"Look, you've won," he said. "Mercury's not going to come to market. Go home. And thanks. Thanks for saving my butt back there. I mean it. But that's it. This is where it ends."

"And Graf?"

"He's my problem."

"Your problem? You think you can sit there and call me uncaring, brand me with the responsibility of ten people's deaths and expect me just to forget it? I know Grafton Byrnes too. Remember? I'm proud to say that I count him as a friend. You want to be responsible for him? Fine. But you didn't know Ray Luca. And you didn't know Alexei Kalugin. Those two are mine, whether I like it or not. No matter what might happen to Kirov, I have to live with the fact that I was responsible- at least in some way- for getting them killed. You can't just pawn me off. You said it yourself: I'm in this even deeper than you are. Longer, anyway." She spent a moment studying the map. A quizzical expression skirted her features. "By the way, what do you have in mind- I mean if you're not going home, that is? Are you planning on chartering a jet to Moscow, driving up to Kirov's house, banging on his door, and asking him to give you Graf back? Do you have any idea how well-protected a man like Kirov is? He's an oligarch, for Christ's sake. The man has his own private army. The second they know you're in Moscow, they'll whisk you off the streets and stuff you in the same hole where they've put Graf. If they don't just shoot you on sight, that is. Right about now, I'd say you rank number one on Kirov's 'Most Wanted' list."

For a moment, Gavallan didn't answer. He knew well enough that he couldn't just traipse up to Kirov's door and demand his friend's return. In truth, he had no intention of going to Moscow. Securing Graf's return would require a none-too-subtle gambit of barter and blackmail, along with a fair dose of luck. He had only the rudiments of a plan, and they involved his visiting another city on the European continent. Geneva. He needed chips to sit at Kirov's table. What better place was there to get bankrolled than Switzerland?

"If your friend Skulpin's right, Kirov couldn't have faked the due diligence without the help of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm," he said. "They're the ones who visited Kirov's operations. They hired the experts to verify that Mercury's operating platform was up to snuff. They signed off that everything was a hundred percent as advertised. If something was amiss, they'd have to have seen it."

"You told me the other night you'd spoken with Jean-Jacques Pillonel and that he swore the whole thing was good as gold."

"He did."

"Okay then. At least we know where to look."

Gavallan knew the tone of voice too well. Smug, confident, unimpeachable. He couldn't deny her claims on Kirov. On a strictly practical note, it would be safer traveling in her company. The FBI was looking for a lone murderer, not a vacationing couple.

If for Graf's sake alone, he would allow her to come to Geneva with him.

Taking the map from Cate's lap, he spread it across his own. The Boca Raton airport looked to be an hour's drive. His knowledge of private airports taught him they ran the gamut from dirt landing strips with a Coke machine and a gas pump to state-of-the-art facilities equipped to assist their pilots to fly anywhere short of the moon. He was quick to assume that the Boca Raton airport, with its proximity to Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, and other monied suburbs of south Florida, ran to the latter variety. On the one hand, it would definitely have several planes available for charter. On the other, it'd be first in line to cooperate with the authorities should questions be asked about flight plans filed that afternoon by a certain investment banker.

Further study revealed several other private airports in the region, but Gavallan liked what Cate had said about a long runway. If they were going to Geneva, they'd require a decent-size jet: a Cessna Citation, an upper-end Lear, a Gulfstream III.

"Boca it is," he said. "Let's get moving. We've got a few stops to make before we get to the airport."

Jett Gavallan rolled across the tarmac of the Boca Raton Executive Airport, a bent old man pushed along in a shiny wheelchair by a rather too attractive companion. One stop at the nearest mall had taken care of their requirements. A windbreaker, a broad-visored sun hat, and some dark glasses hid Gavallan's features. The blanket was Cate's idea. Old people got cold, she said, even when the thermometer topped eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and humidity was 90 percent plus. The disguise wasn't much, but it might keep the Feds off his trail if they were as eager to find him as they said.

He'd taken other precautions as well. He'd chartered the plane under a fictitious name and paid via E-cash, transferring the fees directly from his bank account to the aircraft leasing company- all before setting foot on airport grounds. He wanted as few people as possible to remember seeing them. In this at least he was successful. Their total time in transit from parking lot to tarmac was ten minutes.

Ahead lay their chariot: a white Gulfstream III with a sporty blue pinstripe running the length of the fuselage. A team of mechanics swarmed around the engines. The pilot and copilot circled the tail, completing their preflight walk-around. A fuel truck lumbered alongside, and a hose was extended to the plane's wing. The sight of the gleaming aircraft did wonders for Gavallan's bruised morale. Airplanes, of every size and vintage, never ceased to thrill him.

"She's a beaut," he said.

"She is," said Cate. "You thinking of getting behind the controls yourself? Give me a show of the Air Force's greatest talent?"

"No," he said coldly. "That part of my life's over. These days I ride just like any other paying customer."

"Maybe someday," suggested Cate.

"Maybe." Gavallan pulled down the brim of his hat to shadow his features.

They'd spent the hour's ride to the airport discussing what to do once they reached Geneva, how to approach Kirov if they were able to extract a confession from Jean-Jacques Pillonel or if by God's grace they got their hands on some material evidence of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's fraud.

But their conversation hadn't ended there. Sometime during the drive the focus had shifted from freeing Grafton Byrnes to making Kirov pay for his crimes.

"Canceling the Mercury offering might hurt Kirov," Cate had said, "but it's not nearly enough. Not anymore. I want the man to pay. I want him to suffer for the people he's killed."

And for stealing Black Jet, Gavallan added silently.

Canceling the Mercury IPO would deal his company a swift and severe blow. He could forget about the seventy million in fees. He'd have to write off the bridge loan to Kirov, worth another fifty million. And that would be that.

Two choices would be left him. He could embark on a wholesale restructuring of the firm that would require firing a few hundred employees and shuttering his London and Chicago operations. Or he could sell. He and his top executives would pocket large sums, but they would hardly be compensated for the business's true worth. And the prospect of working for another firm left him cold. Were he to leave, his core team of executives would follow, willingly or not. Neither Tony, Bruce, nor Meg fit the mold corporate behemoths demanded these days. Meg was too old. Tony's illness branded him unreliable. And Bruce… well, simply put, Bruce was an asshole. It wouldn't be a week before he'd have called the new managing director a bootlicker or an ass-kisser or God knows what, and that would be the end of Bruce.

"The only way to hurt Kirov is to put him in prison," Cate said. "Rob him of his power, his money, his position."

"Easier said than done," said Gavallan, unable to cloak his pessimism. "He's a Russian citizen. He'll never stand before an American judge to answer for Mercury- if, that is, we can even prove he meddled."