"But seriously, folks, we have had some difficulties with Mercury," Llewellyn-Davies declared as his smile faded and his cheeks grew taut. "Like it or not, though, the time has come for us to put a price on this thing. So here goes. Based on the market's appetite for Mercury stock and using some valuation models of businesses in similar spaces, we've finally come up with something." He shot Meg Kratzer a glance. "This is going out on the hoot and holler, isn't it?"

Meg held up the speaker box. "You're going out live, Tony."

"Great," he said. "Super. So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, pricing. Ladies and gentlemen… Mr. Kirov… tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, shares of Mercury Broadband- ticker symbol MBB- will be issued at thirty dollars a share. Three dollars above our highest estimate!"

Llewellyn-Davies crossed the room and placed himself in front of Kirov.

"Mr. Kirov," he said formally, as if asking him to swear in court. "As chairman and majority shareholder of Mercury Broadband, do you accept the price?"

Kirov had already done the math. Thirty dollars a share brought the total offering to 2.2 billion dollars. Deducting Leonid's share and the underwriting expenses, he would still pocket over a billion dollars. And that was just for the 33 percent of the company that was being offered to the public. Were he to value a hundred percent of the shares, Mercury had a theoretical worth of nearly seven billion dollars.

"Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn-Davies, Mr. Tustin," he said. "On behalf of all my employees and colleagues at Mercury, I accept."

Applause erupted. Whistles and catcalls.

And taking a sip of champagne, Kirov thought, Screw Vanderbilt. Fuck Mr. Gould. I'm a Rockefeller now.

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.