The First Billion

"Graf?" he asked, the relief spontaneous, bringing a wide smile to his face. "Graf, where the hell are you?" He laughed out loud, thinking it was wonderful. Byrnes was okay. He was safe. The fucking shaman had answered his prayers.

"Where do you think? The heart of the evil empire: Moscow. Back in the USSR."

Gavallan turned his back on the crowd and walked a short distance up the sidewalk. "You were supposed to call this morning, you prick. You had us all worried."

"Sorry. Had to double-check on a few things before I got back to you. Didn't want to give you any information until I knew for sure. Look, I've scoped out Mercury's operations. I made it out to the network operations center. Place is in Timbuktu, I don't mind saying. I've seen their offices in town. It's all like we thought it was. The Private Eye-PO is full of shit. Mercury's up and running."

"So the deal's a go?"

"Green light all the way."

"Fantastic," said Gavallan, controlling his urge to holler. Turning his head, he saw the others locked in a group stare in his direction. He waved a hand and gave a big thumbs-up.

"You there?" asked Byrnes.

"Hell, yes. I'm definitely here."

"I knew you'd be happy. Listen, Jett, everything's copacetic over here. Copy?"

"Yeah, I copy, pard. Thanks for the great news. I'll get that champagne all iced up; you bring back the caviar. Two billion, man. Our biggest fish ever. Can you believe it? Just let me know when you're getting back."

And then the words sunk in and Gavallan held his breath while the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end.

Everything's copacetic.

"I'm going to stay the weekend if you don't mind," Byrnes went on. "Moscow's a hell of an interesting place. Thought I might check out some of the sights tomorrow. Saturday, Kirov's invited me out to his summer house in the country. An honest-to-God dacha- can't miss that. By the way, he sends his regards. He's delighted that we decided to take a look for ourselves. Says we're welcome anytime."

"Tell him thank you." It was another man speaking Gavallan's words. "So he wasn't upset when he found out you'd flown over to check out Mercury without letting him know beforehand?"

"I told you he wouldn't be," said Byrnes. "He wanted me to tell you that Mercury must be as transparent as any of its counterparts in the West."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. Anyway, I thought I'd fly into New York and meet you for the launch party."

"Sure thing," said Gavallan, searching for words, stumbling. He felt hollow, shaky. A rod of pain, searing and white-hot, fired inside his skull. Wincing, he touched at his forehead. "Um… yeah, sounds good, see you Monday. Oh, and call Emerald and give her your flight details. We'll send a limo to pick you up at JFK. When you see Kirov, ask him if he's free for dinner."

Gavallan waited for a response, but the line was broken and only static answered his words. Besides, it didn't really matter. Grafton Byrnes had told him everything he needed to know.

Everything's copacetic.

18

Gavallan was walking the ward.

His pace was slow, his steps measured. The click of his heels against the linoleum floor sounded to his anguished ears like the final ticks of a time bomb. With every step, he was tempted to draw a last breath, to squeeze tight his eyelids in anticipation of the blast to come. But what would it destroy? he wondered. What was left that hadn't already been torn apart by his own merciless conscience? What might it damage that hadn't been shredded eleven years ago?

The clock on the wall read 2:15. The room was extremely bright and extremely quiet, a fluorescent universe of hushed sounds. His ear seized each in turn- the rise and fall of a neonatal respirator, the gasp of a fragile patient, the sibilant bleed of oxygen- then he continued his all-night vigil.

He was back at the Zoo, doing tours of the Quad for having missed his second curfew in a month. He was pacing the ready room before his first flight into combat. He was the star witness at his own trial. All that was left to decide was the penalty. The verdict had already been given. Guilty on all counts.

"Everything's copacetic," Byrnes had said, a footnote from their shared history to let Gavallan know he was testifying under duress.

Hardly, mused Gavallan acidly.

A skeleton staff presided at this late hour: a few nurses, orderlies, and cleaners. Through the glass partition, he kept track of a janitor polishing the corridor, his green-clad back bowed and sober, his worn mop eating up miles of hallway with a methodical, unerring rhythm that was a science unto itself.