Cate lowered herself to her knees and spun Pillonel in his chair so that he faced her. "You're saying that these transfers show Kirov siphoning off money from Andara to his own private account?"

"Exactement." Suddenly, he stood, forcing his way past her, the compact discs clutched between the fingers of one extended hand. "Take them. Take them all. They're yours. Use them quickly. As I said, I'm not doing this for you- it's for me. I am only safe once Kirov is in jail, or if he is dead. I ask you only one favor. You give me time."

"Time for what?" Gavallan accepted the discs and passed them to Cate, who slipped them into her purse.

"I am not sure yet. If I am a coward, I go to Brazil. Maybe Kirov finds me. Maybe he doesn't. One more man in jail, what does it change? Who's the better off? I've played the game the way I was supposed to. I helped you, my friend. Save your company. Save your friend. I've earned a chance to save myself."

Gavallan realized he didn't have much choice in the matter. Having Pillonel arrested would only alert Kirov to the fact that he was intent on canceling the IPO. He couldn't tell Pillonel to stay home and wait for the police until Tuesday or whenever he was able to find Grafton Byrnes. It boiled down to this: Pillonel was a free man until Gavallan was ready to turn over his evidence to the authorities.

Even then, he couldn't be sure whether the Swiss would arrest him. Though Mercury was technically a Swiss company, the fraud had taken place in conjunction with a listing on the New York Stock Exchange. That was a lot of borders to cross. Borders meant red tape and red tape meant delay.

"Go home," said Gavallan, frustrated. "Go to Brazil. I don't care. But whatever you do, take my advice and keep a low profile. And stay clear of Kirov."

Grabbing one of his arms, Gavallan half pushed Pillonel down the corridor to the elevator. They rode in silence to the lobby, then the elevator opened and Gavallan stepped out. "Cate," he said, looking over his shoulder. "How far to the airport?"

"Police! Arrêtez!"

A black-clad figure hit him low in the knees, throwing him to the ground. Gavallan felt the air rush from his lungs, his vision blur, then steady. Iron hands gripped his shoulders, pressing them to the concrete. A knee drilled into his chest. A second later, he was staring into the yawning muzzle of a large-bore pistol.

"Police!" shouted the aggressor. "Do not move!"

43

You're sure he's here?" Konstantin Kirov asked his brother Leonid as they entered the murky staff auditorium on the ground floor of the Foreign Intelligence Service's headquarters at Yasenevo. The room was at once enormous and stifling. Worn maroon carpeting ran beneath Kirov's feet. Wood-paneled walls hovered over him. The time was 2 P.M., but imprisoned in the eternal dusk, he had to remind himself that outside the clouds had cleared to usher in a warm summer's afternoon.

"Oh, he's here," replied Leonid. "I spoke with him ten minutes ago. He was upstairs checking on some old friends."

"But there are no cars," Kirov protested. "No sign of his security detail. He's the president, for God's sake. He's not a ghost."

"He's also one of us. He likes to use his tradecraft now and then. Keep himself fit. In practice."

"Nimble," came a voice from the darkened recesses of the auditorium. "Like a cat." A familiar figure strode onto the stage at the far end of the room. "I can't tell you how advantageous it is being able to get away on occasion. To disappear. It keeps everyone on their toes. Friends. Enemies. Everyone."

The president of the Russian Republic jumped off the stage and advanced on Kirov, fixing him with an odd gaze. He was a slender man with sloped shoulders and a retiring manner. All the same, he demanded the room's focus. There was an unpredictability about him, a hidden strength crouched in his rolling walk, a shy ruthlessness in his eyes. Kirov shook his hand and, from somewhere deep in his Russian blood, obeyed the command to bow his head.

"Seventy-two hours," said the president. "All is in order, I trust?"

"Interest is strong," answered Kirov. "Our bankers report heavy demand for Mercury on all fronts, both institutional and private. A 'bellwether,' some are even calling it."

"And why shouldn't they?" asked the president. "Oil prices remain high. Our GDP is growing at eight percent. Unemployment is falling like a stone and the ruble is stronger than it has been anytime since the new era began. You say demand for Mercury is strong, I say not strong enough."

"I couldn't agree more," said Kirov. "And so does the investing public."

The president ran a hand up and down Kirov's lapel. "I don't want to hear about any of your shenanigans on this one."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Kirov, casting an eye to his brother for backup. Leonid remained silent, his chin dug into his chest.

"I'm talking about Novastar," said the president in a hushed voice. "Not happy with the fortune you're taking out of our aluminum industry, so you're stealing from our airlines, too?"

"A lie," said Kirov. "The airline needs to be restructured, that is all. A few new routes, a little less staff."

"I have your word?"

Kirov nodded, and felt the curse of the damned fall upon him. It took every fiber of his being to keep his eyes locked on the president's. "In fact, I welcome Baranov's investigation."

The president patted Kirov's arm, his brow lifted skeptically. "Don't go too far, Konstantin Romanovich," he whispered. "It's me, Volodya. Remember? The mayor's bagman from Petersburg. If I'm not mistaken, I had the pleasure of ferrying some of your donations to Mayor Sobchak before his untimely passing. You and I know you're robbing Novastar blind. Just keep it quiet. And if you can't, then quiet Baranov." His hand found Kirov's neck, and gave it a squeeze. "Don't worry. You've become much too valuable to your country to put in jail. For the moment, at least."

Quiet Baranov? Had he heard correctly? Kirov mumbled some words, thanking the president.

"You are a good Russian." The president took Kirov's head in his hands and kissed him three times upon the cheek. Releasing him, he walked back toward the stage. "A billion dollars," he said. "Not bad for a new beginning. Do you hear that, comrade Lenin? Or should I say Mister Ulyanov? We've been relegated to stealing scraps from the capitalists' doorstep." Turning his gaze, he stared up at the wall behind him It was barren, save for the shadow of a familiar profile where a memorial sculpture had once hung. "Without Lenin, who are we? A country of bumbling democrats and corrupt capitalists? A band of impoverished states linked only by the tragedy of our common history?" The president was gathering steam as he spoke. He was giving a speech to convince, even if he was the only one who needed convincing. "We are Russians," he declared. "We did not stop being a superpower when we ceased to be communists. We did not cast off our ideological fetters only to lose our national identity."

If communism didn't work, neither would democracy, Volodya went on. Both were too extreme. He would steer a middle course, but the hand on the tiller would be a firm one. The press would be reined in, the media made an organ of the state once more. As another had said some seventy years before, "the trains would be made to run on time." Some might call it fascism, others benevolent despotism. He saw it differently. Two thousand years of history had made the Russian a serf at heart. He did not simply respect authority- he craved it. And in return for his subjects' obedience, he, Volodya, the fifty-year-old president of Russia, would act as Lord and rebuild their country. He would make sure they ate, see to their education, and care for their sick.