The First Billion

by Christopher Reich

  The first shot took him high in the leg. He hadn’t heard a thing and had it not been for the spout of blood that erupted from his pant leg, he would have thought it a bee sting at worst. One hand grasped the railing for support, while the other fell to his thigh. “This is absurd,” he heard himself saying, and then somewhat irrationally, “It’s Monday morning, for Christ’s sake,” as if murder were not a state-approved way to begin the workweek. His eyes darted around, but he saw nothing. A sense of desperation seized him. Frantically, he tried to continue up the stairs. He took one step and fell to the pavement, writhing in pain.

  “Get up, Baranov. It’s unseemly for government officials to grovel. Especially honest ones.”

  It was the voice from the telephone. The voice he couldn’t quite place. Only now, he knew exactly to whom it belonged. Grimacing, Baranov lifted his head and squinted to make out the figure at the top of the stairs. “You,” he said.

  “Who else?”

  Konstantin Kirov stood in a black suit with a black tie, hands on his hips, offering a gaze as morbid as his attire. “I have a message from the president. He asked me to deliver it personally.” Kirov snapped his fingers, and someone tossed him a large rifle. A Kalashnikov. With a halting, unsteady motion, Kirov cleared the chamber and brought the weapon to his shoulder. The gun looked ridiculously large in the small man’s hands.

  “He said, ‘Be quiet,’ ” Kirov finished.

  Baranov raised himself to his feet. He felt neither fear nor lament, but a pervasive contempt for this pitiable excuse for a human being.

  “Liar!” he shouted.

  A hail of bullets riddled his body in time to the jackhammer’s renewed assault.

  Tell me the truth,” said Konstantin Kirov.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “What did he want?”

  Pillonel hesitated, and the knife dug in. “Mercury,” he said. “They knew I had faked the due diligence. They wanted proof.”

  “And you gave it to them. Without so much as a call to a lawyer or the local police, you gave it to them.”

  “They knew,” said Pillonel. “They already knew, goddamn it. Gavallan said he was going to the SEC with or without my help. He was going to report me to the Swiss authorities.” The intruder had tied his hands and feet to the bedposts with elastic cord and was kneeling beside the bed. In one hand, the man held the knife delicately, as if ready to fillet a fish, the point inserted meanly between Pillonel’s ribs. In the other, he had a cell phone, which he pressed to Pillonel’s ear. Pillonel had an urge to explain everything at once. “Gavallan had a gun. He put it to my head. I thought he would kill me. I had no choice. Of course I gave them the real books.”

  “I can understand your anxiety at being confronted with your misdeeds. But why did you take them to your offices?”

  “Gavallan demanded I show him Mercury’s exact financial condition—how much money the company had really been earning, its revenues, its expenses, its profits.”

  “And you showed him. How kind of you to be so helpful.” The voice was more ominous because of its even tone, the complete absence of aggression, irony, or anger. “Did you ever once consider telling him he was mistaken, to leave you alone?”

  “I couldn’t. I told you, he had a gun. He said you had killed the man on the Internet, that you would kill me next.”

  “I never knew you for such a gullible sort.” Kirov laughed, then resumed his unhurried interrogation. “And after Mercury, what did you show them? Did Gavallan have any idea he was so close to the crown jewels?”

  “Nothing. I gave them nothing.”

  “Novastar?”

  “It did not come up.”

  “Not even a mention? What about Futura and Andara? Baranov knew well enough about them. Didn’t Miss Magnus have any questions about them? You didn’t show them the holding company’s banking records?”

  Pillonel lay still, the lie poised above him like the blade of a guillotine. “I’m no fool. The records would take me down too.”

  “If you gave them Mercury, you were already going down. If I were you, I might have taken the opportunity to win over the authorities, show them the error of my ways, maybe even try to offer up something to protect myself. I’m sorry I must be so thorough in this matter, but I’m sure you can understand that it is of the utmost importance I learn exactly what materials you gave Mr. Gavallan and Miss Magnus.”

  Pillonel looked at his wife, his eyes begging her forgiveness. “I gave them nothing,” he whimpered. “Only Mercury. Novastar did not come up.”

  “Ah, Jean-Jacques, you are a poor liar. Calm yourself now. You have nothing to worry about. I have them both with me—Cate and Mr. Gavallan. No more harm can be done. You don’t have to worry. I think you know what will happen if you decide to go to the authorities.”

  “Yes, absolutely. Not a word.”

  “Now tell me the truth and you’ll be on your way to Mahé before you know it. What evidence did you give Gavallan?”

  Mahé. Sanctuary. A new life.

  Pillonel grasped at the words, seeking solace and safety. His hands came away scratched and empty. Kirov was also a poor liar. “Nothing.”

  “Good. I’m happy for it. As for the confession, you know that they don’t hold up in court when made under duress. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gavallan’s lawyer throws the thing away.”

  “What confession is that?” he blurted.

  Pillonel heard Kirov murmur something like “I knew it” under his breath. Then he heard a harsher “Damn him,” and he realized he’d said something wrong. Something very, very wrong.

  “Well,” scoffed Kirov, “at least this conversation wasn’t a total waste of time. Give the phone to Sergei.”

  Sergei took back the phone and after a moment hung up.

  “Well?” said Pillonel, eyes paralyzed with hope.

  “Good news and bad news. The bad news is you’re both to die. The good news is you go first.” And even as the words left his mouth, he slid the razor-sharp blade between Pillonel’s ribs, puncturing his heart and killing him instantly.

  55

  When will you put some furniture in this place?” asked Leonid Kirov, throwing open the door to his younger brother’s study. “Every time I walk in I’m sure I’ve come to the wrong address. A museum or a mausoleum, I don’t know which.”

  “I need space to think, Leonid. To imagine. To dream.” Konstantin Kirov crossed the floor with a statesmanlike gait, extending a hand in welcome. “It is from rooms like this that our country will be reborn.”

  He was in an exuberant mood. Baranov was dead. Pillonel, too, but not before exposing Gavallan as one more paper tiger, his ruse about the taped confession a last, desperate ploy. All obstacles had vanished. Only time separated Konstantin Romanovich Kirov from reaping his billion-dollar reward.

  He’d decided he’d had enough of Dashamirov, too. Fifteen percent was too much to dole out for a little protection now and then. Besides, he had a new krysha: the komitet. A few words to Leonid’s colleagues in domestic security and the vile Chechen would be a memory. A billion dollars bought that kind of service.

  “Come sit down. Have some breakfast. Not often we get a chance to catch up on things, just the two of us.”

  Leonid took his place at a table that had been set up for the two of them. Fastidiously attaching his napkin to his collar, spreading it across his chest, he appraised the bounteous meal. Broiled kippers, poached eggs, sausages, melon, bacon, and hashed brown potatoes. A grunt signaled his satisfaction. Lifting his knife and fork, he met his brother’s eyes. “It’s all over the radio this morning. You can’t change the station without hearing it. A return to the days of yore. The gangsters are back. Nothing like a little fear to keep the naysayers in line. Well done. The president is pleased.”

  “Honesty was his only vice,” said Kirov. He was admirable in his way. Just outdated. Obsolete.”

  “Baranov?” scoffed Leonid. “He wa
s a pain in the ass. Always has been. Even during the old regime, we called him ‘our conscience.’ That was not a compliment, I can promise you. God, but you made it bloody enough. How many times did you shoot him?”

  “A full clip. I thought he was worth it.”

  “What do you mean, you thought? Don’t tell me you got your hands dirty, younger brother?”

  “I discovered I had a rather emotional attachment to the prosecutor general. I decided he merited my personal attentions. A hell of a way to relieve some stress, I can tell you that.”

  Leonid said nothing, but there was no denying the look of admiration. Younger brother had finally done something worthwhile. “Witnesses?”

  “A few. We took their names.”

  “Give them to me. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Kirov shivered, for the first time feeling the power of the state in his hands. No longer was he beholden to the likes of Baranov or Dashamirov. From this day forward, Konstantin Kirov was a partner of the state. An equal of Mother Russia.

  He was the Rodina.

  “And you?” Kirov asked. “All goes well? Where are you going with those boots? Perm?”

  “Severnaya, if you want to know.”

  “Severnaya? Good God, that’s the Arctic Circle. What gives you reason to go up there?”

  Leonid gave a look at his boots. It was a proud look, Kirov noticed. A look of deep satisfaction. “Oil, if you must know.”

  “Have we discovered a new field? Wonderful news.” Immediately, Kirov began to scheme how he could get in on things—leasing drilling equipment, securing a contract for the construction of the new pipeline, arranging a turnkey operation; there were a hundred ways to make a fortune when one was the first to learn of such news.

  “Not exactly, younger brother. There is a new field, but it is not ours. These days it’s not a question of too little oil, but too much. The world is drowning in the stuff. If OPEC ever opens the spigots we’ll be back at fourteen dollars a barrel and that will be the end of us. If our country is to continue growing, oil prices must remain high. Twenty-seven dollars a barrel at least. Only then can we earn enough to keep our GDP growing at eight percent a year. Continue at this rate and in ten years we’ll be a superpower again. One decade. It’s not really so long, is it?”

  “Not long at all. Then why the trip to Severnaya? It’s awfully far to travel if there’s no oil there.”

  “An exercise in prevention, younger brother. While we may wish for higher prices, others abhor the idea. One in particular has taken to the notion of self-sufficiency. Unfortunately, they have the resources. It would be devastating to our country should they exploit them. We must see to it they do not consider the option.” Leonid finished chewing a bite of sausage, then asked offhandedly, “Speaking of America, you do have Mr. Gavallan here, don’t you?”

  Kirov felt himself jolt, his stomach rebel.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Leonid continued. “Just because the komitet’s stinking bankrupt doesn’t mean we don’t do our job. Is he here or out at the field observation post with the other one? Excuse me, I mean your ‘dacha.’ ”

  “Mr. Gavallan is here. He’ll be joining his colleague at the dacha.”

  “And Katya?”

  “As well.”

  Leonid set down his cutlery, pulling the napkin from his neck and wiping his mouth clean with one stroke. His plate was spotless. “They are dangerous. Either of them can compromise the operation.”

  Kirov wanted to disagree. Never would he allow Cate or Gavallan to interfere with Mercury. Then, he realized Leonid wasn’t talking only about Mercury. He was talking about Severnaya, the preemptive exercise he had cooking on the cusp of the Arctic Circle. Somehow the two had become hopelessly intertwined.

  “Gavallan, of course,” he added, a bit uncertainly. “I had no intention of continuing our working relationship. But Katya . . . Naturally, she’ll remain in Moscow under my supervision.”

  “Cut the crap, Konstantin. You know what has to be done.” He leaned across the table, his square gray head looming foremost in Kirov’s vision. “No one can compromise the komitet, younger brother. Our name may have changed, but our principles haven’t. I’m sorry, but that’s that. After all, this is the second time the little missy has tried to put you away. You should be happy to have an excuse to be rid of her.”

  “Come now, Leonid, let’s be realistic. Gavallan is one thing, but family . . . Katya is my only daughter. She’s strong-willed, of course, but nothing more—”

  “No buts, younger brother. Remember where you live. The only family you have is the state.” Leonid stood, buttoning his jacket. “So I can tell him you’ll take care of matters? Clean things up? We don’t like to leave a mess. That hasn’t changed either.”

  Kirov swallowed hard, the taste of his bile acidic, repellent. He felt tricked, massively deceived. A victim. “Yes. Tell the president to have no worries.”

  “He’ll be most grateful. Good luck, and remember, you are representing the country. The president will be watching on television. Oh, I almost forgot.” Leonid reached into his jacket and handed his brother a small blue velvet box.

  Opening it, Kirov saw a colonel’s polished golden oak leaves. “What’s this?”

  “Message from the president. You work for us now.”

  She heard it all. Not every word, but snippets here and there. Enough to piece the conversation together. Enough to grow as frightened as she’d ever been in her life.

  “He’s going to kill us,” she repeated silently, as if repetition would make the certainty less ghastly. In her panic, she reverted to her journalist’s guise. There’s a word for it, she told herself. When a father kills his child . . . there’s a word for it. But her distress was such that she couldn’t remember what it was. Plain old “murder” fit the bill, and that was bad enough.

  Kneeling inside the den, Cate kept her head tilted toward the heating vents. She had come downstairs ten minutes earlier, Boris her escort. Her father wished to speak with her, she’d been informed. Alone. But as Boris locked her in, she caught the back of her uncle Leonid charging into the living room. He was unmistakable. The blue suit. The stiff shoulders. The iron gray hair.

  Her father and uncle had been estranged during her childhood. Curious as to what common bond had brought them together, she’d pressed her ear to the grate. Listening, she had forced herself not to cry out at the tales of barbarity bandied about by the two men.

  The doors to the den opened.

  “He is ready to see you,” said Boris, motioning to follow him across the foyer.

  “Of course.”

  It was moving day in Sparrow Hills. At nine o’clock, the clubhouse was a picture of commotion. The twin front doors stood open wide, the muscular growl of a supercharged V-8 flooding the entry. The snout of a black SUV pulled into view. Car doors opened and slammed. Boots slapped the pavement. A steady stream of her father’s bullies entered and exited the house, at least half sporting Uzis slung over their shoulders. Luggage was brought downstairs. Another Suburban arrived.

  At last, her father emerged from the living room.

  “Good morning, then,” he said, with an affable smile. “I apologize for my behavior last night. I was distraught. I hope at least that you slept well.”

  It was an act. A murderous masquerade. “Fine. And you? Sleep of the innocent?”

  “Always,” he replied in his soft, deathly courteous tone. “I wanted to have a last word with you before you set off.”

  “I thought we covered everything last night.”

  Her father stepped closer, patting her arms understandingly. “Katya, there’s so much you don’t know. So much I want to explain to you. I’m sending you with Jett to my dacha for a few days. When I return from New York, we will sit and talk. I’m not the ogre you think. I will listen to what you have to—”

  “What is there to talk about? Mercury is a lie, but you’re going ahead with the deal anyway. You hold your daught
er as if she were a prisoner.” She shook off his hands. “We have nothing to talk about. Not now. Not ever.”

  Kirov retreated a step, a blithe smile on his lips. “I can see you’re upset. It is understandable. When I return, we can speak again. If you’ll excuse me, I must hurry. The pricing is set for four P.M. this afternoon in Manhattan. Bye-bye, Katya.”

  She fixed him with an unloving stare. “Don’t you mean ‘adieu,’ Father?”

  56

  The gloves were off, the last semblance of civility fading as quickly as the Moscow skyline behind them. They rode in separate cars, Gavallan in the lead vehicle with Boris and two guards, Cate bringing up the rear with Tatiana and another two guards of her own. A glance over his shoulder earned him a twisted smile and a view of an Uzi pointed directly at his back, a taut finger laid across the trigger.

  They lumbered across the Moskva River, then joined the Outer Ring Road, leaving the city along the path they’d taken the night before. Instead of turning off at Sheremetyevo, they continued north toward St. Petersburg. After that he was lost. The road markers were in Cyrillic and he couldn’t decipher a word. The highway narrowed to two lanes and all signs of the city tapered off. Potato fields spread to their left and right, bordered by elevated dirt berms—half levee, half road. Occasionally, he caught sign of a town away in the distance and wondered how, without any marked exits, one was supposed to reach them. Birch forests came and went as if moved en bloc.

  Gavallan shifted in his seat, laying an arm across the backrest. It was hard to sit still. Tucked into the waistband of his undershorts was the shank he’d fashioned the night before. He had no idea how he’d use it, or even if he’d be given a chance. Pitted against an Uzi with a full clip, a handmade dagger didn’t amount to much. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t go easy.