Christopher Reich - The First Billion

“No.” The screams were gone. In their place came crisp emotionless answers. The dialogue went on for some time, and it seemed like the Chechen was pleased with her, that she would not suffer her fellow worker’s fate. Then came the horrible thud, the rushed outflow of breath, the slack, undignified thump of the body as it fell to the ground. The blows continued, merciless and mundane, and Byrnes could hear the Chechen’s labored, rhythmic breathing above them, greedy, excited, ambitious.

“A ghastly business.”

Byrnes jumped at the voice. Looking up, he saw Konstantin Kirov standing at the back of the shed. He was smoking one of his black cigarettes, and he looked pale and unsteady.

“A legal matter,” Kirov explained. “Someone has been slipping information out of our offices, giving them to individuals unfriendly to the cause. We’re adjudicating the matter in-house.”

“Your questioning methods are very efficient.”

“They are hardly my methods, but, yes, they are efficient. We can’t be certain which of the three stole the information, only that it was one of them. People are so adept at lying these days.”

“So you kill them all,” said Byrnes without irony. “Clever.”

Kirov paid the remark no heed and went on smoking. “Would it surprise you to know that I was once in a position similar to yours? Mr. Dashamirov recruited me in the same manner. More roughly, actually. He put a bullet in my best friend’s head, then asked if I wanted the same.”

“Is that why I’m here? For recruitment?”

“We’re long past recruitment. ‘Retirement’ might be a more appropriate word.”

Again, Byrnes was left to wonder why the deal hadn’t been canceled. He was certain Jett had understood his message. He’d heard it in his voice. It came to him that Gavallan had to have a reason not to have canceled the deal, and that he, Grafton Byrnes, might be it. He looked over his shoulder. The woman, Kovacs, lay motionless in the dirt, her blond hair matted with blood. He knew what lay in store, if not today, then soon.

“Doing business in this country’s so damned difficult,” Kirov complained, dropping his cigarette to the ground, grinding it with the tip of his shoe. “You think I want to be Mr. Dashamirov’s partner? I have no choice. What do you think would happen if I gave up? Would Mercury exist? No. Two million legitimate subscribers would lose their connection to the world. Thousands of intelligent men and women would be out of a job. And Russia? What about it? Have you thought what might happen to my country if I threw in the towel just because of Mr. Dashamirov’s unsavory methods? Would my country have independent television? Unbiased journalism? The answer is no. It is a question of priorities. Of recognizing what is achievable and doing the necessary to see it through. Of rolling up your sleeves and getting a little dirty in the kitchen.”

“Of the greater good?” Byrnes offered.

“Yes, damn it, the greater…” Kirov stopped mid-sentence. His eyes burned with a fervor, an inner fire Byrnes had never seen. More than ever he looked like a crazed monk. “It is too bad you will not see it come to pass.”

The whip-crack explosion of three heavy-caliber bullets fired in close succession snapped Byrnes to attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he made out Dashamirov holstering a pistol as he stepped over the corpses. The coup de grace had been administered. Kirov’s spy was no longer.

Grafton Byrnes watched Kirov rejoin his partner. After a few words, the two disappeared from sight. An engine fired and one of the vehicles departed. Sickened, Byrnes wondered why he was still alive. The answer came at once. He still needs you.

Time passed in strange fits and spurts, and Byrnes knew his fever was worsening. He sat and watched as one after another the corpses were picked up and carried to the stone sump house across the compound. After a time, he heard the muted, regular fall of an ax. Smoke began to course from the chimney. The scent reached him, and he retched.

Sometime later, the second Suburban drove away.

It was night when the van carrying his food arrived. A steady rain pattered the roof, sliding with ease between the irregular birch boughs and making the floor a muddy hell.

Curled into a ball, Byrnes lay in a corner, moaning. As his jailer opened the door, Byrnes moaned louder. “Doctor,” he said several times. The jailer set the mess tin on the ground and relocked the padlock with nary a second’s hesitation. But Byrnes was sure he’d heard the words, sure he’d noticed him. In the morning when he returned, he would find the prisoner in a similar position. And the next evening, too.

By then, Byrnes would be ready.

Howell Dodson was not happy to be in Florida at six o’clock on a Friday evening. His daughter Renee’s softball game had begun a half hour ago, and at this very moment he’d hoped to be seated in the bleachers next to his wife, chomping on popcorn, swilling a Coke, and yelling his lungs out for his little girl to belt one over the left field fence. He’d promised her he wouldn’t miss the game, and each day this week before he went to work, she’d reminded him of his obligation. Friday night at seven-thirty, Daddy. It’s the league playoffs. You have to come. In fact, he hadn’t just promised to come—he’d sworn it. Cross his heart and hope to die. This was one game the Bureau would not interfere with. And goddamn it, until ten o’clock that morning, he’d had every intention of attending. Until a cold-blooded killer had stormed into Cornerstone Trading in Delray Beach, Florida, and massacred ten innocent people, Howell Dodson would have broken legs to see the game.

“It’s all right, Dad,” Renee had said when he’d called earlier to tell her he would not be able to make the game. “I know you wanted to come. That’s what’s important.”

“Hit a homer for me, will ya, slugger?”

“Sure thing. I’ll try for two even.”

Hanging up the phone, Dodson struggled to come to grips with her newfound maturity. When had his little girl grown up on him? When had she become possessed of such poise and understanding? When had she stopped needing him to cheer for her?

Dodson’s temporary office was located in a small room in the basement of the Miami-Dade Federal Building. There was a metal desk, a clerk’s rolling chair, and a sagging love seat done in transparent plastic slipcovers. The sole artwork came from the U.S. Government Printing Office: a copy of the most recent “Ten Most Wanted” circular.

Standing, Dodson moved to the door, smoothing his blue and white seersucker suit, appraising the knot of his yellow paisley necktie, as if checking that his uniform was presentable for inspection. He looked onto a large, open linoleum floor that might have welcomed the smaller, less prestigious variety of convention. Chiropractors, roofers, or morticians. Desks and chairs were being set up on the double. A man passed carrying a chalkboard. Another labored beneath a half-dozen cases of Coke. Behind him followed a woman with grocery bags full of juice, cookies, and tissues. In an hour or two, the first of the victims’ relatives would arrive for questioning. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dodson sighed. It would be a long and painful night.

From afar, he spotted Roy DiGenovese storming across the floor, dodging a pushcart loaded with potted plants. His eyes were bright, his olive cheeks flushed with excitement. Since Dodson’s appointment as director of the Cornerstone investigation, DiGenovese had been more gung ho than usual, almost dangerously so.

“What is it, Roy?” called Dodson. “You look about ready to burst.”

“We got Gavallan’s prints from the Pentagon. There’s a ninety percent probability they match the partials we took from the golf club in Luca’s bedroom, as well as the smudges on the closet door. The lab’s still comparing them against the prints found at Cornerstone. Nothing yet.”