Christopher Reich - The First Billion

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.

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 was 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.”