The First Billion

by Christopher Reich

  Her name was Katya, once again, and as she drove, a gothic fantasy played in her head. She was the Czarina en route to Ekaterinburg. Anastasia, of course, on her last journey. Her fate was sealed, but she was too proud to acknowledge it. How many nights until the brigade of toughs stormed the lodge and forced her to the cellar? How long until her father’s eager band of revolutionaries signed their name to her short history?

  The first intimations of disaster came at 11:06 by the digital clock on the dashboard. The driver left the highway at an exit marked “Svertloe” and took up a new course on a single-lane macadam road leading intrepidly across a meadow-grass plain. Once the preserve of boyars, or nobles, and the wealthy bourgeoisie, dachas tended to be rustic cottages located in pine forests or near lakes or mountains. Most served as weekend retreats and could be found within thirty miles of the city. But one look at this stale landscape told her that no right-thinking man would build a dacha within a hundred miles of this place.

  The road began a steady climb uphill toward a pine forest. The macadam quit, replaced by hard-packed dirt. She glimpsed silver. Straining her eyes, she made out a fence. She leaned forward, knowing it was her destination. One fence became two, each ten feet high and topped with curls of barbed wire. The gate, though, was in ruins, bent and mangled, lying to one side. They entered the compound, and she looked around. There were a few log cabins, nothing quaint or rustic about them. The dacha, indeed. One more of her father’s sick jokes. The car pulled up in front of the largest building. She saw the windows and gasped. They were decorated with stout iron bars placed three inches apart.

  This was where all roads led.

  To Russia.

  To her father.

  To her death.

  Gavallan spotted the ruined fence and knew it was Graf. He was alive. He had escaped. He had crashed through the fence. Right now he was in Moscow alerting the embassy. It was a matter of time before they sent out their delegates in the company of the Russian militia. His blood stirred and he grew giddy with a desperate joy.

  Then he saw the battered truck parked behind the main building, and his spirits crashed to earth. The pickup’s fender was dented, the windshield cracked. Whoever had driven through the fence hadn’t gotten far.

  The SUV lumbered to a halt in front of a large cabin. Gavallan spotted the bars and knew he would have to act fast. Once inside, they’d be locked up and then he’d have no chance for surprise. He imagined that the day’s agenda called for interrogation and torture, followed sometime in the afternoon by death. Call it the Russian trinity. He’d have to hit someone before he got locked up. He swallowed hard, steeling himself to the task. He’d never killed anyone, not with his hands. He was a pilot. Tell him to drop a couple bombs from twenty thousand feet and he was your man. Ask him to shove a three-inch blade into a man’s belly and he’d say, “No thanks, that’s the next guy’s job.” Except today there wasn’t a next guy. Today there was him and Cate and five Russian thugs with at least two Uzis and a couple of handguns between them. He looked at the driver and at Boris. Who would be first? It didn’t matter so long as he had one of the machine guns. That’s what he needed. From then on out it would be a crapshoot.

  “We are arrived,” said Boris.

  Gavallan descended slowly, pushing his stomach out to keep pressure on the shank, make sure it remained inside his waistband. The air was dry and dusty, hinting of resin and mint. He looked around, his eyes making a desperate survey of the compound. Besides the main building, there were three smaller cabins, shacks, really. Two stood to his left, fifty yards away. A third was closer, more a shed, constructed from pale birch wood. Gavallan thought he saw something move inside it. He looked closer. He could see the fingers of two hands extended through gaps in the wall, grasping the wood.

  Graf.

  His heart beat with a violent resolve.

  The second Suburban pulled into the clearing and stopped. Tatiana jumped from the car, and a moment later Cate appeared. Behind them, Boris’s cronies had formed a small welcoming committee. The Uzis were out, and not just for show.

  Gavallan walked over to Cate. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said, taking her hand.

  “No, Jett,” she said. “It’s not.”

  57

  They stood in the clearing in front of the cabin waiting for Boris to open the door, a vacation party anxious to get into their summer rental. Gavallan held Cate’s hand, every bit as much for his comfort as hers.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Cate nodded, shifting her head toward him. “We have to talk.”

  The blunt nose of an Uzi jabbed Gavallan’s back before he could reply. “Quiet. No speak.”

  “Take it easy, bud,” said Gavallan. Irritated, he turned to face his newly appointed guardian angel, all two hundred and forty pounds of him. He wanted to shove the guy, gun or no gun. “We’re not going anywhere. Give us a break.”

  “Fuck you.” The guard had white blond hair done in a burr cut, dull blue eyes, and pitted cheeks that had fought a losing battle against teenage acne. He feinted with the Uzi and Gavallan jumped back, drawing a bored chortle from the spectators.

  The drivers lolled against the doors of their Suburbans, arms crossed, smoking and chatting up Tatiana, who was dressed like a California teenager in Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a black tank top. Her shoulder holster and pearl-handled .357 Magnum were strictly adult fare, though, and christened her the flat tops’ dream date. She responded to their catcalls desultorily, her voice flat, her eyes glued to the cabin, to Gavallan and Cate.

  She was a pro, Gavallan decided. She was trouble.

  Shifting his eyes around the clearing, he took in the trees that stood stiff as sentries, the furrowed track that had brought them here, the twin fences, and the ruined gate. The entry to a storm cellar could be seen a ways off, next to a depleted woodpile. In the same direction were two smaller cabins, one with an antenna, the other a crude smokestack. But Gavallan’s interest was first and foremost on the shed. He took a step toward it, pointing. “Is Mr. Byrnes in there?”

  No one answered.

  “Boris, is Mr. Byrnes in there?” The Uzi stabbed his back and Gavallan spun rapidly, knocking it away. “Hit me again with that thing and I’ll ram it sideways up your ass.”

  Finished unlocking the cabin, Boris hurried back toward Gavallan. “Why you no shut up? We ask you once, twice. Still, you talk.”

  “You can’t just—”

  Boris fired a fist into his jaw, knocking Gavallan to a knee. “Shut up. Ponimayu?”

  “Jett!” Cate jumped to his side and Boris picked her up kicking and struggling and carried her back a step or two. Setting her down, he rattled off a barrage of words at her. Cate relaxed again. She stood rock-still, her eyes glued to Boris. She was playing the obedient schoolgirl, and Gavallan was glad for it.

  A little longer, my girl. Play along a little longer.

  Slowly, Gavallan found his way to his legs. He hadn’t been hit like that in a long time. It didn’t hurt so much as make him want to give Boris one right back. Brushing the pine needles off his pants, he checked for the butt of his shank. It was still in place. I owe you one, buddy, he promised himself, meeting Boris’s eye. Payback. And it’s coming sooner than you think.

  “My father forbids you to talk,” Cate explained a moment later. “To me or to anyone. Graf is in the shed. He says if you want the same punishment as him, all you have to do is keep speaking.”

  “Ponimayu?” Boris repeated, firing two fingers into his chest. “You understand now?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Boris jumped onto the porch and waved his arm for them to follow. “Inside.”

  The Uzi nipped at Gavallan’s back and he took a step forward, bending to help Cate with her bag. “I’ll get it,” he said. He needed the bag every bit as much as the shank that was cutting into his waist. The bag was his decoy. A prop to buy him time.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, her smile a present.
>
  Gavallan crossed the threshold and looked around. The floor was wooden, swept clean and covered with a sisal throw rug. Four battered desk chairs were scattered about the place. A trestle table took up one wall. On it was a propane-fueled heating ring, a few dishes, and a tray of cutlery. A portable Honda generator sat in a corner, along with a space heater and two jerry cans he presumed were filled with gasoline. A pile of dirty magazines littered another corner. Man’s fundamental needs had been reduced to heat, food, and jerking off.

  “Nice place,” said Gavallan. “Tell me, is it a time-share or do you own it outright?”

  “You will only stay a few days,” said Boris.

  “We shouldn’t be staying here at all. You know your boss is in trouble. Come on, Boris, it’s time to call it quits. Let’s all get back into the cars and go back to Moscow. I’ll buy you a drink at the Kempinski.”

  Gavallan waited for him to say “Shut up,” to throw another punch. But this time Boris merely laughed. “You think I should quit? And do what?”

  “You’ve got a good head for the market. Use it. With your knowledge, I bet you could find a job as a broker in no time.”

  “With you? With Black Jet?”

  “Why not? It’s better than staying with Kirov. Where do you want to start? San Francisco? New York? Let’s get Mr. Byrnes and head back to town.”

  “New York, eh?” Boris hummed a few bars of “On Broadway.” Un Brod-vey. Abruptly, his gaze darkened. “Mr. Kirov is not in trouble. You are in trouble, Mr. Jett. Go with Ivan. He show you to your room.”

  “Boris, listen to me—”

  “Shut up, Mr. Jett.”

  All trace of the Russian’s former good nature had vanished. Gavallan knew why: He was steeling himself for the job ahead. Putting on his armor. As Ivan led the way down the hall, Gavallan grabbed Cate’s hand. “Hang in there,” he said.

  The first room offered a cot, a table, and a wooden bucket. The second was less accommodating. A peek inside revealed a sturdy wooden chair with broad, flat armrests and a stiff back bolted to a concrete floor. He’d seen chairs like it before, but usually they had straps for your arms and legs and came with a metal bowl and a few electrodes to clamp on your freshly shaven head. The floor was stained black and sloped toward a drain in its center.

  “Jett . . . oh, Jesus, no.” Cate’s gait faltered, and Gavallan rushed to support her. “Go,” he said, propelling her forward. Sensing he had a moment, he put his mouth to her ear. “Hit the floor when I tell you.”

  “What?” Cate asked, brow knitted.

  Seeing Ivan’s eyes on them, Gavallan backed off and didn’t answer.

  Ivan opened the door to the room at the far end of the corridor. “Come,” he said, motioning them closer.

  Cate ventured a look behind her and Gavallan nodded for her to go on, his eyes gifting her with the confidence he was lacking. She stepped into the room and, moving to the left, disappeared from Gavallan’s sight. A last check over his shoulder showed Boris hovering near the front door, distracted, barking instructions to Tatiana and her suitors.

  There were two cots placed against opposite walls with a window in between them. Cate stood to his left, arms crossed over her chest. She was nervous, her sea green eyes flicking this way and that.

  “Which one is mine?” Gavallan asked, pointing at the beds. His body had gone rigid; his hands itched for action. His jaw still tingled from Boris’s punch, and fighting blood stirred inside him. Ivan stood in front of him, the Uzi pushed back to his side, his forearm resting on top of it.

  “Ex-cuze me, I no—” he began to answer, his fractured English bringing an ugly grin to his lips.

  But by then Gavallan was already moving.

  Shoving Cate’s overnight bag into Ivan’s stomach, he drove the white-haired Russian into the far wall. While one hand blocked the Uzi’s rise, the other dropped the bag and freed the shank from his pants. With curt, vicious thrusts, he rammed the blade into Ivan’s neck, once, twice, then brought his arm around in a windmill and stabbed the Russian in the back. His actions were savage, feral, unthinking. Ivan fought to push his attacker away, to bring up the Uzi, but his efforts were divided, unfocused. Hugging him close, Gavallan shoved home the shank. The Russian’s back arched in spasm. His fingers left Gavallan and grasped at his ruined throat, but the only sound he could produce was the clotted cough of a man choking to death on his own blood. His body shuddered, then was still.

  “Ivan!”

  Boris’s strident voice echoed through the cabin as his footsteps pounded down the hallway. Gavallan freed the submachine gun from Ivan’s shoulder and let the corpse fall to the floor. “Down,” he yelled to Cate as he darted to the doorway and his thumb kicked off the safety. He ducked a head into the corridor and a chunk of wood exploded from the door frame, accompanied by the ear-numbing blast of a large-bore handgun.

  Blindly, Gavallan stuck the Uzi into the corridor and fired. Three short bursts. Left. Right. Then left again. He could hear the bullets strike Boris, three fastballs thudding into a catcher’s mitt. His steps slowed violently and the Russian collapsed to the floor.

  Gavallan peered into the hall. Boris was on his stomach, one hand patting the ground as if he were a wrestler signaling his surrender. The pistol lay a few inches away. Gavallan fired a quick burst and Boris’s skull disintegrated, freckling the walls with gore.

  “The others are coming,” Cate shouted. “Hurry!”

  “Get the gun and stay here,” Gavallan instructed her.

  With a leap, he cleared Boris and made for the open front door. Running, he glanced out the window. The two drivers were rushing the cabin. Tatiana was nowhere to be seen. Stopping short, he fired through the glass in a wide arc. His goal wasn’t to kill but to halt Kirov’s soldiers’ advance. Both men dived headlong to the ground and, as if trained for this exact scenario, began crawling in different directions. The nearer sought refuge in the lee of the landing. The other skidded backward on his hands and knees toward the automobiles.

  You can only get one, a voice whispered in Gavallan’s head.

  Steadying himself, he took aim and fired. A short burst, five bullets max. The black suit approaching the cabin stopped moving. Gavallan fired again. Filaments from the man’s jacket flittered into the air where the bullets struck.

  “Cate,” he yelled, “get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”

  Gavallan had slammed the front door and was running from window to window, scouring the woods for sign of Tatiana’s platinum hair, her blue jeans running among the trees. He didn’t see her anywhere. Fire broke out from the front of the house. Bullets thudded into the cabin, then found the windows. Glass shattered and tinkled to the floor, sending him tumbling to the floor. Lifting his head above the windowsill, he saw their driver firing his Uzi over the Suburban’s hood. It’s a feint, Gavallan decided. He’s keeping us pinned down for the girl. For Tatiana.

  “Take the Uzi,” he said to Cate, trading her the machine gun for Boris’s .44 automag. “If he tries to leave the car, fire.” He showed her how to hold the gun at arm’s length and helped fashion her finger around the trigger. “Just short bursts. Fire; let go. Fire; let go. You don’t have many bullets left.”

  Cate accepted the weapon, tried to get a feel of its heft. “Short bursts,” she said, her eyes keen.

  “Yeah, and keep looking every now and again. He may try to rush you.”

  “And you?”

  Gavallan had remembered the woodpile twenty five feet from the cabin and the boarded-up entry to the storm cellar next to it. He’d already located the stairs to the cabin’s cellar. The only question was whether there was a passageway leading between the two. Given the severity of Russian winters, he was counting on it. “I’ve got to check on something. I’ll be right back.”

  Mindful that speed was a factor, he moved off before she could protest. The automag leading the charge, he crashed down the stairs to the cellar. The room was dank and dark. He scurried along th
e walls, his hand checking the concrete for a door. He found nothing. He took a step backward, puzzled, and a hollow thud greeted his footfall. He was standing on a trapdoor.

  Falling to his knee, he slipped two fingers into the rusty pull ring and yanked open the door. Stairs led to an abyss. Slowly, he descended them, one by one, and when he reached the bottom, he stopped. The room was pitch dark. He waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. He listened. Nothing.

  But what did you expect to hear over the hobnailed beating of your own heart? a voice chided him.

  Hurry, he commanded himself. Cate is alone. And then, more frighteningly: You could be wrong. Tatiana may know another way into the house.

  Groping the wall, he set out, holding the gun in front of him as he would have a flashlight. He calculated that twenty paces would take him to the storm cellar. Water dripped from the ceiling. Instinctively, he lowered his head. Something damp and sticky danced across his face. Grimacing, he swiped it away.

  Ten paces.

  “Jett! Come here! Now!”

  Gavallan spun his head in the direction of her voice. He retreated a step. It was the driver. He’d gotten bored and was mounting his own lonely charge. Just then, the door to the storm cellar opened and sunshine flooded the passage. Gavallan froze, squinting to adjust to the light. A black cowboy boot landed on the stairs forty feet in front of him.

  “Jett!” Cate’s voice came again.

  Gavallan slid backward, his head turning one way, then the other. On the stairwell, the boots became blue jeans, and the blue jeans were joined by a pale hand holding the pearl-handled .357 Magnum. Gavallan dug his feet into the dirt floor. There was no going back. Bringing his left hand up to the grip of the .44 automag, he assumed the Stableford stance: left foot forward, right arm extended, left hand supporting his shooting wrist. He waited until he saw her face—the diamond blue eyes, the pouting lips. “Stop,” he yelled.