The First Billion

16

The invitation read:

Gavallan stepped from the passenger seat of the Range Rover, adjusting his dinner jacket while his date for the evening circled the car to join him. He had just enough time to admire the fairy lamps strung across the portico, the baby ficuses and swirling cypresses dressed with tinsel and crepe to look like Shakespeare’s enchanted forest, before Nina Slenczka rushed to link arms with him and guide them up the maroon welcome carpet.

“Remember to smile, hon,” she said, her flack’s professional grin splitting her ruby red lips. “This one’s for the morning papers.”

Nina handled all of Black Jet’s PR, and to Gavallan’s mind the date was strictly business. Not to say he didn’t find her attractive. Twenty-nine years old, blond, petite, and lithe, she had dressed for the evening in a skintight black sheath, spaghetti straps, and just enough fabric to cover her nipples and navel, maybe a little more. Yes, she was attractive. Stunning even. But Gavallan wasn’t looking.

Gavallan paused in front of the bank of photographers to allow them a few seconds to rejigger their flashes and pop off a few shots.

“Let everyone see those baby blues,” Nina said, keeping a tight clutch on his arm, not letting him even think of moving on until the photographers were done. She might be a prig, but she knew her stuff when it came to corporate PR. She was right about the importance of his projecting a confident image, especially when one of his company’s issues was under fire.

It was a classic San Francisco evening. An offshore breeze had cleared out the cloud cover, leaving the sky clear, dusted with stars. Across the street from the Fairmont sat the Mark Hopkins Inter-Continental and down the block the Huntington Hotel and the California Club, a gentleman’s conclave so stodgy that only ten years ago it had refused entry to a serving mayor due to her sex.

A hundred years ago, Nob Hill had been home to the Big Four: Collis Huntington, Mark Hopkins, Chester Crocker, and Leland Stanford, the railroad and silver barons who’d built California. Setting foot on their stomping grounds, Gavallan never failed to feel bucked up, as if the tycoons had left behind some of their marauding spirit. Tonight was no exception.

Inside the ballroom, he made a beeline for the bar. It proved a long and arduous journey. Every two steps he was accosted by a friend or business acquaintance. Half were eager to congratulate him on the honor to be bestowed that evening, half to learn how the Mercury deal was likely to fare.

“I need a cassette player,” he whispered to Nina, after swallowing half of his vodka rocks. “I only need two answers: ‘Thank you’ and ‘Just fine.’ I’ll say I’m saving my voice for my speech.”

“Come on,” said Nina, “they’re your friends and they’re happy for you. You’re the star this evening. They have to pay their respects. It’s your duty to smile and play the good host.”

“And I shall not disappoint,” he said gallantly. Despite his distaste for glad-handing and small talk, he recognized that Nina was right, and that of all his duties, civility and good cheer were the ones he could guarantee were met.

Gavallan had been donating to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital for eight years, dedicating ever-larger chunks of his salary to the institution and its programs to battle children’s cancer, spina bifida, and infantile paralysis. He was quick to point out that he was hardly an ascetic. He had the house in Pacific Heights with the roomfuls of Kreiss furniture and Pratesi bedding. He wore whatever clothes he liked. Music came via the firm of Bang & Olufsen, stereo makers to the King of Denmark; television courtesy of a sleek Sony Plasma screen. He owned two Remington bronzes; some lithos by Branham Rendlen, a local artist he thought was dynamite; and, of course, the Mercedes.

There were other claims on his money. He saw to his mother’s needs, helped out with his sisters’ occasional purchases—washing machines here, new pickups there, schooling for their kids if they asked. He kept a fair amount in the bank, a little in stocks and bonds. (Or at least he had until he’d stuffed it all into his company.) He had enough to take care of him and his family in comfort should everything go to hell in a handbasket.

The rest he gave away.

The ballroom was filling up quickly. Elegant couples drifted through the carousel of tables, a monochromatic mélange of tuxedos, cocktail dresses, and ball gowns, laughing, chatting, and, to his eye, having a sincerely good time. San Franciscans enjoyed their liquor, and under the influence of a stiff drink or two their voices began to rise and fill the room with a jolly din.

Gavallan ordered another drink, then asked Nina if she wouldn’t mind going to their table. Bruce Jay Tustin and Tony Llewellyn-Davies were already seated, Tustin with his wife, Nadia, Two Names with his partner, Giles, another wayward Brit. Meg sat at the adjoining table with her husband of forty years, Harry.

Gavallan greeted his guests with exaggerated bonhomie. He wanted it clear that the day’s problems were behind them. Tonight they could relax and let their hair down. “Don’t I know you nice folks?” he called, lending his voice a bit of the old Rio Grande twang.

The table stood as one. To Caesar, his due.

“Look who’s here,” said Bruce Jay Tustin. “And I thought security was supposed to keep the riffraff out. Do you have a ticket, young man?”

Meg sprang from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. “Congratulations, Jett. We’re all so proud. You done good.”

And then the others were up, shaking his hand, hugging him, treating him like a returning war hero. It was easy to forget that he’d only left them two hours earlier.

“Seriously, Jett, we’re honored to share this evening with you,” sounded Tony Llewellyn-Davies. “Believe it or not, we care about you deeply.” He held Gavallan at arm’s length, then proclaimed, “Oh, what the hell. I’ll say it for everyone. We love you and we’re overjoyed to be here. And that’s the last nice word you’ll get from any of us this evening.” And with that he gave Gavallan a peck on the cheek.

“Here, here,” added Giles, a handsome youth in his twenties. The two-carat diamond stud in his ear and eighteen-karat gold Cartier on his wrist hinted that his interest in Tony was more pecuniary than personal. Gavallan hoped his friend wasn’t being played for the sap.

“The honor is mine, ladies and gents,” he said, touched by the outpouring of affection. “It’s rare that you get to work with your friends, and for that I feel both privileged and grateful. Now enough of this smarmy nonsense. Let’s sit down and enjoy the evening.” Raising his glass, he quoted from Bum Phillips, former coach of the Houston Oilers and honorary “good old boy.” “Every man have a drink. Every good man have two!”

“Hoo-yeah!” shouted Tustin, glass raised high.

Gavallan clinked glasses with Tustin and his wife, Two Names, Giles, Meg, Harry, and Nina. He couldn’t help but think of the one man who was missing from their ranks. After everyone quieted, he raised his glass again.

“To Grafton Byrnes. Let’s pray for his health and safe return.”

It was midnight in Potomac, Maryland. Streets in the leafy suburb were so calm as to be deserted. A warm, gusty evening breeze carried the sweet scent of cut grass and the merry sawing of crickets. On Dumbarton Road, the lights in most houses were dimmed, the occupants asleep. But in the Vann residence, a stuttering spectral light glowed from the second-floor dormer windows.

In his bedroom, Jason Vann dashed from computer to computer, pausing long enough to type in a sentence or two, before moving to the next. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. A hunted look shadowed his drawn face. Round and round he went, enraptured by this game of his creation. A game of cat and mouse. Vann was after the Private Eye-PO. He was trying to lure him into the open, and his bait was praise and scorn and disbelief and any number of the hundred emotions that stock enthusiasts routinely express.

At that moment, he was working five characters on the IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, and they were discussing the Mercury Broadband IPO to be brought to market in five days by Black Jet Securities. Mario was a high school student who was president of his stock club. Julie was a middle-class housewife who grew interested in the market after her husband had lost all of their money. Al was a New York know-it-all, a seasoned investor, and a veteran of many (losing) campaigns. Krystof was a programmer of Polish descent who believed that the stock market was every immigrant’s way to riches. Heidi was a computer science teacher in Mamaroneck, New York, who had just invested her first five thousand dollars. And they all lived in a twisted corner of Jason Vann’s conniving mind.

Vann rushed from chair to chair, simulating the voices and thoughts of these five would-be investors. He’d spent three hours online introducing them, getting them into a chat room and allowing them to grow comfortable talking in the open. His job was to create a fictitious universe the Private Eye-PO might stumble upon and wish to join. So far he hadn’t had a nibble. He was getting discouraged. It was time to up the ante.

“Score!” cried Vann aloud, grabbing a Nerf basketball and stuffing it for a quick two points. Then, collapsing back into Krystof’s chair, he typed:

Vann, whose father’s real name was Wladisaw Vanniewski, didn’t dare add more. His Polish was rusty; anything more than the basics would expose him as a phony. Anxious to keep the dialogue afloat, he moved to Heidi’s chair.

There was always at least one total idiot in any chat room.

Boy, thought Vann. He’s a real supporter. As he slid back into Al’s chair, another name popped onto the screen.

Vann froze in his chair, eyes wide. “Spade” as in Sam Spade. As in the Private Eye-PO. Could it be? Scooting his chair closer to the computer, he felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. The bait had worked. The fish was on the line.

Wiping his forehead, Jason Vann smiled.

Now he just had to reel him in.

The first course had been cleared. Peter Duchin and his orchestra had begun to play an up-tempo version of “Witchcraft,” the vocalist doing a very acceptable Sinatra. Couples flocked from their tables to the dance floor. Deciding he’d done enough penance for one evening, Gavallan turned to Nina and asked if he might have the next dance.

“Sorry, Jett, but I’ve promised Giles. He’s dying to cut the rug.”

Gavallan smiled understandingly, though he was a little irked. While same-sex partners might be permitted at society functions, their dancing with each other was still touchy. If Tony or Giles wanted to dance, it had to be with a member of the opposing team. Gavallan thought the whole thing ridiculous. He couldn’t care less who did what with whom as long as they were happy. Still, Nina was his date and he wanted to dance. “Try and save one for me, will you?”

“Sure thing, hon.”

Gavallan watched the happy couple dodge their way to the dance floor, then stood up and set off in the opposite direction. The path to the bar looked mercifully clear of congestion. If he moved swiftly, he might make it scot-free. Fifteen seconds later he was there, leaning against the oak railing and perusing his choices. Whiskey had been his daddy’s drink, but Gavallan preferred vodka. Spotting a familiar bottle with yellow script, he decided on one more of the usual. And why not? It wasn’t often you put all your chips on red and gave the wheel a spin. After a day like today, a guy deserved to get hammered. It might even add a few laughs to his speech.

“Hey, chief,” he called to the bartender. “Let me have an Absolut Citron.”

“How would you like it, sir?”

“Rocks, no twist,” answered a playful feminine voice behind him. “And pour it heavy.”

Gavallan felt a hand brush his shoulder and turned to face a tall dark-haired woman with glossy bangs that fell shy of amused green eyes.

“That’s my line,” he said.

“And my drink. You stole it.”

She had chosen white for the evening, a simple cotton shift that fell to her knees. Her luxuriant hair had been cut short and barely brushed her shoulders. She wore only a trace of makeup—a dash of eyeliner and a shadow of rouge. She’d never liked coming to these fancy dos. She refused to wear high heels and was shy about her shoulders, complaining they were better suited to a lumberjack than a society maiden. She was his tomboy in waiting. His eyes passed over the swell of her breasts, the planes of her belly, the curve of her hips, remembering.

“Hello, Cate,” he said. “You look wonderful.”

“I wish I could say the same. You look tired. What happened? Some of your clients beating you up over that last IPO? Trivium, wasn’t it?”

“Trillium,” he corrected her. “And don’t be snippy.” Trillium Systems was a maker of enhanced circuit boards whose shares had traded down 50 percent the first week of trading. No one batted a thousand. “Just the usual really. Trying to keep the boat afloat. I’ll have to have a word with the shaman to help me out.”

“You and your shaman.” Cate Magnus’s hand went to his cheeks. She leaned closer and checked his eyes. “You okay?”

Suddenly he remembered how overwrought she could become. He used to tease her that she’d been programmed with an extra sensitivity chip. “I’m fine. Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

Cate patted his chest lightly, a sign she’d checked him over and he was in fine fettle. “So is the twenty-million-dollar man ready to entertain the troops? How’s the speech? Did you actually write something down or did you plan on winging it?”

Gavallan hadn’t given the hospital twenty million dollars outright, but pledged it in annual increments of one million dollars. The third installment was thirty days past due. Not a word had been spoken about the tardy donation.

“You’re the writer,” he said, sipping at his cocktail. “Me, I just have a couple of drinks and let my silver tongue carry me where it may.”

“Silly of me to ask. But be careful, Jett. Too much booze loosens the tongue. You might let a few words slip about all the fires you’ve been putting out.”

“What fires are those?”

“You tell me.”

Gavallan registered confusion. “I thought you were a columnist,” he complained. “Sounds to me like you’re looking for a way to get back on the front page. That why you’re here?”

“No,” she said. “I slipped by the guards to pay my respects to a pretty neat guy I used to go out with. I think it’s great what you’ve done for the hospital.”

“Least I could do, really,” he said, searching out her gaze, wanting to stare headlong into her vivid eyes, hoping to find that the connection was still there. But Cate was careful to keep her eyes aloof and darting across the crowd, only briefly engaging his.

“I’ve been reading that stuff on the web about the deal you’ve got coming to market,” she said. “I hope you’re being careful, Jett. I always told you to steer clear of Mercury.”

“Come on, let’s not start that again.”

Cate began to say something, then bit her lip. Offering a noncommittal shrug, she ordered a Stolichnaya straight up, no ice, no chaser. Her drink.

Catherine Elizabeth Magnus was a handsome woman, more striking than beautiful. With her angled features, pale complexion, and high cheekbones, she called to mind an exotic strain of royalty. A princess from Liechtenstein, a Gräfin from Pomerania, an Italian contessa. Her posture was immaculate, her step light, yet directed. When she walked it was for the audience she’d grown used to long ago. And it was the coupling of patrician bearing with her commoner’s unpretentious personality that he found so attractive. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Cate Magnus was the class Jett Gavallan never had.

She’d worked as a reporter at the Financial Journal for as long as he’d known her, writing a weekly piece for the paper she called “Gold Rush.” Every Friday, she filled twelve column inches on the front page of the Journal’s second section with offbeat, funny, and often poignant stories about the ins and outs of surviving in the capitals of the new economy: Silicon Valley, Seattle, Austin, and the few city blocks in Manhattan someone had baptized “Silicon Alley.” Her subjects ranged from how the skyrocketing price of real estate was making millionaires out of middle-class home owners to the social etiquette of pink-slip parties to the personal peccadilloes of the new and obscenely rich. The rise and fall of Black Jet Securities would make perfect fodder for her column.

“Speaking of fires, I had an interesting call this afternoon,” he said, allowing himself to move a few inches closer to her. “Between you and me, everything the Private Eye-PO has said is bullshit. Complete and utter garbage.” He went on to explain about the receipts, his conversation that morning with Jean-Jacques Pillonel, and Konstantin Kirov’s personal guarantee that everything was “up and running” in Moscow.

“Kirov himself told you? Well then, I guess you don’t have to worry at all.”

“Don’t start about Kirov. Please, Cate. Not tonight.”

“All I said was that you shouldn’t trust him. He’s an oligarch, for Christ’s sake. How do you think he got where he is?”

“He is a businessman, and a damned good one. Neither of us has any idea of the conditions he has to work under over there. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but Mercury speaks for itself. It’s a gem.”

“It sure does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s ruthless and conniving, and maybe even a little more than that. He’s a good businessman all right. If that’s what you call it.”

“Cate!”

Her eyes flashed, and he could feel her straining to rein in her temper. “Okay,” she conceded. “You win. Just be careful. Word is you’re risking a lot on this deal.”

“Whose word is that?”

“Everyone’s. No one’s. You know how it is. The street’s got wind you’re putting a lot on the Mercury deal. I just was curious if the rumors are true.”

It was Gavallan’s turn to shrug. But looking at her, at her lustrous black hair, her keen eyes, her pale, pillowed lips, he had a sudden desire to tell her everything. A need even. Whether she knew it or not, he valued her counsel more than that of any of his colleagues at Black Jet. She was smart. She was well-informed. She was discreet. They’d been together over two years, and though privy to his every insider secret, she’d never once abused his trust.

Cate who was trustworthy.

Cate who was loyal.

Cate who was the most sensuous lover he’d known.

Unable to restrain himself, he ran a hand across her cheek and let it glide through her hair. “I miss you.”

“Jett, no,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering. It was a plea, a denial, a memory.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s dance.” And before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and led her to the parquet floor. Continuing its tribute to “Old Blue Eyes,” the orchestra launched into “A Foggy Day.” Gavallan drew her closer. In seconds, their hands had found familiar places, their bodies secret havens.

“So what do you want to know?” he asked.

Cate looked taken aback. “You’re serious?”

“Have I ever kept anything from you?”

“That was when we were… That was before,” she said.

Before. He hated the word. “You will, however, have to recite the sacred oath.”

“Oh, Jett, come on.”

“Sorry. You know it’s important to me. I am an Eagle Scout, you’ll remember. The oath, please.”

Cate looked uncertainly to her left and right, then raised her right hand to her shoulder, arranging the fingers in a familiar salute.

“On my honor I will do my best

To do my duty to God and my country

and to obey the Scout Law;

To help other people at all times;

To keep myself physically strong,

mentally awake, and morally straight.”

Gavallan nodded his approval. “At least I know your time with me was not completely misspent.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I guess the first thing you should know is that I’m pretty much tapped out. That much of the rumors is true.”

And with that he launched into a recitation of the entire day’s events: Byrnes’s disappearance, the meeting at Sten Norgren’s, his taking out the second mortgage, the particulars of his personal and professional liquidity crunch. He left nothing out.

“So, I guess you had a pretty dull day,” she said afterward.

Seeing the mischief in her eyes, he laughed. For the first time since he’d woke, he felt as if things might turn out okay.