For once the pasty lawyer smiled. "Actually, bookings are up fifteen percent over last year."

"Fifteen percent?"

"Fifteen point six to be exact."

Kirov held the attorney's eye, hoping to conceal the tide of unease crashing inside him. First Futura and now mention of Novastar's bookings. Next thing Baranov would say he had the banking records to boot. A word scratched at Kirov's throat, begging to be acknowledged, spoken, screamed. Spy. Someone was slipping his organization's most important records out of his offices.

"I don't involve myself in the day-to-day affairs of my companies," he finally said. "I know nothing of the directive, but you have my word it will be discontinued immediately. I'm sure the shortfall in revenues is simply an accounting error."

"One hundred twenty million dollars is more than an accounting error."

"Then the error is surely yours, not mine."

"I think not, Konstantin Romanovich. Don't be surprised to find a government delegation coming to your offices for an early visit one of these days. You know my boys- the ones with ski masks, camouflage utilities, and machine guns. I've been made to understand that you are a demon for order- some might even say obsessive. Who knows what we might find. Perhaps some documents with the Banque Privé de Genève et Lausanne name?"

The Banque Privé de Genève et Lausanne? How the hell had Baranov come up with that name?

Kirov colored, but his voice remained calm and modulated. "Is that a threat?"

"One hundred twenty million dollars is missing," said Baranov solemnly. "Return to the state that which it is due and this inquiry will be terminated."

Confess! Collaborate! Apologize! The iron voice echoed across forty years.

"A raid will not be allowed," protested Kirov. "If you wish to launch a formal investigation into my handling of Novastar's affairs, you're welcome to do so. But use the proper channels."

Baranov slammed an open hand on the table. "The Rodina is in a pitiable condition. Our people need money, not justice. The rule of law must take a backseat to economic necessity. We will no longer stand by as you and your like continue to rape the country, as you strip Mother Russia of her wealth to line your own pockets. You oligarchs are jackals, one and all."

"Never have I robbed the Rodina," said Kirov, his voice silk to Baranov's sandpaper. "I do not sell her minerals on the cheap. I do not smuggle her diamonds or gold out of the country. I do not squander her oil. I am a builder. A creator. Look around you. Half the new buildings in this city are mine. Offices. Apartments. Restaurants. I started a television station from nothing and built it into our city's most popular. A thousand rubles says the radio in your car is tuned to my station. It is I who have upgraded our country's phone lines, I who have brought the Internet to our young people and businesses."

"Yes," said Baranov, all outward calm evaporating. "You have constructed buildings, but at twice the true cost. Your offices charge outlandish rent to your own companies. Advertising billings collected by your television station are booked to offshore companies. Income tax- I don't even dare ask what you pay… or don't. As for Mercury Broadband and your interest in the upgrading of our nation's infrastructure, it is as suspect as the rest of your operations. Be most assured, Konstantin Romanovich, we are aware of your ambitious plans- all of them- and we will decide which are acceptable."

Kirov was not blind to the threat. He shuddered to think what might happen to the Mercury Broadband IPO should his offices be raided by government troops. The press would be forewarned. Pictures would be broadcast over Russian television by noon and in America by nightfall. The offering would be postponed, or more likely canceled. Two billion dollars gone. And why? Because Kirov had conducted himself according to standard Russian business practice? Because he'd dared to prosper in perilous times?

He blinked, and despite himself his eyelids stuttered. Whatever else might happen, the IPO had to go through. Too many people were relying on its success. He, to build the first great company of the new millennium and to gild his path through the corridors of power. Others, to advance ambitious plans of their own, plans that would restore luster to the country's sword and shield.

Fathoming for the first time the insidious nature of the forces arrayed against him, he shed his mantle of insecurity and donned his fighting gear. If Baranov expected him to roll over and give up, he was sorely mistaken. Kirov had been fighting intimidation his entire life. As a Jew. As an intellectual. And as a businessman.

"Your threats are reprehensible," he declared in a soft, dangerous voice. "But nothing more than I expected from one of Brezhnev's bullyboys. I remind you we live in a democratic society these days. I've even heard a rumor we have rights."

"Thieves have no rights!" Baranov stood, his chair tumbling behind him. "Return to the state that which is its due and the inquiry will disappear. You have my word."

"Your word? Your word is as reliable as the false accusations you've been tossing at me all afternoon." Only his mother's ingrained good manners prevented him from spitting on the floor. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer: the musty room, the weak lightbulbs, the worm-eaten furniture. Any moment, Khrushchev himself would walk through the door and start banging his shoe on the table.

Standing, Kirov buttoned his jacket. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I have a pressing engagement."

Lowering his head, he rushed from the room. There was a spy burrowed inside Mercury, and Konstantin Kirov had to root him out.

Look, Mr. Gavallan, it's simply too early to start looking for your friend," said Everett Hudson, a consular officer with the United States Embassy in Moscow. "Twenty-four hours? I don't think they consider a man missing in Russia for a week. Until then they just think he's drunk."

Hudson had a squeaky, somewhat unsure voice. A Yalie on his first assignment with the foreign service, guessed Gavallan. Or a baby spy still wet behind the ears. "Mr. Byrnes is not a Russian," he said gravely.

"Of course he isn't," agreed Hudson. "Look, I'll forward the description you gave me to the police, and I'll be more than happy to phone the larger hotels. But I remind you, Moscow is a large city. It covers nine hundred square kilometers and has over ten million inhabitants all included. There's a lot of places to hide."

"Mr. Byrnes isn't hiding. He came to Moscow on extremely urgent business. He is a reliable man. He was due to call me this morning. As he hasn't, I have to assume something…" Gavallan hesitated, searching for the right word. "Well, that something bad has happened to him. He's a former Air Force officer. He's…" Gavallan didn't bother finishing. He had already offered a nutshell explanation of Byrnes's reason for visiting Moscow; it would serve no purpose to offer any further testimonial to his character. "Something's just wrong, okay?"

"Can I be honest with you, Mr. Gavallan?"

"Please." Gavallan took a sip of Coke and set down the can. The clouds had moved on, leaving the sky a pale-washed blue. Whitecaps and a considerable chop attested to a steady offshore breeze. Feeling tired, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off, he kneaded the top of his knuckles while ordering himself not to explode.

"Moscow is kind of a strange city. I've been here four years, and you wouldn't believe the stuff I've seen. What I mean to say is that sometimes people go a little crazy when they get here."

"Crazy?"

"Well, not crazy, but they tend to let go. Especially men. You see, it's kind of a free city these days. After so long under the thumb, the Muscovites have gone a little wild. Let their hair down, if you know what I mean."