"Can it, Bruce!" Gavallan barely reined in his outraged voice, infuriated by the insinuation of illicit sex.

But Tustin insisted on going on, his compact figure bouncing up and down in his chair like a jack-in-the-box. "I can see that old fart now. Probably got a club sandwich going, laying there between a blond and a redhead like the filling in an Oreo. Got some pussy in his face and some chick gnawing on his hog. Hoo-yeah! Go, Air Force!"

"I said shut up, Bruce. Now!" Gavallan felt his shoulder tense, his fist bunch up, and he knew that if he didn't leave this second, he'd either pick up Tustin and chuck him across the room or belt him a good one right in the jaw.

"What crawled up your ass and died?" asked Tustin. "Ah, you're jealous, that's it. Maybe Nina didn't take such good care of you. No, no, no. I got it. It's Cate you were after all along. I saw you two, cheek to cheek. You want some of that poontang, that it? I'm a sucker for black bush myself. Drives me cra-"

A cord snapped inside Gavallan and he slugged Tustin, a lightning-fast jab to that oh-so-loud mouth. The trader tumbled into his chair, gasping, raising a hand to his bleeding lip. Thankfully, the Incisex crew had moved down a few aisles and were talking to Mr. Kwok about a listing on foreign exchanges; only the traders in the vicinity saw what happened. For a few seconds, they froze, no one speaking or moving a muscle. Just as quickly, they discounted the act and continued with their work. The expressions on their faces said Tustin had been due a spanking.

"Sorry, man," squealed Tustin, dabbing at his swollen lip. "I was just joking. Really, Jett. No offense, man."

"Damn you, Bruce," whispered Gavallan, sitting down, lowering his head next to Tustin's. "Why can't you just learn to shut up once in a while? Shit. I'm the one who's sorry. I apologize. I was out of line."

And looking into Tustin's pained eyes, he asked himself, Is it you, Bruce? Has Kirov got his hooks in you?

Just then, Tustin's private line rang. Gavallan grabbed the phone. "Hello… Yeah, Emerald."

"Jett, I've got a caller who says he has to speak to you right away. He says his name is Jason. He won't give me his last name, but he insists you know him and that it's urgent. Should I send the call down or do you want me to take a message?"

"Tell him I'll be right up. Pass it through to my office." Gavallan handed the phone back to Tustin, a surge of adrenaline making his feet antsy. "Make my good-byes for me. I've got to run… I'm sorry, man."

Two minutes later, he was upstairs, standing beside his desk. Spotting the shaman, he offered the crude, powerful statue a hopeful nod before picking up the phone.

"Jason, that you?"

"Guess what," said Jason Vann. "Good news. Got a pen handy?"

"Shoot." Gavallan scribbled furiously as Jason Vann rattled off the name, address, phone number, and E-mail of the Private Eye-PO. Gavallan read the name a second time and smirked. "You sure this is the guy?"

"I'm sure that the web page dissing your company originated from his home address. Maybe he's got a kid who's doing it, but I doubt it."

"Why's that?"

"Umm, you're still going to wire me the other fifty thousand dollars, aren't you?"

"Deal's a deal, Jason. I always keep my word."

"Well," said Vann. "It just seems like something this guy might do. You see, I found out a little more about him than you asked. Sometimes I get a little too interested in my work. Occupational hazard."

"Do you now?" Gavallan doubted that Vann knew more about the Private Eye-PO than he did.

"First off, this guy's no dummy. He went to college at M.I.T., then worked for Synertel in Milpitas. He was a big shot. The CTO. But that's not the good stuff. You see, your guy has himself a criminal record. When the company flamed out, he lost it and beat the crap out of the chief executive, before trying to burn down the building. He did nine months in Soledad Medium Security Correctional Facility for Men in California. I guess that explains why he didn't tell anyone his name."

"Guess so," said Gavallan, amazed at all you could find out in the space of twenty-two hours if you knew how and where to look.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get his picture for you," said Jason Vann. "The Department of Motor Vehicles' mainframe has a decent security system. Not that I couldn't have hacked it, but you sounded rushed so I thought I'd stick with the basics."

"No need," said Gavallan. He had a pretty good recollection of what the Private Eye-PO looked like. "Got anything else up your sleeve?"

"Uh, there is one more thing. I hope you don't think me out of place, but I thought I might be able to do you a favor."

"A favor? What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I kind of found out you were in the Air Force and that things didn't go so well for you. You sound like a nice guy- I mean you paid me quicker than anybody else has before- so I just wanted to say that if you ever wanted me to upgrade your discharge, you know, to an honorable one, I can."

"You can?"

"Yeah. Free of charge. Hacking the Pentagon's a piece of cake."

"Good-bye, Jason. I'll wire the remainder of your fee this morning."

Gavallan hung up the phone and turned his attention to the name and address written on the notepaper: Raymond J. Luca. 1133 Somera Road, Delray Beach, Florida.

"Ray Luca of Synertel," Gavallan murmured. "Who'd have figured?"

Synertel was a high-flying manufacturer of optical switches that Black Jet had been set to take public for north of five hundred million dollars. Two weeks before the IPO was set to go, the company's primary product was trumped by a competitor, rendering it obsolete before it had even been introduced. Gavallan canceled the IPO on the spot. Three months later, Synertel went bust.

Luca's being the Private Eye-PO explained the pissy note to his warnings. It did not, however, discount the veracity of his statements. Luca might have a bone to pick, but he was telling the truth about Mercury, or at least hinting at it.

Gavallan punched a button on the speakerphone. "Emerald," he began. "Book me a-" He stopped dead, deciding it might be wiser for him to make his own travel arrangements. "Emerald," he started anew. "I've got to run out for a while. Actually, I'm feeling pretty lousy. Forward any calls to me at home. Thanks."

Replacing the receiver, he picked up his jacket and satchel, turned off the lights to his office, and shut the door behind him.

From here on out, Gavallan was on his own.

22

We're using the same guy," announced Roy DiGenovese when he stuck his head into Howell Dodson's office at four-thirty in the afternoon. "Gavallan's paying the same fella we got on contract to the Bureau. Vann. Jason Vann."

Lifting his feet off the desk, Dodson slid his chair forward and afforded DiGenovese his fullest attention. "Do tell, dear boy. I smell progress."

Dodson had been reviewing the casework on Kirov and Mercury, trying to figure out what Gavallan's role in the whole thing was and whether or not it might be wise to alert his friends in the SEC or the Treasury Department about it. It was a thorny issue. The Bureau didn't need any multibillion-dollar lawsuits accusing its very own Howell Ames Dodson IV of maligning, defaming, tarnishing, or slandering a wholly legitimate enterprise. Every request he'd made to Baranov to send some of his investigators over to Mercury's Moscow operations center had been met with deafening silence. The man hadn't lifted so much as a finger. He cared only about Novastar. Mercury was the Americans' problem.

Dodson had the tape from Mercury Broadband USA, the allegations of a paid informant, and that was it. The skeptic inside him refused to follow in DiGenovese's rabid footsteps. When it came to fashioning a winning indictment, they were no better off than they were four weeks ago. Effectively, the decision had been made for him. He didn't dare open his mouth to another federal agency about his concerns over Mercury Broadband. For now, they would remain an in-house matter.