Gavallan nodded toward the door. "Your move, Tony."

Llewellyn-Davies extended his arm, eyes wincing, head turning slightly away. A moment later, his hand dropped. He began crying. "Oh, damn it all. Damn you…"

Gavallan walked up to his former friend, gently prying the gun from his hand. "Go on now. Get out of here. I never want to see you again."

68

Konstantin Kirov mounted the stairs to the balcony slowly, a valedictory climb to his new orbit high in the capitalist universe. Reaching the top, he crossed the narrow landing. There was room for fifteen people, maybe a few more. Advancing on the podium, he let his eyes wander over the trading floor. He had expected to play to an audience, but the preoccupied traders were going about their business as if he were not there. One by one his colleagues joined him, and he greeted each with a firm handshake.

The clock directly across the room read 9:28:45. The swell of voices rose as Richard Grasso, president of the Exchange, showed Kirov how to ring the bell, jocularly begging him to wait until the appointed moment. Kirov only half listened. His eyes were scouring the floor for sign of Antony Llewellyn-Davies, the sly Englishman who three months before had agreed to be his spy inside of Black Jet Securities. Minutes ago, Llewellyn-Davies had rushed off, worried he'd seen Gavallan. Kirov was left to wonder whether in fact he had, and if so, whether the Englishman had done as he'd been told.

A crew from Russian Channel One gathered on the floor below, camera pointed in his direction, a red light indicating film was rolling. Reflexively, Kirov stood a little straighter. He was aware that at that very instant his image was being broadcast across the Russian continent. To Moscow. To Leningrad. To Kiev and Minsk. To Odessa, Alma-Ata, Ulan Bator, and Vladivostok. Across eleven time zones, the picture of Konstantin Kirov, Russia's "first Western businessman," the "patron saint of the second Russian perestroika," was gazing down upon the country's citizens. He forgot about Gavallan and Llewellyn-Davies. His heart fluttered madly.

Grasso nudged his shoulder. "Thirty seconds, Mr. Kirov."

The clock read 9:29:30.

Meg Kratzer rubbed his back. "Congratulations," she said. "We're all so happy for you. Just thrilled."

Kirov mouthed a thank-you, wishing he could have arranged for a prettier woman to be at his side.

"Kirov!"

The voice came from below. Nervously, he looked to the left and right.

"Kirov!"

Good Christ, it was Gavallan. He had climbed on top of the trading post nearest the podium and was shouting at him.

"The offering is canceled. Mercury's over. The specialists are closing their books. The FBI is in the building. Come down right now. We want to talk to you."

Richard Grasso looked appalled. "Jett, mind telling me what is going on here?"

"Just hold on to Kirov. Keep him there. We're coming to arrest him."

"Yes, yes, of course." Grasso nodded his head vigorously, but when he checked over his shoulder all he saw was Kirov's narrow shoulders retreating down the stairs.

It had been a stressful day for the president.

New uprisings in Grozny threatened the fragile Chechen peace. A group of demonstrators from Greenpeace had camped in front of St. Basil's protesting the country's use of mammals, dolphins in particular, as instruments of war. And an independent newspaper in the south had uncovered decade-old evidence of a bribe he'd carried for Mayor Sobchak back in his days in Leningrad. The travails of politics. Sometimes he didn't think it worth it.

Pouring himself a glass of mineral water, Volodya settled into his chair and turned on the television. Quickly, he found Channel One. The screen filled with the picture of Konstantin Kirov standing on the podium of the New York Stock Exchange. Finally, some good news. He didn't care for the man, but as a representative of Russian business he was acceptable. His English was colloquial and flawless, his dress impeccable. And there was no doubting the man's resourcefulness. Given the proper training, he might have made a decent spy.

The president turned up the volume. An American stock analyst was calling for Mercury stock to rise dramatically the first day, touting the inauguration of Russia into the club of Western nations. Henceforward, the commentator intoned, one could expect a flood of Russian multinationals to be quoted on the world's major exchanges.

The president smiled.

He looked closer. There was a commotion brewing. Konstantin Kirov's face had taken on a decidedly worried cast, and he was looking this way and that. The president leaned forward, eyes glued to the television. The camera panned lower, focusing on a wild man who had climbed atop one of the trading posts on the floor of the Exchange. The commentator stopped speaking, and one could hear with astonishing clarity what the man was shouting. "Kirov. The offering is canceled. Mercury's over." And then, to the president's horror, "The FBI's in the building."

The camera panned back up and Kirov could be seen fleeing the balcony, leaving his colleagues and advisers questioning one another.

Lifting the remote control, the president turned off the television. He felt sick to his stomach. Kirov had despoiled his country's reputation in front of millions of viewers. Tomorrow, the story would be front-page news. One more Russian thief. Another doomed enterprise. Worse, the man had failed the Service. There would be no money. No money at all.

The president reached for a phone. One fiasco he might be able to explain away; two would reek of conspiracy. There could be no more embarrassments, not even the hint of intrigue. His budding relations with America and the economic favors they promised were too valuable to risk.

His assistant answered, and Volodya roared, "Find me Major General Kirov. Immediately!"

Konstantin Kirov rushed down the stairs from the podium, eager to be free of the building. To be free of the city. Of the whole damned country. Four of his men were waiting on the ground floor. They were new faces, dark, sullen, part of the New York crew he'd summoned the night before.

"Get me to the car," he said. "Yours, not mine. A bit of trouble. We must move quickly."

"Follow me," answered one of the men, his accent southern, unfriendly.

Kirov eyed the man, not liking his swarthy features, his dead eyes. But what choice did he have? They set off down the hallway at a dignified clip. Off the floor, the building was quiet and well-lit, and for a few seconds Kirov maintained the illusion that he would be able to waltz scot-free from the building. He soothed himself with the notion that he could still salvage Mercury. He would put his own money into the firm. He would upgrade the infrastructure. He would create the company he had sold to all of Wall Street. If he didn't take the company public today, who cared? He would be back in six months or a year with something even better. Forget Black Jet. Forget Gavallan. He would go to the big boys this time. Bulge bracket only. Salomon. First Boston. Lehman. They'd fight over themselves for the deal.

Fifty feet ahead, twin sets of brass-framed double doors led to the street. A black sedan lolled at the curb, its back door opened. Kirov saw daylight and thought, Freedom.

Then he heard the strident voice coming from behind him.

"Mr. Kirov, this is the FBI. Please stop where you are. You are under arrest, sir."

Turning, he saw a tall brown-haired man in a summer suit walking toward him, his gun drawn and hanging at his side. Gavallan was next to him. Two more men whom Kirov took to be law enforcement agents followed close behind. "You're under arrest, Mr. Kirov. Lie down on the floor, sir. Tell your men to do the same."