Christopher Reich - The First Billion

“If your friend Skulpin’s right, Kirov couldn’t have faked the due diligence without the help of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm,” he said. “They’re the ones who visited Kirov’s operations. They hired the experts to verify that Mercury’s operating platform was up to snuff. They signed off that everything was a hundred percent as advertised. If something was amiss, they’d have to have seen it.”

“You told me the other night you’d spoken with Jean-Jacques Pillonel and that he swore the whole thing was good as gold.”

“He did.”

“Okay then. At least we know where to look.”

Gavallan knew the tone of voice too well. Smug, confident, unimpeachable. He couldn’t deny her claims on Kirov. On a strictly practical note, it would be safer traveling in her company. The FBI was looking for a lone murderer, not a vacationing couple.

If for Graf’s sake alone, he would allow her to come to Geneva with him.

Taking the map from Cate’s lap, he spread it across his own. The Boca Raton airport looked to be an hour’s drive. His knowledge of private airports taught him they ran the gamut from dirt landing strips with a Coke machine and a gas pump to state-of-the-art facilities equipped to assist their pilots to fly anywhere short of the moon. He was quick to assume that the Boca Raton airport, with its proximity to Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, and other monied suburbs of south Florida, ran to the latter variety. On the one hand, it would definitely have several planes available for charter. On the other, it’d be first in line to cooperate with the authorities should questions be asked about flight plans filed that afternoon by a certain investment banker.

Further study revealed several other private airports in the region, but Gavallan liked what Cate had said about a long runway. If they were going to Geneva, they’d require a decent-size jet: a Cessna Citation, an upper-end Lear, a Gulfstream III.

“Boca it is,” he said. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a few stops to make before we get to the airport.”

Jett Gavallan rolled across the tarmac of the Boca Raton Executive Airport, a bent old man pushed along in a shiny wheelchair by a rather too attractive companion. One stop at the nearest mall had taken care of their requirements. A windbreaker, a broad-visored sun hat, and some dark glasses hid Gavallan’s features. The blanket was Cate’s idea. Old people got cold, she said, even when the thermometer topped eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and humidity was 90 percent plus. The disguise wasn’t much, but it might keep the Feds off his trail if they were as eager to find him as they said.

He’d taken other precautions as well. He’d chartered the plane under a fictitious name and paid via E-cash, transferring the fees directly from his bank account to the aircraft leasing company—all before setting foot on airport grounds. He wanted as few people as possible to remember seeing them. In this at least he was successful. Their total time in transit from parking lot to tarmac was ten minutes.

Ahead lay their chariot: a white Gulfstream III with a sporty blue pinstripe running the length of the fuselage. A team of mechanics swarmed around the engines. The pilot and copilot circled the tail, completing their preflight walk-around. A fuel truck lumbered alongside, and a hose was extended to the plane’s wing. The sight of the gleaming aircraft did wonders for Gavallan’s bruised morale. Airplanes, of every size and vintage, never ceased to thrill him.

“She’s a beaut,” he said.

“She is,” said Cate. “You thinking of getting behind the controls yourself? Give me a show of the Air Force’s greatest talent?”

“No,” he said coldly. “That part of my life’s over. These days I ride just like any other paying customer.”

“Maybe someday,” suggested Cate.

“Maybe.” Gavallan pulled down the brim of his hat to shadow his features.

They’d spent the hour’s ride to the airport discussing what to do once they reached Geneva, how to approach Kirov if they were able to extract a confession from Jean-Jacques Pillonel or if by God’s grace they got their hands on some material evidence of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm’s fraud.

But their conversation hadn’t ended there. Sometime during the drive the focus had shifted from freeing Grafton Byrnes to making Kirov pay for his crimes.

“Canceling the Mercury offering might hurt Kirov,” Cate had said, “but it’s not nearly enough. Not anymore. I want the man to pay. I want him to suffer for the people he’s killed.”

And for stealing Black Jet, Gavallan added silently.

Canceling the Mercury IPO would deal his company a swift and severe blow. He could forget about the seventy million in fees. He’d have to write off the bridge loan to Kirov, worth another fifty million. And that would be that.

Two choices would be left him. He could embark on a wholesale restructuring of the firm that would require firing a few hundred employees and shuttering his London and Chicago operations. Or he could sell. He and his top executives would pocket large sums, but they would hardly be compensated for the business’s true worth. And the prospect of working for another firm left him cold. Were he to leave, his core team of executives would follow, willingly or not. Neither Tony, Bruce, nor Meg fit the mold corporate behemoths demanded these days. Meg was too old. Tony’s illness branded him unreliable. And Bruce… well, simply put, Bruce was an asshole. It wouldn’t be a week before he’d have called the new managing director a bootlicker or an ass-kisser or God knows what, and that would be the end of Bruce.

“The only way to hurt Kirov is to put him in prison,” Cate said. “Rob him of his power, his money, his position.”

“Easier said than done,” said Gavallan, unable to cloak his pessimism. “He’s a Russian citizen. He’ll never stand before an American judge to answer for Mercury—if, that is, we can even prove he meddled.”

“Oh, he meddled all right. Just like he meddled with Novastar. What we need to do is nail him for stealing the hundred twenty-five million from his own country. Put him in the gulag where he belongs.”

“One thing at a time, Cate. I’d say our plates are full as it is.”

“I can dream, can’t I?”

Cate wheeled the chair to the foot of the stairwell and helped Gavallan board the plane. It wasn’t hard to adopt the gait of an older man. His lower back had stiffened and the throbbing in his head had returned with a vengeance. Still, it was impossible to deny the rush of excitement he felt as he entered the fuselage.

“So, you old codger,” she said. “Where you headed?”

“Geneva. I hear there are a lot of crooks in those parts. Guess you’re coming too?”

Cate stared at him over the top of her sunglasses, but when she spoke the smile had left her voice. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Grafton Byrnes rose at the sound of the approaching engine and shuffled to the wall. It was late afternoon. The sky was cloudy, the air growing cooler. He was sick with fever and painfully hungry. The engine meant dinner, if that was what you called a mess tin half filled with weak broth and a few skimpy vegetables. Twice a day, an old, dented truck lumbered into the clearing, delivering the same meal. Twice a day he both cursed and rejoiced. He’d never imagined how famished a man could grow in two days. How terribly, desperately hungry. The stomach did not accept maltreatment complacently. It howled, it stabbed, it cramped.

Glancing up, Byrnes noticed dark clouds gathering overhead. A drop of rain dodged what was left of the roof and caught him on the cheek. Days tended to be warm, but when the sun fell, the temperature plummeted to freezing, the wind picked up, and his teeth chattered like marble on ice. Wiping away the raindrop, he tried to imagine another night lying huddled like an animal in the corner of the shed, toes dug into the dirt, bandaged hands clenched, tucked close to his chest, left with only his trousers and Ascot Chang’s finest Egyptian cotton dress shirt to fend off the cold. He began to shiver.