“Oh, you bet I’m serious. The deal’s over.” Gavallan took a step closer to Pillonel, eyes wandering over every inch of his face, searching out where he kept his guilt hidden. “What do you think Graf could have found, Jean-Jacques? I mean, you promised me on Wednesday everything was hunky-dory. What could it have been? Everything’s ‘up and running,’ right?”
A brisk shake of the head. “I don’t know.” Swiftly, he added, “Yes, everything is up and running. You said Graf was not able to tell you what was wrong. Why not?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let’s stay where we are for the time being. The photos? You’re certain they’re fakes?”
“Positively. They’re rubbish. I’ve seen the facilities myself. You’re making much too much of the Private Eye-PO’s words. He’s a pest. If I were you, I wouldn’t even bother.”
“Oh, someone bothered, I can tell you that.”
He really is a pretty decent actor, Gavallan was thinking. And marveling at the man’s practiced deceit, he felt his anger rustle and loosen a notch. A hand dropped to the pocket of his windbreaker. Through the fabric, he let his fingers brush the butt of Cate’s pistol. He added, “The Private Eye-PO was killed yesterday. His name was Ray Luca. A gunman entered his workplace and shot him, along with nine other men and women. It was a bloodbath. Didn’t you read the papers this morning?”
Pillonel’s eyes widened in astonishment. “This is the rampage in Florida I read about. This is the Private Eye-PO? They say a man went crazy. That he killed all his friends, then himself. How horrid.”
“He didn’t go crazy,” said Gavallan flatly. “Take my word for it. It was a professional job.”
“You’re sure the killer was not Luca? The police sounded like they knew precisely what happened.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Who do you think would kill nine innocent people just to get at one man?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’re lying,” said Cate. “You know damn well who might want the Private Eye-PO dead. Who needed him dead. We all know. Ray Luca was a friend. He died with nine innocent men and women because what he said about Mercury was true. You had to know it. You told us yourself you visited the Moscow Operations Center.”
“Cate, please, you’re mistaken,” said Pillonel, retreating, his eyes begging Gavallan for an explanation. “Je vous en pris. . . . Please, Jett, you must have a word with her. I don’t know what she is saying. . . . My God, this is all so crazy.”
“You’re the one who’s mistaken,” retorted Cate. “If you think you can jump into bed with Konstantin Kirov and walk away from this untouched, you’re a fool. How much is he paying you? A million? Two million? Ten? Or did he promise you shares in the deal? Tell him, Jett. Tell him about Ray Luca. Tell him about Graf.”
The mention of money, its hint of bribery and collusion and all things criminal, sparked a radical change in Pillonel. In an instant, his apologetic stance vanished, replaced by one of undisciplined outrage. “That is enough now,” he declared, pulling the sweater a little tighter around his neck. “I hope you haven’t traveled all the way from the States just to insult me like this, making these fantastical accusations. This is crazy what you say. Really crazy. You are badly mistaken if you think I am involved in some type of illegal affair with Mr. Kirov. I’ve said it time and time again: Mercury is fine. It’s your conduct that is criminal. I’d like you to leave. Now.”
But Gavallan did not move. He remained standing at his place near the balcony, stiller than he’d ever been in his life. If he lifted a finger, if he blinked an eye, if he let out his breath, he’d lose control over the animal rage that was clawing at his neck. All too clearly, he imagined himself hitting Pillonel with his fists, pummeling the man until his features were broken, his face a bloody pulp. He felt the gun heavy in his pocket, full of promise. The muscles in his jaw flinched, and a second later the vision passed.
“After six years, Jett, I thought we had a relationship,” Pillonel droned on angrily, self-righteously, a man wronged in his own house. “That maybe we were even friends. I see I was wrong. Now, go. Both of you. Take your accusations and make them to the police. Maybe I’ll call them myself.”
“Friends?” Gavallan asked, cocking his head. “Did I hear you say you thought we were friends?” He advanced on Pillonel. Something inside was stretching, growing taut, moaning like the hull of a submarine down past its depth limits.
Pillonel took another step back, palms raised as if he were calming an angry dog. “Come now, Jett. You stop there or I call the police.”
Gavallan grabbed the phone from a side table and thrust it at Pillonel. “Go ahead. Call them. Or do you have the balls?” He threw the phone on the table. Another step. “We know what you’ve been up to, and it’s not what friends do to each other.”
Cate said, “Jett, please . . .”
Gavallan did not remove his eyes from Pillonel. “We know you faked the due diligence reports. Your men scoped out Mercury’s assets. Your men signed off on its physical plant and inventory. It couldn’t have been anybody else.”
“This has gone far enough,” said Pillonel, stopping, crossing his arms. “I’ve had quite enough of your bullying. You will go. Now. I demand it.”
But it was Gavallan who had had enough. Later, he wasn’t sure what finally made him break: the insistence of Pillonel’s denials, the man’s elegant ignorance, or just that he was sick of being lied to and didn’t know any other way of making Pillonel admit his sins.
Drawing the pistol out of his pocket, he grabbed Pillonel by the collar, yanked him close, and laid the snub-nosed muzzle against his head. “How’s that, you fuckin’ prick? You want bullying? This is bullying. And I’ll tell you something. We aren’t going anywhere until you start telling the truth.”
“Jett, put it away,” pleaded Cate, rushing to his side. “Stop it.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gavallan, cocking the hammer, pressing the barrel harder into Pillonel’s forehead. “We’re friends. We’re just playing. Right, Jean-Jacques? Just palling around?” When Pillonel didn’t answer, he said, “Yesterday, two of Kirov’s creeps put a bigger gun than this one on my forehead, right there in the same place. Do you know what they said to me, Jean-Jacques? Do you? They said, ‘Sorry, Mr. Jett. Mr. Kirov says you have to die. He says it’s business only.’ ”
Gavallan shoved Pillonel across the balcony. The Swiss stumbled over a chair and collapsed on his behind.
“Ten people are dead because of Mercury. ‘For business only.’ As for Graf, I can only hope he’s okay. The reason he couldn’t let me know the exact details of what he’d found out about Mercury was because he’s with Kirov. A prisoner, I guess, if Kirov hasn’t already had him killed. If nothing else, you’re going to tell me the truth for him—for Graf Byrnes—so that maybe I might have a chance to get my friend back. Understand?”
Pillonel got to his feet. Righting the upended chair, he brought it to the table and sat down. His tan face had gone gray. “Mais non,” he said. “Ce n’est pas possible.”
Cate wandered closer. “Si,” she replied. “C’est bien possible. En fait, c’est la vérité.” It’s the truth.
Gavallan slipped the gun back into his pocket and sat down in a chair next to Pillonel. Just looking at the man made him weary. Accountants had no business being criminals. They lived in a cloistered world of financial reports and P&L statements, of interminable client meetings and rushed lunches. Of clipped fingernails and polished shoes. They had no business consorting with murderers and gangsters.
“Our friend in Moscow is nervous,” Gavallan said. “His empire’s falling apart. Mercury. Novastar Airlines. So now he’s tidying up. Covering his tracks. I’d be scared if I were you. Geneva’s a helluva lot closer to Moscow than Florida.”
Cate opened her handbag and gave Pillonel the Private Eye-PO’s last report, the document titled, “Mercury in Mayhem.” When the Swiss executive had read the whole thing, she slipped him Yuri Baranov’s fax to t
he FBI calling for a raid on Kirov’s headquarters.
“Call Baranov,” Cate suggested. “His number’s on the fax. He’ll be glad to tell you all about it. His offices have provided us the evidence about Mercury. They have an informant inside the company.”
“But this has nothing to do with Mercury,” protested Pillonel. “I know nothing about a raid. It is of no concern to me.” He made an effort to stand, but Gavallan waved him down. “Sit down. Now.”
Pillonel shrugged and sat. Affecting a pensive pose, he averted his gaze from his guests. “You know you can see Évian from here?” A tremulous hand pointed to the French side of the lake. “They have a marvelous casino. Right out of the thirties. I go sometimes with Claire. We put on our evening clothes, take the steamer from Ouchy. Maybe we all go, the four of us? Take the waters. Do a little gambling.”
When neither Jett nor Cate responded, he shifted in his chair, drawing a breath as he faced his accusers. His color had returned, and he looked remarkably composed. He made a little gesture with his shoulders, a timid shrug that was at once ashamed and contrite. “I’m no murderer. Maybe foolish with the girls. Maybe, I gamble sometimes. But murder? No. That’s not me.” He sighed. “Alors, how long have you known?”
Gavallan looked down as the anger bled from him. “Since yesterday. Why, Jean-Jacques? What made you do it?”
“Why?” Cate repeated.
Pillonel answered without hesitation. “Money, of course.”
Cate shook her head. “You pig.”
Pillonel shrugged. Dusting off his shirt, he sipped from his coffee and began to explain.
Seven months ago, Kirov had come to him with a plan to take Mercury public. The thirst for broadband services was unquenchable and Kirov claimed to be in a perfect position to exploit it. Mercury had been growing rapidly for four years. He was already the number two Internet service provider in Russia. Business conditions were stable and the country was increasingly prosperous. It was the time to offer shares. There was only one problem, Kirov confided: Mercury wasn’t quite where it should be, the infrastructure not exactly as advertised. Moscow was a problem and so was St. Petersburg. But it was nothing to be concerned about, he promised. The problems would be rectified once Mercury received the infusion of capital an IPO would bring.
“I asked him about his revenues,” Pillonel said. “ ‘How is Mercury making so much money if not through offering broadband services, Internet connectivity?’ ”
Gavallan raised a hand for him to stop. “What did you know about his revenues?”
“Earlier in the year we’d taken a participation in the German accounting firm that did Mercury’s work. When we integrated operations, we took over all their back office operations. We saw the funds coming into Mercury’s accounts. In fact, we hold copies of all the financial transfers the company has made over the past three years.”
“You’re saying you were Mercury’s accountants before I farmed out the due diligence to you? That’s conflict of interest. You had no right to accept the assignment.”
“Of course, you’re right,” said Pillonel in a dull voice, as if that were the least of his misdeeds. “I asked Kirov where the money was coming from, if not from Mercury. When he just stared at me, saying nothing, looking through me with that charlatan’s smile, I knew he had me. We’d been signing off on the books of a thief.”
But Gavallan was more interested in something Pillonel had said earlier than in the accountant’s belated discovery that Kirov was a thief. “He came to you about the IPO seven months ago?”
“Maybe longer. It was November. I remember, because we were about to take our holiday. Claire and I go every year to the Seychelles. It is beautiful there, and one must get away from the brouillard—you know, the fog.”
“How did he know you would be doing the due diligence for us?”
“I’ve been doing Black Jet’s European work for years.”
November, repeated Gavallan to himself. But Black Jet hadn’t officially won the deal until January.
A few seconds passed. Pillonel offered another of his Gallic shrugs, then rose and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back. I’ve got something that may interest you.” He returned a minute later carrying a raft of notebooks. “Here is the report,” he said, handing a green binder to Gavallan. “You’ll find the experts’ testimony inside. The Moscow station was run-down, but they’ve fixed it up since. The company’s a year behind on its infrastructure. Maybe you burn the papers and close your eyes. Go forward with the offering. The company’s really very strong. Kirov just needs time to build up his customer base and modernize his network.”
Gavallan read through the notebook, skimming from page to page. It was all there, just as Pillonel had said. Mercury’s operations checked out in eight of ten of its major markets. The problems lay in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Mercury had purchased insufficient servers, routers, multiplexers, and the like to handle the number of customers it claimed to have.
As Gavallan absorbed the information, he found himself as impressed with the company as he had been when Kirov first told him about it. Mercury was solid. It possessed excellent market share, capable personnel, and a sound business plan. Maybe the offering wasn’t worth two billion dollars, but depending on the true value of its revenues it could be worth eight hundred million, a billion, easy.
“You said you saw the exact flows on money coming into and out of Mercury?”
“Yes. The bank sends us copies of all the account’s activity: deposits, transfers, monthly statements.”
Gavallan closed the notebooks. At least he’d be able to figure out what Mercury was really worth. He would still cancel the offering; he had to. But that didn’t mean his involvement with the company had to end there. There was another way to spin the deal. And imagining the possibilities, Gavallan felt the first glimmerings of hope. For himself. For Black Jet. And for Mercury.
Putting aside the notebooks, he felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. He had his proof that he hadn’t been involved in faking the due diligence. Now he would take Pillonel to his offices and recover some of the copies of the funds transfers into and out of Mercury’s accounts. If Kirov had done what he suspected, Gavallan would have the chips he needed to sit face-to-face across from the Russian oligarch.
He might just have a chance to win back Byrnes.
“It is enough?”
Looking up, he found Pillonel gazing at him. “Excuse me?”
“It is enough?” the Swiss repeated.
“The report. Yes, it’ll do nicely, thank—” Gavallan cut himself short, seeing an unsatisfied look in Pillonel’s eye. A moment passed, and he felt his stomach tighten. “You mean there’s more?”
“What I’ve shown you is to protect yourself,” said Jean-Jacques Pillonel. “To protect Black Jet. Now I give you something to protect me.”
41
The Fax from Interpol arrived on the desk of Detective Sergeant Silvio Panetti of the Geneva Police Department at 9:15 A.M. It was a fugitive arrest warrant for an American citizen sought in connection with the murder a day earlier of ten persons in Florida. The FBI had reason to believe he had fled the United States, the fax indicated, and gave the tail number of a private aircraft in which he was said to be traveling. A bold “Urgent” headed the message and it was followed by the instructions that any information was to be forwarded to Assistant Deputy Director Howell Dodson in Washington, D.C., or to the consular officer of the local U.S. embassy.
Panetti yawned and lit his third cigarette of the shift. Urgent, eh? He was impressed. Too often, American law enforcement was interested in tax evaders, money launderers, or other equally bloodthirsty types. Reading the message a second time, his eye tripped over the words “murder” and “ten victims” and “extremely dangerous.” A hushed “Ma foi” escaped his mouth. Would someone mind telling him why the fugitive might be headed to Switzerland? And Geneva in particular? The two countries had extradition treaties in place with regard to
capital crimes, and lately, no one could argue that Switzerland had been anything but the model of cooperation.
Picking up the fax, he strolled into his boss’s office. It was empty, as he’d expected. Saturday was the chief’s day for sailing. With this weather, you could bet he was already halfway down the lake to Montreux. Panetti looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he blew a cloud of smoke into the office. A little present for the chief. Pauvre mec had quit smoking the week before and was having a tough go of it. Half the département puffed like chimneys, and the only place in the whole building the chief could get away from the smoke was his own office. Chuckling, Panetti checked that the windows were closed and shut the door behind him, but not before slipping a couple of packets of Gauloise Bleus onto the chief’s desk. Bonne chance, mon lieutenant.
Returning to his desk, Panetti paused long enough to pick up his lighter, his phone, and his pistol—in that order of importance—then left the office. He wasn’t much to look at. Middle-aged, of medium height and medium build, he was one of the Lord’s weary travelers. He owned a sad, pouchy face and deep black eyes that guarded a sparkle of mischief. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and the two-day stubble combined with yesterday’s outfit gave him a shabby charm. Panetti shrugged. At least no one would mistake him for a banker.
Descending the staircase to the parking garage, he called Cointrin to ask for flight operations.
“Claude, I need a favor. Got a list of incoming traffic? Private, not commercial. A jet. Yeah, I’ll wait, thanks.”
Traffic was light, and he was over the Pont Guisan when he got the answer.
“She’s a nice bird,” said Claude Metayer, flight operations chief of Geneva International Airport and, to Panetti’s everlasting dismay, his brother-in-law.
“You mean the plane is here?” Panetti felt his heart give a rat-a-tattat.
“A G-3. Came in an hour ago. Passengers are gone, but if you want to talk to the pilots, I’ll tell them you are coming.”
The First Billion Page 32