Gavallan drove the Mercedes hard, shifting down through the gears, enjoying the engine’s finely tuned growl, loving the communion of man and machine. He cracked the window an inch, and a blast of sea air freshened the car. Directly ahead lay the bay, and for a moment he lost himself in its blind expanse, wondering how much time had passed since so much had ridden on a single day’s outcome. The answer came immediately. Eleven years and five months. It was the calendar against which he measured his life. There was before the Gulf War and after the Gulf War. And sinking deeper into the black bucket seats, he felt himself strapped inside the cockpit of his F-117 Nighthawk, the turbofan engine rumbling to life beneath him, G suit tight across the waist, hugging his legs and his back. He recalled, too, the shortness of breath beneath the confident smile, the tingling that had taken hold of his stomach as he gave the thumbs-up and taxied onto the runway for takeoff that first night.
A tingling not so different from the one he felt this morning.
Shaking off the memory, Gavallan drove his foot against the accelerator, taking the sports car to seventy miles an hour. The rain hardened and a gust sheeted the windshield with water. Blinded, he downshifted expertly, braking as he crested Russian Hill. “Instrument conditions,” he whispered, eyes scanning dials and gauges. A moment later, the wipers cleared the screen. Off to his right loomed the Transamerica Tower, a pale triangular needle framed by a score of steel and concrete skyscrapers. The buildings were dark, except for random bands of light encircling their highest floors. He glanced at the mute forms a moment longer, feeling a kinship with those already at their desks. He’d always thought there was something daredevilish about starting the workday at four in the morning, something not completely sane. It had the whiff of tough duty that had always attracted him, the raised bar of an elite.
At age thirty-eight, John J. Gavallan, or “Jett” as he was known to friends and colleagues, was founder and chief executive of Black Jet Securities, an internationally active investment bank that employed twelve hundred persons in four countries around the globe. Black Jet was a full-service house, offering retail and institutional brokerage, corporate finance advice, and merger and acquisition services. But IPOs had been the ladder it had climbed to prominence. Initial public offerings. The company had made its fortune in the technology boom of the late nineties and, to Gavallan’s dismay, it was still suffering a financial hangover from those halcyon days.
Nine years he’d been at it. Up at three, to work by four, finished twelve hours later, fourteen on a busy day. Once, the days had passed with astonishing rapidity. Success was an opiate and mornings bled into evenings in a hazy, frenetic rush. Lately, the clock had assumed a less benign stance. Time meant money, and every month that passed with revenue goals unmet was another inch cut from Black Jet’s financial tether.
Dropping a hand to the stereo, Gavallan spun the dial to National Public Radio. The 4 A.M. business report was under way, a summary of action on the world’s major markets. God, let it be an up day, he thought. In Asia, the Nikkei and Hang Seng Indexes had closed higher, both with solid gains. In Europe, markets were divided, with the London FTSE, or “footsie,” strongly ahead and the German DAX and French CAC 40 (“cack quarante”) lagging only slightly below their highs. But what about New York? He’d been in the business long enough to know there was only one market that really counted. A moment later he had his answer. At seven-oh-five Manhattan time, the futures markets were up sharply, presaging a solid opening in just over two hours.
“Nice!” he said aloud, landing his palm against the varnished oak steering wheel for good measure. It didn’t take a genius to know it was best to sell in an up market. But just as quickly his exuberance faded, replaced by a cold apprehension. If all went well, he could celebrate at the end of the day. For now, though, he had to wait. Too many cards remained facedown on the table.
The offices of Black Jet Securities occupied the fortieth and forty-first floors of the Bank of America Tower, a fifty-two-story slab of red carnelian marble not dissimilar to Mies van der Rohe’s Seagram Building in New York. The elevator opened, disgorging Gavallan into a brightly lit reception area. Sofas and chairs upholstered in Corinthian leather offset terra-cotta carpeting. A combed birch counter stood to the left, and behind it a seven-foot wall of polished black granite bearing the firm’s name in silver matte letters.
“Six days!”
Gavallan slowed, turning to meet the source of the words.
“Six days,” Bruce Jay Tustin repeated, cresting the interior staircase that led from the trading room on the floor below. “The countdown for Mercury is on. T minus a hundred twenty-two hours. Fuckin’ A, bubba!” Tustin was the firm’s head of syndicates as well as a member of the executive board. He was forty-five years old, short, and svelte, a bantamweight clad in a Brioni suit. He had a boxer’s mug, too—the broad forehead; the flat, broken nose; the sly, determined cast to the eyes.
“How’s the book?” Gavallan asked. “Holding strong?” The “book” referred to the nimble piece of software that held all orders and indications of interest for the new issue.
“A few cries in the jungle, but we’re working to calm the savages.”
Gavallan sensed there was more to it. “Any of the major players backing out?”
“Just one so far. Mutual Advantage in Cincy canceled their order. Said they wanted to put the money into bonds. Doesn’t look like anyone else is taking the rumors seriously. The market wants this deal to happen.”
“Let’s stop it there, Bruce. I don’t want a snowball effect. We’re standing behind the deal one hundred and ten percent. Keep putting the word out: Mercury is hunky-dory.”
Tustin nodded obediently. “You find out who it is bad-mouthing us? Not one of your girlfriends, is it?”
Gavallan shook his head, thinking that someday Tustin’s mouth was going to kill him. “Not yet. But we’re looking.”
“Ah, that’s right, I forgot. She left you. Hang in there, kid. You’re young yet.” Tustin clapped Gavallan on the back. Features brightening, he added, “Opening’s looking strong, Jefe. The market’s getting primed for Mercury. Six days. Hoo-yeah!” And pumping his right fist in the air, he spun and bustled down the steps to the trading floor.
“Hoo-yeah,” repeated Gavallan, but his parting smile disguised a pressing urge to get to his office. Walking briskly, he shifted his calfskin satchel to his left hand while withdrawing a set of keys from his pocket.
At first glance, he looked more the affluent bachelor than the driven executive. Tall and fit, he’d dressed for the day in his usual outfit: jeans, moccasins, and a faded chambray shirt, throwing on a navy cashmere blazer for good measure. He was finished with uniforms, be they dress blues or three-button worsteds from Savile Row. In the same disobedient spirit, he kept his sandy hair cut long, sure that it brushed his collar and hid the tops of his ears. His face was strong rather than handsome. Creases dimpled weathered cheeks. Wrinkles bracketed eyes hard and gray as agate. His nose was slim and straight, the boldest testament to his Scottish ancestry. His jaw was steadfast, and as usual raised an extra degree, as if he were trying to peer over the horizon. A pillar of the yacht club, you might guess. A regular at the nineteenth hole.