“Mercury’s revenues are a sham. Kirov’s going to jail. The FBI’s got information tying him to the theft of a couple hundred million dollars from one of the companies he controls. The Russian government is all over him. Now come on. Let’s go outside and talk to Deak Spalding.”
“Kirov assured me he’s remedied the shortfalls in infrastructure. It’s only a question of months until his revenues are up to snuff. It’s time to close an eye. For everyone’s good.”
What was he trying to do? Gavallan wondered. Intimidate him? Threaten him? Did Llewellyn-Davies actually for a moment think he might change his mind? Gavallan stepped closer to the man he’d been so god-awful stupid to trust. “Move, Tony. I have to go.”
“Afraid not, chum.”
It was then that Gavallan saw the gun. It was a strange gray pistol with a silencer. Plastic, he thought. The bullets would be too. No metal detector in the world could have sniffed it out.
“Some fancy hardware, Tony. A present from Kirov?”
“You damn fool, Jett,” said Llewellyn-Davies, shaking his head, his voice tightening. “Don’t you see, it’s your fault. All of this. Mercury’s a gem, just like you said. We’ve got to see it to market.”
“Out of the way.” Gavallan stepped forward, and the Englishman fired a round into the floor.
“Christ,” shouted Gavallan, freezing, raising a hand. “Have you lost your mind? Put it down.”
Llewellyn-Davies held the gun out in front of him, grasping the butt with both hands to control the palsied shaking. “Sorry, Jett. No can do. It’s not that I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I am, believe me. It’s just that it’s time I did something for myself. Think ahead. What do you think happens to me if the deal goes sour? Do you think we don’t all know how strung-out the firm is? How long do you think the new owners of Black Jet will keep me on? One look at my health records and they’ll pack me off with a nice little check and a pat on the back. ‘One less liability.’ ‘Start with a clean sheet.’ All that utter crap. I won’t have it. I’ve worked too bloody hard for too bloody long to start over again somewhere else—Christ, if there’s someone else who’ll even have me.”
“It’s over, Tony. We’ll all make out okay. Put away the gun. What are you going to do? Shoot me? Here, in the Exchange? And then what? The FBI’s right outside. Where are you going to run?”
“Yes, I bloody well am going to shoot you. Don’t have much choice, do I?”
Someone banged on the door to the office. “Hey, open up. Jett, you in there?” There was no mistaking Bruce Tustin’s obnoxious voice. “Gavallan, you there? I saw you crossing the floor. You can hide from your girlfriends, but not from your uncle Bruce… Jett?”
Gavallan nodded toward the door. “Your move, Tony.”
Llewellyn-Davies extended his arm, eyes wincing, head turning slightly away. A moment later, his hand dropped. He began crying. “Oh, damn it all. Damn you…”
Gavallan walked up to his former friend, gently prying the gun from his hand. “Go on now. Get out of here. I never want to see you again.”
68
Konstantin Kirov mounted the stairs to the balcony slowly, a valedictory climb to his new orbit high in the capitalist universe. Reaching the top, he crossed the narrow landing. There was room for fifteen people, maybe a few more. Advancing on the podium, he let his eyes wander over the trading floor. He had expected to play to an audience, but the preoccupied traders were going about their business as if he were not there. One by one his colleagues joined him, and he greeted each with a firm handshake.
The clock directly across the room read 9:28:45. The swell of voices rose as Richard Grasso, president of the Exchange, showed Kirov how to ring the bell, jocularly begging him to wait until the appointed moment. Kirov only half listened. His eyes were scouring the floor for sign of Antony Llewellyn-Davies, the sly Englishman who three months before had agreed to be his spy inside of Black Jet Securities. Minutes ago, Llewellyn-Davies had rushed off, worried he’d seen Gavallan. Kirov was left to wonder whether in fact he had, and if so, whether the Englishman had done as he’d been told.
A crew from Russian Channel One gathered on the floor below, camera pointed in his direction, a red light indicating film was rolling. Reflexively, Kirov stood a little straighter. He was aware that at that very instant his image was being broadcast across the Russian continent. To Moscow. To Leningrad. To Kiev and Minsk. To Odessa, Alma-Ata, Ulan Bator, and Vladivostok. Across eleven time zones, the picture of Konstantin Kirov, Russia’s “first Western businessman,” the “patron saint of the second Russian perestroika,” was gazing down upon the country’s citizens. He forgot about Gavallan and Llewellyn-Davies. His heart fluttered madly.
Grasso nudged his shoulder. “Thirty seconds, Mr. Kirov.”
The clock read 9:29:30.
Meg Kratzer rubbed his back. “Congratulations,” she said. “We’re all so happy for you. Just thrilled.”
Kirov mouthed a thank-you, wishing he could have arranged for a prettier woman to be at his side.
“Kirov!”
The voice came from below. Nervously, he looked to the left and right.
“Kirov!”
Good Christ, it was Gavallan. He had climbed on top of the trading post nearest the podium and was shouting at him.
“The offering is canceled. Mercury’s over. The specialists are closing their books. The FBI is in the building. Come down right now. We want to talk to you.”
Richard Grasso looked appalled. “Jett, mind telling me what is going on here?”
“Just hold on to Kirov. Keep him there. We’re coming to arrest him.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Grasso nodded his head vigorously, but when he checked over his shoulder all he saw was Kirov’s narrow shoulders retreating down the stairs.
It had been a stressful day for the president.
New uprisings in Grozny threatened the fragile Chechen peace. A group of demonstrators from Greenpeace had camped in front of St. Basil’s protesting the country’s use of mammals, dolphins in particular, as instruments of war. And an independent newspaper in the south had uncovered decade-old evidence of a bribe he’d carried for Mayor Sobchak back in his days in Leningrad. The travails of politics. Sometimes he didn’t think it worth it.
Pouring himself a glass of mineral water, Volodya settled into his chair and turned on the television. Quickly, he found Channel One. The screen filled with the picture of Konstantin Kirov standing on the podium of the New York Stock Exchange. Finally, some good news. He didn’t care for the man, but as a representative of Russian business he was acceptable. His English was colloquial and flawless, his dress impeccable. And there was no doubting the man’s resourcefulness. Given the proper training, he might have made a decent spy.
The president turned up the volume. An American stock analyst was calling for Mercury stock to rise dramatically the first day, touting the inauguration of Russia into the club of Western nations. Henceforward, the commentator intoned, one could expect a flood of Russian multinationals to be quoted on the world’s major exchanges.
The president smiled.
He looked closer. There was a commotion brewing. Konstantin Kirov’s face had taken on a decidedly worried cast, and he was looking this way and that. The president leaned forward, eyes glued to the television. The camera panned lower, focusing on a wild man who had climbed atop one of the trading posts on the floor of the Exchange. The commentator stopped speaking, and one could hear with astonishing clarity what the man was shouting. “Kirov. The offering is canceled. Mercury’s over.” And then, to the president’s horror, “The FBI’s in the building.”