The First Billion

by Christopher Reich

  Lyle Chupik was the Bureau’s in-house webhead and the man who’d been charged with tracking down the Private Eye-PO.

  “Nothing yet, sir,” said DiGenovese. “Says he’s close to nabbing him, though.”

  “Close?” Dodson lifted a thumb beneath his suspenders and let them slap on his chest. “Close don’t count but for horseshoes and hand grenades. Isn’t that right, Mr. DiGenovese? Mr. Gavallan seems to think he’ll have him located today. That leaves us one step behind. And I don’t like stomping through another horse’s droppings,” he whispered, with just a smattering of menace. “Follow?”

  “Likewise, sir.”

  “Good boy. It’s time we considered using an outside source. Find me the name of that odd fella does some consulting for us. If I’m not mistaken, he doesn’t live too far away. Get him in here this afternoon and put him to work. Here’s a dollar. Go buy Mr. Chupik a couple of those chocolate Yoo-Hoos he’s so fond of, and tell him better luck next time.”

  Howell Ames Dodson IV was a Son of the South and ever proud of it. He was tall and lanky, with a shock of brown hair that fell boyishly into devilish blue eyes that teased the world from behind a scholar’s half-moon glasses. He favored poplin suits in the summer, worsted gabardine in the fall, and the finest manners all year round. He liked smartly striped shirts, exuberant ties, snazzy cuff links, and pocket squares. He was foppish and a bit of a dandy, and if anyone cared to say a word about it, he’d point them to his unmatched arrest-to-conviction ratio, the commendations he’d received from the President of the United States, and a certain article in the Washington Post he kept tucked away in his desk for just such occasions.

  The article described the shooting of four Georgian mafiosi by an unnamed FBI agent in a sting gone sour in the city of Tbilisi late last summer. The article was sketchy in parts. It failed to mention that the agent had shot the men after escaping from their custody or that he’d pulled off the feat fifteen minutes after having two fingers on his left hand severed with a carpet knife.

  Sliding the digital recorder toward himself, Dodson listened to the pirated conversation again. “So, Roy,” he said when the recording ended. “Think our boy isn’t content with a little innocent fraud? That why you asked for this crash meeting? According to you, Mr. Gavallan’s joining the big leagues. Premeditated murder is moving up the ladder p.d.q., wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sir, the Mercury offering is for two billion dollars,” answered DiGenovese, leaning across the desk. “Leagues don’t get much bigger than that.”

  “No, son, they do not,” said Dodson, rocking in his chair, tapping a pencil on his weathered shipwright’s desk, a nineteenth-century antique on loan from the Dodson Family Collection. “Just wish that damned recording didn’t make them all sound like robots. Hard to tell if Gavallan’s joking or if he’s serious.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, when an associate of a known criminal talks about permanently getting rid of someone, I think that qualifies as serious. Our job is to take a man at his word, not to guess his intentions.”

  Such fire, mused Dodson, looking at the lean, vital young man seated across the desk. Such drive. His hair was ruffled, his suit wrinkled and in need of a press, but his black eyes were awake and dancing with a mean-spirited ambition. DiGenovese was the kind of agent who wanted to arrest the whole damned world to keep it safe for the police.

  “Come now, Roy, we both know that conversation doesn’t amount to a hill of beans,” he said kindly. “It wouldn’t hold a drop in any court in the land. Between you and me, I doubt it would even garner an indictment from so docile a beast as a sitting grand jury. I will grant you one thing, though: It does appear that Mr. Gavallan and Mr. Kirov are closer friends than any of us thought.”

  Dodson could have added that contrary to DiGenovese’s opinion, Kirov was hardly a known criminal, but he didn’t want to dampen the boy’s enthusiasm. DiGenovese’s killer instinct was about all the task force had going for it these days. Truth was, Kirov hadn’t ever been charged with a crime, let alone convicted. Not that Dodson didn’t think Kirov was dirty. It was just that these days you could label any businessman worth his salt in Russia a suspected criminal. What with all the bribery, extortion, and strong-arming that went on to make the wheels of everyday commerce go round, if you looked closely enough just about anybody was guilty of one infraction or another.

  “Now do tell, Roy, what did your team find in Mr. Gavallan’s private chambers? Love notes between him and Mr. Kirov? Written promises about how they’re going to split the booty? Plans to overthrow the President?”

  “No sir,” DiGenovese answered without a hint of regret, going on to explain that they hadn’t found any documents of an incriminating nature, not with regard to Mercury, Novastar Airlines, or anything else. The bugs were clean too. Only thing they learned was that Gavallan liked to listen to country music. Before going to the ball last night, he’d sat in the bath for half an hour singing along to Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys.

  “Bob Wills, eh?” asked Dodson, cleaning his bifocals with a hankie. “At least Mr. Gavallan has himself some taste. Still, it is a shame. Going to all that trouble for nothing. A damned shame indeed.” And though his voice displayed no irritation, he was, in fact, hopping mad. Howell Dodson wanted Kirov more than the headstrong Mr. DiGenovese or Mr. Baranov combined. It wasn’t ambition but realism that told him the trajectory of his career depended on it.

  Konstantin Kirov had popped onto the Bureau’s radar half a year back, when Yuri Baranov had launched an investigation into allegations Kirov was embezzling from Novastar Airlines, the country’s recently privatized national carrier. Three months into the case, the Russian authorities had managed to slip an informant into Kirov’s head office. Since that time, all he’d unearthed were a few documents relating to some shell companies in Switzerland and Kirov’s connection with the Dashamirov brothers, a trio of Chechen warlords-cum-businessmen with whom he held interests in some aluminum smelting factories in Perm and a chain of used-car dealerships. As for Novastar, they hadn’t managed to find a thing linking Kirov to the missing $125 million, and Dodson had his doubts as to whether the Russian was involved at all—or, to be honest, whether the money was missing in the first place.

  The link to Gavallan came as an adjunct to the Novastar inquiry. Baranov’s informant had whispered that Mercury Broadband was being used to launder the funds Kirov had skimmed from Novastar. Hence the surveillance on Gavallan. Hence the “Daisy” taps that monitored every E-mail going into and out of Black Jet securities. So far, the Russian stoolie hadn’t provided a shred of evidence to back up his claims, and Dodson had taken to wondering if the scuttlebutt on Mercury’s Moscow operations center and its failure to purchase adequate routers and switches for its IP backbone weren’t just diversions to justify the informant’s five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer, all of which came from Howell Dodson’s operational budget.

  “Sir, I’d like to bring in Gavallan immediately,” suggested DiGenovese. “Rustle his feathers a little, question him about his dealings with Kirov.”

  “The point being?” asked Dodson, with a little pepper. “Only thing you’d get out of him is an invitation to speak with his lawyer. No, son, we’ll bring in Gavallan if and when we charge him with a crime. Right now, let’s keep the focus on Mr. Kirov, where it belongs.”

  “But, sir—”

  Dodson cut him short with an icy glare. Like every agent who worked for the FBI, he thought twice these days about whom he did and did not arrest. After Whitewater and the special prosecutor’s spending forty million dollars of the public’s money for little more than a cum-stained dress and a couple of iffy convictions, the government had become more demanding before allowing its lawyers to get involved. These days, the powers that be were asking for a 90 percent probability of conviction before they’d even look at a case. Law enforcement had become a business. Guys like Howell Dodson had to demonstrate a good ROA if they wanted to move up in the ranks,
“ROA” meaning “return on attorneys,” not assets. And that “return” was convictions.

  “Trouble with you, Roy, is that you’ve got too much piss and vinegar running through your veins. This isn’t some Sunday afternoon raid in downtown Mogadishu. We are conducting a sound and systematic investigation into the alleged wrongdoings of some very sophisticated personalities. Time we slow down, examine the evidence.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, amen,” sang Dodson. “Finally, we agree on something.” And he offered his subordinate an approving nod to let him know there were no hard feelings.

  Dodson had come to the Bureau late in life, abandoning a promising career as a CPA with an international accounting firm to help balance the scales of justice. Taxes were his bag, but sometime after his thirtieth birthday he’d undergone a conversion. The private sector wasn’t for him, he decided. Helping one bigwig after another whittle down their tax exposure brought scant satisfaction. He certainly didn’t need the money. The Dodsons were comfortable, thank you very much, Southern planters who’d moved from corn to tobacco to semiconductors without a backward glance. So on a whim, he quit, joined the FBI, and became a thirty-one-year-old neophyte loping over the O-course at Quantico, acing his criminal justice exams, and taking target practice with an H&K 9mm. Time of his life.

  As chairman of the Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime—or the “ratfuckers,” as some wiseacre in forensics had nicknamed it—Howell Dodson’s mandate was to corral acts of racketeering associated with business endeavors aimed toward the West. In sixty months of operations they’d jailed crooked oil salesmen, murderous rug merchants, and every type of illegal operator in between.

  Of late, however, pickings had been lean. Nine months had passed since the last arrest was made, and talk had surfaced about shuttering the task force, assigning its members to more productive areas of the Bureau. Feelers were put out to Dodson about taking a posting to Mexico City as the Bureau’s liaison to the Federales. It was a lateral move in title, but came with a higher pay-grade salary and a diplomatic allowance. Dodson read it as recompense for his two fingers and wanted none of it. Margaritas, mariachis, and menudo, he summed it up, cringing at the prospect. No, gracias.

  Mr. John J. Gavallan hadn’t been the only man cheering when Kirov entered his life.

  “Roy, I want you to humor me,” said Dodson, easing back in his chair. “If you’re so sure Gavallan’s in cahoots with Kirov, start from the get-go and make your case against him. It’ll be good for you to polish those argumentative skills. But make it quick. The missus is due in any minute.”

  Dodson had recently become a father for the second time. At the age of forty-two, he’d been presented with twin baby boys to go along with his sixteen-year-old daughter. Every day at noon, Mrs. Dodson stopped by to leave her boisterous infants with their father while she whipped by Lord & Taylor and Britches of Georgetown to pick up a few household necessities.

  “I’ll do my best,” said DiGenovese, rising from his chair and striding to a bookshelf. Between legal tomes and hefty accounting manuals, room had been cleared for a changing pad, a stack of diapers, and wipes.

  “Gavallan’s company has hit the skids,” he began, pacing slowly, using his hands effectively. “Three years ago, he was on his way to joining the big boys; now he’s treading water while guys are passing him left and right. In the last nine months, he’s made three infusions of cash into the company to counter quarterly losses and keep his underwriting status with the SEC. Around twenty million and change if I’m not mistaken. The banking records we subpoenaed show he hasn’t taken any salary in six months. Bottom line: The guy’s hurting and he needs a savior.”

  “If I might interject. Black Jet was hardly the only company interested in Mercury. All the big-name firms were courting Kirov. Any of them would have jumped at the chance to take his company public.”

  “And loan him the fifty million to boot?”

  “It is a bank’s business last time I checked,” said Dodson.

  DiGenovese grinned madly, the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “Thank you, sir. You just made my case. If anyone would have loaned Kirov the dough, why did Kirov choose Black Jet over so many larger, more prestigious firms—the Merrills and Lehmans of this world? Gavallan’s never done a deal in Russia. He’s never done an IPO valued at more than a billion dollars. Now, all of a sudden he’s taking a Russian company public for two billion. By what stroke of good fortune did Kirov fall into his lap? Let me tell you. Because Gavallan’s the only one desperate enough to overlook all of Mercury’s shortcomings. Because he and Kirov are thick as thieves in this thing. Because both of them are dying to pull this deal off.”

  “Dear me, you are drawing a picture of a very cold man. Not exactly the type I’d bet on to donate twenty million to a children’s hospital.”

  “Window dressing,” declared DiGenovese. He’d unbuttoned his jacket and was stalking the room like a wolf in his den. “So far he’s given two mil, and he’s a month late on this year’s pledge. Five’ll get you ten he never delivers.” Abruptly, he stopped his pacing and thrust his hands on Dodson’s desk, his peasant’s jaw jutting forward. “Mercury’s a phony, sir. Kirov’s got it dolled up to look like AOL when it’s really CompuServe. Gavallan’s in bed with him, and together they’re going to pull the wool over investors’ eyes and pocket the takings. You see what he’s pulling down on fees for this deal? Something like seventy million dollars? Seventy million!”

  “My, my, Roy,” drawled Dodson appreciatively. “That would make Mr. Gavallan even more ambitious than you. Isn’t that a scary thought? One thing is for certain: Mr. Gavallan’s not in this alone. In the first place, Black Jet didn’t even do all of the due diligence on this thing. I don’t know how many lawyers and accountants and consultants he had signing off on Mercury, but believe me it was a lot. You saying they’re part of this, too?”

  “Never know.”

  Dodson nudged his glasses to the end of his nose. “Quite a conspiracy you’re cooking up, Roy. Seen any Kennedys flitting around out there in never-never land? Or just Peter Pan and Jett Gavallan?”

  Rummaging in his ashtray for a rubber band or two, he wrapped them around his index and middle fingers and, kicking his feet up onto the desk, began to spin the bands forward and back. He liked the bent of the argument, if he wasn’t convinced of its veracity. He thought of the transfer to Mexico City, the traffic, the bad water, the horrid food—enchiladas, Heaven forbid—and came to a quick and rational decision that the American angle was just what they needed to drum some new life into the investigation.

  A billion-dollar fraud involving a Russian oligarch, a former fighter pilot, and that holy of all holies, the New York Stock Exchange. It was practically treason. He caught himself thinking that the press would have a field day and the man who put Jett Gavallan behind bars would be instantly famous. He stopped himself there. All the infighting, posturing, and backbiting were getting to him. Still, for a last second he couldn’t help but imagine that the man who put Gavallan behind bars would have a south-facing office and the promotion to assistant director that came with it.

  Rising from his desk, Howell Dodson strode to the window. The harsh glare showed off wrinkles near the eyes normally unseen, a determined cast to the jaw, and a nasty downturn of his pale, fleshy lips. Suddenly, he didn’t look so boyish anymore, not every inch the amiable Southern gentleman he pretended to be. Get close enough to any man, he would say, and you could glimpse his true nature. And underneath his easygoing drawl and unflappable smile, Howell Dodson was a nasty sumbitch who did not like to get beaten.

  Just then, the cries of his two baby boys exploded from down the hallway. A moment later, a trim, very blond woman bustled through the door, a wailing infant in each arm. Rushing to greet his wife and sons, Dodson softened his expression into a broad smile.

  “Hello, Jefferson. Hello, Davis. And how are my two little generals this mornin’?”

 
21

  A momentary lull had descended on the trading floor at Black Jet Securities. Phones had stopped ringing—or blinking, as has become their convention—conversation had fallen to a whisper, the shuttle of chairs to and fro between desks had come to a halt. “A rest between rounds,” Gavallan liked to call it on good days. Or “the calm before the storm” on bad ones.

  Incisex stock had begun trading on Nasdaq—the National Association of Securities Dealers’ Automated Quotation System—thirty minutes earlier at 6:55. Ticker symbol CSXI—pronounced “sexy”—Incisex was a pioneer in the field of nanotechnology, the branch of science concerned with building sophisticated engineering devices—engines, motors, valves—on a submicron scale. The company’s breakthrough product was a battery-powered valve no bigger than the head of a needle that when surgically implanted into a coronary artery restored proper blood flow to the heart. For men and women suffering from arteriosclerosis or any vasocirculatory problems (and for their cardiologists), it was a godsend. The IPO would net Incisex seventy-five million dollars, funds it would use to move into larger facilities and to upgrade its research and development efforts. Black Jet’s fee was the standard 7 percent of the offering.

  “Seventeen bid, seventeen and a quarter ask,” announced Bruce Jay Tustin from his post behind a dozen color screens and monitors. “We’re going up, up, up!”

  The issue had been priced at $14 a share and after thirty minutes of trading, demand had lifted the shares 20-odd percent to $17. Checking a screen above Tustin’s shoulder, Gavallan saw that buyers outnumbered sellers three to one. It was a far cry from the bonanza days when one new issue after another would double or triple on its first day of trading, but Gavallan wasn’t complaining. In a rational world, a first day’s gain of 20 percent qualified Incisex stock as “popping” all the same.

  “I think we can open the champagne now,” he said to an assembly of four men and two women standing to one side of the room. “Mr. Kwok, would you do the honors?”