"What is your point, Mr. Hudson?"

"Your friend Mr. Byrnes is forty-four years old, correct?"

We've gone over that.

"Yes."

"And you mentioned he was divorced?"

We've gone over that, too.

"Yes."

"Without wanting to sound rude, there's a lot of trouble a forty-four-year-old man can get into over here. If I called the police right this minute and said I was looking for a man like Byrnes, a well-to-do American, first time to Moscow, staying at the Baltschug, missing twenty-four hours, they'd laugh at me. They think every American is in town for one reason and one reason only: to shack up with their women. And they're not half wrong. Why, last week I had a call from the head of human resources for a major accounting firm in New York. She wanted to know if I might be able to explain why so many of her younger managers refused transfers out of Moscow. What was so special about the town that made them so reticent to leave? She said if she knew maybe she could make people stay in their Cleveland office longer."

"If you're trying to insinuate that Mr. Byrnes is off on some drunken jag through Moscow's fleshpots, you're mistaken."

"I'm suggesting no such thing," he said unconvincingly. "I'm just saying relax. Wait a little longer. Honest, Mr. Gavallan. It is too soon to be worried."

"Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Hudson. I've known my friend for a long time and I know when to worry."

"Really?" Hudson's voice grew contemplative. "It's my experience that you never really know anybody. I mean not really. At least not in Moscow. Here anything's possible." Hudson's voice lost its dreamy cast and Gavallan could almost picture him perking up at his desk, sitting straighter, putting on the consular officer's permanent-press smile. "I'll look for your friend- you have my word. Just don't get your hopes up, okay?"

"Thank you, Mr. Hudson. You have my number."

After he hung up the phone, Gavallan spent a moment wondering if what Hudson said was true- about never really knowing anybody. Naw. It was bullshit. If there was one person he did know, it was Grafton Byrnes. Something had to be very wrong for him not to have called by now. Robbery, kidnap, murder. One by one he turned over the possibilities. There was one, however, he had not yet named. It lurked hidden in shadow in the corner of his mind, but he refused to grace it with serious thought.

"Jett," came Emerald's efficient voice on the speakerphone. "I've got Moscow on the line. Mr. Kirov."

It was Gavallan's turn to sit up straighter. Taking a last sip of Coke, he threw the empty can in the trash bin on top of three others- Mountain Dew, A &W Root Beer, and Big Red- then slid back his chair and stood. "I'll take it, thank you." He snapped the receiver to his ear. "Konstantin, you're up late."

"I suppose you know all about this. It's a disgrace, really. Why didn't you call with the news?"

Kirov spoke slowly, his voice so quiet as to be a whisper, and immediately Gavallan sensed the control, the ironfisted discipline, that governed his emotions. Danger, he told himself. But for another moment, he didn't respond. He was unsure whether Kirov was referring to Grafton Byrnes's unannounced visit to Moscow or to the Private Eye-PO's latest broadside.

"I was interested in getting your opinion," Gavallan said noncommittally. "Besides, I thought it could wait until tomorrow morning your time."

"My opinion? What do you think my opinion is? I'm incensed. I am as angry as I have ever been in my life. He really is too much. He's gone too far this time. What I want to know is if anybody out there is stupid enough to believe him."

The Private Eye-PO. Kirov had read the lastest posting on the web.

Gavallan let go his breath, fighting his disappointment. He'd been sure Kirov had called to say that Byrnes had contacted him about his visit to Mercury's Moscow NOC. "Unfortunately, a good many do. Fidelity cut their order this morning. Not a good sign."

"And you? Do you believe it?"

"No, I don't. But I'd like you to tell me I'm right."

"Of course you're right."

"And you've purchased exclusively Cisco routing equipment for your Russian IP backbone?"

"I don't know if we've purchased Cisco exclusively. We buy from Alcatel, Sun, and a dozen others. But we do buy from Cisco, and I can prove it. I'm calling to say that I've asked my chief technical officer in our Geneva office to fax you copies of our purchase receipts from Cisco for the past two years."

"The receipts? Yes, that would be wonderful. Very helpful. Thank you, Konstantin." He swallowed. "Still, if anything is amiss with your platform in Moscow- anything- we can shelve the offering and wait a few months. Demand for Mercury is strong enough that we'll be able to reschedule the issue." The words came hard, tumbling out of his mouth like stones.

"Shelve the offering? Out of the question. We have concrete plans for the money, or have you forgotten what is contained in our prospectus? Shelve the offering? Why ever would you even suggest such a thing? You believe him, is that it? You believe what the Private Eye-PO has said?"

"No, Konstantin, I don't. I want the deal to go through as badly as you. But as a licensed securities dealer, it's my duty to make sure everybody's talking from the same page, that's all."

"And we're paying you very generously for that duty. Moscow is up and running. Everything is a hundred percent operational. Have you got the fax yet?"

Just then, Emerald hustled into the room and laid a sheaf of papers on Gavallan's desk.

"I'm looking at it now for the first time. Give me a minute."

Gavallan's eye passed from one page to the next. The receipts detailed the purchase of over a million dollars worth of various routers and switches. The client was Mercury Broadband Geneva. The manufacturer, Cisco Systems.

All at once, a smile broke out on his face, and he had to work very hard not to burst out laughing. The Private Eye-PO was wrong. He was dead wrong. Someone had fed him a load of malarkey.

"They look good," said Gavallan, as the weight lifted from his shoulders. He read the documents a second time, still not quite believing them. Only one thing bothered him. It was a small detail, but he had spotted it nonetheless. The receipts were dated February 12 of the current year, yet the summary posted by the Private Eye-PO showed sales for the past three years. He dismissed the discrepancy, if it was one. Before his eyes, he had receipts that clearly confirmed Kirov's statement that the Moscow NOC was "up and running."

"They'll make everyone feel a lot better," he said. "I'll post these as a response to the Private Eye-PO on our web page by the end of business today."

"I hope so," said Kirov. "And what about the Private Eye-PO? What do you plan on doing to him? Surely you do not expect us to sit still while our good name is besmirched."

"I have some people on it already. With any luck, we'll have him located by tomorrow, day after at the latest."

"And then? All of us have our part to play to insure Mercury's future. We expect you to take any and all measures to silence this man. Nothing can stand in the way of Mercury Broadband's going public. Nothing."

"And nothing will," said Gavallan. "I'll see to it the Private Eye-PO's mouth is shut- permanently, if I have my way. In the meantime, these receipts refute his accusations nicely. I'd say we're back on track."

"Good," said Kirov. "It's time to put an end to this tomfoolery. There's already been enough snooping."

The line went dead. Hanging up, Gavallan failed to experience the sense of victory, the burst of joy, that Kirov's call and the Cisco receipts should have brought. Instead, a bitter, unsavory taste lingered in his mouth, and he was left with a question.

Exactly what snooping had Kirov been talking about?