The First Billion (30 page)

Leaning over the map, Dodson spread a yardstick in a line from Fort Lauderdale, seeing just how far his six thousand miles would take him. He fanned the yardstick from north to south and east to west, from Alaska to South Africa. Six thousand miles was a long distance, he discovered, and gave a man plenty of places in which to hide.

“By God, he’s gone AWOL on us,” Dodson whispered to the team of stern, clean-cut agents who had been assigned his acolytes. “Mr. Gavallan’s taken a flier on the FBI. I understand if he didn’t want to meet me at his hotel. I can see how he wouldn’t want to come into our offices right away. I’m not an unreasonable man. But damn it, when a United States citizen flees the country while being sought for questioning in connection with a multiple homicide, that’s just wrong. Get me Pierre Dupuis at Interpol. Then get me Yuri Baranov in Russia.” Something inside Dodson cracked, and he felt a flash of anger, as white and hot as lightning. “Oh, fuck, get me Crawford at Langley, as well. I suppose they should know about it too.” He looked at the eager faces staring at him. “It’s time we run along and see the judge upstairs about issuing that arrest warrant.”

Howell Dodson would teach Mr. John J. Gavallan not to toy with the United States government.

37

Florida had disappeared hours ago, a tobacco brown smudge swallowed by an azure sea. Distance, darkness, and the pleasant hum of a pressurized cabin relegated Gavallan’s worries to another world. Ray Luca wasn’t dead. Boris and his blond girlfriend were figments of his imagination. And Howell Dodson and baying hounds were no longer nipping at his heels. Not for the moment, anyway. Flying north by northeast at a speed of 500 knots and an altitude of 42,000 feet, Gavallan’s greatest threat lay five feet away, tucked beneath the sheets of a foldout bed.

Why are you here?
he asked Cate’s sleeping countenance.
Why did you follow me to Florida when you could have phoned just as easily? What else is there you’re not telling me about your other life?
And finally:
Who are you really
?

Rising, he stepped across the cabin and adjusted the powder blue blanket so that it covered her shoulders. Cate stirred, turning onto her side and bringing her knees closer to her chest. A comma of blue black hair fell across a cheek. Her pale, generous lips parted. The cabin lights were dimmed, the door to the cockpit shut. They were in the otherworld of flight, and the sandpaper silence granted her an immunity he was not willing to extend himself.

God, how he wanted to draw back the sheets and crawl into bed next to her, to run his hands up the hard ridges of her back, to slide them around and cup her breast, to kiss that neck, that wonderfully warm and silk-soft neck, to feel her nipple harden beneath his thumb.

But she doesn’t love you anymore. Maybe she never did.

After years of his not feeling a thing, she’d awoken the dead part of him. She’d made his nerves tingle and his heart dance. She’d made him smile at odd moments. Mostly, she’d given him hope.

And then she’d taken it all away. Like that. In the snap of a finger.

They’d met three years earlier at an I-bankers’ conference one of the big firms had sponsored at the Four Seasons on Maui, this one to chart the Internet’s boundless future. It was a lavish shindig. Suites for the big shots, ocean views for everyone else. Unlimited cocktails at the hotel’s numerous bars. Breakfast buffets, whale-watching sails, excursions to the neighboring isles of Molokai and Lanai. Thrown in for respectability’s sake were a few lectures by industry specialists on topics of burning import, all to be concluded by 11 A.M. sharp lest someone miss his or her tee time at Kapalua or the jitney into Lahaina.

The conference wasn’t his style: all the glad-handling, everyone so buddy-buddy, patting each other on the back when the day before they’d been vowing to rip out the other guy’s guts. It was an exercise in ass-kissing, all expenses paid. Like it or not, though, it was a great way to build the name, to fly the firm’s banner where all the big shots could see it.

Gavallan had come to give a talk on the banker’s role in preparing start-ups for their IPO. The few stalwarts who caught his 9 A.M. speech managed to laugh in the right places, even if it did cause their booze-soaked noggins to ring like the Liberty Bell. Cate was there to deliver a speech on the social ramifications of the Internet, and you can bet not one of the attendees missed her early-morning presentation. She strode to the dais wearing a flowered Hawaiian halter atop a blood red sarong, a white gardenia tucked behind one ear. Her feet were as bare as her midriff. And yes, she’d dared to wear her navel ring.

Today, Gavallan reflected, the outfit would have caused an uproar. Too sexy, too provocative, too disrespectful by half. But this was before the correction. The Nasdaq was making new highs every day. The Dow was puffing like the eighty-year-old geezer it was to keep up. Funding was flowing from venture capitalists like champagne from an excited bottle. This was a celebration of the new economy. A toast to the little engine that could. Graham and Dodd were dead and good riddance to the old blowhards! In short, it was as close to pure bacchanal as Wall Street was ever going to get, in this or any other lifetime.

He’d spotted her by the beach bar the afternoon after she’d given her speech. She’d exchanged her halter and sarong for a black string bikini, and ditched the gardenia in favor of a cycling cap advertising Cinzano. He’d come out of the surf after a mile swim and was still dripping.

“Liked your talk this morning,” he’d said, leaning against the bar and asking for a beer. “You’re a real believer.”

“In the Net, absolutely. In these prices, I’m not so sure. What’s your take on things? Is the market really going to keep going up, up, up?”

“For now,” he said, seeking out her eyes. “Lot of money on the sidelines waiting to join the parade.”

Turning toward him, Cate propped her elbows on the bar and leaned back. “A hundred fifty times earnings is pretty hard to support in the long run, don’t you think?”

“Shh!” he said, bringing a finger to his lips. “Trying to upset the apple cart or what?”

“Just saying that reality always catches up to speculation.” Cate stole the wedge of lime from Gavallan’s beer and bit it between her teeth.

“Not too soon, let’s hope. Besides, I didn’t hear you mention anything about speculation up there on the podium. ‘The Internet is going to radically redefine human existence.’ Aren’t those your words?”

“Wow. A listener. I’m impressed. You must have been the only guy who wasn’t staring at my boobs.”

Gavallan choked on his beer, laughing while stumbling back a few steps. “Not necessarily.”

“Oh?” Her voice sounded distressed, but her smile confessed her pleasure.

“Just remember, Miss Magnus, when you make money, it’s called investing. When you lose it, it’s speculation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Gavallan. At least you don’t have to worry as much as the others. You’re not a gold digger. Not yet, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve got some common sense.” She grinned. “You want the B-school verdict?”

“Why not?”

Cate drew a deep breath. “It means that you alone among your peers have demonstrated prescience and restraint in selecting and bringing to market only those companies whose products not only have a sustainable competitive advantage but whose business models promise long-term profitability.” She wagged a finger for him to come closer and, when he did, whispered in his ear. “You know how to separate the pyrite from the gold.”

Gavallan backed away, his expression bemused yet appreciative. “Sorry if I’m staring. I didn’t know Michael Porter had such a nice ass.”

“I pay Professor Porter royalties.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. But that means you’ll have to take me away from this slum,” she said. “At the hotel, everything’s comped. I know a decent place in Kahului. A hole in the wall where the windsurfers hang out. You eat meat, don’t you? They have great burgers.”

Gavallan took the question as an affront to his dignity. “Where I come from in Texas, them’s fighting words.”

“I know,” she winked. “I read the article in
Fortune
. Meet me in the lobby at seven.”

They feasted on cheeseburgers and mai tais and promised not to say one word about the market. They talked about diving and sailing and designer tequila, consciously steering away from the other’s past or anything more frothy than their horoscopes—he was a Scorpio, she a Leo—and their favorite movies—his was
Bridge on the River Kwai,
hers
Anastasia
. He stuck fifty cents in the jukebox to hear Junior Brown “a-pickin’ and a-grinnin’,” and she protested, saying that they didn’t have any of Pearl Jam’s greatest hits. He said that if he hadn’t gone into finance, he would have chosen forestry. She lied as adeptly, saying that greeting cards were her secret passion and that journalism just paid the bills.

Before long, they’d broken their promises and she was telling him about her teenage years—high school at Choate, college at Georgetown, business school at Wharton. Her father was in international business, her mother had passed away years ago. He told her about school in Brownsville, about being one of twenty-four Anglos in a graduating class of eight hundred, about thinking he was Mexican until he was six and went home crying to his mother and demanding to know why his hair wasn’t black like everyone else’s.

Afterward, the two climbed into Gavallan’s Jeep for a drive up the Hana Road. She wasn’t the only one who knew their way around Maui. Half an hour later, he pulled into a drive-by just past Hoolawa Bridge.

“Come here,” he said, running round the Jeep and offering a hand down. “Five minutes to the most beautiful spot on God’s green earth.”

Cate regarded the trail before them. A dense tropical canopy obscured the path ten yards in. “ ‘And they were never found again,’ ” she said, shaking her hand free and setting off into the jungle.

The path led up a steep hill, following the course of a tumbling stream. Cate’s pace soon slowed and Gavallan took the lead, careful to point out the exposed banyan roots and moss-covered stones that one could trip or stumble on. Though the night was cool, both were soon covered in a light sweat.

“I thought you said five minutes?” Cate asked, stopping and placing her hands on her hips, her breath coming hard.

“Okay, maybe ten. But we’re almost there. Fifty yards max.” Gavallan brushed back a smattering of low-hanging vines, praying he was on the right trail and that he could find the way back to the Jeep. No sooner had he rounded the next bend than he came upon it: a wide pool fed by a crescent-shaped waterfall that dropped from a cliff twenty feet above. A half moon shone high in the sky, and its reflection was caught in the pool’s obsidian calm.

“It’s beautiful.” Cate stood at the edge of the water, her arms wrapped around herself. “Should we go in?”

“If a little mountain water doesn’t scare a city girl, why not?” Gavallan bent low and stuck a hand in the water.
Fur-eezing!
The stream was fed from the summit of Haleakala, elevation 10,500 feet. Him and his big mouth. “It’s great,” he said, even as he suppressed a shiver. “Not bad at all.”

Cate stepped closer to him, her hands rising to her neck to untie her dress. Suddenly, she stopped and fixed him with a wary grin. “You didn’t bring me up here to seduce me, did you? I mean, you don’t really think I’d sleep with you on our first date?”

“Of course not . . . er, um, uh . . . well, I am an optimist.”

“I like optimists,” she said, dropping her hand from her dress and running it along his chest. “Tell you what: Think positive and I’ll let you buy me dinner tomorrow, too. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Then, kicking off a zori, she dipped a toe into the pond. “Not too bad at all. Enjoy yourself.”

And before he could ask what she meant, she pushed him into the pond, shorts, T-shirt, Top-Siders, and all.

Gavallan stared down at her sleeping form, remembering the moment.
Three years.

Just then, Cate opened her eyes. “Hello,” she said sleepily.

“You never told me why you said no.”

“Sorry?”

“You never gave me a reason.”

She sat up stiffly. “I didn’t know I had to.”

“You don’t,” he said. “But I’m asking you to. It’s time we were honest with each other.”

Cate threw him a suspicious look. Pulling off the sheets, she rose and walked past him to the bulkhead counter where the first officer had set up an urn of coffee and laid out some cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. “Tuna . . . chicken salad—what do you feel like?”

Gavallan padded across the cabin, taking up position at her shoulder. “Cate.”

She turned to face him. “It just wasn’t right.”

“What wasn’t right? We didn’t get along? We weren’t okay in bed? We didn’t like the same movies? You liked Chinese, I liked Indian?
What
exactly?”

Cate started to say something, but caught herself. Frowning, she shook her head as if to say, “No, no, I’m not playing this game,” then brushed past him.

“Cate, I’m talking to you.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, snapping her head. “I don’t recall being one of your employees. You can’t order me to talk back. Just leave it, okay?”

And shooting him a dismissive glance, she continued to her seat, making a derisive noise on the way, a frustrated exhalation that sounded like a tire bleeding air.

It was the look that did it—the condescending way she had of averting her eyes, of showing him the back of her hand as if warding off an autograph seeker. Until then, he had kept his cool. It had been a difficult day—the hardest he’d known since the war. Neither of them needed another spate of accusations, rebukes, or recriminations. Then she gave him that look, and his calm was a thing of the past. Lost like a candy wrapper out the window of a speeding car. His heart pounded. Blood raged in his ears. Grabbing Cate by the shoulder, he spun her around and looked her straight in the face.

“Stop ducking the question. It’s been three months. You think a day goes by without my wondering what happened? What I might have done wrong? I mean, one night you’re lying in my arms talking about what’s-his-name at the
Journal,
your editor, and what you’re going to write for your next column, the next you’re gone. The house is empty. Closets bare. Bathroom deserted. Not a sign you’d ever been there. You even took that chunk of wheatgrass out of the refrigerator. We’re not talking a civilized separation here. We’re talking a ‘scorched earth’ retreat. You’re damned right I want to know. It’s the least I deserve. What happened, Cate? Did you meet someone? Is that it? Just tell me. At least then I’d understand.”

“No,” she replied coolly. “I didn’t meet anyone. It’s not that, Jett.”

“Then what?”

“It just wasn’t going to work. Maybe I could see something you couldn’t. It was too painful for me to hang around, so I left.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Oh, Jett, grow up. Stop thinking you’re so goddamned special that a girl wouldn’t ever dare walk away from you. It didn’t work and I left. That’s it. Just leave it, okay?”

“No, I won’t. I’m sick of leaving things. I’m past closing my eyes and pretending it didn’t happen. I need an answer. Do you understand that?
I need it.
” He touched a hand to his chest. “In here. For me.”