Christopher Reich - The First Billion

“Maybe, but still…” Cate shuddered. “I never realized how bad I might feel. Even now.” She reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. “I see now I should have told you. I’m sorry, Jett. Forgive me?”

He nodded, filled with affection for her. Not a sexual yearning, but a stronger, deeper emotion, an encompassing happiness simply that he was there with her.

The cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped into the cabin. “We’re an hour out,” he said. “Weather looks fine in Geneva—a few clouds, otherwise it should be a sunny day in Switzerland. Mr. Dodson, you have any idea when you’ll want us to be ready to take off again? We’d be appreciative if you could give us some idea of our destination ahead of time. We’re required to file a flight plan, even if we don’t stick to it.”

The relationship was strictly business, mercenary all the way. Once they were airborne, Gavallan had bribed him with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. Ask no questions and he’d tell no tales.

“Be fueled up and ready to go by four. I’ll give you a call later this morning to let you know where we’re headed.”

“That’s fine. Couple hours are all we need.”

The pilot left. Gavallan took off his watch and reset it for Geneva time. “An hour to go,” he said. “Think this bird’s got a decent shower?”

Cate pointed to the rear of the aircraft. “Give it a shot. Might as well get your money’s worth.”

He headed to the shower, but pulled up suddenly, hoping she might be getting out of her seat to join him. “Cate…” he started, but she was still seated, her eyes not on him but glued to the window, staring into the orange dawn.

He could only wonder what she was thinking.

You are happy, my friend?” asked Aslan Dashamirov.

“Relieved,” Konstantin Kirov replied. “I slept better knowing there was no longer a risk of someone slipping our papers to the police. It was a difficult business. I’m glad we’ve solved the matter.”

It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning. The two men walked arm in arm across the muddy field outside of Moscow where Dashamirov had set up one of his used-car lots. A row of crapped-out automobiles ran next to them. Fiats. Ladas. Simcas. None with less than a hundred thousand miles on them, though the odometers showed no more than a quarter of that. Scruffy pennants dangled from a line strung overhead. A ways back, tucked conveniently amongst a copse of baby pines, stood a blue and white striped tent where prices were negotiated and payments made, often in tender as suspect as the cars themselves: televisions, refrigerators, stereos, cigarettes, narcotics, women.

“I’m not so sure,” said Dashamirov.

“Oh?”

“No one talked. Not one of them admitted to working with Baranov or with Skulpin. Only the innocent are so brave.”

“You didn’t give them the chance.” Kirov hated himself for playing up to the Chechen. He was a brigand, really, an uneducated hood.

Dashamirov looked at him as if he were a wart on his finger. “I am thinking we did not find the right person.”

So that was why his krysha had called the meeting, thought Kirov. He should have known the man wouldn’t be so easily put off. Of course, Dashamirov was right. He was always right. This time, though, Kirov had beaten him to the punch.

He’d put his finger on the traitor, a young securities lawyer working in-house on the Mercury deal, and had taken care of the problem himself. Quickly. Neatly. Quietly. A single bullet to the man’s brain delivered in the comfort of the traitor’s own flat. None of this barbaric business with a hammer. Imagining the fierce blow against the skull, Kirov shivered, a spike of fear running right through him to the pit of his belly.

He stared at Dashamirov. The mustache, the crooked mouth, the eyes at once dead, yet so magnificently alive. The man was a beast. But a smart beast. He was correct in his assumptions. Only the innocent were so brave. The lawyer had spilled his guts after a few threats and a bloody nose. Had Dashamirov pressed him for details about the money missing from Novastar, it would have been Kirov getting the hammer yesterday morning.

The hammer.

He ground his teeth.

“What’s important,” said Kirov, “is that Mercury will go forward without any further problems. For that I have you to thank.”

“I was thinking rather about Novastar,” said Dashamirov, dropping his arm to his side, quickening his pace as the rain picked up. “The question of the missing funds haunts me, my friend. Where there is one rat, there may be more. Perhaps someone in your organization is stealing the money from the airline. A hundred twenty-five million dollars is too large a sum to take lightly.”

“Perhaps,” replied Kirov thoughtfully, “though that would be difficult. I alone have signature power over the airline’s bank accounts.”

“Yes. You are right. Perhaps it would be wise to study the books.” He opened his slim, spidery hands in a gesture of conciliation. “If, of course, you do not mind.”

It was not a request, and both men knew it. Kirov looked around. A dozen of Dashamirov’s clansmen loitered among the cars. Vor v Zakone. Thieves of thieves. God knew they were wealthy, but look at them. Standing around in the pouring rain, hair wet, clothing as sodden as the omnipresent cigarettes that dangled from their lips. In four days’ time, Dashamirov stood to take home 15 percent of Kirov’s billion—a neat $150 million dollars. The next day he would be here, or at one of the other fifty lots he ran in the northern suburbs of Moscow, standing in the rain, drinking filthy coffee, smoking.

“I will speak to my accountant immediately,” said Kirov. “He is in Switzerland. It may take some time.”

“By all means.” The courteous reply was accompanied by a damning smile. “There is no hurry. Have the latest quarterly report for Novastar, as well as the most recent banking statements for our Swiss holding companies, Andara and Futura, in my office by Monday.”

“I am in New York Monday,” said Kirov, puffing out his chest, trying to muster some authority. “We will price the Mercury offering that afternoon. We can sit down together when I get back in the country on Friday.”

“Monday,” repeated Dashamirov, less courteously. “By four o’clock. Or else I will begin looking somewhere else for the thief within your company. Somewhere closer to the top.”

A bead of sweat broke high on Kirov’s back and rolled the length of his spine.

“Monday,” he said, knowing it would be impossible.

The jet banked hard to the right and drifted lower. From her window, Cate stared as the city of Geneva rushed up to greet her, as if she were looking at a postcard from her teenage past. The city looked no different than it had when she’d last seen it, ten years before. The jet d’eau shot a geyser of water two hundred feet into a young blue sky. A flotilla of boats bobbed lazily on the lake’s scalloped surface. The prim row of banks and hotels that lined the Quai Guisan nodded a courteous “Welcome back.”

Beyond the cityscape, the Saleve rose vertically from a buckle of forest, a brooding granite soldier guarding the town’s southern flank. The only Calvinist remaining in a city gone to the devil. But the familiar sights brought forth no haze of nostalgia, neither a wish for the past nor a desire to recall her youth. They promised only trouble. This was her other life. Her secret self. The history she’d sworn to keep hidden. Stealing a glance at Jett, her stomach tightened. In fear. In sorrow. In anticipation. And as the plane touched down, the wheels bouncing once before embracing the runway, she shivered with a premonition of loss. She was certain that everything she’d spent her adult life working toward was about to come undone.