The First Billion

by Christopher Reich

  On cue, Wing Wu Kwok, a newly hatched associate who had accompanied the Incisex brain trust on their two-week road show across America, uncorked a bottle of Moët & Chandon, filled a half dozen flutes, and offered round a silver tray bearing beluga caviar, toast points, and china dishes brimming with chopped egg white and diced onion.

  Gavallan accepted a glass of bubbly and raised it high. “To Incisex and that rarest of all marriages—profit and the public good. Cheers!”

  There were huzzahs all around. Hugs and handshakes followed the clinking of glasses.

  “May the sun be ever in your eyes,” Tustin chimed in, “and the wind at your ass.”

  “Here, here.” Gavallan managed a smile, but just barely. Two hours’ sleep had left him exhausted and haggard. With Grafton Byrnes’s predicament increasingly weighing on him, it was difficult to maintain a cheerful façade. If no one had remarked upon the dark circles beneath his eyes, it was only because he was the boss.

  For a few minutes, he mingled with the executives from Incisex, taking refuge from his worry in the cloak of chief executive. He slapped some backs, he partook of the caviar, he extolled his clients’ rosy future. But even as half his mind concentrated on projecting a carefree exterior, the other half remained fraught with doubt. Two words from his best friend had turned Cate Magnus’s hotly worded suspicions about Kirov and Mercury into Gavallan’s worst nightmare.

  “Everything’s copacetic.”

  Gavallan had to imagine the rest. Grafton Byrnes was being held against his will somewhere in Russia and would never return. He knew too much. He was sure to be killed, if he wasn’t dead already. It was all that simple. That terrible.

  Pondering his conclusions, a new thought dawned on Gavallan, one that his trusting mind decided was more frightening than the rest. If Kirov felt so secure that the Mercury offering would come to market that he would risk kidnapping Byrnes, he had to have someone in place at Black Jet to push through the offering despite the chairman’s opposition, someone highly enough placed in the company that he might persuade Jett that Byrnes’s disappearance was a coincidence, nothing more.

  As quickly as it had come, the lull on the trading floor abated. Lights began flashing on the checkerboard consoles that connected Black Jet to over a hundred banks, brokerages, and financial institutions around the world. Voices boomed as traders greeted their clients with news of the strong offering. Casters groaned as the bankers recommenced their daylong jitterbug.

  The trading room of Black Jet occupied the entire western length of the fortieth floor. Desks ran perpendicular to floor-to-ceiling windows, twelve carrier decks bisected by a flight tower constructed from the newest in flat-screen monitors. Currencies were to the left of the room, followed by bonds, options, and finally, equities, both domestic and international. Chairs were situated at four-foot intervals and nearly every post was occupied by a man or woman, standing, seated, or in some pose in between. One hundred forty traders in all, and when things heated up, the place took on the frenetic currents of a Middle Eastern bazaar. It was the Casbah gone California, Evian and Odwallah replacing hookahs and hashish.

  Gavallan leaned a hand on Tustin’s desk, marveling at his ability to goad the price of the stock ever higher. Picking up a receiver, he patched himself into Tustin’s call.

  “Hey, Brucie, what d’ya got for me on Incisex?” The voice belonged to Frank MacMurray, a trader at Merrill Lynch.

  “Her name’s ‘sexy’ and I can give you a block of ten thousand at 18.”

  “Eighteen? Last bid’s 171⁄2. Gimme a break.”

  “Got ten other johns lined up right behind you, Frankie,” Tustin said. “But listen, pal, since you’re cute, I’ll cut it to 177⁄8. Buy or fly.”

  “Done, and get me ten more at the same price.”

  “You’re filled.”

  Tustin aimed a finger at another flashing button, this one connecting him with Fidelity Investments, the nation’s largest manager of mutual funds. “Yallo, Charlie, what are you looking for?”

  Gavallan knew from reading the “book” that Fidelity was a buyer of Incisex. They’d loved the stock’s story and planned to build a position in it in one of their biotech funds. Accordingly, they’d given an indication they’d take 10 percent of the issue. No one firm would be allotted a full 10 percent of the offering—in this case over five hundred thousand shares. As it was important that Incisex had a broad and liquid market, Black Jet had a duty to sell shares to a great many customers, some of whom were retail brokerages—Merrill Lynch, Paine Webber, Bear Stearns and the like—that would in turn pass on their allotments to their own clients. To say you wanted 10 percent was equivalent to requesting as much of the new issue as Black Jet might give you. Powerhouses like Fidelity, Strong, Janus, and Vanguard couldn’t waste time following small positions in hundreds of stocks. When they committed to a new stock, they expected the issue manager to help them acquire a meaningful stake in the company, somewhere upward of 2 percent of the offering. All through the day, Fidelity would be phoning to buy more shares—especially as the price continued to rise.

  “Yo, Brucie, give me everything you got at 18.”

  Tustin checked his screens for available shares. Many of Black Jet’s clients had bought the stock not to buy, but to “flip”—that is, to sell after an hour or two with the expectation of making a small, risk-free profit.

  “Got you five grand at 18 and another five at 18 and a teeny,” said Tustin. A teeny was a sixteenth of a point. It was Tustin’s job to mark up the stock each time he made a sale as a commission to Black Jet. The amount of his markup depended a lot on how good the client was. In the case of Fidelity, one of the firm’s best clients, he would slap on a sixteenth at most. “And this just in: a block of twenty thousand at 183⁄8. You a buyer?”

  “Send ’em over,” said Charlie. “We’re buying and we’re buying big. We’re starting to feel good about this baby.”

  Tustin put down the phone, grinning like a madman. “Five days from now, it’ll be Mercury’s turn. Two billion dollars. Oh yeah, we’re hitting the big time!”

  “Yeah, Mercury,” said Gavallan, the words stale in his mouth. “Great.”

  Tustin stared at him oddly. “You okay, Jett? You look kind of like shit. You go out after the ball last night? It was that Nina, I bet. She looked like a goer. Wearing anything less, they’d have arrested her. You always get the sexy ones. But then, you’re the boss.”

  If Tustin was cheeky, it was no more than his usual self. Everyone was in a grand mood since Byrnes had resurfaced; Incisex’s successful launch had capped it. Instinct told Gavallan not to reveal his suspicions about Byrnes’s situation. He’d explained that Graf was remaining in Moscow for the weekend and would be accompanying Konstantin Kirov to New York come Monday. The words “prisoner” or “hostage” never entered the discussion.

  “I’ll tell you what Graf’s really doing,” Tustin went on. “He’s shacked up with some Russian babe. I’ve heard they’re lookers over there. Yeah, that’s it. Graf’s getting himself some commie cooze. Probably got a dozen of them in bed with him.”

  “Can it, Bruce!” Gavallan barely reined in his outraged voice, infuriated by the insinuation of illicit sex.

  But Tustin insisted on going on, his compact figure bouncing up and down in his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “I can see that old fart now. Probably got a club sandwich going, laying there between a blond and a redhead like the filling in an Oreo. Got some pussy in his face and some chick gnawing on his hog. Hoo-yeah! Go, Air Force!”

  “I said shut up, Bruce. Now!” Gavallan felt his shoulder tense, his fist bunch up, and he knew that if he didn’t leave this second, he’d either pick up Tustin and chuck him across the room or belt him a good one right in the jaw.

  “What crawled up your ass and died?” asked Tustin. “Ah, you’re jealous, that’s it. Maybe Nina didn’t take such good care of you. No, no, no. I got it. It’s Cate you were after all along. I saw you two, cheek to
cheek. You want some of that poontang, that it? I’m a sucker for black bush myself. Drives me cra—”

  A cord snapped inside Gavallan and he slugged Tustin, a lightning-fast jab to that oh-so-loud mouth. The trader tumbled into his chair, gasping, raising a hand to his bleeding lip. Thankfully, the Incisex crew had moved down a few aisles and were talking to Mr. Kwok about a listing on foreign exchanges; only the traders in the vicinity saw what happened. For a few seconds, they froze, no one speaking or moving a muscle. Just as quickly, they discounted the act and continued with their work. The expressions on their faces said Tustin had been due a spanking.

  “Sorry, man,” squealed Tustin, dabbing at his swollen lip. “I was just joking. Really, Jett. No offense, man.”

  “Damn you, Bruce,” whispered Gavallan, sitting down, lowering his head next to Tustin’s. “Why can’t you just learn to shut up once in a while? Shit. I’m the one who’s sorry. I apologize. I was out of line.”

  And looking into Tustin’s pained eyes, he asked himself, Is it you, Bruce? Has Kirov got his hooks in you?

  Just then, Tustin’s private line rang. Gavallan grabbed the phone. “Hello . . . Yeah, Emerald.”

  “Jett, I’ve got a caller who says he has to speak to you right away. He says his name is Jason. He won’t give me his last name, but he insists you know him and that it’s urgent. Should I send the call down or do you want me to take a message?”

  “Tell him I’ll be right up. Pass it through to my office.” Gavallan handed the phone back to Tustin, a surge of adrenaline making his feet antsy. “Make my good-byes for me. I’ve got to run. . . . I’m sorry, man.”

  Two minutes later, he was upstairs, standing beside his desk. Spotting the shaman, he offered the crude, powerful statue a hopeful nod before picking up the phone.

  “Jason, that you?”

  “Guess what,” said Jason Vann. “Good news. Got a pen handy?”

  “Shoot.” Gavallan scribbled furiously as Jason Vann rattled off the name, address, phone number, and E-mail of the Private Eye-PO. Gavallan read the name a second time and smirked. “You sure this is the guy?”

  “I’m sure that the web page dissing your company originated from his home address. Maybe he’s got a kid who’s doing it, but I doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Umm, you’re still going to wire me the other fifty thousand dollars, aren’t you?”

  “Deal’s a deal, Jason. I always keep my word.”

  “Well,” said Vann. “It just seems like something this guy might do. You see, I found out a little more about him than you asked. Sometimes I get a little too interested in my work. Occupational hazard.”

  “Do you now?” Gavallan doubted that Vann knew more about the Private Eye-PO than he did.

  “First off, this guy’s no dummy. He went to college at M.I.T., then worked for Synertel in Milpitas. He was a big shot. The CTO. But that’s not the good stuff. You see, your guy has himself a criminal record. When the company flamed out, he lost it and beat the crap out of the chief executive, before trying to burn down the building. He did nine months in Soledad Medium Security Correctional Facility for Men in California. I guess that explains why he didn’t tell anyone his name.”

  “Guess so,” said Gavallan, amazed at all you could find out in the space of twenty-two hours if you knew how and where to look.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get his picture for you,” said Jason Vann. “The Department of Motor Vehicles’ mainframe has a decent security system. Not that I couldn’t have hacked it, but you sounded rushed so I thought I’d stick with the basics.”

  “No need,” said Gavallan. He had a pretty good recollection of what the Private Eye-PO looked like. “Got anything else up your sleeve?”

  “Uh, there is one more thing. I hope you don’t think me out of place, but I thought I might be able to do you a favor.”

  “A favor? What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I kind of found out you were in the Air Force and that things didn’t go so well for you. You sound like a nice guy—I mean you paid me quicker than anybody else has before—so I just wanted to say that if you ever wanted me to upgrade your discharge, you know, to an honorable one, I can.”

  “You can?”

  “Yeah. Free of charge. Hacking the Pentagon’s a piece of cake.”

  “Good-bye, Jason. I’ll wire the remainder of your fee this morning.”

  Gavallan hung up the phone and turned his attention to the name and address written on the notepaper: Raymond J. Luca. 1133 Somera Road, Delray Beach, Florida.

  “Ray Luca of Synertel,” Gavallan murmured. “Who’d have figured?”

  Synertel was a high-flying manufacturer of optical switches that Black Jet had been set to take public for north of five hundred million dollars. Two weeks before the IPO was set to go, the company’s primary product was trumped by a competitor, rendering it obsolete before it had even been introduced. Gavallan canceled the IPO on the spot. Three months later, Synertel went bust.

  Luca’s being the Private Eye-PO explained the pissy note to his warnings. It did not, however, discount the veracity of his statements. Luca might have a bone to pick, but he was telling the truth about Mercury, or at least hinting at it.

  Gavallan punched a button on the speakerphone. “Emerald,” he began. “Book me a—” He stopped dead, deciding it might be wiser for him to make his own travel arrangements. “Emerald,” he started anew. “I’ve got to run out for a while. Actually, I’m feeling pretty lousy. Forward any calls to me at home. Thanks.”

  Replacing the receiver, he picked up his jacket and satchel, turned off the lights to his office, and shut the door behind him.

  From here on out, Gavallan was on his own.

  22

  We’re using the same guy,” announced Roy DiGenovese when he stuck his head into Howell Dodson’s office at four-thirty in the afternoon. “Gavallan’s paying the same fella we got on contract to the Bureau. Vann. Jason Vann.”

  Lifting his feet off the desk, Dodson slid his chair forward and afforded DiGenovese his fullest attention. “Do tell, dear boy. I smell progress.”

  Dodson had been reviewing the casework on Kirov and Mercury, trying to figure out what Gavallan’s role in the whole thing was and whether or not it might be wise to alert his friends in the SEC or the Treasury Department about it. It was a thorny issue. The Bureau didn’t need any multibillion-dollar lawsuits accusing its very own Howell Ames Dodson IV of maligning, defaming, tarnishing, or slandering a wholly legitimate enterprise. Every request he’d made to Baranov to send some of his investigators over to Mercury’s Moscow operations center had been met with deafening silence. The man hadn’t lifted so much as a finger. He cared only about Novastar. Mercury was the Americans’ problem.

  Dodson had the tape from Mercury Broadband USA, the allegations of a paid informant, and that was it. The skeptic inside him refused to follow in DiGenovese’s rabid footsteps. When it came to fashioning a winning indictment, they were no better off than they were four weeks ago. Effectively, the decision had been made for him. He didn’t dare open his mouth to another federal agency about his concerns over Mercury Broadband. For now, they would remain an in-house matter.

  “Vann found the Private Eye-PO,” DiGenovese continued, taking a seat opposite Dodson. “His name is Raymond Luca. He’s a resident of Delray Beach. M.I.T. grad, and get this . . . an ex-con.”

  “And what does Mr. Luca do, pray tell, when he’s not playing the Private Eye-PO?”

  “No idea. Just got a name and an address. Vann said he could find out more, but he’s already run over his hourly commitment and it would run us another few thousand dollars.”

  “Very well,” said Dodson. “Run Mr. Luca’s social security number through the IRS, do a thorough credit check on the man, contact M.I.T.’s alumni relations board. Someone can tell us how he earns his daily bread.” He shifted in his seat, unsatisfied. “What else did Mr. Vann have to tell us?”

&nb
sp; “Nada. Just gave me the same info he gave Gavallan.”

  “And how much did Mr. Gavallan pay our Mr. Vann?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  “Next time ask,” ordered Dodson, wondering if Vann might be holding something back. “And find out where Vann likes his funds wired. I don’t take to people double-timing the Bureau—goes against my sense of patriotism. While you’re talking to our colleagues at the IRS, why don’t you have them take a peek at Mr. Vann’s latest 1040s. Might be nice to have some leverage in the future.”

  DiGenovese had been writing all this down on a notepad he carried in his left hand. Finished, he looked up. “Next flight down to Miami’s at seven-fifteen. I booked us two seats.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard Gavallan,” DiGenovese said, in a tone as surprised as his superior’s. “He wants to permanently shut Luca’s mouth.”

  “And do we have any evidence that Mr. Gavallan’s going anywhere near Florida these next few days?”

  “Well, no. I mean, not yet. We don’t get transcripts of the wiretaps until twenty-four hours after they’re picked up. I thought it would be a good idea to have a talk with Luca, let him know that he might be in some danger.”

  Dodson shot DiGenovese a stern glance as if to say he’d been silly even to think of flying to Florida that evening. In fact, his reluctance to leave so quickly was rooted in his domestic situation. His wife, Clara, was a woman of the times, and would raise holy hell if he popped down to Florida without advance warning. She didn’t stand for unannounced departures, late nights at the office, or working more than a half day on weekends unless absolutely necessary—and “necessary” meant that an agent’s blood had been spilled.

  “Calm down, Roy. If you’re so worried about Mr. Luca, give him a call on the telephone. Tell him to lock his front door. I would, on the other hand, enjoy speaking with Mr. Luca about where in God’s name he’s been getting our confidential information. Book us first thing in the morning.”