Of late, however, pickings had been lean. Nine months had passed since the last arrest was made, and talk had surfaced about shuttering the task force, assigning its members to more productive areas of the Bureau. Feelers were put out to Dodson about taking a posting to Mexico City as the Bureau's liaison to the Federales. It was a lateral move in title, but came with a higher pay-grade salary and a diplomatic allowance. Dodson read it as recompense for his two fingers and wanted none of it. Margaritas, mariachis, and menudo, he summed it up, cringing at the prospect. No, gracias.

Mr. John J. Gavallan hadn't been the only man cheering when Kirov entered his life.

"Roy, I want you to humor me," said Dodson, easing back in his chair. "If you're so sure Gavallan's in cahoots with Kirov, start from the get-go and make your case against him. It'll be good for you to polish those argumentative skills. But make it quick. The missus is due in any minute."

Dodson had recently become a father for the second time. At the age of forty-two, he'd been presented with twin baby boys to go along with his sixteen-year-old daughter. Every day at noon, Mrs. Dodson stopped by to leave her boisterous infants with their father while she whipped by Lord & Taylor and Britches of Georgetown to pick up a few household necessities.

"I'll do my best," said DiGenovese, rising from his chair and striding to a bookshelf. Between legal tomes and hefty accounting manuals, room had been cleared for a changing pad, a stack of diapers, and wipes.

"Gavallan's company has hit the skids," he began, pacing slowly, using his hands effectively. "Three years ago, he was on his way to joining the big boys; now he's treading water while guys are passing him left and right. In the last nine months, he's made three infusions of cash into the company to counter quarterly losses and keep his underwriting status with the SEC. Around twenty million and change if I'm not mistaken. The banking records we subpoenaed show he hasn't taken any salary in six months. Bottom line: The guy's hurting and he needs a savior."

"If I might interject. Black Jet was hardly the only company interested in Mercury. All the big-name firms were courting Kirov. Any of them would have jumped at the chance to take his company public."

"And loan him the fifty million to boot?"

"It is a bank's business last time I checked," said Dodson.

DiGenovese grinned madly, the cat who'd swallowed the canary. "Thank you, sir. You just made my case. If anyone would have loaned Kirov the dough, why did Kirov choose Black Jet over so many larger, more prestigious firms- the Merrills and Lehmans of this world? Gavallan's never done a deal in Russia. He's never done an IPO valued at more than a billion dollars. Now, all of a sudden he's taking a Russian company public for two billion. By what stroke of good fortune did Kirov fall into his lap? Let me tell you. Because Gavallan's the only one desperate enough to overlook all of Mercury's shortcomings. Because he and Kirov are thick as thieves in this thing. Because both of them are dying to pull this deal off."

"Dear me, you are drawing a picture of a very cold man. Not exactly the type I'd bet on to donate twenty million to a children's hospital."

"Window dressing," declared DiGenovese. He'd unbuttoned his jacket and was stalking the room like a wolf in his den. "So far he's given two mil, and he's a month late on this year's pledge. Five'll get you ten he never delivers." Abruptly, he stopped his pacing and thrust his hands on Dodson's desk, his peasant's jaw jutting forward. "Mercury's a phony, sir. Kirov's got it dolled up to look like AOL when it's really CompuServe. Gavallan's in bed with him, and together they're going to pull the wool over investors' eyes and pocket the takings. You see what he's pulling down on fees for this deal? Something like seventy million dollars? Seventy million!"

"My, my, Roy," drawled Dodson appreciatively. "That would make Mr. Gavallan even more ambitious than you. Isn't that a scary thought? One thing is for certain: Mr. Gavallan's not in this alone. In the first place, Black Jet didn't even do all of the due diligence on this thing. I don't know how many lawyers and accountants and consultants he had signing off on Mercury, but believe me it was a lot. You saying they're part of this, too?"

"Never know."

Dodson nudged his glasses to the end of his nose. "Quite a conspiracy you're cooking up, Roy. Seen any Kennedys flitting around out there in never-never land? Or just Peter Pan and Jett Gavallan?"

Rummaging in his ashtray for a rubber band or two, he wrapped them around his index and middle fingers and, kicking his feet up onto the desk, began to spin the bands forward and back. He liked the bent of the argument, if he wasn't convinced of its veracity. He thought of the transfer to Mexico City, the traffic, the bad water, the horrid food- enchiladas, Heaven forbid- and came to a quick and rational decision that the American angle was just what they needed to drum some new life into the investigation.

A billion-dollar fraud involving a Russian oligarch, a former fighter pilot, and that holy of all holies, the New York Stock Exchange. It was practically treason. He caught himself thinking that the press would have a field day and the man who put Jett Gavallan behind bars would be instantly famous. He stopped himself there. All the infighting, posturing, and backbiting were getting to him. Still, for a last second he couldn't help but imagine that the man who put Gavallan behind bars would have a south-facing office and the promotion to assistant director that came with it.

Rising from his desk, Howell Dodson strode to the window. The harsh glare showed off wrinkles near the eyes normally unseen, a determined cast to the jaw, and a nasty downturn of his pale, fleshy lips. Suddenly, he didn't look so boyish anymore, not every inch the amiable Southern gentleman he pretended to be. Get close enough to any man, he would say, and you could glimpse his true nature. And underneath his easygoing drawl and unflappable smile, Howell Dodson was a nasty sumbitch who did not like to get beaten.

Just then, the cries of his two baby boys exploded from down the hallway. A moment later, a trim, very blond woman bustled through the door, a wailing infant in each arm. Rushing to greet his wife and sons, Dodson softened his expression into a broad smile.

"Hello, Jefferson. Hello, Davis. And how are my two little generals this mornin'?"

21

A momentary lull had descended on the trading floor at Black Jet Securities. Phones had stopped ringing- or blinking, as has become their convention- conversation had fallen to a whisper, the shuttle of chairs to and fro between desks had come to a halt. "A rest between rounds," Gavallan liked to call it on good days. Or "the calm before the storm" on bad ones.

Incisex stock had begun trading on Nasdaq- the National Association of Securities Dealers' Automated Quotation System- thirty minutes earlier at 6:55. Ticker symbol CSXI- pronounced "sexy"- Incisex was a pioneer in the field of nanotechnology, the branch of science concerned with building sophisticated engineering devices- engines, motors, valves- on a submicron scale. The company's breakthrough product was a battery-powered valve no bigger than the head of a needle that when surgically implanted into a coronary artery restored proper blood flow to the heart. For men and women suffering from arteriosclerosis or any vasocirculatory problems (and for their cardiologists), it was a godsend. The IPO would net Incisex seventy-five million dollars, funds it would use to move into larger facilities and to upgrade its research and development efforts. Black Jet's fee was the standard 7 percent of the offering.