The First Billion

55

When will you put some furniture in this place?” asked Leonid Kirov, throwing open the door to his younger brother’s study. “Every time I walk in I’m sure I’ve come to the wrong address. A museum or a mausoleum, I don’t know which.”

“I need space to think, Leonid. To imagine. To dream.” Konstantin Kirov crossed the floor with a statesmanlike gait, extending a hand in welcome. “It is from rooms like this that our country will be reborn.”

He was in an exuberant mood. Baranov was dead. Pillonel, too, but not before exposing Gavallan as one more paper tiger, his ruse about the taped confession a last, desperate ploy. All obstacles had vanished. Only time separated Konstantin Romanovich Kirov from reaping his billion-dollar reward.

He’d decided he’d had enough of Dashamirov, too. Fifteen percent was too much to dole out for a little protection now and then. Besides, he had a new krysha: the komitet. A few words to Leonid’s colleagues in domestic security and the vile Chechen would be a memory. A billion dollars bought that kind of service.

“Come sit down. Have some breakfast. Not often we get a chance to catch up on things, just the two of us.”

Leonid took his place at a table that had been set up for the two of them. Fastidiously attaching his napkin to his collar, spreading it across his chest, he appraised the bounteous meal. Broiled kippers, poached eggs, sausages, melon, bacon, and hashed brown potatoes. A grunt signaled his satisfaction. Lifting his knife and fork, he met his brother’s eyes. “It’s all over the radio this morning. You can’t change the station without hearing it. A return to the days of yore. The gangsters are back. Nothing like a little fear to keep the naysayers in line. Well done. The president is pleased.”

“Honesty was his only vice,” said Kirov. He was admirable in his way. Just outdated. Obsolete.”

“Baranov?” scoffed Leonid. “He was a pain in the ass. Always has been. Even during the old regime, we called him ‘our conscience.’ That was not a compliment, I can promise you. God, but you made it bloody enough. How many times did you shoot him?”

“A full clip. I thought he was worth it.”

“What do you mean, you thought? Don’t tell me you got your hands dirty, younger brother?”

“I discovered I had a rather emotional attachment to the prosecutor general. I decided he merited my personal attentions. A hell of a way to relieve some stress, I can tell you that.”

Leonid said nothing, but there was no denying the look of admiration. Younger brother had finally done something worthwhile. “Witnesses?”

“A few. We took their names.”

“Give them to me. We don’t want any trouble.”

Kirov shivered, for the first time feeling the power of the state in his hands. No longer was he beholden to the likes of Baranov or Dashamirov. From this day forward, Konstantin Kirov was a partner of the state. An equal of Mother Russia.

He was the Rodina.

“And you?” Kirov asked. “All goes well? Where are you going with those boots? Perm?”

“Severnaya, if you want to know.”

“Severnaya? Good God, that’s the Arctic Circle. What gives you reason to go up there?”

Leonid gave a look at his boots. It was a proud look, Kirov noticed. A look of deep satisfaction. “Oil, if you must know.”

“Have we discovered a new field? Wonderful news.” Immediately, Kirov began to scheme how he could get in on things—leasing drilling equipment, securing a contract for the construction of the new pipeline, arranging a turnkey operation; there were a hundred ways to make a fortune when one was the first to learn of such news.

“Not exactly, younger brother. There is a new field, but it is not ours. These days it’s not a question of too little oil, but too much. The world is drowning in the stuff. If OPEC ever opens the spigots we’ll be back at fourteen dollars a barrel and that will be the end of us. If our country is to continue growing, oil prices must remain high. Twenty-seven dollars a barrel at least. Only then can we earn enough to keep our GDP growing at eight percent a year. Continue at this rate and in ten years we’ll be a superpower again. One decade. It’s not really so long, is it?”

“Not long at all. Then why the trip to Severnaya? It’s awfully far to travel if there’s no oil there.”

“An exercise in prevention, younger brother. While we may wish for higher prices, others abhor the idea. One in particular has taken to the notion of self-sufficiency. Unfortunately, they have the resources. It would be devastating to our country should they exploit them. We must see to it they do not consider the option.” Leonid finished chewing a bite of sausage, then asked offhandedly, “Speaking of America, you do have Mr. Gavallan here, don’t you?”

Kirov felt himself jolt, his stomach rebel.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Leonid continued. “Just because the komitet’s stinking bankrupt doesn’t mean we don’t do our job. Is he here or out at the field observation post with the other one? Excuse me, I mean your ‘dacha.’”

“Mr. Gavallan is here. He’ll be joining his colleague at the dacha.”

“And Katya?”

“As well.”

Leonid set down his cutlery, pulling the napkin from his neck and wiping his mouth clean with one stroke. His plate was spotless. “They are dangerous. Either of them can compromise the operation.”

Kirov wanted to disagree. Never would he allow Cate or Gavallan to interfere with Mercury. Then, he realized Leonid wasn’t talking only about Mercury. He was talking about Severnaya, the preemptive exercise he had cooking on the cusp of the Arctic Circle. Somehow the two had become hopelessly intertwined.

“Gavallan, of course,” he added, a bit uncertainly. “I had no intention of continuing our working relationship. But Katya… Naturally, she’ll remain in Moscow under my supervision.”

“Cut the crap, Konstantin. You know what has to be done.” He leaned across the table, his square gray head looming foremost in Kirov’s vision. “No one can compromise the komitet, younger brother. Our name may have changed, but our principles haven’t. I’m sorry, but that’s that. After all, this is the second time the little missy has tried to put you away. You should be happy to have an excuse to be rid of her.”

“Come now, Leonid, let’s be realistic. Gavallan is one thing, but family… Katya is my only daughter. She’s strong-willed, of course, but nothing more—”

“No buts, younger brother. Remember where you live. The only family you have is the state.” Leonid stood, buttoning his jacket. “So I can tell him you’ll take care of matters? Clean things up? We don’t like to leave a mess. That hasn’t changed either.”

Kirov swallowed hard, the taste of his bile acidic, repellent. He felt tricked, massively deceived. A victim. “Yes. Tell the president to have no worries.”

“He’ll be most grateful. Good luck, and remember, you are representing the country. The president will be watching on television. Oh, I almost forgot.” Leonid reached into his jacket and handed his brother a small blue velvet box.

Opening it, Kirov saw a colonel’s polished golden oak leaves. “What’s this?”

“Message from the president. You work for us now.”

She heard it all. Not every word, but snippets here and there. Enough to piece the conversation together. Enough to grow as frightened as she’d ever been in her life.

“He’s going to kill us,” she repeated silently, as if repetition would make the certainty less ghastly. In her panic, she reverted to her journalist’s guise. There’s a word for it, she told herself. When a father kills his child… there’s a word for it. But her distress was such that she couldn’t remember what it was. Plain old “murder” fit the bill, and that was bad enough.

Kneeling inside the den, Cate kept her head tilted toward the heating vents. She had come downstairs ten minutes earlier, Boris her escort. Her father wished to speak with her, she’d been informed. Alone. But as Boris locked her in, she caught the back of her uncle Leonid charging into the living room. He was unmistakable. The blue suit. The stiff shoulders. The iron gray hair.

Her father and uncle had been estranged during her childhood. Curious as to what common bond had brought them together, she’d pressed her ear to the grate. Listening, she had forced herself not to cry out at the tales of barbarity bandied about by the two men.

The doors to the den opened.

“He is ready to see you,” said Boris, motioning to follow him across the foyer.

“Of course.”

It was moving day in Sparrow Hills. At nine o’clock, the clubhouse was a picture of commotion. The twin front doors stood open wide, the muscular growl of a supercharged V-8 flooding the entry. The snout of a black SUV pulled into view. Car doors opened and slammed. Boots slapped the pavement. A steady stream of her father’s bullies entered and exited the house, at least half sporting Uzis slung over their shoulders. Luggage was brought downstairs. Another Suburban arrived.

At last, her father emerged from the living room.

“Good morning, then,” he said, with an affable smile. “I apologize for my behavior last night. I was distraught. I hope at least that you slept well.”

It was an act. A murderous masquerade. “Fine. And you? Sleep of the innocent?”

“Always,” he replied in his soft, deathly courteous tone. “I wanted to have a last word with you before you set off.”

“I thought we covered everything last night.”

Her father stepped closer, patting her arms understandingly. “Katya, there’s so much you don’t know. So much I want to explain to you. I’m sending you with Jett to my dacha for a few days. When I return from New York, we will sit and talk. I’m not the ogre you think. I will listen to what you have to—”

“What is there to talk about? Mercury is a lie, but you’re going ahead with the deal anyway. You hold your daughter as if she were a prisoner.” She shook off his hands. “We have nothing to talk about. Not now. Not ever.”

Kirov retreated a step, a blithe smile on his lips. “I can see you’re upset. It is understandable. When I return, we can speak again. If you’ll excuse me, I must hurry. The pricing is set for four P.M. this afternoon in Manhattan. Bye-bye, Katya.”

She fixed him with an unloving stare. “Don’t you mean ‘adieu,’ Father?”