“After six years, Jett, I thought we had a relationship,” Pillonel droned on angrily, self-righteously, a man wronged in his own house. “That maybe we were even friends. I see I was wrong. Now, go. Both of you. Take your accusations and make them to the police. Maybe I’ll call them myself.”
“Friends?” Gavallan asked, cocking his head. “Did I hear you say you thought we were friends?” He advanced on Pillonel. Something inside was stretching, growing taut, moaning like the hull of a submarine down past its depth limits.
Pillonel took another step back, palms raised as if he were calming an angry dog. “Come now, Jett. You stop there or I call the police.”
Gavallan grabbed the phone from a side table and thrust it at Pillonel. “Go ahead. Call them. Or do you have the balls?” He threw the phone on the table. Another step. “We know what you’ve been up to, and it’s not what friends do to each other.”
Cate said, “Jett, please…”
Gavallan did not remove his eyes from Pillonel. “We know you faked the due diligence reports. Your men scoped out Mercury’s assets. Your men signed off on its physical plant and inventory. It couldn’t have been anybody else.”
“This has gone far enough,” said Pillonel, stopping, crossing his arms. “I’ve had quite enough of your bullying. You will go. Now. I demand it.”
But it was Gavallan who had had enough. Later, he wasn’t sure what finally made him break: the insistence of Pillonel’s denials, the man’s elegant ignorance, or just that he was sick of being lied to and didn’t know any other way of making Pillonel admit his sins.
Drawing the pistol out of his pocket, he grabbed Pillonel by the collar, yanked him close, and laid the snub-nosed muzzle against his head. “How’s that, you fuckin’ prick? You want bullying? This is bullying. And I’ll tell you something. We aren’t going anywhere until you start telling the truth.”
“Jett, put it away,” pleaded Cate, rushing to his side. “Stop it.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gavallan, cocking the hammer, pressing the barrel harder into Pillonel’s forehead. “We’re friends. We’re just playing. Right, Jean-Jacques? Just palling around?” When Pillonel didn’t answer, he said, “Yesterday, two of Kirov’s creeps put a bigger gun than this one on my forehead, right there in the same place. Do you know what they said to me, Jean-Jacques? Do you? They said, ‘Sorry, Mr. Jett. Mr. Kirov says you have to die. He says it’s business only.’”
Gavallan shoved Pillonel across the balcony. The Swiss stumbled over a chair and collapsed on his behind.
“Ten people are dead because of Mercury. ‘For business only.’ As for Graf, I can only hope he’s okay. The reason he couldn’t let me know the exact details of what he’d found out about Mercury was because he’s with Kirov. A prisoner, I guess, if Kirov hasn’t already had him killed. If nothing else, you’re going to tell me the truth for him—for Graf Byrnes—so that maybe I might have a chance to get my friend back. Understand?”
Pillonel got to his feet. Righting the upended chair, he brought it to the table and sat down. His tan face had gone gray. “Mais non,” he said. “Ce n’est pas possible.”
Cate wandered closer. “Si,” she replied. “C’est bien possible. En fait, c’est la vérité.” It’s the truth.
Gavallan slipped the gun back into his pocket and sat down in a chair next to Pillonel. Just looking at the man made him weary. Accountants had no business being criminals. They lived in a cloistered world of financial reports and P &L statements, of interminable client meetings and rushed lunches. Of clipped fingernails and polished shoes. They had no business consorting with murderers and gangsters.
“Our friend in Moscow is nervous,” Gavallan said. “His empire’s falling apart. Mercury. Novastar Airlines. So now he’s tidying up. Covering his tracks. I’d be scared if I were you. Geneva’s a helluva lot closer to Moscow than Florida.”
Cate opened her handbag and gave Pillonel the Private Eye-PO’s last report, the document titled, “Mercury in Mayhem.” When the Swiss executive had read the whole thing, she slipped him Yuri Baranov’s fax to the FBI calling for a raid on Kirov’s headquarters.
“Call Baranov,” Cate suggested. “His number’s on the fax. He’ll be glad to tell you all about it. His offices have provided us the evidence about Mercury. They have an informant inside the company.”
“But this has nothing to do with Mercury,” protested Pillonel. “I know nothing about a raid. It is of no concern to me.” He made an effort to stand, but Gavallan waved him down. “Sit down. Now.”
Pillonel shrugged and sat. Affecting a pensive pose, he averted his gaze from his guests. “You know you can see Évian from here?” A tremulous hand pointed to the French side of the lake. “They have a marvelous casino. Right out of the thirties. I go sometimes with Claire. We put on our evening clothes, take the steamer from Ouchy. Maybe we all go, the four of us? Take the waters. Do a little gambling.”
When neither Jett nor Cate responded, he shifted in his chair, drawing a breath as he faced his accusers. His color had returned, and he looked remarkably composed. He made a little gesture with his shoulders, a timid shrug that was at once ashamed and contrite. “I’m no murderer. Maybe foolish with the girls. Maybe, I gamble sometimes. But murder? No. That’s not me.” He sighed. “Alors, how long have you known?”
Gavallan looked down as the anger bled from him. “Since yesterday. Why, Jean-Jacques? What made you do it?”
“Why?” Cate repeated.
Pillonel answered without hesitation. “Money, of course.”
Cate shook her head. “You pig.”
Pillonel shrugged. Dusting off his shirt, he sipped from his coffee and began to explain.
Seven months ago, Kirov had come to him with a plan to take Mercury public. The thirst for broadband services was unquenchable and Kirov claimed to be in a perfect position to exploit it. Mercury had been growing rapidly for four years. He was already the number two Internet service provider in Russia. Business conditions were stable and the country was increasingly prosperous. It was the time to offer shares. There was only one problem, Kirov confided: Mercury wasn’t quite where it should be, the infrastructure not exactly as advertised. Moscow was a problem and so was St. Petersburg. But it was nothing to be concerned about, he promised. The problems would be rectified once Mercury received the infusion of capital an IPO would bring.
“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?”