The First Billion

"Don't let me keep you," he said. "I'll be in the office tomorrow if we might answer any questions for you. If you have a free hour, I'd enjoy showing you around the firm." He rose. "But, Mr. Kirov, I want you to know one thing."

"Yes?"

"I do believe."

Kirov rose from the chair, but a moment later sank back down into its cushioned folds, motioning Gavallan to sit. "I will make you proposition, Mr. Gavallan. We are close to finishing the buildout of our central Russian operations. Kiev, Minsk. These are large cities; maybe a hundred thousand subscribers each. Unfortunately, we need fifty million dollars to complete the construction."

"Fifty million?"

"I am thinking a loan to be repaid from the proceeds of the IPO. It is uncommon?"

"Not at all," said Gavallan, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. Part of him wanted to jump at the chance, another to take a step back. A fifty-million-dollar loan would exhaust Black Jet's resources and leave it perilously exposed to the market's vagaries. It was a tremendous risk. Yet, the fees the deal would bring promised to be tremendous, more than anything Black Jet had ever earned on a single transaction. Add to that the interest on the loan, and of course the prestige… My God, Gavallan said to himself, the prestige alone would do wonders for the company.

He looked at Kirov, doing his best to size him up. The personality contest went both ways. The man was controlling, vain, and at least a little bit of an egomaniac. But his conceit was his strength. How else could he muster the energy, the dedication, the tenacity to build a company like Mercury? Who but the vainest sort of individual would dare talk of aiding his country in such grandiose terms?

Gavallan turned his thoughts to the bigshot flying in from the Big Apple on his big Lear or big Cessna or big Gulfstream. Inside, he smiled. It was a delinquent's smile, an outsider's smile, and it reveled in the pique and fury and disbelief that the overconfident executive would feel when he learned that Black Jet had won the two-billion-dollar mandate to bring Mercury Broadband public. Nothing came easier to a Texas farmboy than spitting in the eye of his betters.

Maybe the Russians weren't the only ones with an inferiority complex.

"Tell you what," said Gavallan. "Cancel that dinner engagement. Let Black Jet take you public and I'll write you a check first thing in the morning for fifty million dollars. Prime plus seven to be repaid out of the proceeds of the IPO." He stuck out his hand.

Konstantin Kirov hesitated, searching Gavallan's eyes. "I can trust you with my baby? It is not just for me, but for my Russia, too."

"Yes, you can trust me."

"Prime plus five and we repay within thirty days."

"No," said Gavallan, tasting the deal, wanting it more than anything, but never so much as to make a poor agreement. "It has to come from the proceeds."

Giving a fateful shrug, Kirov rose laboriously from his chair and grasped Gavallan's hand. "Yes, we shall work together. You are a believer. I see it in your eyes." He laughed richly. "I tell you something. Between us, I never like BMW anyway. But you must promise to call me Konstantin. In Russia, business is family."

Gavallan stood, and though the handshake was awkward and formal, he found himself laughing with his new client, new friend, and new family member, Konstantin Romanovich Kirov.

9

They'd moved into a conference room down the hall. A "working room," they called it, and it was fitted for the late nights and early mornings that claimed so large a part of an investment banker's existence. Besides the glass table and low-backed chairs, there was a refrigerator stocked with Coke, Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and, as if an afterthought in their caffeinated universe, Evian. One cupboard held chips, cookies, and candy bars, and another, rumor had it, fresh fruit- though Gavallan had never seen anyone munching so much as a grape. Next door there was a pantry with a microwave oven, a freezer, and a coffeemaker. A paper plate bearing the remains of Gavallan's sausage and egg burrito sat half in, half out of the trash can. A pall of cigarette smoke hovered below the ceiling. Let mortals worry about ulcers, colitis, and quadruple bypasses. They weren't subject to daily deadlines that could cost a firm tens of millions of dollars and their own paychecks that extra, all-important zero.

Gavallan leaned back in his chair, balancing on its rear legs. He'd already gone over the Private Eye-PO's most recent message and its accusations of misrepresentation and fraud. Reluctantly, he'd let everyone in on Grafton Byrnes's secret visit to Moscow and his failure thus far to report in. He did not, however, feel it necessary to tell them about Byrnes's early checkout.