Gavallan glanced toward the podium. A Mercury Broadband banner was draped across the balcony below it. Another larger one hung on the wall behind it, just below the gargantuan American flag that daily paid tribute to the United States of America and the free market it fostered.

"Well, look who's here," said Deak Spalding. "The devil himself, back from the dead. Hey, guy, how are you? I had old man Grasso himself here not two minutes ago, with your buddy Kirov and some of your troops. Gonna be a big opening. Gotta love it."

Spalding was a broad, florid man with an Irishman's ruddy nose and gift for gab. A pink carnation adorned his lapel.

"Doing good, Deak, thanks. Which way'd he-?" A soft hand fell on Gavallan's shoulder and he spun to see to whom it belonged. "Hello, Tony."

"Jett. You're back. Thank God, you're all right."

"You weren't expecting me?"

"Frankly, none of us were," said Tony Llewellyn-Davies. "Not a word from you since Friday. The FBI saying you're a murderer. We didn't know where you'd gone or what you'd been up to."

He was dressed nattily in a double-breasted blue blazer with his requisite gray flannel slacks and club-striped tie. His cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes excited.

"I find that a little hard to believe," said Gavallan. "You if anybody should have been able to tell them. After all, if you're such good friends with Konstantin Kirov you ought to have known."

Llewellyn-Davies bit back his surprise, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "We're hardly 'friends.' I'm sure I hardly know him any better than you do."

"Cut the crap, Tony. I've spoken to Graf. He told me about the call… the one you conveniently forgot to relay to me. You knew firsthand Mercury was rotten a week ago. Actually, I guess you knew it a long time before that. Anyway, it stops here. We're pulling the plug on the deal. It's over. I just want to have a quick word with Kirov before I let everyone else know."

"Jett, no… you're mistaken. You're talking nonsense. Really, you are."

"How could you? We built something. We did it together. Seven years, Tony. Christ, you're on the board as it is. What was it? More money? A spot at the top? What he offer you?"

Looking at his associate, Gavallan felt betrayed, ashamed, and naive. Part of him still thought it couldn't be. Not Tony, of all people.

"I don't know. Respect. A chance." Llewellyn-Davies sobbed, a single pathetic cry, and lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Jett. Give me a minute to explain. Not here- come into the booth. It's already embarrassing enough as it is." He tried to smile, and a tear ran down his cheek. "The floor doesn't need to see a pooftah having a good cry."

"I haven't got the time. Tell it to your next employer."

Llewellyn-Davies grabbed at Gavallan's sleeve. "No, Jett. Please. I can make it right. You've got to believe me. Don't be a stupid git. It's just me… Tony. Come on."

The official clock read 9:20:51. Gavallan found Dodson and asked him to stay right where he was and, no matter what, to prevent Spalding from initiating trading in the stock. "Give me two minutes. I'll be right back."

"Two minutes, Mr. Gavallan. Then we get Mr. Kirov ourselves."

But Gavallan was already moving, and Dodson's words were drowned by a chorus of babbling voices. Gavallan and Llewellyn-Davies walked the short distance to the Black Jet Securities booth. Curious faces greeted them along the way, along with cries of "Jett, great to see you," "Hey, boss," and "We got a kicker today!"

Llewellyn-Davies opened the door to the manager's office and showed Gavallan in.

It was more a shoe box than a place of business. Two desks pushed against each other crowded one wall. Next to them stood a waist-high server, a monitor, and a printer. There was a refrigerator and a microwave oven, a Bridge data monitor, and another desk covered by telephones. The walls were papered with notices from the Exchange. Like any other essentially blue-collar workplace, there were the obligatory topless photos. Tastelessly, someone had glued a picture of Meg Kratzer's face onto the torso of a black woman with enormous breasts. A second door led to the corridor outside the floor.

"Out, both of you," Llewellyn-Davies said to a pair of clerks. "On the double."

Gavallan nodded at them and they left.

Llewellyn-Davies shut the door, then turned, leaning his back against it. "What a mess, eh?"

"You've got a minute, Tony. Get going."

"Oh, fuck a minute. Come to your senses. Seventy million dollars. The firm's future, for Christ's sake. Let it go."

"It's done, Tony. The deal's canceled."

Llewellyn-Davies stared at him, his pinched, patrician features clamped into a mask of hate. "I'm sorry, Jett, but that's out of the question. Too much work. Too much sweat." The tears had vanished. His eyes were clear, burning with an inner purpose, a rage that Gavallan had never seen in him before. "We need this. You, me, all of us. It's our bloody savior. Can't have you taking us all down as a matter of pride or principle. I don't want to hear about rules. Sod all the rules. Made to be broken, what?"

"Mercury's revenues are a sham. Kirov's going to jail. The FBI's got information tying him to the theft of a couple hundred million dollars from one of the companies he controls. The Russian government is all over him. Now come on. Let's go outside and talk to Deak Spalding."

"Kirov assured me he's remedied the shortfalls in infrastructure. It's only a question of months until his revenues are up to snuff. It's time to close an eye. For everyone's good."

What was he trying to do? Gavallan wondered. Intimidate him? Threaten him? Did Llewellyn-Davies actually for a moment think he might change his mind? Gavallan stepped closer to the man he'd been so god-awful stupid to trust. "Move, Tony. I have to go."

"Afraid not, chum."

It was then that Gavallan saw the gun. It was a strange gray pistol with a silencer. Plastic, he thought. The bullets would be too. No metal detector in the world could have sniffed it out.

"Some fancy hardware, Tony. A present from Kirov?"

"You damn fool, Jett," said Llewellyn-Davies, shaking his head, his voice tightening. "Don't you see, it's your fault. All of this. Mercury's a gem, just like you said. We've got to see it to market."

"Out of the way." Gavallan stepped forward, and the Englishman fired a round into the floor.

"Christ," shouted Gavallan, freezing, raising a hand. "Have you lost your mind? Put it down."

Llewellyn-Davies held the gun out in front of him, grasping the butt with both hands to control the palsied shaking. "Sorry, Jett. No can do. It's not that I'm not grateful for everything you've done for me. I am, believe me. It's just that it's time I did something for myself. Think ahead. What do you think happens to me if the deal goes sour? Do you think we don't all know how strung-out the firm is? How long do you think the new owners of Black Jet will keep me on? One look at my health records and they'll pack me off with a nice little check and a pat on the back. 'One less liability.' 'Start with a clean sheet.' All that utter crap. I won't have it. I've worked too bloody hard for too bloody long to start over again somewhere else- Christ, if there's someone else who'll even have me."

"It's over, Tony. We'll all make out okay. Put away the gun. What are you going to do? Shoot me? Here, in the Exchange? And then what? The FBI's right outside. Where are you going to run?"

"Yes, I bloody well am going to shoot you. Don't have much choice, do I?"

Someone banged on the door to the office. "Hey, open up. Jett, you in there?" There was no mistaking Bruce Tustin's obnoxious voice. "Gavallan, you there? I saw you crossing the floor. You can hide from your girlfriends, but not from your uncle Bruce… Jett?"