The First Billion

38

You are happy, my friend?” asked Aslan Dashamirov.

“Relieved,” Konstantin Kirov replied. “I slept better knowing there was no longer a risk of someone slipping our papers to the police. It was a difficult business. I’m glad we’ve solved the matter.”

It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning. The two men walked arm in arm across the muddy field outside of Moscow where Dashamirov had set up one of his used-car lots. A row of crapped-out automobiles ran next to them. Fiats. Ladas. Simcas. None with less than a hundred thousand miles on them, though the odometers showed no more than a quarter of that. Scruffy pennants dangled from a line strung overhead. A ways back, tucked conveniently amongst a copse of baby pines, stood a blue and white striped tent where prices were negotiated and payments made, often in tender as suspect as the cars themselves: televisions, refrigerators, stereos, cigarettes, narcotics, women.

“I’m not so sure,” said Dashamirov.

“Oh?”

“No one talked. Not one of them admitted to working with Baranov or with Skulpin. Only the innocent are so brave.”

“You didn’t give them the chance.” Kirov hated himself for playing up to the Chechen. He was a brigand, really, an uneducated hood.

Dashamirov looked at him as if he were a wart on his finger. “I am thinking we did not find the right person.”

So that was why his krysha had called the meeting, thought Kirov. He should have known the man wouldn’t be so easily put off. Of course, Dashamirov was right. He was always right. This time, though, Kirov had beaten him to the punch.

He’d put his finger on the traitor, a young securities lawyer working in-house on the Mercury deal, and had taken care of the problem himself. Quickly. Neatly. Quietly. A single bullet to the man’s brain delivered in the comfort of the traitor’s own flat. None of this barbaric business with a hammer. Imagining the fierce blow against the skull, Kirov shivered, a spike of fear running right through him to the pit of his belly.

He stared at Dashamirov. The mustache, the crooked mouth, the eyes at once dead, yet so magnificently alive. The man was a beast. But a smart beast. He was correct in his assumptions. Only the innocent were so brave. The lawyer had spilled his guts after a few threats and a bloody nose. Had Dashamirov pressed him for details about the money missing from Novastar, it would have been Kirov getting the hammer yesterday morning.

The hammer.

He ground his teeth.

“What’s important,” said Kirov, “is that Mercury will go forward without any further problems. For that I have you to thank.”

“I was thinking rather about Novastar,” said Dashamirov, dropping his arm to his side, quickening his pace as the rain picked up. “The question of the missing funds haunts me, my friend. Where there is one rat, there may be more. Perhaps someone in your organization is stealing the money from the airline. A hundred twenty-five million dollars is too large a sum to take lightly.”

“Perhaps,” replied Kirov thoughtfully, “though that would be difficult. I alone have signature power over the airline’s bank accounts.”

“Yes. You are right. Perhaps it would be wise to study the books.” He opened his slim, spidery hands in a gesture of conciliation. “If, of course, you do not mind.”

It was not a request, and both men knew it. Kirov looked around. A dozen of Dashamirov’s clansmen loitered among the cars. Vor v Zakone. Thieves of thieves. God knew they were wealthy, but look at them. Standing around in the pouring rain, hair wet, clothing as sodden as the omnipresent cigarettes that dangled from their lips. In four days’ time, Dashamirov stood to take home 15 percent of Kirov’s billion—a neat $150 million dollars. The next day he would be here, or at one of the other fifty lots he ran in the northern suburbs of Moscow, standing in the rain, drinking filthy coffee, smoking.

“I will speak to my accountant immediately,” said Kirov. “He is in Switzerland. It may take some time.”

“By all means.” The courteous reply was accompanied by a damning smile. “There is no hurry. Have the latest quarterly report for Novastar, as well as the most recent banking statements for our Swiss holding companies, Andara and Futura, in my office by Monday.”

“I am in New York Monday,” said Kirov, puffing out his chest, trying to muster some authority. “We will price the Mercury offering that afternoon. We can sit down together when I get back in the country on Friday.”

“Monday,” repeated Dashamirov, less courteously. “By four o’clock. Or else I will begin looking somewhere else for the thief within your company. Somewhere closer to the top.”

A bead of sweat broke high on Kirov’s back and rolled the length of his spine.

“Monday,” he said, knowing it would be impossible.