Taking in the agro-fluorescent lights, the soda-stained carpeting, and the chest-high cubicles, he wheezed dejectedly. It was time to get out of this jail.
The thought of escape drew his eyes to the battered Samsonite at his feet. Dropping a hand, he unlatched the silver briefcase and gingerly removed the fax he'd received this morning. Simply holding it made his fingers tingle, his stomach swoon. It was his pass to the big time. His golden E-ticket. His invitation to the major leagues. He reread it for the hundredth time, his eyes tripping over the mention of "Prosecutor General," "Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime," and "FBI." He planned on spending the entire night calling sources in Europe- reporters for the Financial Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post- asking if they'd heard anything about Kirov's being arrested or a raid on his offices.
He considered calling Cate Magnus, too. She'd sent him the fax; maybe she could shed some light on what was going on in Russia. He discarded the idea immediately. The rules were clear. Only she was allowed to initiate contact.
"Hi, I'm Cate Magnus," she'd said when he'd picked up the phone at his home on a sultry spring evening hardly four weeks before. "Jerry Brucker at the paper told me it would be worthwhile for us to have a little talk."
"Oh?" He recognized her name, and Brucker was an old pal from M.I.T.
"I've got an interesting piece of news that could do you some good. Mercury Broadband," she whispered. "Take a closer look. I think you'll find something the Private Eye-PO might like to share with his readers."
The next day he'd received an envelope containing the photographs of Mercury's Moscow downlink facility. If her claims sounded sketchy, the Cyrillic letters and twin-headed eagle of the Russian crest stamped on the backs of the photographs did not. A friend had translated the words as "property of the Prosecutor General's office," and Luca had shivered. Next came proof of Mercury's phony purchases from Cisco, then just this morning news of Kirov's impending arrest. If everything Cate Magnus said was true, Mercury wasn't just a scam dog- it was a monumental fraud. An international incident waiting to happen.
Envisioning the Black Jet name on the prospectus, he knew it was meant to be.
"Come on, Jett, just give us some time," he'd pleaded with Gavallan at their last meeting. "Don't cancel the offering. Six months and another round of financing and we'll be in the clear. We'll dust those losers from Lucent."
"Sorry, Ray. I don't think the VC guys would go for it. Six months is a lifetime, you know that. It's tragic. We're all disappointed for you. But unfortunately, this kind of stuff happens."
"Four months," Ray had pleaded, grabbing at Gavallan's sleeve, pawing at him. "I'll double the speed… Come on, Jett. You gotta believe. Synertel can do it."
"So will Lucent, Ray. It's not the speed. You need a new technology."
A new technology. The words had defeated Luca. Four years later, they still did.
Luca put the fax away. He could only hope that when the raid mentioned in the memo took place, he would learn about it. Picking winning stocks, while worthy of admiration, was one thing. Revealing fraud and corruption on an international scale was quite another, and it turned Luca's role from profiteer to patriot. He was defending his country against a new Red Peril. Any aspersions about his past would be bleached clean by the mantle of "Nation's Defender."
On a personal note, it would be Ray Luca's pleasure to cancel Mr. Jett Gavallan's largest IPO. There was a symmetry to the affair that pleased Luca's mathematical mind.
One thing was certain: It would be a helluva way to launch the Private Eye-PO's investment newsletter.
Refocusing his eyes on the collage of screens, Luca felt a new energy plucking him up. He might not ever become a billionaire, but from where he stood in his beat-up Docksiders and floral-print shirt, "millionaire" sounded damned impressive. He'd done the math a thousand times. By multiplying the number of daily hits on his website by the standard browser-to-buyer conversion rate of 2 percent, he'd arrived at the figure of three thousand wise men and women willing to fork over five hundred dollars a year to receive the Private Eye-PO's twice-monthly newsletter. A cool one and a half million in revenues for a start.
Luca felt giddy at the prospect. If nothing else, at least he'd have the money to win visitation rights with his daughters.
It was then that he remembered his sell order for Merck. In the ten minutes he'd been daydreaming, the market had moved against him. Merck was trading at 38½ and falling fast. He sent in his order and was filled at 381/8. Instead of making five hundred bucks, he'd lost almost two thousand.
Luca dropped his head into his hands. It was time his luck changed.
26
Gavallan arrived at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach a few minutes before midnight. Once in his room, he set down his bags, opened the windows, and stepped onto the balcony. The smell of gardenias and the sound of the sea washing onto the beach greeted him. He always forgot how far south Florida sat, how tropical it could feel. It was hard to believe he was still in the States and not in some island paradise. A second later the first mosquito buzzed his ear and landed on his cheek. So much for paradise. He slapped at it, then went to the bedside phone and checked for messages left at his home. The first was from Tony Llewellyn-Davies.
"Jett, where the hell have you been all day? Thought you were sick in bed, laid up with a summer flu. Anyway, Jett, if you're not in bed now, go there immediately. I've got a piece of bad news. Jack Stuyvesant called from Lehman about the bridge loan to Mercury. Seems his board gave it the thumbs-down. They won't accept the ten-million-dollar tranche to Mercury. Meg told him that Graf had called and said that everything was hunky-dory. She tried to get him to take a smaller piece instead, five million, even three, but Stuyvesant said Lehman wouldn't lend Kirov twenty bucks if it was guaranteed by the full faith and credit of the U.S. government. That's not all, I'm afraid. Barron Bleriaut at Merrill is out, too. Same reasons. At least he was polite about it. Said if we got all the news sorted out about Mercury, he'd be back in. So that's it. Looks like us poor sods are left holding the bag. Fifty million of our best Yankee greenbacks in Mr. Kirov's pocket. 'Course, it will be all to our favor once we get Mercury public, that much more change in our pockets. You might want to call Jack or Barron if you get a chance. A word from the lord of the manor might be in order. Cheers."
Gavallan slumped onto the bed, the phone dangling from his hand. Lehman was out. Merrill was out. Black Jet was left holding the entire fifty-million-dollar bridge loan to Kirov. But maybe it was just as well, he figured. Save an extra lawsuit or two down the road. Running a hand through his hair, Gavallan wasn't sure he could believe the string of bad luck. His right eye twitched, then twitched again, and he realized he'd developed a tic. Maybe this was what it felt like to be shell-shocked.
Fifty million of our best Yankee greenbacks in Mr. Kirov's pocket.
That's it, Gavallan said to himself. That's the death knell. He could almost hear the bells pealing.
Unless somehow he could turn the company… No, Gavallan admonished himself, discarding the idea as quickly as it had come. It's foolish to keep hoping.
With great effort, he took off his clothes and climbed under the sheets. Sometime later, he fell asleep.
From her seat in the executive jet bound from New York to Miami, Tatiana stared transfixed at the limitless plain of water spreading below her in every direction. She had never seen the ocean, and it made her feel small in a way she never had before. Not forgotten or useless or empty, which was how she felt when she had driven across the endless Russian countryside traveling from her convent school near Novosibirsk to Moscow. But small in a way that left her comfortable and secure, feeling part of something large and wondrous, and maybe even magical.