The Runner (46 page)

“Okay, okay. I get the message,” said Gavallan, walking to his chair and sitting down. “Slap me around a little if I start feeling sorry for myself again.”

“Yes, sir. You’re the boss.”

Gavallan eyed Byrnes suspiciously. Sometimes he wasn’t so sure. “Look, the pictures of Mercury’s network operations center are fakes. I know that company inside and out. The only question is what we’re going to do about it.”

“You’ve talked to Kirov?”

“He called me a few minutes ago. He was livid. Said the comments were nonsense. A ploy to drive down the offering price. He hinted it might be political. He wasn’t sure, yet.”

“Political? Come off it. If there’s one thing I can tell you about the Private Eye-PO, it’s that he’s as American as apple pie. Still glad you crawled into bed with the enemy?”

“Kirov’s hardly the enemy. We checked him out backwards and forwards. Even Kroll gave him a clean bill of health. No ties to the
mafiya,
no indentures to the government, no evidence of corruption or criminal activity. Konstantin Kirov’s the first—”

“Stop right there,” blurted Byrnes. “I know what you’re going to say. He’s ‘the first truly Western businessman.’ The
Financial Times
said that, right? ‘The patron saint of the second Russian perestroika.’ Remember, Jett, I read the prospectus, too.”

Gavallan shook his head. Byrnes would always be an unrepentant cold warrior. “You know, Graf, you missed your calling. You should start up a new chapter of America Firsters. Bring isolationism back into vogue.”

“Okay, okay,” said Byrnes, lifting his hands palm up. “He’s a wild card, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, he’s
our
wild card, so you better get used to him. If the Mercury IPO goes well, we’ll be doing business with Kirov for a decade. We’re already talking a secondary offering in a year, and he’s asked us to scout some acquisition targets for him. Mercury’s a gusher waiting to be tapped, and we’re darned lucky they chose us to do the drilling. He asked me if I wanted him to send over his jet to bring me to Moscow. He wants to personally show me the premises. He’s worried about how the market’s taking it.”

“And how
is
the market taking it?” asked Byrnes. “What’s the word from Bruce?”

“Too soon to tell, but this kind of thing is never good. We’ll need to engage in some proactive damage control.”

“So you believe Mr. Kirov?”

“A hundred percent.”

“All right then. Let’s look at this closer.”

Digging his hands into his pockets, Grafton Byrnes began a slow circuit of the room. “This is an accusation of material fraud. The Private Eye-PO isn’t just saying that Mercury isn’t up to snuff, he’s implying we knew all about it, too, and kept our mouths shut. If those photos are genuine, there’s no way Mercury can be doing the business it claims. Two hundred thousand clients in Moscow? Hell, they couldn’t service twenty with that stuff. These accusations are tantamount to saying the company’s entire P&L is a bunch of garbage. We’ve got to imagine that most of our customers will either read this or get wind of it and come to the same conclusions themselves. In a few hours, every one of Bruce Jay Tustin’s salesmen will be fielding calls asking for us to comment on the Private Eye-PO’s claims. Whether we believe Kirov or not, we’ve got to check on Mercury.”

“Agreed.”

“And not under his personal auspices, I’m afraid. Tell him you’ll pass on the jet. I’ll give Silber, Goldi, and Grimm a call instead.” Byrnes was talking about the Swiss accounting firm that had performed the due diligence on the deal. “They’re in Geneva; it’s only a two-hour flight for them. They can have this sorted out by the end of business tomorrow.”

“No go,” responded Gavallan. “I don’t want to bring an outside firm into this. It’s too late for that. We can’t have anyone thinking we have even the slightest doubts about Mercury, not this far into the quiet period. One of us has to go. Like you said, our head is on the chopping block as much as Mercury’s.”

“One of us?”
Byrnes did not look pleased.

“I’d go if I could, you know that. I’ve got the dinner on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Since when did hospitals start honoring border trash as ‘Man of the Year’? I’ll miss heckling you. I had a few choice tomatoes saved for the occasion.” Byrnes collapsed onto the sofa, resting his chin on folded hands. “And how will your friend Kirov feel about this? He’s bound to find out.”

“He won’t like it, but he’ll understand,” explained Gavallan. “He knows what’s involved to get a listing on the Big Board. In the end, he’ll thank us for it.”

“I hope so. I don’t relish getting a guided tour of the Lubyanka.”

Rolling his eyes, Gavallan opened the drawer and took out a plane ticket. He’d known all along the actions required of the firm. He’d just wanted Byrnes’s opinion on the matter. “Flight goes at one,” he said, waving the slim jacket. “Consulate opens at eight. You’ll need a visa. If you hurry, you might even have time to get home and pack.”

Byrnes picked up the ticket off the desk, opening the sleeve and reading over the flight details. “You’re a crafty prick, you know that?”

“What do you expect? I learned from the best.”

R
ECALLING THE MOMENT
forty-eight hours earlier, Gavallan caught his reflection in the glass. He was surprised at the man staring back. He looked tired and worn, older than his years. The weight of office, he told himself. The price for making a fortune before the age of forty. And the price for losing it? he wondered. What’s that? Do you get some of your youth back? Learn how to take a few days off? Regain the affections of the woman you love?

Gavallan put a stranglehold on his thoughts. Self-pity was a loser’s luxury. He heard Byrnes telling him to “toughen up” and felt the wise eyes boring into him.

Graf, where the hell are you? Give me a call and tell me everything’s all right.

A minute passed as Gavallan considered taking a dozen actions: canvassing the larger hotels in the Russian capital, contacting the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, even calling the Moscow Police directly. All were premature. If Byrnes had checked out of the Baltschug, he had a good reason. It was silly to worry. He’d give his best friend until noon to call or check in, then reassess the situation.

A firm hand rapped on his door. “Morning meeting’s about to start, boss.”

“Yeah,” said Gavallan, without turning. “Be right there.”

Returning to his desk, he made a quick check of his agenda. As always, his schedule was packed to bursting. Quarterly earnings review at ten. A powwow to go over acquisition candidates for a new client at eleven. Roundtable with the executive board to discuss new business opportunities at two. And, of course, the black-tie dinner that evening for which he had yet to write a speech.

But even as he catalogued his day’s appointments, his thoughts vaulted six thousand miles to the onion domes and cobblestoned streets of a city he’d known forever, but never visited. Moscow.

Graf,
he shouted silently.
Talk to me!

G
RAFTON
B
YRNES WAS STILL TRYING
to figure out when exactly they had left the city and entered the country. It seemed like only five minutes ago they’d been barreling down the road to Sheremetyevo Airport, the driver busily pointing out Dynamo Stadium, home to Moscow’s soccer team, the Ministry of the Interior building built by Stalin, the new Seventh Continent supermarket. Then they’d made a left turn past a car dealership, traveled a ways through a birch forest, and—
bang!
—they were in the Russian countryside. Eight lanes had dwindled to four, and then two, and now they were bouncing down a dirt road smack in the middle of a potato patch that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Byrnes took out the paper on which he’d written the address of Mercury Broadband’s network operations center. “Rudenev Ulitsa?” he asked skeptically, gesturing at the road beneath them.

“
Da.
Rudenev,” said his Tatar chauffeur. He blurted a few words in Russian that Byrnes caught as “Long street. Goes to city of Rudenev.”

“
Eto Daleko?
Is it far?”

“
Nyet.”
The man shook his head emphatically. “Very close now.”

Byrnes looked at him a second longer, wondering if he might be possessed of some criminal intent. He dismissed the thought out of hand. If the guy wanted to rob him, all he had to do was pull over on any side street and stick a gun in his face. A look over his shoulder confirmed they were not being followed. The road behind them was empty, desperately so. Svetlana’s or Tatiana’s—or
whatever her name was
—protectors were no doubt still at Metelitsa, concentrating their efforts on the next unlucky schlemiel. He stared at the setting sun, a dusky orange dome melting into the infinite plain. Russia, he thought, shaking his head. It was like watching a sunset on another planet.

They passed a row of dachas, small brightly painted cottages with steep, angular roofs. He’d always imagined dachas to be quaint, well-constructed cabins that lay hidden in pine glades. Maybe some were. These, however, were slapdash and garish, one plunked down next to the other with not a green tree in sight. The dachas looked uncared-for, as did the gardens and fences that surrounded them. In fact, his one overwhelming impression of Russia so far was of neglect. Offices with shattered windows, roads scarred with potholes, cars rusted beyond belief. He refused to think about the fire escape he’d climbed down an hour ago. He had a feeling the country was running as fast as it could just to stay in the same place. If he’d seen a mule pulling a hay cart, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Somewhere back there he hadn’t left just Moscow, but the entire twentieth century.

A half mile down the road, a blue strobe flashed urgently. Gripping his hands on the dashboard, Byrnes leaned forward, willing his pilot’s eyes to focus. He made out a stubby automobile bestriding the narrow road. The car was white with green doors. The traffic militia, Byrnes groaned inwardly. On his ride in from the airport, he’d noted several similar automobiles parked in the center of tangled intersections. In each case, an olive-smocked policeman had stood nearby paying no mind to the horns blaring around him, doing damned all to right the congested thoroughfares. In a country famous for its corruption, the traffic militia had a reputation second to none. He didn’t care to imagine what had brought them this far into the countryside a few minutes before nightfall.

“Shit,” spat the driver, clearly sharing his anxiety. Shooting a worried look Byrnes’s way, he braked to a halt and produced his papers.

A pug-faced militiaman approached the car. Ducking low, he peered into the windows, looking between Byrnes and the Tatar. The disparity between the two couldn’t have been greater: Byrnes in his custom-tailored suit and five-hundred-dollar shoes, the Tatar in worn wool trousers and a frayed red pullover. The militiaman said a few words, then backed away from the car.

“A bad accident ahead. The road is closed,” explained the Tatar. “We must go back. But first he wants you to get out and show him your passport.”

“I have to get out? How come?” Byrnes didn’t know why he was so surprised. In anticipation of the request, he’d already removed his passport and slipped a hundred-dollar bill inside the cover. Preparing a servile smile, he stepped out of the car and walked toward the militiaman.

“Good evening,” he said in halting Russian, wanting to show he was one of the good guys.

The militiaman approached slowly, rolling his boots, thumbs tucked into a heavy utility belt. He was a block of a man, more chunky than muscular, heavy around the shoulders and neck. He was dirty. Visibly dirty. Dirt flecked his cheeks. His hair was greasy and uncombed, his mustard uniform dotted with stains. Deliberately, he slid his baton from its holster.

“Passport,” he grunted.

Byrnes eyed the baton. Dents and chips and scuffs decorated its length. Losing the smile, he handed over the passport. The baton flicked through the air, so fast as to be a blur, cuffing Byrnes’s wrist and sending the passport tumbling to the road. “Hey,” he shouted, grabbing at his hand. “Watch it, you sonuva—”

The next blow was faster, if that was possible. Harder, too—a lightning-quick jab to Byrnes’s unsuspecting gut. The baton disappeared into his midsection before caroming back a split second later, robbing Byrnes of his belligerence as well as his breath. He fell to a knee, eyes bulging as he prayed for his lungs to start working again.

The militiaman pointed at the hundred-dollar bill lying on the ground. “Yours?” he grunted in English.

“No,” coughed Byrnes.

The militiaman motioned for Byrnes to hand it to him. Struggling to his feet, Byrnes picked up the note and his passport and handed them to the policeman.

“Spaseeba.”
The unkempt cop stared at the passport for a few seconds. “What hotel, please?”

“The Baltschug. In Moscow.” From the corner of his eye, Byrnes could see the Tatar, standing at the rear of the car, hands folded in front of him, eyes making a meticulous study of the rocks near his shoes. The militiaman returned to his car, placed a call on his radio, smoked a cigarette, talked a little more on the two-way, then came back. Curling a finger, he motioned for the Tatar to join them. He barked a few words, looking at Byrnes.

“You are not guest at the Baltschug,” the Tatar translated. “The hotel does not know you. The officer would like to know where you are staying, please?”

“The Baltschug.” Byrnes could not keep the irritation from his voice. “I checked in at four o’clock. Room 335. Look, I have a key.” He delved into his pocket for the room key. Not finding it, he tried the other pocket, then his jacket. He remembered the tempting blond leaning close to him, rubbing his leg. “Please tell the officer that he can accompany me back to the hotel. I’ll be happy to show him my room. My suitcase, my clothing, everything is there.”

But the militiaman was already shaking his head. An amused grin said he’d heard this one a hundred times before. “No,” he said in his brusque English before rattling off a few more bursts at the Tatar.