The First Billion (38 page)

51

This was where all paths led.

To Russia.

To Moscow.

To her father.

Cate waited alone in the wood-paneled den off the entry hall. The lights were dim, and the room smelled of new carpet and worn leather. Through the heating vents, murmurs of a violent conversation drifted to her ears. Jett and her father were arguing, and it made her afraid. She’d spent her last teenage years here. Something about the Edwardian house seemed to goad its inhabitants into perfectly dreadful behavior. “She used to lie with her ear to the floor, listening to every word of her parents’ fights, wincing, crying, silently ordering them to stop and make up.

The past.

Everywhere she looked it was crowding in on her, suffocating her with nightmares and obligations.

Moving to the window, she drew a curtain and peeked outside. If she lifted her eyes, she could make out the top floors of Moscow State University, towering above a stand of trees. Well past midnight, the building’s lights were ablaze. Built in the late 1940s as one of seven “Stalin Skyscrapers” meant to showcase Soviet prowess in architecture and engineering, the university was ever the brilliant trophy. The stern spires and bold, conformist tower were masterpieces of their kind and stirred in her pangs of nostalgia so strong as to be painful. It was not the first time this evening she’d been overcome with sentiment.

Passing St. Basil’s, the Novodevichy Monastery, the Kremlin, even the most mundane of office buildings, she’d found her throat choked with emotion. These were the landmarks not only of the city but of a childhood she’d willed dead and buried, and each in turn provoked a cascade of memories. Cate and her mother pausing for a tea in one of the unsmiling cafes that dotted the upper levels of the GUM department store. Cate skating for the first time on an impromptu ice rink in the courtyard of their apartment building, the result of a broken main that had spewed water into the air for two weeks running. A reverent Cate, barely thirteen, passing through Lenin’s tomb for the first time, frightened for the life of her to stare down at the great man’s embalmed face, her teacher stopping her and forcing her to look, berating her in the sacrosanct hall to open her eyes and gaze upon the motherland’s savior. She’d obeyed and fainted straightaway.

But the stirring went deeper than nostalgia. It went to her heart. To her blood. It was her history awakening inside her. The past beckoning her to return. She was no longer Catherine Elizabeth Magnus, but
Ekaterina Konstantinovna Elisabeth Kirova,
a Russian woman born in Leningrad to a Catholic mother and a Jewish father almost thirty years ago. There was nothing her devotion to the West could do about it. Nothing her love for Ayn Rand or her addiction to Bruce Springsteen could do to rectify the error of her birth. All were accessories she’d acquired to paper over her true colors. Garments designed to deceive, to camouflage, to lie. The intended victim, of course, being none other than Katya Kirov herself.

Too wound up to sit, she dropped the curtain and made a tour of the room. The walls were covered with photographs, cartoons, framed articles, and here and there a diploma or honorary citation. Their common link was Konstantin Kirov. There was her father with Boris Yeltsin. Her father with Gorbachev. A photo with Bush the Elder. Oh, how he loved mingling with the big names, if only so he might position himself as champion of the free media. If, that is, one’s definition of “free media” meant using your television stations, your newspapers, your radio networks, to trumpet your own pet causes. If “free media” meant decrying taxes on aluminum production in order to favor your smelters in Krasnoyarsk. Or savaging the academic who had issued a report claiming that oligarchs exerted a drag on the economy equal to two percentage points of GNP. If so, then Kirov was your man.

Cate stared at her nails and stupidly wished she’d had a manicure before coming. She felt dirtied by her time in a jail cell. Catching a glimpse of her reflection, she flicked a strand of hair from her face, then rushed to her purse to apply some lipstick, only to throw the makeup back inside before she’d finished. Why did she give a damn about pleasing her father? She hated him and everything he stood for. He was a thief, a plunderer, a murderer. The epithets grew stale on her tongue, and pausing for breath, she was left with her original question: Why did she give a damn?

Unhappy sitting, she returned to the window and looked outside. A stream of headlights rolled up and down Kutuzovsky Prospekt. Marshal Mikhail Kutuzov, hero of Borodino, who had defeated Napoleon not on the battlefield but off it, by withdrawing his troops from Moscow and burning the city in his wake. There was something about his methods, something about sacrificing one’s children for personal glory, be it a nation’s or a businessman’s, that rang a bell with her.

And taking a breath, she found the answer to her question. It had been lying in front of her for days, months, years even. She gave a damn simply because he was her father. Her blood. And she would never be free of her ties to him.

Worse still, he had defeated her once again. For all her actions to halt Mercury, her promises to avenge Alexei’s death, her desire to help Jett, she’d come up short. She still had no way to punish her father for his sins. She was ever the little girl powerless in her father’s presence. And she hated herself because of it.

Hello, Father. It’s been a long ti—”

Konstantin Kirov crossed the study in three quick steps, slapping her hard across the face before she could finish her words. “Shut up, whore.”

Cate fell back onto the couch. Her hand dabbed at her mouth and came away red with blood. She struggled for something to say, but the onrush of emotions, hot and angry and prideful, cluttered her throat, leaving her defenseless and speechless.

Kirov gazed down at her, shaking his head. He looked older, smaller, ascetic even, but he had the same energy, the same conviction.

“How dare you even look me in the eye?” he went on. “Look away. Look at the ground. Out the window. Just don’t set your eyes on me.” He stalked to the window, threw back the curtains, then turned on her again. “Here is my darling daughter returned from America with her new name and new boyfriend. Have you any idea the shame you bring to my house? The disgust I feel showing you to the men who work for me? I brought you into this world. I cared for you in difficult times. I gave you an education worthy of a princess. And how do you repay it? First by sending your weak-spined boyfriend to the police with some ludicrous accusations that I was fixing the market for aluminum. I’ll never forget that boy. That Kalugin. He lasted five minutes before spilling his guts, sobbing that you put him up to it. You should thank me for relieving you of his company. It was a favor, believe me.”

Aghast, Cate stared at her father. He was no longer just a corrupt businessman, no longer merely a killer even. He’d become a monster. Inhuman. A beast. “Stop it,” she said, her voice a whisper.

But Kirov went right on, trampling over her words as he had always trampled over her wishes, her desires, her opinions. “And now,” he said, “after I allow you to make a new start, you dare to use all your resources to destroy the greatest professional achievement of my life. You conspire with the prosecutor general’s office, you feed that sick-minded day trader rumors, you turn my partner against me—”

“Stop it!” she shouted. “Stop your lying! You can lie to Jett. You can lie to Baranov, to your adoring public. But you will not lie to me. I am your daughter, though the word scalds my tongue. With me you will speak the truth.” Cate stood and pushed her way past him.

“The truth?” Kirov spun, following her, his expression saying he found her suggestion murderously amusing. “Oh, it’s the truth you want, is it? You are a big girl now. A grown woman. I suppose I can tell you the truth. The truth is simple: We are building a new country. We are raising a phoenix from the ashes. What you may consider extreme is in fact mundane.”

“I’m all for building a new country,” she said through tears. “But legitimately.”

“Legitimately?” Kirov jumped on the term. “The word is not in the Russian vocabulary. How can there be legitimacy when no one knows how to define it? You think everything must be done the American way. It is easy for them. They draw upon a tradition of common law dating back a thousand years. A thousand years ago Moscow was a swamp. Huns, Goths, Tatars . . . we had them all at one time or another, riding pell-mell across our territories. Law was whoever had the faster horse, the sharper sword. ‘Kleptocracy’ is hardly a recent term. Only this time it’s the businessmen doing the heavy lifting, not the government. Have you any idea what it took to bring Mercury this far? What it costs to bribe the Czech communications minister? The going rate to secure cable construction permits in Kiev? Do you? So what if we’re not up to Western standards of transparency? We’re starting from so far back it’s a miracle we’ve gotten this far. If we’d kept to the letter of the law, Mercury would consist of two cans and a string. Be reasonable, my love. We are only asking for a chance.”

“But you cheat. You lie. You kill. Ten people, Father. Why? Just to disguise the murder of one?”

“What are the lives of ten people to insure the prosperity, the education, the livelihood, of thousands? I would have killed a hundred if necessary. A thousand, if the Rodina demanded it.”

“Another lie. You didn’t kill Ray Luca and the others for the Rodina. You killed them to help yourself. To take Mercury public. To steal your billion dollars and make yourself rich.”

Kirov approached her slowly, reaching out and taking her face in his hands. “But, Katya, don’t you see? I had no other choice. As Mercury goes, so goes the country. I
am
the Rodina.”

Cate grasped her father’s wrists and took his hands from her face. She felt sickened, her soul nauseated. “No,” she said. “You are not the Rodina. You are one man. You are greedy and desperate and you will fail. Oh, Father, you will fail. You cannot build a country on evil. If anyone should know it, it is we Russians. Hasn’t our history taught you anything?”

“Yes,” he said, suddenly thoughtful, sliding his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips. “It has taught me that perhaps we weren’t ruthless enough. I, for one, will not repeat the mistake.”

“You won’t succeed. We won’t allow you to. Not I, and not Jett.”

Kirov laughed softly. “The defiant ones. A pity, really.”

Cate looked at her father, wondering for the thousandth time how she could share his blood, carry his genes. “I’m the one who is ashamed. I am not your daughter. Not anymore.”

Kirov’s smile disappeared, and an ugly resolve settled about his face. “Be thankful you are, Katya. Be thankful you are.”

His eyes said the rest.

Or you would be dead, too.

52

Two vehicles approached from across the valley, their xenon headlights cutting an electric blue swath before them.

Christ, they’re driving like hell,
thought Grafton Byrnes, squinting at the harsh beams. As they neared, he yanked at the wheel, steering the truck onto the shoulder of the narrow road. The cars flew past in a flash, but a flash was all the time Byrnes needed to recognize them. Twin black Suburbans. Outland sentinels from the Kirov fleet.

Byrnes rammed his foot impotently against the accelerator. The engine did not respond. The pickup continued its downhill run, the gearshift parked in neutral, speedometer showing seventy kilometers per hour. He had run out of gas two miles from the dacha. Somehow he’d babied the truck to the edge of the slow grade that led from the hilltop observation post to the sweeping flatlands below. He’d been coasting for a while now. It was hard to tell how long. Five minutes. Maybe ten. He checked the rearview. The taillights were already specks, Satan’s fireflies receding into the distance. They would be back. And when they came they wouldn’t be coasting at a leisurely fifty miles an hour. They’d be hauling ass at a hundred easy, looking for the truck they’d passed five minutes earlier.

Despite his anxiety, a wave of exhaustion swept over him, and Byrnes gripped the wheel more tightly. His vision blurred. His jaw fell to his chest. Just as quickly the exhaustion passed, the band of cold sweat dampening his forehead its only reminder. He took a breath, steadying himself. Had he really expected to get away? He was feverish and half starved. His body was struggling to fight off the infection raging in his hands. He couldn’t touch the steering wheel without wincing. How could he have thought himself in any condition to make it to Moscow?

Because he had been trained as an officer and an officer’s duty was to escape.

Because Jett Gavallan would have done the same damned thing.

Because there was no other choice.

The slope began to flatten. The needle on the speedometer eased to the left—65 . . . 60 . . . 55. The rain had stopped. A half moon played hide-and-seek behind fast-moving clouds, its slow-blinking light casting a silver shadow across an endless vista of waist-high grass. Desperately, Byrnes scanned the horizon, looking for some sign of a village, a service station, an all-night 7-Eleven, where he could pop in, buy a coffee, and make a lifesaving call to the embassy in Moscow. The plain was infinite and dark, sheaths of grass waving back and forth in a whispering wind.

The speed continued to bleed—45 . . . 40 . . . 35. Byrnes guided the pickup off the road, letting it cut a path across the grass for a few hundred yards, hoping he might find a gully, a hollow, where he could hide the truck. No such luck. The truck hobbled to an arthritic halt on flat ground. Byrnes got out and looked back. He was close enough to the road to see the pavement. The roof of the pickup shimmered in the moonlight. Where to go? Where to hide? He didn’t think about his chances. He had none.

He began to run. South. Toward Moscow.

The ground was hard and even. The grass fell effortlessly before him. He crossed back over the highway, hoping to confuse the pursuers he knew would soon come. His step acquired an ugly, pounding rhythm. Once he’d routinely run three miles in eighteen minutes. He’d cranked out a hundred sit-ups in a hundred twenty seconds and dropped from the bar after twenty-two pull-ups. Once he’d eaten nails for breakfast, spat fire, and drove his country’s hottest jets.

Once . . .

Byrnes laughed bitterly at himself. He was forty-four years old. He drank a half bottle of wine every night with dinner. In the twenty-odd years since he’d graduated from college, he’d added thirty pounds to his runner’s frame. The last time he’d run any kind of distance was a year ago on vacation in Hawaii with his fifteen-year-old boy, Jeff. After a lousy half a mile, old Dad had veered off the white sand beach and ditched at sea, crashing his well-marbled bulk into the delightful ocean water.

Byrnes thought of Jeff, now, and of his daughter, Kirsten. He saw their faces in front of him. He ran to them. He ran to the warm saltwater oasis. His breath came hard. He was sweating, really sweating, beads of perspiration rolling off his forehead, stinging his eyes. The boots were small, tight in the toe. A blister was coming up on the heel. Another hour and his feet would be bleeding.

Still, he ran.

He ran because he was scared. Scared of going back to the dacha, scared of being caught, scared of what they would do to him. He didn’t have the strength to go through another session with Boris.

“No,” he whimpered aloud at the thought, fear beginning to grip him.

Mostly, he was scared he might betray his friend and the company they’d built together.

And for a minute his steps lengthened, his gait quickened, and he swore that he would not allow himself to be used by Kirov.

He thought of the pistol, of the cylinder that held five bullets instead of six. It was an old rancher’s trick. You always left the barrel that was in the firing position empty. That way there were never any accidents. To advance the cylinder, you had to pull the trigger.

He wanted the gun.

He wanted the bullet. One bullet.

Mr. Kipling knew what to do in such an instance. Mr. Kipling, every soldier’s favorite.

When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,

And the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Panting, he recited the quatrain aloud. Again and again. Until he had no more breath left to talk with. His stride slowed. His legs grew heavy. His chest burned.

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

He heard the roar of a motor and looked behind him. Xenon beams swept over the grass; the murderous engine growled. He ran harder, dodging to the left, shooting quick glances over his shoulder.

“No,” he said aloud, sucking in short, dry breaths. “God, no.”

The lights dodged left, too.

Byrnes ran.