The First Billion

The anthem came to an end and the applause again started up, but only briefly. Kirov offered the victor's smile expected of him, gave a final wave, then followed Tustin to a conference room that took up a corner of the floor. Twenty or thirty people were milling about the glassed-in room, drinking champagne, munching on canapés, and making small talk.

"Janusz, Václav, Ed, hello. So glad you could make it." One by one he greeted his underlings from Mercury, then the others who had shepherded the Mercury offering through the offering process. Lawyers, bankers, accountants. And there was old man Silber himself- gray, bent, and exceedingly ugly, a Swiss gnome indeed. Kirov shook his hand. Apparently, the dinosaur hadn't yet gotten the word about the fate of his in-house tout, Pillonel.

"Welcome to Black Jet," said Antony Llewellyn-Davies, tapping him on the shoulder and handing him a glass of champagne. "We're delighted you were able to make it on time. One never knows with those small jets."

"What is small about a G-5?"

"Oh, nothing, I just…"

"Thank you." Kirov accepted the champagne, averting his gaze. The Englishman always left him feeling nervous and inadequate, with his soft eyes and snobby manner.

A spoon clinked a glass and the room fell silent. Bruce Jay Tustin cleared his throat, and those around him stepped back to clear a small space. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention, please. It's time for us to conduct some important business…"

***

Don't look behind you," Gavallan instructed Cate, laying a hand on her leg. "They've been there since we got into the city. Maybe before, but I didn't pick them up."

"How can you be sure?"

"I got the first two numbers of their license plates. I'm sure."

"It could be routine," said Cate. "The traffic militia getting ready to shake us down for a little bribe."

Gavallan eyed her doubtfully. "We both know better than that."

"But why didn't they stop Graf?"

"I can't say. Probably they didn't have orders to. All I know is that we stick out like a sore thumb in this car. We've got to ditch it in a hurry."

They had crossed the river and were driving south on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, a broad boulevard eight lanes across. Traffic was heavy, but moving. Stone apartment buildings five stories high, each a block long, lined the street. Gavallan maneuvered the large SUV into the center lane, checking the rearview mirror. A few seconds later, the Chaika followed, a hearse amid a carpet of colorful Fiats, Fords, and Opels.

They're obvious about it, that's for sure, thought Gavallan.

"You know where we are?" he asked.

"Of course."

"It's time to abandon ship. Find us a good place around here for us to get away from those goons."

"Ahead is a factory district. There are a lot of side streets, alleys really, that separate the different warehouses and manufacturing plants. It used to be kind of run-down. You wouldn't want to go there at night, I'll tell you that."

"Sounds good."

"You really want to just leave the car?"

"They won't be expecting us to. It'll give us a head start at least."

Gavallan kept the Suburban in the center lane, pointing out to Cate their best possible path. Approaching the next stoplight, he slowed to insure he would be the last car across as it turned red. The light turned from green to yellow. He waited, watching the cars nose in aggressively from his left. The light turned red. At the last instant, he gunned the engine, making it through the intersection amid a barrage of horns and obscene gestures as a wave of cars closed off the street and left the Chaika behind him, marooned.

He drove twenty yards farther and then, blocked by the grid of automobiles in front of him, stopped. "Get out."

He and Cate opened their doors and ran across the three lanes of traffic. Reaching the sidewalk, Gavallan glanced behind him. "Holy shit."

Heads were popping out of several of the cars stuck in traffic ahead of them. Two men appeared from a yellow Fiat. Another two from a white Simca. A lone man from a Mercedes. All left their vehicles and began threading through the gridlock toward them. Swallowing hard, Gavallan looked back. The goons from the Chaika were out too, rushing through the intersection as if fording a stream, brandishing pistols for cars to stop.

"Move! Move! Move!" Gavallan yelled.

Cate led the way, running up the sidewalk to the first side street and dashing right. Fifty yards up she crossed the pavement, took another left, then ducked into an alley that ran between two apartment buildings. Her strides were long, her arms pumping, her eyes aimed to the fore. Gavallan stayed at her heel, daring a glance behind them every ten or fifteen steps. He counted seven men running after them. They looked to be bunched in groups: three a hundred yards back, another three seventy yards away, and a lone man fifty yards and closing.