“Yeb vas,” he muttered. Fuck you.
He truly hoped he’d never see the man again in his life.
Suddenly, he was very thirsty. “Do you have something to drink? Some water, perhaps? Perrier? Evian?”
Two men sat in the front.
“Of course,” said the one in the passenger seat. He turned and looked at Kirov. “Anything for my partner,” said Aslan Dashamirov.
“But—why—how?” Kirov choked on his own confusion.
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Konstantin Romanovich,” said Dashamirov, waving a slim silver disc between his fingers. “Have you never heard of honor among thieves?”
Kirov threw a hand to the door, fingers clawing for the release. He would make a deal with the FBI. He would show them the inner workings of the Russian underworld. He would forfeit his entire fortune.
With a sturdy thump, the doors locked, and Dashamirov laughed.
Konstantin Kirov cast a last look behind him. Katya had joined Gavallan, and the two stood in the center of Wall Street. He thought he saw his daughter raise a hand and wave, but he couldn’t be sure. Tears had blurred his vision.
Epilogue
The gavel slammed with finality and a short, exultant cry went up from the executives gathered on the podium. Jett Gavallan shook hands with the Russian president, and then it was everyone else’s turn, Meg’s and Bruce’s and Graf’s. Each received the same firm grip, the same swift shake, the same sober nod. The president turned to Cate and kissed her on the cheek three times in the Russian custom. He had been learning English, and Gavallan overheard a few words.
“We are grateful to you both for saving our airline. I only hope the public will treat it as fairly.”
“I’m certain it will,” answered Cate graciously.
Novastar Airlines had begun the day trading on the New York Stock Exchange at $14 a share and had closed at $15.25. As thanks for returning to Novastar the money that Kirov had stolen, the president had awarded Gavallan the mandate to bring the company public a year later. Black Jet Securities had brought the $500 million offering to market at the upper end of its price range. A first day’s jump of nearly 10 percent wasn’t too bad for a Russian company, all things considered.
The president clapped a hand on Gavallan’s arm. “Now we must talk about our aluminum industry. It is not in good condition. When can you come again to Moscow?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid. This is our last trip until the big day. Cate can’t fly much longer and I don’t want to be away when the moment arrives.”
“A boy or a girl?”
Gavallan looked at Cate. Her cheeks wore a slight flush, but at seven months pregnant, she’d never looked more beautiful. “It will be a surprise,” he said. “But Mr. Byrnes will be happy to travel to Moscow—say in a week? He has some business with another company we’re helping to sell.”
“Mercury, yes?” asked the president.
“Yes,” said Gavallan. “Mercury’s being purchased by Bluephone, an Anglo-French telecom company.”
“What is the price?”
“One billion.”
“Rubles or dollars?”
Gavallan smiled. They both knew the answer to that one.
Cate wrapped an arm through his and gave him a squeeze. Actually, if you added the 50 percent stake in Novastar Cate had inherited from her father and her 85 percent ownership of Mercury, they would be nigh on billionaires. But they had decided not to keep the money, feeling that it didn’t really belong to them. The shares in Novastar and her proceeds from the Mercury sale were to be placed in a philanthropic foundation Cate would chair.
With a final handshake, the president left with his entourage. Graf Byrnes headed down the stairs a moment later, with Bruce Jay Tustin and Meg Kratzer in tow. Gavallan stood at the podium, looking over the paper-strewn floor, the blinking monitors, the bold American flags. Ten minutes after the end of trading, the floor of the New York Stock Exchange was quiet, though not deserted. Traders had returned to their posts to tally their books. Brokers were on the phone with their head offices. Over a billion shares had exchanged hands. The cogs of capitalism never stopped turning, Gavallan mused.
Slipping his hand into his wife’s, their fingers intertwining, he walked with her down the stairs and across the floor. “See you at seven,” he said. “You thinking dinner out?”
“How ’bout room service?”
“You got it.”
They walked outside the building. A fierce summer sun cut through the latticework of skyscrapers, warming their cheeks. Ahead, Graf Byrnes was climbing into the rear of a limousine that would take them to Black Jet’s midtown offices. “You coming?” he shouted.
“Be right there.”
Gavallan kissed his wife on the cheek. “Seven o’clock,” he said. “It’s a date.” Then he brought her close and whispered, “Hey, we did it.”
Cate didn’t answer. He saw a memory dance in her eyes, a tear well up, then die.
Acknowledgments
I acknowledge with gratitude the help of Andrea O’Connell, Wyc Grousbeck, Richard Pops, Henrique M. L. Gregorio, and Barron Emile Eyraud, who gave willingly of their time and made the calls that set the ball rolling. In San Francisco, Mitch Whiteford, Michael Graham, David Golden, and Cristina Morgan showed me the inside of the tech banking world. In New York, I owe a debt of thanks to Jeffrey Zorek, Richard Cunningham, Paul Meeks, David Ballard, Kevin Keys, Christine Walton, and Derek Reisfield. Murray Teitelbaum shepherded me around the New York Stock Exchange and had an answer to every question. In Moscow, Alexander Poudov was a guide par excellence. Andrew Jack of the Financial Times gave me a cup of hot tea and steered me through the treacherous alleys of the Russian oligarchy. As always, I can’t thank my wife, Sue, enough for her patience and interest in my work. Bill Massey, my brilliant editor at Bantam Dell, hounded me tirelessly and the book is the better for it. Thank you, Bill. My thanks also to Martin Fletcher at Headline in London for his support and unwavering good taste. Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib oversaw every aspect of the work from beginning to end. It is a privilege to work with such talented and energetic professionals. I am lucky to have one of the finest literary agents in the business and his colleagues working on my behalf. My heartfelt appreciation goes out to Richard Pine, Sarah Piel, and Lori Andiman at Arthur Pine Associates.
Lastly, I would like to thank my brother, Bill, who is always there with a kind word, solid advice, and a ready ear. You’re one in a billion.
A Q & A with Author Christopher Reich upon the Publication of the First Billion
Q: You’ve written two thrillers that break open a fairly covert world—in NUMBERED ACCOUNT it is the world of private Swiss banking and in THE FIRST BILLION it is the high-stakes business of bringing a company public. How do you assess what information to present to the reading public in order to tease their interest, and what to “embellish” for the sake of page-turning plotting?
A: Any business where on a daily basis men and women stand to gain or lose millions of dollars—sometimes in just minutes—is by definition interesting. Nowhere is the tension higher than in the IPO game. IPO stands for initial public offering. Bringing a company public is a long process and involves many different parts of an investment bank. You could write a whole book about the process itself, but I don’t know if it would be a thriller. The exciting part comes at the beginning—winning the business—and at the end—taking the deal to market. In between is the hard part, the grunt work that fills most I-bankers’ days: due diligence, number crunching, road shows, etc. In THE FIRST BILLION I keep to the exciting parts.