The First Billion

61

Sorry, sorry. It is too late. We are closed today. You go home to Moscow. Come here tomorrow.”

He was tall and mustachioed and the name tag on his washed-out flight suit read “Grushkin, Colonel Pyotr R.” His English was outstanding, if not his grammar. Bending to check a register on his desk, he scratched at his generous crop of iron gray hair and said, “No, come Wednesday instead. Tomorrow, I am booked. Mr. Hamada from Tokyo.”

Gavallan and Cate were standing inside the cluttered operations office of the Grushkin Flight Academy, formerly known as Hulskvoe Air Force Base. The room smelled of sweat, cottonseed oil, and the lingering exhaust of high-octane jet fuel. One step inside had turned Gavallan’s stomach to water. He was back where he’d never wanted to be again in his life.

Through the open door behind them, they could see the blue Toyota Cressida that Cate had flagged down to bring them here, its driver counting his $120 fare, and behind him, parked not ten feet away, a Mig-25 Foxbat dressed for combat in khaki camouflage war paint. With its swept-back wings, boxy fuselage, and sharp, angular nose, the Mig recalled the old F-111 Starfighter, only bigger, heavier, and, from what he’d been taught, slower to turn. A few airmen tended to the bird, throwing chocks under its wheels, climbing a ladder to the cockpit to check on the instruments, leading a hose out for refueling.

Guards had left Hulskvoe ten years ago, when budgetary constraints had shuttered the base along with seventy-one of its brethren across the Russian landmass. Since then it had been put to more profitable uses. Budding aviators, flight enthusiasts, and any other individuals interested in piloting some of the world’s most sophisticated fighter aircraft came to Hulskvoe to attend any of the day—or weeklong courses that were offered. Prices began at $2,000 a day and went from there.

“We’re not interested in going for a ride,” said Cate. “Not exactly.”

“No?” asked Grushkin playfully. “Who are you? Media, I suppose? You want free ride in my plane and you promise to show my school on television? Look, I need the press, but flights aren’t free. Fuel, upkeep.” He rubbed his fingers together to show how expensive it was to care for a state-of-the-art fighter. “Listen, we make deal. I give you discount. Fifty percent off. A thousand cash. Dollars, not lira, eh? But you don’t get to take home a flight suit.”

“I think you’ve got things a little mixed up,” said Cate. “We’re not press and we don’t want you to give us a ride in your plane.”

“No?” Grushkin’s manner turned from solicitous to suspicious on a dime.

“We’d like to make you an offer,” she said.

“An offer?” Grushkin stepped around the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “What is it exactly you want?”

Gavallan told him, and Grushkin laughed boisterously. “You got to be kidding.”

Gavallan pulled out his wallet and laid his American Express Platinum Card on the table. “On the contrary. I’ve never been more serious. How does a million sound? Dollars, not lira.”

The offices of American Express Travel Related Services-European Division occupied the top four floors of a Victorian building on the Bahnhofstrasse, one block from the Zurich main station. From his window, Benno Notzli, chief of Centurion and Platinum Card Services, had a pleasant view of Johannes Pestalozzi’s statue and the manicured square in which it stood. Pestalozzi, as all Swiss children were taught, was the sixteenth-century schoolteacher recognized as the father of modern pedagogy, and the statue showed him merrily helping a child to walk. A McDonald’s restaurant bordered the south side of the park, the luxury department store Globus the west side. The time was 6:49, and Notzli had paused in packing his briefcase for his 7 P.M. departure to listen to a band of Peruvian musicians who’d taken up station below his window. He didn’t particularly care for Peruvians or any of the ambling bands of musicians who turned up across Switzerland during the summer like fleas on a dog. To begin with, they were impecunious. Secondly, they were foreigners. Lastly, they were not clients of American Express. He did, however, enjoy their haunting mountain melodies. Especially those played with the pan flute.

The phone on his desk began to ring. Seeing it was his private line, he hurried to answer. “Notzli.”

“Herr Direktor, we have a rather interesting call from Russia. You’d better have a look at the file. I’m sending it up immediately.”

“Not again.” Notzli sat down with a thump, giving his briefcase a longing glance. So much for a timely departure. Russians! He was well-acquainted with the country and its newly affluent citizens. Every weekend another group of Russian businessmen accompanied by their wives, mistresses, nannies, and children flitted their way up and down the Bahnhofstrasse, buying everything that wasn’t nailed down. Fifty thousand francs at Bucherer. A hundred thousand at Chanel. Twenty thousand at Bally. Rolexes, furs, diamonds, ostrich shoes, cashmere topcoats, and couture, couture, couture. Shopping sprees of orgiastic dimension.

Notzli knew that most of the merchandise went to government officials flown to Zurich for the weekend to pocket “soft payments” from their counterparts in the private sector for services rendered—past, present, and future. Not that it was his business. It was Notzli’s job to review the client’s credit and make spot decisions authorizing or denying such purchases.

“What is it?” he asked.

“An odd request from an airport. The Grushkin Flight Academy.”

“An airport? Just give me the customer and the amount.”

“Mr. John J. Gavallan. An American. The amount is one million dollars.”

“One million dollars!” Notzli coughed, coming to attention in his chair.

By now the purchase request and client record was flashing on his monitor. The record showed the client’s complete credit history, his average monthly expenditures, days payable, and most recent purchases. It also listed the client’s estimated personal net worth, his annual income, and any known assets. Finally, it assigned the entire package a letter grade denoting the client’s overall creditworthiness.

Last year, Mr. Gavallan had spent $214,987.15. He paid his bills promptly, averaging fifteen days and his stated annual income was $3.5 million. His overall grade was an A+.

Mr. Gavallan was the real thing.

“Do you have the customer on the line?” Notzli asked.

“Yes sir, I’ll transfer him immediately.”

Adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair, Notzli introduced himself, then gave his title. “So, Mr. Gavallan, sir, I understand you would like to make a rather large purchase. Please bear in mind, it is necessary for us to take some precautions. I hope you don’t mind my asking a few questions to verify your identity.”

“Not at all. Shoot.”

Notzli asked for Mr. Gavallan’s social security number, his date of birth, and his mother’s maiden name. Gavallan replied correctly. Then Notzli asked for the small four-digit number printed on the right-hand side of the card. Again, Gavallan supplied the correct response.

“I hope you don’t find my questions too intrusive. It’s just that your request is coming from an odd location. Normally, significant purchase requests come from jewelry stores, art galleries, even auction houses. You, sir, are at an airport in the region south of Moscow.”

“That’s right,” said Gavallan. “The town is called Hulskvoe, if you’re interested.”

“May I be so bold as to inquire, sir, what you wish to purchase for one million dollars?”

“A plane. A Mig-25 Foxbat. I’m a pilot myself, and I thought it would be neat to have one to tool around with on weekends.”

“Is that right?” Notzli didn’t know a Mig Foxbat from a jumbo jet. He was a train man, himself. Antique miniatures. Double-A gauge. “And you’re certain this aircraft is worth one million dollars?”

“Actually, it’s worth a lot more than that. Production price is around twenty-eight million a copy, but they’re having a fire sale.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. I must have this plane.”

Benno Notzli stared at the screen, evaluating the man’s impeccable credit history and the reasonable voice on the other end of the phone. It was his job to see to it his clients were satisfied, that they were able to purchase the baubles, bangles, trinkets, and, well… planes that they simply “must have.” One look at the annual salary and credit grade made the decision a snap. If the man wanted to fork over a million dollars for a Mig-25 Foxbat, he could be Notzli’s guest. AmEx would be happy to pocket its customary 2 percent fee on the transaction.

“There should be no problem, Mr. Gavallan. I’ll be happy to authorize the purchase.”

“Thank you, Mr. Notzli.”

“And fly safely.”

“I intend to,” said Gavallan.

All in all, a most pleasant man, decided Notzli, already halfway out the door. If he hurried, he just might make the 7:13.

Cate Magnus took a seat at Colonel Pyotr Grushkin’s desk. Pulling the phone toward her, she dialed information and asked for the number of the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C. The mere act made her jumpy. The thought of asking a Russian operator for the phone number of the Main Adversary’s vaunted internal police was hard to fathom.

Waiting, she watched Jett and Grushkin walk around the Mig, Grushkin pointing out the flaps and ailerons beneath the wing, stooping to inspect the landing gear. Jett looked nervous—fidgeting, nodding frequently, wringing his hands, then brushing them off. Well, she thought, that makes two of us.

The operator returned with the number. She hung up and dialed. It took her two disconnections and a string of “Would you please holds” before she was connected with her intended party.

“This is Dodson.”

“Mr. Dodson, this is Catherine Magnus. I’m sure you know who I am.”

“Yes, Miss Magnus. I hope you don’t mind my saying I’m a bit surprised to hear from you. How can I be of service?”

“How can you be of service?” If she snapped at him, it was because she was still incensed at his role in her predicament. Were it not for Dodson, she would be safely in the States as she spoke. There would be no question of Mercury’s opening for trading tomorrow morning and she could still look at herself in the mirror. “I’ll tell you how. First, you can revoke the warrant for Jett Gavallan’s arrest. He didn’t kill Ray Luca. I was there too—I mean in Florida. Yes, he was looking for Luca, but not to kill him. He wanted to know why Luca was trying to spoil the Mercury Broadband IPO Mr. Gavallan’s company was underwriting. Unfortunately, he got there late—we both did, actually. The same people who killed Mr. Luca nearly killed Jett.”

“Miss Magnus—”

“If you want to know where to find Luca’s killers, I’ll be happy to tell you. Drive north from Moscow on the Petersburg road. Take a turnoff for a place called Svertloe and go east another—”

“Miss Magnus, please—”

“You’ll find them near a dirty cabin in a small pine forest. They’re dead, I’m afraid. We had to kill them. Do you understand, Mr. Dodson? We had to do your job for you!”

“Miss Magnus, please calm yourself. If you’d like my cooperation, you’ll need to compose yourself. Please, ma’am.”

But Cate had no more words. She was crying, her breath coming in great big drafts, as if she’d been drowning and needed air. She’d killed someone. She’d ended a life. It didn’t matter that the man was trying to kill her. Even now, after everything, she could not summon any enmity toward him. She saw him dodging round the nose of the Suburban, running at the house, his eyes so ambitious, focused, blazing with mission. She had aimed the gun and pulled the trigger and he had fallen dead without uttering so much as a whimper. She could feel her finger tight against the trigger, the gentle, even pleasant bucking of the gun, the dull fireworks as the casings ejected and tinkled onto the cabin floor. The bullets struck him in the chest, in a neat diagonal from spleen to shoulder, and down he went. She was expecting more drama, more blood, a shout, the acknowledgment of his wounds… something to punctuate the loss of a life. But he just fell and stopped moving and his eyes were still open and that was it.

“It was Kirov,” she said, gathering herself. “He sent two of his killers to do the job. Check the flights in and out of Florida. You must have the tail number of his plane somewhere. Look for a late Thursday or early Friday arrival and a Friday evening departure.” Cate mentioned Boris and Tatiana and offered descriptions of them.

“Konstantin Kirov? You mean Mr. Gavallan’s partner?”

“No, I mean Konstantin Kirov, the man that tried to kill us and is hoping to defraud the investing public out of two billion dollars.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you saying that Jett Gavallan does not want the Mercury deal to happen?”

“Of course he doesn’t want it to come to market. What Ray Luca was saying about Mercury was true, more or less. Jett looked into it and discovered some serious accounting discrepancies. He would never represent a company that wasn’t exactly as advertised. Contrary to your screwed-up line of thought, he is not a dishonest man.”

Dodson cleared his throat. “I appreciate the information, Miss Magnus. You can be sure we’ll look into it. But if you’d like any cooperation from our side, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back to the United States. I take it you are in Moscow now?”

“South of it. Hulskvoe. It’s a former Red Air Force base.” Drumming her nails on the desktop, she managed to slow her breathing and get a grip on herself. “Actually, Mr. Dodson, I want to help you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. That is, if you’re still interested in jailing Konstantin Kirov for skimming two hundred million dollars from Novastar Airlines?”

“Oh yes, ma’am, we’re still very interested in Mr. Kirov. But I think you’re mistaken on your figures. Kirov stole a hundred twenty-five million from Novastar.”

“No, Mr. Dodson, it’s you who are mistaken. I have in my possession Novastar’s banking records for the past three years. Every transfer into and out of the company. They’re all there. I also have the complete banking history of a company called Andara, and one called Futura. I even have a couple of numbered accounts nobody’s ever heard of. I guarantee you, it’s enough evidence to see Konstantin Kirov convicted in any court in the world.”

“And you’re willing to turn this over to the government?”

“I am.”

A palm muffled the mouthpiece and Cate could hear Dodson’s heated voice summoning someone named Roy. Waiting, she watched Jett climb into the Mig’s cockpit and Grushkin take his place next to him. Jett looked more comfortable now, and she found her own nerves settling too. Then she reminded herself that in a little while she would have to take Grushkin’s place, and her hard-won repose vanished. Suddenly, the Mig looked very big and very dangerous.

“Miss Magnus, you’ve piqued my interest,” she heard Dodson’s voice say. “What is it you want?”

“Just a little help getting home.”

“Oh?”

Cate outlined Jett’s plan for the next twenty-four hours and how the FBI could help.

“Anything else?” Dodson asked. “Dinner with the President? An audience with the Pope?”

“No, thank you,” Cate replied, all business. “That’s all.” Her sense of humor had deserted her sometime back, probably in a dusky pine clearing in the plains north of Moscow. “Is that a yes?”

It took Dodson a long time to answer.

She had one call yet to make. As usual, she’d saved the hardest for last. Half a dozen times already, she’d picked up the handset only to slam it right back down. Grushkin had brought her a flight suit and draped it over the door. A helmet with a dark sunshield sat on the desk in front of her, and she could see her reflection in it. She asked herself who she really was, Cate Magnus or Katya Kirov. And who, after all was said and done, she would choose to remain. The answers came more easily than she expected. As Jett said, there was only one direction: straight ahead.

Picking up the phone, she dialed the nine-digit number that she recognized as belonging to the north side of Moscow. It was a hard part of town, and the voice that answered the phone matched it perfectly. “Da?”

Catherine Elizabeth Magnus did not hang up.

You ready?” Gavallan asked Cate.

“Yeah,” she said, then more certainly, “Yes, I’m ready. Jesus, Jett, what am I supposed to say—hee-hah, let’s git? I’m scared, that’s what I am. Are you?”

Glancing to his right, he caught sight of her beneath the Perspex bubble next to him. Wearing the oversized helmet, she looked thin and vulnerable. He could see that she was trying to smile and having a hard time of it. Shifting his eyes to the fore, he gazed down the slim strip of asphalt rolling to the horizon. He waited for his heart to beat faster, for the prickly fingers to scratch at the back of his neck, but his heart was calm, and so was his psyche. In the final analysis, he was just flying a plane. Besides, it wasn’t takeoffs that frightened him. It was what he’d find up there.

“Am I what?” he asked, a half second later.

“Are you ready?”

“Absolutely,” he said, fingering the throttle, inching it ever so slightly forward. Immediately, the engine roared. The aircraft begin to rumble. “Let’s go to Germany.”

Colonel Pyotr Grushkin watched his beloved Mig taxi to the end of the runway, turn slowly, then barrel down the asphalt and take off over the golden fields of wheat swaying in the warm evening breeze. Wings sweeping back toward the fuselage, the aircraft climbed higher and higher into the azure sky. The American rocked the fighter port and starboard, a gentleman’s good-bye, and Grushkin’s heart went with it.

When the Mig was barely a speck in the sky, he walked into his office and made a phone call.

“Jerzy, this is Pyotr. Listen, I have a student taking the jet out for a long run toward the border. Nothing to worry about—just a training exercise. But in case anything funny happens, maybe you could keep your eyes closed.”

“What do you mean, ‘keep my eyes closed’?” Jerzy asked.

“Take a short break. Forget you saw anything. If any tough guys ask, say everything’s quiet as the grave.”

“This is a serious matter you are talking about, Colonel. A question of the motherland’s security.”

“I think it is more a question of a thousand American dollars, nyet?” There was a pause, and Grushkin pictured his old crew chief seated at his obsolete radar array, a cigarette burning between his fingers, a tepid cup of coffee on his desk. “Please, Jerzy. A favor.”

“It is a very quiet evening. I would be surprised if anything of interest appeared on our screens. Good-bye, Pyotr.”

When Grushkin returned to the hangar, he was confronted by a pageant of disappointed faces. He stared back, then slowly allowed a broad, shit-eating grin to crack his stoic face.

“Hey, don’t look so glum, you dirty bastards,” he shouted. “Somebody break out the vodka! We’re fucking millionaires!”