Notzli knew that most of the merchandise went to government officials flown to Zurich for the weekend to pocket “soft payments” from their counterparts in the private sector for services rendered—past, present, and future. Not that it was his business. It was Notzli’s job to review the client’s credit and make spot decisions authorizing or denying such purchases.
“What is it?” he asked.
“An odd request from an airport. The Grushkin Flight Academy.”
“An airport? Just give me the customer and the amount.”
“Mr. John J. Gavallan. An American. The amount is one million dollars.”
“One million dollars!” Notzli coughed, coming to attention in his chair.
By now the purchase request and client record was flashing on his monitor. The record showed the client’s complete credit history, his average monthly expenditures, days payable, and most recent purchases. It also listed the client’s estimated personal net worth, his annual income, and any known assets. Finally, it assigned the entire package a letter grade denoting the client’s overall creditworthiness.
Last year, Mr. Gavallan had spent $214,987.15. He paid his bills promptly, averaging fifteen days and his stated annual income was $3.5 million. His overall grade was an A+.
Mr. Gavallan was the real thing.
“Do you have the customer on the line?” Notzli asked.
“Yes sir, I’ll transfer him immediately.”
Adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair, Notzli introduced himself, then gave his title. “So, Mr. Gavallan, sir, I understand you would like to make a rather large purchase. Please bear in mind, it is necessary for us to take some precautions. I hope you don’t mind my asking a few questions to verify your identity.”
“Not at all. Shoot.”
Notzli asked for Mr. Gavallan’s social security number, his date of birth, and his mother’s maiden name. Gavallan replied correctly. Then Notzli asked for the small four-digit number printed on the right-hand side of the card. Again, Gavallan supplied the correct response.
“I hope you don’t find my questions too intrusive. It’s just that your request is coming from an odd location. Normally, significant purchase requests come from jewelry stores, art galleries, even auction houses. You, sir, are at an airport in the region south of Moscow.”
“That’s right,” said Gavallan. “The town is called Hulskvoe, if you’re interested.”
“May I be so bold as to inquire, sir, what you wish to purchase for one million dollars?”
“A plane. A Mig-25 Foxbat. I’m a pilot myself, and I thought it would be neat to have one to tool around with on weekends.”
“Is that right?” Notzli didn’t know a Mig Foxbat from a jumbo jet. He was a train man, himself. Antique miniatures. Double-A gauge. “And you’re certain this aircraft is worth one million dollars?”
“Actually, it’s worth a lot more than that. Production price is around twenty-eight million a copy, but they’re having a fire sale.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I must have this plane.”
Benno Notzli stared at the screen, evaluating the man’s impeccable credit history and the reasonable voice on the other end of the phone. It was his job to see to it his clients were satisfied, that they were able to purchase the baubles, bangles, trinkets, and, well… planes that they simply “must have.” One look at the annual salary and credit grade made the decision a snap. If the man wanted to fork over a million dollars for a Mig-25 Foxbat, he could be Notzli’s guest. AmEx would be happy to pocket its customary 2 percent fee on the transaction.
“There should be no problem, Mr. Gavallan. I’ll be happy to authorize the purchase.”
“Thank you, Mr. Notzli.”
“And fly safely.”
“I intend to,” said Gavallan.
All in all, a most pleasant man, decided Notzli, already halfway out the door. If he hurried, he just might make the 7:13.
Cate Magnus took a seat at Colonel Pyotr Grushkin’s desk. Pulling the phone toward her, she dialed information and asked for the number of the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C. The mere act made her jumpy. The thought of asking a Russian operator for the phone number of the Main Adversary’s vaunted internal police was hard to fathom.
Waiting, she watched Jett and Grushkin walk around the Mig, Grushkin pointing out the flaps and ailerons beneath the wing, stooping to inspect the landing gear. Jett looked nervous—fidgeting, nodding frequently, wringing his hands, then brushing them off. Well, she thought, that makes two of us.
The operator returned with the number. She hung up and dialed. It took her two disconnections and a string of “Would you please holds” before she was connected with her intended party.
“This is Dodson.”
“Mr. Dodson, this is Catherine Magnus. I’m sure you know who I am.”
“Yes, Miss Magnus. I hope you don’t mind my saying I’m a bit surprised to hear from you. How can I be of service?”
“How can you be of service?” If she snapped at him, it was because she was still incensed at his role in her predicament. Were it not for Dodson, she would be safely in the States as she spoke. There would be no question of Mercury’s opening for trading tomorrow morning and she could still look at herself in the mirror. “I’ll tell you how. First, you can revoke the warrant for Jett Gavallan’s arrest. He didn’t kill Ray Luca. I was there too—I mean in Florida. Yes, he was looking for Luca, but not to kill him. He wanted to know why Luca was trying to spoil the Mercury Broadband IPO Mr. Gavallan’s company was underwriting. Unfortunately, he got there late—we both did, actually. The same people who killed Mr. Luca nearly killed Jett.”
“Miss Magnus—”
“If you want to know where to find Luca’s killers, I’ll be happy to tell you. Drive north from Moscow on the Petersburg road. Take a turnoff for a place called Svertloe and go east another—”
“Miss Magnus, please—”
“You’ll find them near a dirty cabin in a small pine forest. They’re dead, I’m afraid. We had to kill them. Do you understand, Mr. Dodson? We had to do your job for you!”
“Miss Magnus, please calm yourself. If you’d like my cooperation, you’ll need to compose yourself. Please, ma’am.”
But Cate had no more words. She was crying, her breath coming in great big drafts, as if she’d been drowning and needed air. She’d killed someone. She’d ended a life. It didn’t matter that the man was trying to kill her. Even now, after everything, she could not summon any enmity toward him. She saw him dodging round the nose of the Suburban, running at the house, his eyes so ambitious, focused, blazing with mission. She had aimed the gun and pulled the trigger and he had fallen dead without uttering so much as a whimper. She could feel her finger tight against the trigger, the gentle, even pleasant bucking of the gun, the dull fireworks as the casings ejected and tinkled onto the cabin floor. The bullets struck him in the chest, in a neat diagonal from spleen to shoulder, and down he went. She was expecting more drama, more blood, a shout, the acknowledgment of his wounds… something to punctuate the loss of a life. But he just fell and stopped moving and his eyes were still open and that was it.
“It was Kirov,” she said, gathering herself. “He sent two of his killers to do the job. Check the flights in and out of Florida. You must have the tail number of his plane somewhere. Look for a late Thursday or early Friday arrival and a Friday evening departure.” Cate mentioned Boris and Tatiana and offered descriptions of them.