The First Billion (47 page)

65

It was the quiet time.

The time for reflection. The time to put your personal thoughts in order, separate the good from the bad and take a measure of your life. The time to settle things. The last free moments before the operation went tactical, because once it went tactical and you were doing what you’d trained these last four months to be doing, the only things you thought about were the mission, your part in it, and maybe, if you had the courage, whether you’d get out of it on the other end alive.

The members of Team 7 sat at the edge of the landing strip, using parachutes for seats, twelve castaways eating their rations of Pop-Tarts, Fritos, and protein bars, drinking their Gatorades and Diet Cokes. They were Americans, all of them—the baseball caps and work boots, the insouciant smiles, the two-day beards. Or so you’d swear until looking closer. And then, as you examined each one by one, you would shake your head. Here, the cheekbones too high, the eyes vaguely Asiatic. There, the blond hair a shade too blond. This one’s gaze too dark, mirroring a fatalism bred over centuries. That one’s face too gaunt, hunted, fearful.

They were born of the East. Mother Russia’s children.

A stiff wind snapped at the waist-high grass that bordered the strip. Behind them, the Bering Sea lapped at a beach even more desolate than the deserted airfield. The water was calm and glassy, a dark, dark green that went on forever. If you stood on your tiptoes and the air was clear enough, which it wasn’t so late in the evening, and you had the right frame of mind, the proper imagination, you might just see the Alaskan coast forty miles away.

But none of the men looked. No one stood. It was the quiet time.

It had been a long journey to the abandoned airfield on the very edge of the Chukchi Peninsula. Seventeen hours without sleep and the mission had not yet begun. From Severnaya they had traveled to Nordvik by a rusting Tupolev transport, and from Nordvik to Anadyr by a snazzy Air Force Ilyushin. The last hundred miles had been traveled in the rear of a Kam truck that smelled as if it had been routinely used to haul sheep to the slaughterhouse. Each leg of the mission was cut off from the next. Compartmentalized. No one asked where they came from or where they were going.

They were spirits.

Ghosts that never were.

A team that did not exist.

Somewhere in the wind danced the drone of a faraway engine. The team rose to their feet and looked to the sky. The drone grew into a silhouette and the silhouette into a silver form. A minute passed and the Beechcraft 18 came into sight. It was a vintage 1960s floatplane that had earned its stripes ferrying fishermen to and from the Canadian wilds. Its new incarnation called for a more hazardous duty, and the oversized radial engines had been souped up accordingly. Pontoon floats grew from the bottom of the plane, and as the Beech hovered low over the airfield they looked like twin torpedoes, primed and ready to drop. Wheels bobbed from the floats, and the plane struck the landing strip with a military finesse.

Barely had it stopped before the commandos had pulled themselves aboard. Webbing had replaced seats in the stripped-down fuselage. Blankets would do for heating. The men took their places, throwing their chutes on the floor between their feet. Their packs, and the sensitive cargo they contained, they held in their laps.

The Beechcraft turned and roared down the runway, lifting gracefully into the gray-tinged sky. The forecast was good, notwithstanding the gusting northerlies. This high in the latitudes, the wind was a constant, and if not your friend, an enemy to be made peace with.

Inside the fuselage, the men checked their equipment a final time, then closed their eyes. They did not sleep. They rehearsed. They concentrated. They willed themselves to their highest level.

The quiet time was over.

66

In New York City, on this third Tuesday in June, the sun rose at 5:24. The dawn promised a flawless day. Wisps of cumulonimbus raked a hazy blue sky. A freshening breeze kept the temperature in the low sixties, dousing Wall Street with the honest, vital scent of the East River. Outside the New York Stock Exchange workers draped an enormous banner emblazoned with Mercury Broadband’s logo across the building’s proud Doric columns. Measuring fifty feet by thirty-five, the banner was decorated with a stylized drawing of Mercury’s helmet—the disclike headplate garlanded with two lightning bolts—and the company name, painted gold against a royal blue background.

Inside the building, television crews set up for what promised to be a hectic day. Twelve networks had constructed production facilities on the mezzanine level ringing the Exchange’s principal trading floor. Making the circuit, one passed cramped, brightly lit ministudios for CNN, CNBC, the BBC, Deutsch Fernsehen, Nippon Television. . . . Journalists could be glimpsed applying their makeup, brushing their hair, and practicing their “good morning smiles.”

By 7 A.M., the first reports were going out live to audiences around the world. The talk today centered on one subject: the Mercury Broadband IPO. What would be the first day pop? Would the stock keep its head? Was Mercury an exception to a moribund market or the pioneer of a long-awaited rally in technology stocks?

Konstantin Kirov rose at seven-fifteen, showered, shaved, and dressed in a sober gray suit and maroon tie. Despite last night’s warnings, he’d slept remarkably well. What will be, will be, he told himself. He’d taken every precaution. He was convinced that once the stock began trading, no one would have the nerve to stop it. If Gavallan were going to make a move, he would have done it long before now. What was the American saying? “No news is good news.”

Giving himself a final once-over in the mirror, he asked himself if he was being too confident, too cocksure. Up came his hand with a last spritz of cologne. No, he decided, just realistic.

Picking up his briefcase, Kirov left his suite and took the elevator to the first floor, where he was joined for breakfast in the main dining room by Václav Panič, the CTO of Mercury’s European operations, and Janusz Rosen. The bankers were absent, no doubt putting in an appearance at the office before making their promised rendezvous at the Broad Street entrance to the stock exchange at nine o’clock. Kirov ordered a large breakfast, then picked at it. His appetite had deserted him.

At eight-thirty, he and his colleagues decamped to a black stretch limousine berthed in front of the hotel. Kirov settled into the backseat for the drive downtown. The chauffeur announced that due to congestion on the FDR Drive, they would be taking the West Side Highway. Traffic was moderate and they made good time, passing the Javits Center, the USS
Intrepid
—a mothballed aircraft carrier used for various charity functions—and the reconstructed World Financial Center.

The limousine turned onto Broad Street, and through the windows Kirov stared at an imposing neoclassical building at the far end of the street. A steep flight of stairs led to the building, and even he could recognize the statue of George Washington at the top of the steps. The chauffeur explained that the building was Federal Hall, the seat of the United States government from 1776 to 1791. Across from Federal Hall stood the old headquarters of J. P. Morgan & Co., from whose offices the legendary financier had built his empire and dictated the course of the American economy.

To Kirov’s left rose the New York Stock Exchange itself. It could have been a temple on Mount Athos, so perfect was its architecture: the soaring Doric columns, the broad plinth, the bas-relief sculpture running lengthwise beneath the roof.

The limousine pulled to a stop. Kirov got out of the car without waiting for the door to be opened. Staring up at the Mercury Broadband banner that hung in front of the fabled Exchange, he gasped.

My God, he thought, I’ve done it.

The wheels of the Learjet touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport at 8:47 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. The eight-passenger aircraft performed an abbreviated rollout, braking sharply and making a quick starboard turn off the runway. The doors to the flight deck opened, the engines revved, and the plane began an easy ride to its parking slot. Unbuckling his safety belt, Gavallan leaned forward, rocking slightly. Through the cockpit windscreen, he watched the impressive girth of a China Airlines jumbo jet cross their path. Inexplicably, the plane came to a halt directly in front of them.

“What’s keeping the guy?” Gavallan shouted to the flight deck.

“Waiting for an inbound jet. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“A couple minutes?” Gavallan wiped a hand across his face, looking to Cate for reassurance. Her only response was to bite her lip and go back to patting her foot nervously.

After an eternity—three minutes by his watch—the Lear arrived at its designated parking slot. The engine died and the plane rocked forward as the brakes were applied and stopped. Rushing to the door, Gavallan leaned hard on the exit lever. The door opened inward, sunlight flooded the cabin, and he went down the stairwell.

A small entourage waited. Three agents of the federal government left the comforts of their four-wheel mount and hurried to the plane. Gavallan recognized the tall, lanky man with the shock of brown hair, the seersucker suit, and the pair of bifocals perched on his forehead as Dodson. Four days earlier he’d seen him talking on the phone beneath the portico of the Ritz-Carlton.

“Mr. Gavallan, Howell Dodson. It’s a pleasure, sir,” the FBI man said, extending a hand. “Nice flight?” But if his voice was politeness itself, his posture was stiff, his face a mask of tension.

“We’re here, that’s what counts.”

“Miss Magnus, I presume.” Dodson gave her his hand and with a cock of the head shepherded them toward the waiting car. “We’ve got a helicopter standing by to ferry us to Manhattan.”

“Tell me the rotors are turning,” said Gavallan.

“The rotors are turning, Mr. Gavallan,” said Dodson. “Are you sure we can’t call ahead? Pull in Kirov as soon as he shows up? We do have resources available.”

“No, thank you. That’s not part of the deal.” This was something Gavallan had to do himself. The FBI was there in a supporting role only, even if the Bureau didn’t know it yet. Reaching the sedan, Gavallan tried to open the door, only to find Dodson’s hand placed firmly against the window. “Just a second there. You can see that I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I wouldn’t want to go any further without seeing some good faith from your side.”

“You don’t trust us?” asked Cate, stepping forward.

“I’m not in the trust business.” The smile was gone, the eyes direct, demanding.

Opening her purse, Cate drew out her pink compact, clicked it open, and handed Dodson a slightly dusted minidisc. “I’m not sure what program was used to store the information on the disc. You’ll have to do your best with it.”

“All that counts is that the data’s there. Three years’ of banking records, correct?”

“Oh, it’s there all right,” said Cate. “And then some.”

“Thank you kindly.” Dodson handed the disc to a fat, unattractive young man chafing in a catalogue-ordered blue twill suit. “Here you are, Mr. Chupik. I don’t mean to rush you, but you have eight minutes to let me know what’s on this disc.”

“Piece of cake,” said Chupik, sliding into the front seat and feeding the disc into his laptop computer. “I’ll do it in five.”

The jump light burned red.

The members of Team 7 stood as one, affixing their static lines to the jump cable. Team Leader Abel shuffled forward through the bare fuselage and opened the main cabin door. With a mighty rush, a chill midnight wind swept through the airplane. The biting cold stung his cheeks and brought tears to his eyes. Grasping either side of the door, he looked outside. A pine forest rushed beneath them, a dense lush carpet close enough to touch. They’d been crossing it for thirty minutes and still it ran on, measurelessly.

Stepping back, Abel checked his watch and signaled “Five” with his fingers.

All eyes were on him, yet no one responded. There was no need. All tactical contingencies had been dissected, analyzed, solved, and solved again. The time for words had passed. The time for deeds had arrived.

The Beechcraft 18 began a slow ascent. The altimeter rose from 250 feet to 300, then 350, the magnificent radial engines sawing the air with demonic fervor. Several modifications had been made to prepare the plane for its current purpose. All passenger seats had been stripped, all carpet and insulation torn out until the interior cabin was an aluminum and iron husk. Auxiliary fuel tanks were installed in the rear of the fuselage, gifting the plane with a two-thousand-mile range. A sophisticated satellite navigation system had been installed to insure that the men located their target. And unbeknownst to all—even the pilot—a remote-controlled detonation system was attached to the starboard fuel tank: three pounds of plastique governed by a long-distance radio signal.

The Beechcraft leveled off at 400 feet. The pilot slowed the aircraft’s speed to 250 knots. From this height and at this speed, the soldiers of Team 7 would jump. It was a standard LALO jump: low altitude, low opening. Once outside the aircraft, they would fall fifty feet before the static line deployed their chutes. Five seconds later they would impact the ground at three times the usual landing velocity.

The forest vanished with a silent white clap. The tundra ran before them, a pale wilderness advancing to the edge of the world.

And then he saw it. Pump Station 2. A necklace of orange lights glimmering far on the horizon. A wisp of smoke rose from the power plant. No homing signal could have been better. Despite his training, Team Leader Abel’s throat swelled and grew tight.

He raised three fingers.

Passing through the doors at 18 Broad Street, Gavallan received his visitor’s badge, walked through the metal detector, then slid through the turnstiles that governed admittance to the Exchange. He’d been on the floor a dozen times over the years, yet he never entered the building without getting a certain buzz in the hollow of his stomach. It was no different this morning, except that coiled among his normal feelings of awe and respect was the unmistakable frisson of danger.

Dodson followed him closely, showing his badge, and Roy DiGenovese entered next. Mr. Chupik had stayed in the car. He’d needed only three minutes to open Pillonel’s files. Scrolling page by page, transfer by transfer, deposit, by deposit, through Novastar’s banking history, Dodson had looked on with a reverent gaze, saying the same words over and over again: “Well, ain’t that sweet.”

“Miss Magnus doesn’t care to join us?” Dodson asked once the three men had assembled in the small foyer just inside the entryway.

“I think she’d prefer to wait outside. She’s seen enough.” Gavallan didn’t add that Kirov was her father, or that she had plenty to do on her own outside the building. Some things the FBI didn’t need to know.

“A rough few days, Mr. Gavallan?”

“You can say that.”

“I know you had wished to speak with Mr. Kirov alone. Fine by us. Still, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know we’ve taken some steps to see that Mr. Kirov does not flee the premises. If you’ll just follow me for a moment.”

Dodson led the way down a short corridor, stopping at an unmarked door and knocking once. An African-American agent wearing a navy windbreaker with the yellow letters FBI stenciled on its breast poked his head out the door and said, “Kirov’s here. We got him on the closed circuit. He’s just leaving the specialist’s booth. Did you get what you wanted?”

Dodson grinned while patting the man’s shoulder. “You have no idea, Agent Haynes.” The grin disappeared, and Dodson found his no-nonsense self. “Our operation is a go. Alert building security that we will be making an arrest. It might be wise to trade your windbreakers for some trading jackets. And bring along a few of your men. Calm, brisk, and orderly, Agent Haynes. Am I clear? We keep our weapons concealed at all times.”

As the agents conferred, Gavallan peeked into the waiting room. Eight men and women dressed in the same navy windbreakers stood around drinking coffee, shooting the shit, and checking the pumps on their street-sweeper shotguns. It was the FBI’s Tuesday morning coffee klatch.

“They’re going to stay in here, right?” he asked.

“Strictly backup. I’m sure we won’t have the slightest need for them.”

“All right then,” said Gavallan. “Let’s go.”