By 7 A.M., the first reports were going out live to audiences around the world. The talk today centered on one subject: the Mercury Broadband IPO. What would be the first day pop? Would the stock keep its head? Was Mercury an exception to a moribund market or the pioneer of a long-awaited rally in technology stocks?
Konstantin Kirov rose at seven-fifteen, showered, shaved, and dressed in a sober gray suit and maroon tie. Despite last night’s warnings, he’d slept remarkably well. What will be, will be, he told himself. He’d taken every precaution. He was convinced that once the stock began trading, no one would have the nerve to stop it. If Gavallan were going to make a move, he would have done it long before now. What was the American saying? “No news is good news.”
Giving himself a final once-over in the mirror, he asked himself if he was being too confident, too cocksure. Up came his hand with a last spritz of cologne. No, he decided, just realistic.
Picking up his briefcase, Kirov left his suite and took the elevator to the first floor, where he was joined for breakfast in the main dining room by Václav Panišc, the CTO of Mercury’s European operations, and Janusz Rosen. The bankers were absent, no doubt putting in an appearance at the office before making their promised rendezvous at the Broad Street entrance to the stock exchange at nine o’clock. Kirov ordered a large breakfast, then picked at it. His appetite had deserted him.
At eight-thirty, he and his colleagues decamped to a black stretch limousine berthed in front of the hotel. Kirov settled into the backseat for the drive downtown. The chauffeur announced that due to congestion on the FDR Drive, they would be taking the West Side Highway. Traffic was moderate and they made good time, passing the Javits Center, the USS Intrepid—a mothballed aircraft carrier used for various charity functions—and the reconstructed World Financial Center.
The limousine turned onto Broad Street, and through the windows Kirov stared at an imposing neoclassical building at the far end of the street. A steep flight of stairs led to the building, and even he could recognize the statue of George Washington at the top of the steps. The chauffeur explained that the building was Federal Hall, the seat of the United States government from 1776 to 1791. Across from Federal Hall stood the old headquarters of J. P. Morgan & Co., from whose offices the legendary financier had built his empire and dictated the course of the American economy.
To Kirov’s left rose the New York Stock Exchange itself. It could have been a temple on Mount Athos, so perfect was its architecture: the soaring Doric columns, the broad plinth, the bas-relief sculpture running lengthwise beneath the roof.
The limousine pulled to a stop. Kirov got out of the car without waiting for the door to be opened. Staring up at the Mercury Broadband banner that hung in front of the fabled Exchange, he gasped.
My God, he thought, I’ve done it.
The wheels of the Learjet touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport at 8:47 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. The eight-passenger aircraft performed an abbreviated rollout, braking sharply and making a quick starboard turn off the runway. The doors to the flight deck opened, the engines revved, and the plane began an easy ride to its parking slot. Unbuckling his safety belt, Gavallan leaned forward, rocking slightly. Through the cockpit windscreen, he watched the impressive girth of a China Airlines jumbo jet cross their path. Inexplicably, the plane came to a halt directly in front of them.
“What’s keeping the guy?” Gavallan shouted to the flight deck.
“Waiting for an inbound jet. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
“A couple minutes?” Gavallan wiped a hand across his face, looking to Cate for reassurance. Her only response was to bite her lip and go back to patting her foot nervously.
After an eternity—three minutes by his watch—the Lear arrived at its designated parking slot. The engine died and the plane rocked forward as the brakes were applied and stopped. Rushing to the door, Gavallan leaned hard on the exit lever. The door opened inward, sunlight flooded the cabin, and he went down the stairwell.
A small entourage waited. Three agents of the federal government left the comforts of their four-wheel mount and hurried to the plane. Gavallan recognized the tall, lanky man with the shock of brown hair, the seersucker suit, and the pair of bifocals perched on his forehead as Dodson. Four days earlier he’d seen him talking on the phone beneath the portico of the Ritz-Carlton.
“Mr. Gavallan, Howell Dodson. It’s a pleasure, sir,” the FBI man said, extending a hand. “Nice flight?” But if his voice was politeness itself, his posture was stiff, his face a mask of tension.
“We’re here, that’s what counts.”
“Miss Magnus, I presume.” Dodson gave her his hand and with a cock of the head shepherded them toward the waiting car. “We’ve got a helicopter standing by to ferry us to Manhattan.”
“Tell me the rotors are turning,” said Gavallan.
“The rotors are turning, Mr. Gavallan,” said Dodson. “Are you sure we can’t call ahead? Pull in Kirov as soon as he shows up? We do have resources available.”
“No, thank you. That’s not part of the deal.” This was something Gavallan had to do himself. The FBI was there in a supporting role only, even if the Bureau didn’t know it yet. Reaching the sedan, Gavallan tried to open the door, only to find Dodson’s hand placed firmly against the window. “Just a second there. You can see that I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I wouldn’t want to go any further without seeing some good faith from your side.”
“You don’t trust us?” asked Cate, stepping forward.
“I’m not in the trust business.” The smile was gone, the eyes direct, demanding.
Opening her purse, Cate drew out her pink compact, clicked it open, and handed Dodson a slightly dusted minidisc. “I’m not sure what program was used to store the information on the disc. You’ll have to do your best with it.”
“All that counts is that the data’s there. Three years’ of banking records, correct?”
“Oh, it’s there all right,” said Cate. “And then some.”
“Thank you kindly.” Dodson handed the disc to a fat, unattractive young man chafing in a catalogue-ordered blue twill suit. “Here you are, Mr. Chupik. I don’t mean to rush you, but you have eight minutes to let me know what’s on this disc.”
“Piece of cake,” said Chupik, sliding into the front seat and feeding the disc into his laptop computer. “I’ll do it in five.”
The jump light burned red.
The members of Team 7 stood as one, affixing their static lines to the jump cable. Team Leader Abel shuffled forward through the bare fuselage and opened the main cabin door. With a mighty rush, a chill midnight wind swept through the airplane. The biting cold stung his cheeks and brought tears to his eyes. Grasping either side of the door, he looked outside. A pine forest rushed beneath them, a dense lush carpet close enough to touch. They’d been crossing it for thirty minutes and still it ran on, measurelessly.
Stepping back, Abel checked his watch and signaled “Five” with his fingers.
All eyes were on him, yet no one responded. There was no need. All tactical contingencies had been dissected, analyzed, solved, and solved again. The time for words had passed. The time for deeds had arrived.
The Beechcraft 18 began a slow ascent. The altimeter rose from 250 feet to 300, then 350, the magnificent radial engines sawing the air with demonic fervor. Several modifications had been made to prepare the plane for its current purpose. All passenger seats had been stripped, all carpet and insulation torn out until the interior cabin was an aluminum and iron husk. Auxiliary fuel tanks were installed in the rear of the fuselage, gifting the plane with a two-thousand-mile range. A sophisticated satellite navigation system had been installed to insure that the men located their target. And unbeknownst to all—even the pilot—a remote-controlled detonation system was attached to the starboard fuel tank: three pounds of plastique governed by a long-distance radio signal.