A few bold Americans had lit the way a century earlier. Men who had overseen the growth of the railroads, the introduction of oil, the mass manufacture of steel. Some called them "robber barons," but Kirov thought differently. They were men of vision, builders, creators, founders of a new empire. The riches they amassed were small compensation for the legacy they left behind.

He was no different. Bold? Yes. Aggressive? Always. Immoral? Unethical? Unscrupulous? Let the next generation judge. He was a modern-day Gould. A twenty-first-century Vanderbilt, if not quite a Rockefeller.

They entered a waiting elevator and Tustin pressed the button for the twelfth floor. "Tired, sir?"

Kirov breathed deeply, suddenly feeling quite at home. "On the contrary, invigorated."

He looked closely at Tustin, standing with his arms behind his back like a latter-day Napoleon. The banker was dressed in a bold gray pinstripe, a pink broadcloth shirt, and a blaring red necktie that could be heard back in Petersburg. His hair was slicked back with enough pomade to fill a lake. There was a slight bruise on his lip where Gavallan had punched him, but Kirov decided not to mention it. He was playing it by the book, pretending to be a client just like any other.

"Any word from Mr. Gavallan?" he asked.

"None, but I'm sure he'll check in shortly."

"I'm sure he will too. Still, it is disturbing."

Tustin simply lowered his eyes, and Kirov thought, Here is a man who cares less for Gavallan than I. "I see the markets are up today," he said.

"The Dow's up one twenty, the Nasdaq about the same. Sentiment is very positive lately. Maybe you're bringing us luck. After all, you brought us some blue skies. For the last couple of days, the city has had nothing but rain."

"You know the old saying. 'When angels travel, the heavens smile.' And what about the pricing?"

"I'm sure you'll be pleasantly surprised. There are a couple of formalities we like to engage in before we make an official announcement. We've got a conference room reserved. Like I said, a few people will be joining us."

"Very good," said Kirov, keeping the smile pasted to his face. Inside, however, he was worried. Formalities? What formalities could remain at this eleventh hour?

The doors slid back and Tustin requested that Kirov follow him. They walked past the elevator bank and onto the trading floor, threading their way through aisle upon aisle of men and women seated in front of a myriad screens. And as they walked, something strange and marvelous happened. The room grew hushed. The incessant chatter died down. At first Kirov heard one pair of hands begin clapping, then another. He looked around, eager to spot the source of the applause, wondering in his vain yet insecure mind if it was mocking or adulatory. The next thing he knew every person in the room had risen and was pounding his or her hands together. Respectfully. Enthusiastically. Lovingly. Every living soul on the trading floor of Black Jet Securities was saluting his arrival.

Slowing his gait, Kirov raised a hand to acknowledge the applause. He selected an expression of imperious solemnity to greet the masses. He was Alexander riding into Macedon. Caesar returning to Rome. Chuikov arriving in Red Square after taking Berlin.

"It is too much, really," he said, bowing to speak into Tustin's ear.

"Nonsense."

And then Kirov heard the music and he stopped walking altogether. The strains of "The International," the majestic Russian national anthem, played from hidden loudspeakers. The applause died and all eyes fell on him. Kirov was stunned, and for a few seconds he didn't know what expression to choose. The music grew louder, and his skin shivered with goose bumps. Emotion plucked at his eyes, and Kirov was damned if he wasn't crying, this man born to peasant stock, this servant of free speech, this disciple of technology. This son of Russia.

Tustin patted his shoulder, nodding as if to say it was all right to shed a tear, that his pride was well-deserved, and for a moment Kirov loved him, too, as he loved everyone else in the room. This handsome, well-attired, overtly intelligent assemblage of financial professionals.

The anthem came to an end and the applause again started up, but only briefly. Kirov offered the victor's smile expected of him, gave a final wave, then followed Tustin to a conference room that took up a corner of the floor. Twenty or thirty people were milling about the glassed-in room, drinking champagne, munching on canapés, and making small talk.

"Janusz, Václav, Ed, hello. So glad you could make it." One by one he greeted his underlings from Mercury, then the others who had shepherded the Mercury offering through the offering process. Lawyers, bankers, accountants. And there was old man Silber himself- gray, bent, and exceedingly ugly, a Swiss gnome indeed. Kirov shook his hand. Apparently, the dinosaur hadn't yet gotten the word about the fate of his in-house tout, Pillonel.

"Welcome to Black Jet," said Antony Llewellyn-Davies, tapping him on the shoulder and handing him a glass of champagne. "We're delighted you were able to make it on time. One never knows with those small jets."

"What is small about a G-5?"

"Oh, nothing, I just…"

"Thank you." Kirov accepted the champagne, averting his gaze. The Englishman always left him feeling nervous and inadequate, with his soft eyes and snobby manner.

A spoon clinked a glass and the room fell silent. Bruce Jay Tustin cleared his throat, and those around him stepped back to clear a small space. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention, please. It's time for us to conduct some important business…"

Don't look behind you," Gavallan instructed Cate, laying a hand on her leg. "They've been there since we got into the city. Maybe before, but I didn't pick them up."

"How can you be sure?"

"I got the first two numbers of their license plates. I'm sure."

"It could be routine," said Cate. "The traffic militia getting ready to shake us down for a little bribe."

Gavallan eyed her doubtfully. "We both know better than that."

"But why didn't they stop Graf?"

"I can't say. Probably they didn't have orders to. All I know is that we stick out like a sore thumb in this car. We've got to ditch it in a hurry."

They had crossed the river and were driving south on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, a broad boulevard eight lanes across. Traffic was heavy, but moving. Stone apartment buildings five stories high, each a block long, lined the street. Gavallan maneuvered the large SUV into the center lane, checking the rearview mirror. A few seconds later, the Chaika followed, a hearse amid a carpet of colorful Fiats, Fords, and Opels.

They're obvious about it, that's for sure, thought Gavallan.

"You know where we are?" he asked.

"Of course."

"It's time to abandon ship. Find us a good place around here for us to get away from those goons."

"Ahead is a factory district. There are a lot of side streets, alleys really, that separate the different warehouses and manufacturing plants. It used to be kind of run-down. You wouldn't want to go there at night, I'll tell you that."

"Sounds good."

"You really want to just leave the car?"

"They won't be expecting us to. It'll give us a head start at least."

Gavallan kept the Suburban in the center lane, pointing out to Cate their best possible path. Approaching the next stoplight, he slowed to insure he would be the last car across as it turned red. The light turned from green to yellow. He waited, watching the cars nose in aggressively from his left. The light turned red. At the last instant, he gunned the engine, making it through the intersection amid a barrage of horns and obscene gestures as a wave of cars closed off the street and left the Chaika behind him, marooned.