John 'Jett' Gavallan, a former fighter pilot, now the high-flying CEO of Black Jet Securities, is banking on the riskiest gamble of his career. In exactly six days, he will take Mercury Broadband, Russia 's leading media company, public on the New York Stock Exchange. Billions are at stake, but rumours that the company is a fraud place the deal on a knife-edge and when his number-two man disappears in Moscow, Jett finds himself trapped in a deadly conspiracy. Hunted by the FBI and a band of elite killers, Jett races from Palm Beach to Zurich to Moscow in his search for answers…but the truth comes at a terrible price.
© 2002
For my daughters, Katja and Noelle, with love
You are millionaire?" she asked.
"Me?" Grafton Byrnes pointed a finger at his chest. "No. I'm afraid not."
"Yes," she insisted, adding a coy smile. "You are millionaire. I can tell. You have nice suit. Beautiful tie. You are confident. It is clear. You are millionaire."
Byrnes unglued his eyes from the leggy blond who'd taken a seat at the bar next to him and looked around the room. The place was called Metelitsa, and it was a restaurant, nightclub, and casino rolled into one, located on the Novy Arbat in the center of Moscow. Red curtains blocked out the summer evening's glare. White tablecloths, smoked mirrors, and croupiers in black ties lent the room a touch of class. But one sniff told Byrnes different: the smoke, the perfume, the heady mix of expensive liquor and easy morals. He could recognize a cathouse by scent alone.
"I'm successful," he said, curtly. "Nothing special."
"You are very successful, I think. Yes, a millionaire." She pronounced the word- mee-lone-air- and her Slavic accent and grave delivery lent the word a patina of its foregone luster. "You would like to buy me drink?"
"Sure," he said, before he could ask himself what he was getting himself into. "What'll you have?"
"Vodka. On rocks with twist of orange."
"Coming right up."
Byrnes was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes off the woman next to him. To call her gorgeous would have been an injustice. She was no more than twenty-one, with white blond hair, satin blue eyes, and the kind of pouty lips that his ex-wife called "bee-stung" and that no amount of collagen injections could reproduce. Her dress was black, short, and tight; her nails were lacquered a rich maroon. But it was her bearing that Byrnes found irresistible: the inquisitive tilt of the head, the brazen posture, the adventurous twinkle to the eyes that seemed to say, "Dare me- I'll try anything." In short, she was every middle-aged divorcé's idea of a fitting companion.
"Bartender!" As Byrnes shifted on his seat to get the barkeep's attention, he inadvertently nudged the man next to him. "Izvinitye," he said, offering a smile. Excuse me.
The man looked Byrnes up and down, then rose from his stool. He was six four, about two twenty, with a Marine's crew cut and a neck the size of a fire hydrant. He had a buddy next to him who looked like he'd fallen out of the same tree. Byrnes had been warned about guys like this. "Flat tops," they were called. Enforcers for the Russian mafiya, or more politely, point men for the Russian business elite.
Be careful, Byrnes's best friend had told him. Moscow isn't Paris or Zurich or Rome. It may look like a European city, but it's not. You're in Russia. The whole country is in the shithouse. Two percent of the people are making a fortune and the rest don't have a pot to piss in. It's dangerous over there.
"Excuse me," the Russian replied, in decent English. "I hope I not disturb you and pretty lady."
"No," said Byrnes. "My fault. Again, I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink. We'll call it even."
"No need," said the Russian, with grating politeness. "Have nice evening." He made a show of adjusting his blazer and retook his place. Only a blind man would have missed the nickel-plated revolver nestled beneath his arm- a.357 Colt Python with a pearl handle, if Byrnes wasn't mistaken.
Turning back to the girl, Byrnes found a round of drinks on the counter. Okay, he said to himself, let's start over again. And raising his glass, "Na Strovye."
"Na Strovye." She took a sip, then leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. "My name is Svetlana."
"I'm Graf," he said, knocking back the entire drink. "Good to know you."
"You speak Russian. Why you not tell me so before?"
"Nemnogo," he said. Just a little. The Air Force would be proud of him for having remembered as much as he did. He also knew how to say, "I am an officer," "My serial number is…," and a few choice obscenities.
"I no like Russian men," Svetlana confided in his ear. "So arrogant."
"Me neither," he complained. "So big."
She laughed. "Tell me, Graf, why you are in Moscow?"
"Business," he answered.
"Beez-ness? What do you do?"
Byrnes shrugged, looking away. "Nothing interesting. Just some routine stuff."
