The First Billion (32 page)

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Jean-Jacques Pillonel’s weekend home rested at the end of a short gravel drive, a majestic chalet nestled among the vines with an unobstructed view of the lake. Twin Jags were parked in front of a detached garage. Away to one side sat a barn coupled with two smaller outbuildings. Stacks of crates leaned against one of them, faded pictures of grapes stenciled on the splintered wood. Gavallan figured it must be where he kept the press and bottled the local tipple. All in all, impressive. More the residence of a country squire than the managing director of an accounting firm.

“Jett, but what a surprise,” called Pillonel as Gavallan climbed from the car. “And is that Cate I see? You two are together again?
Mais tant mieux.
Come in. Come in. The door is open.”

The squire was easy to spot. He stood on the first-floor balcony, clad in khaki work pants and a denim shirt, the nobleman’s obligatory sweater tied around his neck. One hand was raised in polite greeting, though Gavallan knew he had to have been wondering who the hell was doing something so decidedly un-Swiss as dropping by without an invitation.

Waving hello, Gavallan allowed Cate to precede him up a groomed path framed by a rose garden in full bloom. She was his calm, the antidote to the rage that had been building in him since they’d landed and that had taken firm grip of his every muscle. Left to himself, he would have run up the path, broken down the door, and wrung Pillonel’s neck until he confessed his every last crime, guilty or not.

Detective Skulpin was right,
he said to himself.
It had to be you. You handled the on-site inspections. You sounded the all-clear. You toyed with the pictures.

“Really, I am surprised,” Pillonel announced from the head of the stairs. “You are here on vacation? Why didn’t you phone me in advance? You’re both very naughty.”

He was a handsome man, tall, slim, with a bit of the dandy about him. He had a full head of hair that was a shade too black for a fifty-five-year-old and gray eyes that sparkled a little too brightly. He liked to wear ascots when they dined out at night, Gavallan remembered, and he smoked Silk Cuts with an ivory cigarette holder.

“Unfortunately, we’re here on business,” said Gavallan, climbing the stairs, doing his best to return the hearty handshake. “Mercury.”

“Ah. I see,” said Pillonel, light as a feather. “The big deal. Cate, may I take your jacket?”

“No thank you,” she answered, nearly wincing as he kissed her cheeks in greeting.

“Come along. I was just finishing breakfast.” Extending an arm, Pillonel showed them to the balcony. A table littered with croissants, jams, napkins, and a pot of coffee sat near the railing. The lake lay a mile away, a shimmering blue crescent stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. Beyond it, through a mid-morning haze, rose the snowcapped peaks of the French Haute Savoie. The good life, thought Gavallan.

“Claire will return shortly,” said Pillonel. “She’s out with the dogs. You remember my wife?”

“Of course,” said Gavallan, calling to mind a slightly built, argumentative woman with prematurely gray hair and skin the color of alabaster. He walked to the edge of the balcony and made a show of surveying the surrounding vineyards. “So this is where the Pillonel wine comes from?”

“Yes, the famed Chateau Vauxrien.” Pillonel pointed out the boundaries of his estate. “We have only ten hectares. It’s a modest parcel, but if the sun shines through September and we don’t have too much rain, we can make some good grapes. You would like a glass? I have some open just inside. Last year’s vintage. A bit young, but nice. Jett? Cate?”

“No thanks,” they both said.

Gavallan turned his back on the vineyard and, crossing his arms, fixed Pillonel with a grave stare. “We’ve got some major problems with the Mercury deal. I spoke with Graf Byrnes on Wednesday night. He was in Moscow checking out whether the rumors we’d been reading on the Net were true.”

“I told you—it’s rubbish. Nothing to worry about.”

“Graf doesn’t agree. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the deal was bad. Unfortunately, circumstances didn’t permit him to tell me how bad or what exactly was wrong. Before I cancel it, why don’t you tell me what you really know about the company.”

“What I
really
know? Why, we discussed it on the phone the other day. The Private Eye-PO’s accusations are ridiculous—frankly, laughable. You can’t be serious about canceling the IPO?”

“Oh, you bet I’m serious. The deal’s over.” Gavallan took a step closer to Pillonel, eyes wandering over every inch of his face, searching out where he kept his guilt hidden. “What do you think Graf could have found, Jean-Jacques? I mean, you promised me on Wednesday everything was hunky-dory. What could it have been? Everything’s ‘up and running,’ right?”

A brisk shake of the head. “I don’t know.” Swiftly, he added, “Yes, everything is up and running. You said Graf was not able to tell you what was wrong. Why not?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let’s stay where we are for the time being. The photos? You’re certain they’re fakes?”

“Positively. They’re rubbish. I’ve seen the facilities myself. You’re making much too much of the Private Eye-PO’s words. He’s a pest. If I were you, I wouldn’t even bother.”

“Oh, someone bothered, I can tell you that.”

He really is a pretty decent actor, Gavallan was thinking. And marveling at the man’s practiced deceit, he felt his anger rustle and loosen a notch. A hand dropped to the pocket of his windbreaker. Through the fabric, he let his fingers brush the butt of Cate’s pistol. He added, “The Private Eye-PO was killed yesterday. His name was Ray Luca. A gunman entered his workplace and shot him, along with nine other men and women. It was a bloodbath. Didn’t you read the papers this morning?”

Pillonel’s eyes widened in astonishment. “This is the rampage in Florida I read about. This is the Private Eye-PO? They say a man went crazy. That he killed all his friends, then himself. How horrid.”

“He didn’t go crazy,” said Gavallan flatly. “Take my word for it. It was a professional job.”

“You’re sure the killer was not Luca? The police sounded like they knew precisely what happened.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Who do you think would kill nine innocent people just to get at one man?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re lying,” said Cate. “You know damn well who might want the Private Eye-PO dead. Who
needed
him dead. We all know. Ray Luca was a friend. He died with nine innocent men and women because what he said about Mercury was true. You had to know it. You told us yourself you visited the Moscow Operations Center.”

“Cate, please, you’re mistaken,” said Pillonel, retreating, his eyes begging Gavallan for an explanation.
“Je vous en pris. . . .
Please, Jett, you must have a word with her. I don’t know what she is saying. . . . My God, this is all so crazy.”

“You’re the one who’s mistaken,” retorted Cate. “If you think you can jump into bed with Konstantin Kirov and walk away from this untouched, you’re a fool. How much is he paying you? A million? Two million? Ten? Or did he promise you shares in the deal? Tell him, Jett. Tell him about Ray Luca. Tell him about Graf.”

The mention of money, its hint of bribery and collusion and all things criminal, sparked a radical change in Pillonel. In an instant, his apologetic stance vanished, replaced by one of undisciplined outrage. “That is enough now,” he declared, pulling the sweater a little tighter around his neck. “I hope you haven’t traveled all the way from the States just to insult me like this, making these fantastical accusations. This is crazy what you say. Really crazy. You are badly mistaken if you think I am involved in some type of illegal affair with Mr. Kirov. I’ve said it time and time again: Mercury is fine. It’s your conduct that is criminal. I’d like you to leave. Now.”

But Gavallan did not move. He remained standing at his place near the balcony, stiller than he’d ever been in his life. If he lifted a finger, if he blinked an eye, if he let out his breath, he’d lose control over the animal rage that was clawing at his neck. All too clearly, he imagined himself hitting Pillonel with his fists, pummeling the man until his features were broken, his face a bloody pulp. He felt the gun heavy in his pocket, full of promise. The muscles in his jaw flinched, and a second later the vision passed.

“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.