"I asked him about his revenues," Pillonel said. " 'How is Mercury making so much money if not through offering broadband services, Internet connectivity?' "

Gavallan raised a hand for him to stop. "What did you know about his revenues?"

"Earlier in the year we'd taken a participation in the German accounting firm that did Mercury's work. When we integrated operations, we took over all their back office operations. We saw the funds coming into Mercury's accounts. In fact, we hold copies of all the financial transfers the company has made over the past three years."

"You're saying you were Mercury's accountants before I farmed out the due diligence to you? That's conflict of interest. You had no right to accept the assignment."

"Of course, you're right," said Pillonel in a dull voice, as if that were the least of his misdeeds. "I asked Kirov where the money was coming from, if not from Mercury. When he just stared at me, saying nothing, looking through me with that charlatan's smile, I knew he had me. We'd been signing off on the books of a thief."

But Gavallan was more interested in something Pillonel had said earlier than in the accountant's belated discovery that Kirov was a thief. "He came to you about the IPO seven months ago?"

"Maybe longer. It was November. I remember, because we were about to take our holiday. Claire and I go every year to the Seychelles. It is beautiful there, and one must get away from the brouillard- you know, the fog."

"How did he know you would be doing the due diligence for us?"

"I've been doing Black Jet's European work for years."

November, repeated Gavallan to himself. But Black Jet hadn't officially won the deal until January.

A few seconds passed. Pillonel offered another of his Gallic shrugs, then rose and said, "Stay here. I'll be right back. I've got something that may interest you." He returned a minute later carrying a raft of notebooks. "Here is the report," he said, handing a green binder to Gavallan. "You'll find the experts' testimony inside. The Moscow station was run-down, but they've fixed it up since. The company's a year behind on its infrastructure. Maybe you burn the papers and close your eyes. Go forward with the offering. The company's really very strong. Kirov just needs time to build up his customer base and modernize his network."

Gavallan read through the notebook, skimming from page to page. It was all there, just as Pillonel had said. Mercury's operations checked out in eight of ten of its major markets. The problems lay in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Mercury had purchased insufficient servers, routers, multiplexers, and the like to handle the number of customers it claimed to have.

As Gavallan absorbed the information, he found himself as impressed with the company as he had been when Kirov first told him about it. Mercury was solid. It possessed excellent market share, capable personnel, and a sound business plan. Maybe the offering wasn't worth two billion dollars, but depending on the true value of its revenues it could be worth eight hundred million, a billion, easy.

"You said you saw the exact flows on money coming into and out of Mercury?"

"Yes. The bank sends us copies of all the account's activity: deposits, transfers, monthly statements."

Gavallan closed the notebooks. At least he'd be able to figure out what Mercury was really worth. He would still cancel the offering; he had to. But that didn't mean his involvement with the company had to end there. There was another way to spin the deal. And imagining the possibilities, Gavallan felt the first glimmerings of hope. For himself. For Black Jet. And for Mercury.

Putting aside the notebooks, he felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. He had his proof that he hadn't been involved in faking the due diligence. Now he would take Pillonel to his offices and recover some of the copies of the funds transfers into and out of Mercury's accounts. If Kirov had done what he suspected, Gavallan would have the chips he needed to sit face-to-face across from the Russian oligarch.

He might just have a chance to win back Byrnes.

"It is enough?"

Looking up, he found Pillonel gazing at him. "Excuse me?"

"It is enough?" the Swiss repeated.

"The report. Yes, it'll do nicely, thank-" Gavallan cut himself short, seeing an unsatisfied look in Pillonel's eye. A moment passed, and he felt his stomach tighten. "You mean there's more?"

"What I've shown you is to protect yourself," said Jean-Jacques Pillonel. "To protect Black Jet. Now I give you something to protect me."

41

The fax from Interpol arrived on the desk of Detective Sergeant Silvio Panetti of the Geneva Police Department at 9:15 A.M. It was a fugitive arrest warrant for an American citizen sought in connection with the murder a day earlier of ten persons in Florida. The FBI had reason to believe he had fled the United States, the fax indicated, and gave the tail number of a private aircraft in which he was said to be traveling. A bold "Urgent" headed the message and it was followed by the instructions that any information was to be forwarded to Assistant Deputy Director Howell Dodson in Washington, D.C., or to the consular officer of the local U.S. embassy.

Panetti yawned and lit his third cigarette of the shift. Urgent, eh? He was impressed. Too often, American law enforcement was interested in tax evaders, money launderers, or other equally bloodthirsty types. Reading the message a second time, his eye tripped over the words "murder" and "ten victims" and "extremely dangerous." A hushed "Ma foi" escaped his mouth. Would someone mind telling him why the fugitive might be headed to Switzerland? And Geneva in particular? The two countries had extradition treaties in place with regard to capital crimes, and lately, no one could argue that Switzerland had been anything but the model of cooperation.

Picking up the fax, he strolled into his boss's office. It was empty, as he'd expected. Saturday was the chief's day for sailing. With this weather, you could bet he was already halfway down the lake to Montreux. Panetti looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he blew a cloud of smoke into the office. A little present for the chief. Pauvre mec had quit smoking the week before and was having a tough go of it. Half the département puffed like chimneys, and the only place in the whole building the chief could get away from the smoke was his own office. Chuckling, Panetti checked that the windows were closed and shut the door behind him, but not before slipping a couple of packets of Gauloise Bleus onto the chief's desk. Bonne chance, mon lieutenant.

Returning to his desk, Panetti paused long enough to pick up his lighter, his phone, and his pistol- in that order of importance- then left the office. He wasn't much to look at. Middle-aged, of medium height and medium build, he was one of the Lord's weary travelers. He owned a sad, pouchy face and deep black eyes that guarded a sparkle of mischief. He hadn't shaved this morning, and the two-day stubble combined with yesterday's outfit gave him a shabby charm. Panetti shrugged. At least no one would mistake him for a banker.

Descending the staircase to the parking garage, he called Cointrin to ask for flight operations.

"Claude, I need a favor. Got a list of incoming traffic? Private, not commercial. A jet. Yeah, I'll wait, thanks."

Traffic was light, and he was over the Pont Guisan when he got the answer.

"She's a nice bird," said Claude Metayer, flight operations chief of Geneva International Airport and, to Panetti's everlasting dismay, his brother-in-law.

"You mean the plane is here?" Panetti felt his heart give a rat-a-tat-tat.

"A G-3. Came in an hour ago. Passengers are gone, but if you want to talk to the pilots, I'll tell them you are coming."