The First Billion

His response couldn't have been further from the truth. He'd arrived earlier that afternoon on an emergency visit. All very hush-hush. Forty-eight hours in country to check out the operating equipment of Mercury Broadband, a multinational Internet service and content provider his company was set to bring public in a week's time. Questions had surfaced regarding the firm's Moscow network operations center- namely, whether it owned all the physical assets it claimed to: routers, switches, servers, and the like. He was to find the facility, verify that it contained equipment necessary to provide broadband services to its publicized customer base of two hundred thousand people, and report back.

The IPO, or initial public offering, of shares in the company was valued at two billion dollars, and nothing less than his firm's continued existence depended on what he discovered. A green light meant seventy million dollars in fees, a guarantee of fee-related business from Mercury down the road, and a rescue from impending insolvency.

Shelving the offering meant death- defined either as massive layoffs, the sale of the firm to a larger house, or in the worst case, shuttering up the shop and putting a "Gone Fishing" sign in the window. Permanently.

"And what you do for business?" she asked.

"Investment banking. Stocks. Bonds. Like Wall Street, you know?"

"So, I am right," she announced proudly, dropping a hand onto his leg and allowing it to linger there. "You are millionaire."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. Anyway, it's not polite to talk about money."

"I think you are wrong. Money is sexy," she said, winking. "Aphrodisiac, I think."

He ordered another drink, and when it came he took a greedy sip. He was getting that warm, fuzzy feeling, and liking it. From his perch at the bar, he overlooked a parquet dance floor and a small casino with slot machines and a half dozen gaming tables. A few flat tops had staked out positions at the craps pit. They were dressed to a man in snazzy black suits, open collars, and gold chains. Crisp American greenbacks were exchanged for stacks of blue and silver chips. No one was playing with less than five thousand dollars. Dice tumbled across the green baize tables. Raucous voices lofted across the room, spirited, cajoling, violent. The staccato shouts had a serrated edge and lent the place an aggressive buzz. At five past nine on a Tuesday night, the joint was beginning to jump.

"And why, Graf, you come to Metelitsa?" Svetlana's hand had moved higher on his leg. A single finger danced along the crease of his trousers. "To see me, maybe? See Svetlana?"

She was staring at him, the magnetic blue eyes commanding him nearer. Her lips parted, and he saw a moist band of pink flashing behind the dazzling teeth. He could taste her warm, expectant breath. The scent of her hair, lilac and rosewater, drifted over him… enticing him… seducing him.

"Yes… I mean, no… I mean…" Byrnes didn't know what he wanted to say. He wasn't sure whether it was the vodka or just Svetlana, but suddenly he was decidedly tipsy. He was having trouble focusing, too. Placing a hand on the bar, he stood up unsteadily, bumping once more into the thug next to him.

"Watch it!" barked the linebacker.

You're in Russia. It's dangerous over there.

"Sorry, sorry." Byrnes raised his hands defensively. He turned toward Svetlana. "Excuse me. I'll be right back." He mumbled the words "rest room" and "freshen up."

"I help you," she said, resting a hand on his waist. "We go upstairs together. I show you way."

"No, no. I'm all right, really. Where do I go?"

"Up. To right side." She pointed the way, then wrapped her arms around him. "You no leave Svetlana?"

Suddenly, she didn't look so much the unapproachable Russian ice princess as an insecure twenty-year-old frightened she might lose her evening's pay.

"No," he said. "I no leave Svetlana. I come right back." Jesus, now he was even talking like her.

He set off to the rest room, lurching along the bar before recovering his sea legs and guiding himself up the stairs. Inside the john, he turned the tap on full and took turns slapping cold water on his face and taking deep breaths. A minute passed and he began to feel better. That was some vodka he was drinking. Two doubles and he was on his ass. He promised himself he'd have a word with the hotel concierge, tell him he had something different in mind when asking about a place where a gentleman could get a few drinks and some dinner.

Laying both hands on the sink, he took a close look at himself in the mirror. "Come on, kid," he whispered. "Snap out of it."