The First Billion

"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.

39

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.

***

A white Volvo with the orange and blue markings of the airport police waited on the tarmac beside their assigned parking spot. Two policemen, submachine guns tucked under their arms, approached the aircraft.

"Let me handle this," said Cate.

"Be my guest." Gavallan handed her his passport and stepped aside. She didn't know how he could stand there so calmly with a pistol tucked into his waistband.

Customs and immigration were conducted "sur place." The policemen examined their passports. One climbed into the cargo hold to inspect their luggage while the other checked the flight log.

Keeping to English, Cate explained they had nothing to declare and were, in fact, only staying in Geneva for the day. A little sight-seeing. Lunch at the Lion D'Or. A run up to the UN. Would either care to join them? They needed a guide, she said, her itchy nerves fueling the giddy repartee. Someone who knew the language and could provide some local color. Could they tell her where Audrey Hepburn was buried? Wasn't it near Crissier? And didn't Phil Collins live nearby?

Suddenly, the policemen were all smiles. Beneath the blue berets, neither was more than twenty. "Pheel Collins? Oui, oui, il habite tout près." He lives nearby. But neither could come up with the town. As for guides, they were unable to help. "Désolé, Madame," they replied. They were in the midst of their annual military service and their next scheduled leave was not until the following Friday.

Thirty minutes later, she was driving a rented Mercedes sedan along the highway. Jett sat beside her, a map spread upon his lap. "Keep your eye out for the Aubonne exit," he said. "Looks like it's about twenty klicks down the road. Just up from the lake."

Cate shot him an apprehensive glance, frightened by his retreat into military vernacular. He'd been brooding since they'd crossed over the continent, speaking less and less, avoiding her gaze.