The relationship was strictly business, mercenary all the way. Once they were airborne, Gavallan had bribed him with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. Ask no questions and he’d tell no tales.
“Be fueled up and ready to go by four. I’ll give you a call later this morning to let you know where we’re headed.”
“That’s fine. Couple hours are all we need.”
The pilot left. Gavallan took off his watch and reset it for Geneva time. “An hour to go,” he said. “Think this bird’s got a decent shower?”
Cate pointed to the rear of the aircraft. “Give it a shot. Might as well get your money’s worth.”
He headed to the shower, but pulled up suddenly, hoping she might be getting out of her seat to join him. “Cate . . .” he started, but she was still seated, her eyes not on him but glued to the window, staring into the orange dawn.
He could only wonder what she was thinking.
38
You are happy, my friend?” asked Aslan Dashamirov.
“Relieved,” Konstantin Kirov replied. “I slept better knowing there was no longer a risk of someone slipping our papers to the police. It was a difficult business. I’m glad we’ve solved the matter.”
It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning. The two men walked arm in arm across the muddy field outside of Moscow where Dashamirov had set up one of his used-car lots. A row of crapped-out automobiles ran next to them. Fiats. Ladas. Simcas. None with less than a hundred thousand miles on them, though the odometers showed no more than a quarter of that. Scruffy pennants dangled from a line strung overhead. A ways back, tucked conveniently amongst a copse of baby pines, stood a blue and white striped tent where prices were negotiated and payments made, often in tender as suspect as the cars themselves: televisions, refrigerators, stereos, cigarettes, narcotics, women.
“I’m not so sure,” said Dashamirov.
“Oh?”
“No one talked. Not one of them admitted to working with Baranov or with Skulpin. Only the innocent are so brave.”
“You didn’t give them the chance.” Kirov hated himself for playing up to the Chechen. He was a brigand, really, an uneducated hood.
Dashamirov looked at him as if he were a wart on his finger. “I am thinking we did not find the right person.”
So that was why his krysha had called the meeting, thought Kirov. He should have known the man wouldn’t be so easily put off. Of course, Dashamirov was right. He was always right. This time, though, Kirov had beaten him to the punch.
He’d put his finger on the traitor, a young securities lawyer working in-house on the Mercury deal, and had taken care of the problem himself. Quickly. Neatly. Quietly. A single bullet to the man’s brain delivered in the comfort of the traitor’s own flat. None of this barbaric business with a hammer. Imagining the fierce blow against the skull, Kirov shivered, a spike of fear running right through him to the pit of his belly.
He stared at Dashamirov. The mustache, the crooked mouth, the eyes at once dead, yet so magnificently alive. The man was a beast. But a smart beast. He was correct in his assumptions. Only the innocent were so brave. The lawyer had spilled his guts after a few threats and a bloody nose. Had Dashamirov pressed him for details about the money missing from Novastar, it would have been Kirov getting the hammer yesterday morning.
The hammer.
He ground his teeth.
“What’s important,” said Kirov, “is that Mercury will go forward without any further problems. For that I have you to thank.”
“I was thinking rather about Novastar,” said Dashamirov, dropping his arm to his side, quickening his pace as the rain picked up. “The question of the missing funds haunts me, my friend. Where there is one rat, there may be more. Perhaps someone in your organization is stealing the money from the airline. A hundred twenty-five million dollars is too large a sum to take lightly.”
“Perhaps,” replied Kirov thoughtfully, “though that would be difficult. I alone have signature power over the airline’s bank accounts.”
“Yes. You are right. Perhaps it would be wise to study the books.” He opened his slim, spidery hands in a gesture of conciliation. “If, of course, you do not mind.”
It was not a request, and both men knew it. Kirov looked around. A dozen of Dashamirov’s clansmen loitered among the cars. Vor v Zakone. Thieves of thieves. God knew they were wealthy, but look at them. Standing around in the pouring rain, hair wet, clothing as sodden as the omnipresent cigarettes that dangled from their lips. In four days’ time, Dashamirov stood to take home 15 percent of Kirov’s billion—a neat $150 million dollars. The next day he would be here, or at one of the other fifty lots he ran in the northern suburbs of Moscow, standing in the rain, drinking filthy coffee, smoking.
“I will speak to my accountant immediately,” said Kirov. “He is in Switzerland. It may take some time.”
“By all means.” The courteous reply was accompanied by a damning smile. “There is no hurry. Have the latest quarterly report for Novastar, as well as the most recent banking statements for our Swiss holding companies, Andara and Futura, in my office by Monday.”
“I am in New York Monday,” said Kirov, puffing out his chest, trying to muster some authority. “We will price the Mercury offering that afternoon. We can sit down together when I get back in the country on Friday.”
“Monday,” repeated Dashamirov, less courteously. “By four o’clock. Or else I will begin looking somewhere else for the thief within your company. Somewhere closer to the top.”
A bead of sweat broke high on Kirov’s back and rolled the length of his spine.
“Monday,” he said, knowing it would be impossible.
39
The jet banked hard to the right and drifted lower. From her window, Cate stared as the city of Geneva rushed up to greet her, as if she were looking at a postcard from her teenage past. The city looked no different than it had when she’d last seen it, ten years before. The jet d’eau shot a geyser of water two hundred feet into a young blue sky. A flotilla of boats bobbed lazily on the lake’s scalloped surface. The prim row of banks and hotels that lined the Quai Guisan nodded a courteous “Welcome back.”
Beyond the cityscape, the Saleve rose vertically from a buckle of forest, a brooding granite soldier guarding the town’s southern flank. The only Calvinist remaining in a city gone to the devil. But the familiar sights brought forth no haze of nostalgia, neither a wish for the past nor a desire to recall her youth. They promised only trouble. This was her other life. Her secret self. The history she’d sworn to keep hidden. Stealing a glance at Jett, her stomach tightened. In fear. In sorrow. In anticipation. And as the plane touched down, the wheels bouncing once before embracing the runway, she shivered with a premonition of loss. She was certain that everything she’d spent her adult life working toward was about to come undone.
A white Volvo with the orange and blue markings of the airport police waited on the tarmac beside their assigned parking spot. Two policemen, submachine guns tucked under their arms, approached the aircraft.
“Let me handle this,” said Cate.
“Be my guest.” Gavallan handed her his passport and stepped aside. She didn’t know how he could stand there so calmly with a pistol tucked into his waistband.
Customs and immigration were conducted “sur place.” The policemen examined their passports. One climbed into the cargo hold to inspect their luggage while the other checked the flight log.
Keeping to English, Cate explained they had nothing to declare and were, in fact, only staying in Geneva for the day. A little sight-seeing. Lunch at the Lion D’Or. A run up to the UN. Would either care to join them? They needed a guide, she said, her itchy nerves fueling the giddy repartee. Someone who knew the language and could provide some local color. Could they tell her where Audrey Hepburn was buried? Wasn’t it near Crissier? And didn’t Phil Collins live nearby?
Suddenly, the policemen were all smiles. Beneath the blue berets, neither was more than tw
enty. “Pheel Collins? Oui, oui, il habite tout près.” He lives nearby. But neither could come up with the town. As for guides, they were unable to help. “Désolé, Madame,” they replied. They were in the midst of their annual military service and their next scheduled leave was not until the following Friday.
Thirty minutes later, she was driving a rented Mercedes sedan along the highway. Jett sat beside her, a map spread upon his lap. “Keep your eye out for the Aubonne exit,” he said. “Looks like it’s about twenty klicks down the road. Just up from the lake.”
Cate shot him an apprehensive glance, frightened by his retreat into military vernacular. He’d been brooding since they’d crossed over the continent, speaking less and less, avoiding her gaze.
This is the Jett Gavallan I don’t know, she mused. The Air Force Academy grad who never whispers a word about his time in uniform. The jet jock who clams up at the first mention of the war he fought. He’s going back, she realized. He’s suiting up for battle.
“Klicks being what?” she asked. “Kilometers?”
He nodded without looking at her.
“Just don’t let me miss the turnoff,” she said, though she knew the way to Aubonne as well as to her own home.
“I won’t.”
Jean-Jacques Pillonel did not live in Aubonne, but in Lussy-sur-Morges, a quaint village situated high on the vine-covered slopes of Lac Leman (she would never call it Lake Geneva) about halfway to Lausanne. She knew the spot only because one of her art teachers had lived there, a man named Luc Caprez with whom at the age of eighteen she’d had her first affair. Luc and his briar pipe, who spoke of the courage to live a dangerous life, dangerous meaning to brave the landscape of your ideals, to pursue your dreams no matter where they led. Luc, who lectured her even while making love.
She kept her foot firmly on the gas, taking the car to 160 kilometers per hour as she passed the exits for Nyon, Gland, and finally, Rolle, where she’d gone to school for four years at Le Rosey. She glimpsed the campus to her left. The schoolhouses were done up as old villas and sat on a plateau cut into the hill. She took in the steep mansard roofs, the limestone façades, and the window boxes heavy with purple and red geraniums.
But it wasn’t the sights so much as the smells that lent her a melancholy feeling and sent a current of doubt rustling across her belly. It was the smell of sun-warmed soil carried by an easy lake breeze; of Saturday afternoons trawling the back alleys of Geneva; of Sunday mornings saddling horses at the stable.
It was, she realized, the long-absent smell of her youth.
Cate caught sight of her eyes in the mirror and was frightened at their intensity. When had she adopted the mantle of crusader? she wondered. Had she finally embarked upon the “dangerous life” she’d promised herself she would one day lead? Or was she just tagging along with Jett for the ride?
Until now, she’d been content to fight through others. At the K Bank, she’d transferred her dissatisfaction to Alexei and let him do the dirty work. As a reporter, she hid behind the banner of the paper, relying on its influence and reputation to forward her watered-down causes. In her bid to derail Mercury, she’d recruited Ray Luca to fire her broadsides. As always, she preferred to remain one step removed, a gray eminence sheathed in fear.
But overnight things had changed. The battle had landed on her doorstep with a thud, a personal invitation stained with the blood of innocents. RSVP Konstantin Kirov, Moscow. There was no more escaping, no more hiding behind another.
This was the dangerous life.
Yet it was not guilt that had led to her decision. It was you, she said to Gavallan’s silent profile, seeing in his strained, concentrated features the determination that had brought him so much success, the confidence that had led him to the brink of disaster, and the generosity of spirit that had captured her heart. I came because of you. Because I can’t let you go on with all you don’t know. Because your foolish confidence isn’t enough to save you. Because I love you and you’re all I have left.
As she settled into her seat, Cate’s eyes once more found the sparkling asphalt. Grimly, she saw the days ahead playing out. All paths led in the same direction, ended at the same destination. What would happen when he found out? How could she explain? Above all, Jett was an honest man. He detested liars. She was sure she detected a new coolness between them since she’d brought up Alexei. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. How could he ever love a woman whose entire life was a lie? Sooner or later, he would discover the truth. And she would never have a chance to win him back.
“There it is,” said Jett. “Aubonne. A thousand meters.”
Cate signaled and guided the Mercedes off the highway. “Which way now?” she asked, sliding into the left lane.
“A left under the bridge, then bear to your left again.”
I know, she wanted to say. I used to live here.
She was struck by a desire to touch him. She reached out a hand, only to pull it right back. Let him go, she told herself silently. He looked at her and she tried to smile. “I’m glad I’m here,” she said.
For a moment, Jett’s eyes softened, and a question danced beneath his lips. As quickly, it was gone.
“Turn here,” he said, spotting a sign with the name of Pillonel’s village. “Morges is at the top of this road. Pillonel’s house is at 14 Rue de Crecy.”
“Roo-duh-Cray-cee,” she repeated, correcting him, her schoolgirl’s accent still perfect.
Gavallan eyed her remotely. “You never told me you spoke French.”
Cate shook her head, laughing sadly. What the hell? Sooner or later, he was going to find out everything anyway.
40
Jean-Jacques Pillonel’s weekend home rested at the end of a short gravel drive, a majestic chalet nestled among the vines with an unobstructed view of the lake. Twin Jags were parked in front of a detached garage. Away to one side sat a barn coupled with two smaller outbuildings. Stacks of crates leaned against one of them, faded pictures of grapes stenciled on the splintered wood. Gavallan figured it must be where he kept the press and bottled the local tipple. All in all, impressive. More the residence of a country squire than the managing director of an accounting firm.
“Jett, but what a surprise,” called Pillonel as Gavallan climbed from the car. “And is that Cate I see? You two are together again? Mais tant mieux. Come in. Come in. The door is open.”
The squire was easy to spot. He stood on the first-floor balcony, clad in khaki work pants and a denim shirt, the nobleman’s obligatory sweater tied around his neck. One hand was raised in polite greeting, though Gavallan knew he had to have been wondering who the hell was doing something so decidedly un-Swiss as dropping by without an invitation.
Waving hello, Gavallan allowed Cate to precede him up a groomed path framed by a rose garden in full bloom. She was his calm, the antidote to the rage that had been building in him since they’d landed and that had taken firm grip of his every muscle. Left to himself, he would have run up the path, broken down the door, and wrung Pillonel’s neck until he confessed his every last crime, guilty or not.
Detective Skulpin was right, he said to himself. It had to be you. You handled the on-site inspections. You sounded the all-clear. You toyed with the pictures.
“Really, I am surprised,” Pillonel announced from the head of the stairs. “You are here on vacation? Why didn’t you phone me in advance? You’re both very naughty.”
He was a handsome man, tall, slim, with a bit of the dandy about him. He had a full head of hair that was a shade too black for a fifty-five-year-old and gray eyes that sparkled a little too brightly. He liked to wear ascots when they dined out at night, Gavallan remembered, and he smoked Silk Cuts with an ivory cigarette holder.
“Unfortunately, we’re here on business,” said Gavallan, climbing the stairs, doing his best to return the hearty handshake. “Mercury.”
“Ah. I see,” said Pillonel, light as a feather. “The big deal. Cate, may I take your jacket?”
>
“No thank you,” she answered, nearly wincing as he kissed her cheeks in greeting.
“Come along. I was just finishing breakfast.” Extending an arm, Pillonel showed them to the balcony. A table littered with croissants, jams, napkins, and a pot of coffee sat near the railing. The lake lay a mile away, a shimmering blue crescent stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. Beyond it, through a mid-morning haze, rose the snowcapped peaks of the French Haute Savoie. The good life, thought Gavallan.
“Claire will return shortly,” said Pillonel. “She’s out with the dogs. You remember my wife?”
“Of course,” said Gavallan, calling to mind a slightly built, argumentative woman with prematurely gray hair and skin the color of alabaster. He walked to the edge of the balcony and made a show of surveying the surrounding vineyards. “So this is where the Pillonel wine comes from?”
“Yes, the famed Chateau Vauxrien.” Pillonel pointed out the boundaries of his estate. “We have only ten hectares. It’s a modest parcel, but if the sun shines through September and we don’t have too much rain, we can make some good grapes. You would like a glass? I have some open just inside. Last year’s vintage. A bit young, but nice. Jett? Cate?”
“No thanks,” they both said.
Gavallan turned his back on the vineyard and, crossing his arms, fixed Pillonel with a grave stare. “We’ve got some major problems with the Mercury deal. I spoke with Graf Byrnes on Wednesday night. He was in Moscow checking out whether the rumors we’d been reading on the Net were true.”
“I told you—it’s rubbish. Nothing to worry about.”
“Graf doesn’t agree. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the deal was bad. Unfortunately, circumstances didn’t permit him to tell me how bad or what exactly was wrong. Before I cancel it, why don’t you tell me what you really know about the company.”
“What I really know? Why, we discussed it on the phone the other day. The Private Eye-PO’s accusations are ridiculous—frankly, laughable. You can’t be serious about canceling the IPO?”
The First Billion Page 31