering. A relentless, pulsating backbeat seeped through the walls, causing the lamp to sway as if they were at sea rocking on an easy swell. Somewhere above him, people were dancing. He thought of his children, children no longer, then pushed their faces from his mind. They did not belong here. He would not tarnish them with this filthy place.
The cone of light swung right, and he looked at the hand splayed on the coarse plank. It was hard not to think of it as another man’s hand. The thumb, raw, exposed, slick with blood, and lying next to it the thumbnail, extracted with a backstairs surgeon’s precision, broken into two rough-hewn pieces.
At some point, he’d taken a clinical approach to things. An objective view. The pain was his, no mistaking that: the shaft of fire bolting up his arm, the paralyzing scream starting far down in his belly, the cry desperate to escape, discovering the mouth stuffed with a rubber ball and secured with a length of duct tape. Yes, the pain was all his. But as the pliers dug deeper beneath the nail, as the X-Acto knife sliced away layer upon layer of stubborn connecting tissue, as Boris pulled and yanked and twisted, his apathetic, unshakable gaze never wavering, he’d given up the hand.
The beat from above grew louder. The walls quivered with the thud of the bass and he could make out patches of the music. “West End Boys.” Boris half sang a few words. Vest-ent boyz. He stopped and stared hard.
“You call?”
Grafton Byrnes listened to the music a moment longer, savoring it, knowing it to be the last taste of a sane universe. In the dark hours of his captivity, he had fashioned a plan, but it required patience. And patience meant more pain.
Eyes burning with defiance, he shook his head.
Boris reached for the pliers.
16
The invitation read:
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
A Fantasy, A Flirtation
The St. Jude Children’s Hospital’s 25th Annual Black and White Charity Ball
8 o’clock PM
Governor’s Ballroom,
The Fairmont Hotel
Gavallan stepped from the passenger seat of the Range Rover, adjusting his dinner jacket while his date for the evening circled the car to join him. He had just enough time to admire the fairy lamps strung across the portico, the baby ficuses and swirling cypresses dressed with tinsel and crepe to look like Shakespeare’s enchanted forest, before Nina Slenczka rushed to link arms with him and guide them up the maroon welcome carpet.
“Remember to smile, hon,” she said, her flack’s professional grin splitting her ruby red lips. “This one’s for the morning papers.”
Nina handled all of Black Jet’s PR, and to Gavallan’s mind the date was strictly business. Not to say he didn’t find her attractive. Twenty-nine years old, blond, petite, and lithe, she had dressed for the evening in a skintight black sheath, spaghetti straps, and just enough fabric to cover her nipples and navel, maybe a little more. Yes, she was attractive. Stunning even. But Gavallan wasn’t looking.
Gavallan paused in front of the bank of photographers to allow them a few seconds to rejigger their flashes and pop off a few shots.
“Let everyone see those baby blues,” Nina said, keeping a tight clutch on his arm, not letting him even think of moving on until the photographers were done. She might be a prig, but she knew her stuff when it came to corporate PR. She was right about the importance of his projecting a confident image, especially when one of his company’s issues was under fire.
It was a classic San Francisco evening. An offshore breeze had cleared out the cloud cover, leaving the sky clear, dusted with stars. Across the street from the Fairmont sat the Mark Hopkins Inter-Continental and down the block the Huntington Hotel and the California Club, a gentleman’s conclave so stodgy that only ten years ago it had refused entry to a serving mayor due to her sex.
A hundred years ago, Nob Hill had been home to the Big Four: Collis Huntington, Mark Hopkins, Chester Crocker, and Leland Stanford, the railroad and silver barons who’d built California. Setting foot on their stomping grounds, Gavallan never failed to feel bucked up, as if the tycoons had left behind some of their marauding spirit. Tonight was no exception.
Inside the ballroom, he made a beeline for the bar. It proved a long and arduous journey. Every two steps he was accosted by a friend or business acquaintance. Half were eager to congratulate him on the honor to be bestowed that evening, half to learn how the Mercury deal was likely to fare.
“I need a cassette player,” he whispered to Nina, after swallowing half of his vodka rocks. “I only need two answers: ‘Thank you’ and ‘Just fine.’ I’ll say I’m saving my voice for my speech.”
“Come on,” said Nina, “they’re your friends and they’re happy for you. You’re the star this evening. They have to pay their respects. It’s your duty to smile and play the good host.”
“And I shall not disappoint,” he said gallantly. Despite his distaste for glad-handing and small talk, he recognized that Nina was right, and that of all his duties, civility and good cheer were the ones he could guarantee were met.
Gavallan had been donating to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital for eight years, dedicating ever-larger chunks of his salary to the institution and its programs to battle children’s cancer, spina bifida, and infantile paralysis. He was quick to point out that he was hardly an ascetic. He had the house in Pacific Heights with the roomfuls of Kreiss furniture and Pratesi bedding. He wore whatever clothes he liked. Music came via the firm of Bang & Olufsen, stereo makers to the King of Denmark; television courtesy of a sleek Sony Plasma screen. He owned two Remington bronzes; some lithos by Branham Rendlen, a local artist he thought was dynamite; and, of course, the Mercedes.
There were other claims on his money. He saw to his mother’s needs, helped out with his sisters’ occasional purchases—washing machines here, new pickups there, schooling for their kids if they asked. He kept a fair amount in the bank, a little in stocks and bonds. (Or at least he had until he’d stuffed it all into his company.) He had enough to take care of him and his family in comfort should everything go to hell in a handbasket.
The rest he gave away.
The ballroom was filling up quickly. Elegant couples drifted through the carousel of tables, a monochromatic mélange of tuxedos, cocktail dresses, and ball gowns, laughing, chatting, and, to his eye, having a sincerely good time. San Franciscans enjoyed their liquor, and under the influence of a stiff drink or two their voices began to rise and fill the room with a jolly din.
Gavallan ordered another drink, then asked Nina if she wouldn’t mind going to their table. Bruce Jay Tustin and Tony Llewellyn-Davies were already seated, Tustin with his wife, Nadia, Two Names with his partner, Giles, another wayward Brit. Meg sat at the adjoining table with her husband of forty years, Harry.
Gavallan greeted his guests with exaggerated bonhomie. He wanted it clear that the day’s problems were behind them. Tonight they could relax and let their hair down. “Don’t I know you nice folks?” he called, lending his voice a bit of the old Rio Grande twang.
The table stood as one. To Caesar, his due.
“Look who’s here,” said Bruce Jay Tustin. “And I thought security was supposed to keep the riffraff out. Do you have a ticket, young man?”
Meg sprang from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. “Congratulations, Jett. We’re all so proud. You done good.”
And then the others were up, shaking his hand, hugging him, treating him like a returning war hero. It was easy to forget that he’d only left them two hours earlier.
“Seriously, Jett, we’re honored to share this evening with you,” sounded Tony Llewellyn-Davies. “Believe it or not, we care about you deeply.” He held Gavallan at arm’s length, then proclaimed, “Oh, what the hell. I’ll say it for everyone. We love you and we’re overjoyed to
be here. And that’s the last nice word you’ll get from any of us this evening.” And with that he gave Gavallan a peck on the cheek.
“Here, here,” added Giles, a handsome youth in his twenties. The two-carat diamond stud in his ear and eighteen-karat gold Cartier on his wrist hinted that his interest in Tony was more pecuniary than personal. Gavallan hoped his friend wasn’t being played for the sap.
“The honor is mine, ladies and gents,” he said, touched by the outpouring of affection. “It’s rare that you get to work with your friends, and for that I feel both privileged and grateful. Now enough of this smarmy nonsense. Let’s sit down and enjoy the evening.” Raising his glass, he quoted from Bum Phillips, former coach of the Houston Oilers and honorary “good old boy.” “Every man have a drink. Every good man have two!”
“Hoo-yeah!” shouted Tustin, glass raised high.
Gavallan clinked glasses with Tustin and his wife, Two Names, Giles, Meg, Harry, and Nina. He couldn’t help but think of the one man who was missing from their ranks. After everyone quieted, he raised his glass again.
“To Grafton Byrnes. Let’s pray for his health and safe return.”
It was midnight in Potomac, Maryland. Streets in the leafy suburb were so calm as to be deserted. A warm, gusty evening breeze carried the sweet scent of cut grass and the merry sawing of crickets. On Dumbarton Road, the lights in most houses were dimmed, the occupants asleep. But in the Vann residence, a stuttering spectral light glowed from the second-floor dormer windows.
In his bedroom, Jason Vann dashed from computer to computer, pausing long enough to type in a sentence or two, before moving to the next. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. A hunted look shadowed his drawn face. Round and round he went, enraptured by this game of his creation. A game of cat and mouse. Vann was after the Private Eye-PO. He was trying to lure him into the open, and his bait was praise and scorn and disbelief and any number of the hundred emotions that stock enthusiasts routinely express.
At that moment, he was working five characters on the IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, and they were discussing the Mercury Broadband IPO to be brought to market in five days by Black Jet Securities. Mario was a high school student who was president of his stock club. Julie was a middle-class housewife who grew interested in the market after her husband had lost all of their money. Al was a New York know-it-all, a seasoned investor, and a veteran of many (losing) campaigns. Krystof was a programmer of Polish descent who believed that the stock market was every immigrant’s way to riches. Heidi was a computer science teacher in Mamaroneck, New York, who had just invested her first five thousand dollars. And they all lived in a twisted corner of Jason Vann’s conniving mind.
Al: The market’s gonna gobble up Mercury like a pastrami sandwich. I’m saying double the first day. Think positive.
Krystof: You are sure? I also think it time for big success again.
Heidi: Is it safe?
Mario: I doubled our stock club’s fund investing solely in IPOs last year. But be careful. Didn’t you see the latest news?
Julie: Where were you when my husband started trading?
Al: The Private Eye-PO don’t know his ass from his elbow. He’s probably a trader pushing his own stocks, knocking down the others. Caution!
Vann rushed from chair to chair, simulating the voices and thoughts of these five would-be investors. He’d spent three hours online introducing them, getting them into a chat room and allowing them to grow comfortable talking in the open. His job was to create a fictitious universe the Private Eye-PO might stumble upon and wish to join. So far he hadn’t had a nibble. He was getting discouraged. It was time to up the ante.
Mario: I disagree. I think he’s the only one we can trust. I follow his advice to the letter. If he’s a trader, he’s a darn good one. Remember what he called Mercury? A scam dog!
Julie: Sounds like you’re the Private Eye-PO himself, Mario. Come on, tell us the truth!!
Mario: Ha, ha.
Krystof: Who is this Private Eye-PO? In Poland, you never trust man who does not tell you name. I mean, his name. Excuse me.
Al: No way a company like Black Jet is gonna touch Mercury if it’s got problems. No way. Be real. I saw Gavallan on CNBC. The guy’s a pro. He was a pilot!
Vann had slid back into Mario’s chair when a new name popped onto the screen.
Val: Pros, schmoes. Make up own mind. I buy Mercury and buy big. I have own sources. Nay to Private Eye-PO.
Dismayed, Vann frowned. No way was Val the Private Eye-PO. He sounded like a foreigner. Jumping into Krystof’s chair, he tried a ruse.
Krystof [in Polish]: Hello, new friend. Welcome. You are a fellow Pole, perhaps?
Val [in Polish]: From Gdansk. The great Lech Walesa’s home. And you?
“Score!” cried Vann aloud, grabbing a Nerf basketball and stuffing it for a quick two points. Then, collapsing back into Krystof’s chair, he typed:
Krystof [in Polish]: Kraków. I left in ‘98.
Vann, whose father’s real name was Wladisaw Vanniewski, didn’t dare add more. His Polish was rusty; anything more than the basics would expose him as a phony. Anxious to keep the dialogue afloat, he moved to Heidi’s chair.
Heidi: A friend of mine is from Warsaw. He made a fortune buying tech stocks. Can they still go up?
There was always at least one total idiot in any chat room.
Val: They can only go up. Mercury will lead way. To heaven!
Boy, thought Vann. He’s a real supporter. As he slid back into Al’s chair, another name popped onto the screen.
Spade: Hey, kids, you want the inside skinny? Talk to me. Your very own celebrity reporter has come to the rescue. Heidi, dear, listen closely to me if you want the oop-scay on Mercury. All the rest of you neophytes, am-scray!
Vann froze in his chair, eyes wide. “Spade” as in Sam Spade. As in the Private Eye-PO. Could it be? Scooting his chair closer to the computer, he felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. The bait had worked. The fish was on the line.
Wiping his forehead, Jason Vann smiled.
Now he just had to reel him in.
The first course had been cleared. Peter Duchin and his orchestra had begun to play an up-tempo version of “Witchcraft,” the vocalist doing a very acceptable Sinatra. Couples flocked from their tables to the dance floor. Deciding he’d done enough penance for one evening, Gavallan turned to Nina and asked if he might have the next dance.
“Sorry, Jett, but I’ve promised Giles. He’s dying to cut the rug.”
Gavallan smiled understandingly, though he was a little irked. While same-sex partners might be permitted at society functions, their dancing with each other was still touchy. If Tony or Giles wanted to dance, it had to be with a member of the opposing team. Gavallan thought the whole thing ridiculous. He couldn’t care less who did what with whom as long as they were happy. Still, Nina was his date and he wanted to dance. “Try and save one for me, will you?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
Gavallan watched the happy couple dodge their way to the dance floor, then stood up and set off in the opposite direction. The path to the bar looked mercifully clear of congestion. If he moved swiftly, he might make it scot-free. Fifteen seconds later he was there, leaning against the oak railing and perusing his choices. Whiskey had been his daddy’s drink, but Gavallan preferred vodka. Spotting a familiar bottle with yellow script, he decided on one more of the usual. And why not? It wasn’t often you put all your chips on red and gave the wheel a spin. After a day like today, a guy deserved to get hammered. It might even add a few laughs to his speech.
“Hey, chief,” he called to the bartender. “Let me have an Absolut Citron.”
“How would you like it, sir?”
“Rocks, no twist,” answered a playful feminine voice behind him. “And pour it heavy.”
Gavallan felt a hand brush his shoulder and turned to face a tall dark-haired woman with glossy bangs that fell shy of amused green e
yes.
“That’s my line,” he said.
“And my drink. You stole it.”
She had chosen white for the evening, a simple cotton shift that fell to her knees. Her luxuriant hair had been cut short and barely brushed her shoulders. She wore only a trace of makeup—a dash of eyeliner and a shadow of rouge. She’d never liked coming to these fancy dos. She refused to wear high heels and was shy about her shoulders, complaining they were better suited to a lumberjack than a society maiden. She was his tomboy in waiting. His eyes passed over the swell of her breasts, the planes of her belly, the curve of her hips, remembering.
“Hello, Cate,” he said. “You look wonderful.”
“I wish I could say the same. You look tired. What happened? Some of your clients beating you up over that last IPO? Trivium, wasn’t it?”
“Trillium,” he corrected her. “And don’t be snippy.” Trillium Systems was a maker of enhanced circuit boards whose shares had traded down 50 percent the first week of trading. No one batted a thousand. “Just the usual really. Trying to keep the boat afloat. I’ll have to have a word with the shaman to help me out.”
“You and your shaman.” Cate Magnus’s hand went to his cheeks. She leaned closer and checked his eyes. “You okay?”
Suddenly he remembered how overwrought she could become. He used to tease her that she’d been programmed with an extra sensitivity chip. “I’m fine. Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Cate patted his chest lightly, a sign she’d checked him over and he was in fine fettle. “So is the twenty-million-dollar man ready to entertain the troops? How’s the speech? Did you actually write something down or did you plan on winging it?”
Gavallan hadn’t given the hospital twenty million dollars outright, but pledged it in annual increments of one million dollars. The third installment was thirty days past due. Not a word had been spoken about the tardy donation.
The First Billion Page 13