"And Ray Luca was your helper?"

Cate nodded. "A friend at the Journal went to school with him, knew about his playing the Private Eye-PO."

Gavallan turned his back and walked away a few steps. He was working the angles, trying to sift what was left of Mercury from the cinders of Cate's emotional firestorm. He kept revisiting his tour of Mercury's offices in Geneva and Kiev and Prague, seeing room after room of routing equipment, offices humming with motivated employees. Mercury had the vibe of a successful, efficiently run company, and that was something you just couldn't fake. "I saw the fax in Luca's bedroom- the one from the prosecutor general's office. It'd been sent from your home. Where did you get all your information, anyway?"

"One of the detectives who investigated Alexei's murder was part of the task force looking into Kirov's affairs. Detective Skulpin is his name. Vassily Skulpin. We both knew Kirov was behind Alexei's death, but Detective Skulpin could never gather any proof. Over the years we kept in contact, and when Skulpin's task force began to move against Kirov he let me know. Detective Skulpin was the one who told me Kirov had faked the due diligence."

Gavallan winced as if he'd been slapped. "He told you that?"

"He has an informant inside Mercury. The informant said that someone who works for Kirov was covering up its faults, painting a prettier picture than reality allowed. The only proof was the photos. And then the receipts."

Of course Kirov had faked the due diligence. If Luca's claims were true, there was no other way to have slipped it by. Kirov faked the due diligence.

"Look," he said. "Let's get to the hotel. I've got to pick up my things. If we hurry we can still make the three o'clock flight back home."

Cate slid behind the wheel and started the engine. They drove in silence for a minute or two, then Gavallan shot her a sidelong glance. "The hotel's just up the road, north side of Manalapan." He brought a hand to his forehead. "Oh, shit, my rental car. I left it a block away from Luca's."

"We'll pick it up later," said Cate. "Right now, let's go get your bags. The Ritz-Carlton, right?"

Gavallan rolled his eyes without humor. "Remind me to have a word with Hortensia about keeping my travel plans quiet," he said, referring to his housekeeper.

"Don't be mad at her, Jett. I called your office to apologize for my behavior at the ball. When they said you were home ill, I spoke to Hortensia. It's not fair to ask her to keep secrets from your friends."

"Yeah. Not like some people I know."

Gavallan's cell phone rang. "Hello." He listened to the man on the other end of the line rant for fifteen seconds, then covered the mouthpiece and shot Cate a sinking glance. "It's Tony. We've got problems."

33

Jett, are you possibly in Florida?" Tony Llewellyn-Davies was saying. "Bruce, Meg, and I have some unannounced guests who very much would like to speak with you. The gentlemen appear to be from the FBI, and they're asking some very nasty questions about you."

Gavallan's eyes darted to Cate, then back at the road. An hour ago, the news that federal agents had invaded his office would have shocked him. Now, he took it in stride. "Tell your friends they're bang on. Say I came down here to have a word with Ray Luca and find out why he was bad-mouthing our offering. Just be sure to let them know that someone beat me to him."

"I'll relay the message, Jett." A moment passed and Llewellyn-Davies asked if he might put him on the speakerphone. Gavallan said fine. There was another pause and he pictured his friends standing around his desk, the Transamerica Tower and Golden Gate Bridge looming in the background.

"Mr. Gavallan, Special Agent Vernon McNamee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation speaking. Good day, sir."

Against his every reflex, Gavallan found himself saying "Good day" back.

McNamee said, "Sir, we'd like to speak with you about the murder of Mr. Raymond Luca and nine other individuals this morning in Delray Beach, Florida."

"Here I am. Speak."

"We'd prefer to conduct the interview in our offices. We'll be happy to explain everything to you when we meet. The field office nearest to you is in Miami. The federal building on Northwest Second Avenue."

"You want to arrest me for Ray Luca's murder? Is that it?"

"No sir," said McNamee. "I said no such thing. We'd simply like to ask you a few questions. I'm sure it will just be a formality."

"A formality?" Gavallan wondered if the team of FBI agents shaking down his office in San Francisco was also just a formality. "Agent McNamee, let me make something clear. I did not kill Ray Luca. I'll be happy to point you in the right direction, however. The man you are looking for is-" Gavallan stopped himself short. He wanted to say that Konstantin Kirov was the man responsible for Luca's and the others' deaths, and to offer a detailed description of the individuals he believed committed the crime. The first was a six-foot-four-inch male the size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator, approximately thirty-five years of age, blond hair, blue eyes, with a nose that had seen more than a few fistfights. Went by the name of Boris. The other was a woman, platinum hair, blue eyes, maybe nineteen, skinny, and feisty as a cornered bobcat. Tatiana was her name. Russians, both of them, in case McNamee hadn't caught it.

"Do you have a name you'd like to give us?" the FBI agent inquired.

"No, I'm afraid not." For the time being, Gavallan would have to keep his knowledge of Kirov's role in Luca's death, as well as his intention to cancel the Mercury deal, to himself.

"Well, then, sir, it's my duty to inform you that unless you turn yourself into local law enforcement authorities within two hours' time, we will have no option but to issue an arrest warrant on your behalf."

Gavallan drew a breath. Not good. The last place he wanted to be was locked inside a six-by-eight jail cell. "You guys still there? Listen, I want you to get on the horn to Kirov and tell him everything's copacetic with the offering. We're going ahead as planned. Understood?"

"You're sure, Jett?" It was Meg Kratzer. "Maybe it would be wiser to postpone the deal. We can reschedule it six months from now. Put Mercury on the calendar as the first big IPO of the new year."

Gavallan answered for his audience, his script penned by Konstantin Kirov's hand. "No way, Meg. Mercury's a gem. I told you what Graf said. This whole thing with the Private Eye-PO is just a terrible, terrible coincidence. Nothing more. Now, keep your chin up. Come Monday, we'll all be sitting in the Peninsula in New York drinking some bubbly and laughing about the whole thing. Except for Bruce, that is."

"What do you mean, except for me?" Tustin crowed.

"Sorry, Brucie, no children allowed in the bar. We'll be sure to send up some chocolate milk to your room."

Gavallan heard some chuckles and knew he'd won back his team's confidence.

A firm tap on the leg directed his attention to Cate. "What's going on?" she demanded. "What did Bruce say? Are the police looking for you? You didn't mean what you said about Mercury. Go on, now. Tell them what you told me. About Boris and the girl. Tell them who killed Ray."

"Shh," he said to Cate. "Give me a second." Then to McNamee: "Tell you what. You want to talk, get me one of your bosses on the phone. A Mr. Howell Dodson. He runs your task force on Russian organized crime. Name ring a bell? Find him and we can talk till we're blue in the face."

McNamee hesitated, and Gavallan could hear some discussion in the background. After ten seconds, the agent returned. "If you'll give me a minute, I'll patch him in."

"Tell him to call this number." Gavallan rattled off Cate's mobile, hoping he was making it more difficult for anyone to track him down, then hung up. In less time than it took for Cate to fire up her journalist's interrogation, her phone chirped. Gavallan slid it from her bag. "Mr. Dodson, I presume."