Gavallan paused in front of the bank of photographers to allow them a few seconds to rejigger their flashes and pop off a few shots.

"Let everyone see those baby blues," Nina said, keeping a tight clutch on his arm, not letting him even think of moving on until the photographers were done. She might be a prig, but she knew her stuff when it came to corporate PR. She was right about the importance of his projecting a confident image, especially when one of his company's issues was under fire.

It was a classic San Francisco evening. An offshore breeze had cleared out the cloud cover, leaving the sky clear, dusted with stars. Across the street from the Fairmont sat the Mark Hopkins Inter-Continental and down the block the Huntington Hotel and the California Club, a gentleman's conclave so stodgy that only ten years ago it had refused entry to a serving mayor due to her sex.

A hundred years ago, Nob Hill had been home to the Big Four: Collis Huntington, Mark Hopkins, Chester Crocker, and Leland Stanford, the railroad and silver barons who'd built California. Setting foot on their stomping grounds, Gavallan never failed to feel bucked up, as if the tycoons had left behind some of their marauding spirit. Tonight was no exception.

Inside the ballroom, he made a beeline for the bar. It proved a long and arduous journey. Every two steps he was accosted by a friend or business acquaintance. Half were eager to congratulate him on the honor to be bestowed that evening, half to learn how the Mercury deal was likely to fare.

"I need a cassette player," he whispered to Nina, after swallowing half of his vodka rocks. "I only need two answers: 'Thank you' and 'Just fine.' I'll say I'm saving my voice for my speech."

"Come on," said Nina, "they're your friends and they're happy for you. You're the star this evening. They have to pay their respects. It's your duty to smile and play the good host."

"And I shall not disappoint," he said gallantly. Despite his distaste for glad-handing and small talk, he recognized that Nina was right, and that of all his duties, civility and good cheer were the ones he could guarantee were met.

Gavallan had been donating to St. Jude's Children's Hospital for eight years, dedicating ever-larger chunks of his salary to the institution and its programs to battle children's cancer, spina bifida, and infantile paralysis. He was quick to point out that he was hardly an ascetic. He had the house in Pacific Heights with the roomfuls of Kreiss furniture and Pratesi bedding. He wore whatever clothes he liked. Music came via the firm of Bang & Olufsen, stereo makers to the King of Denmark; television courtesy of a sleek Sony Plasma screen. He owned two Remington bronzes; some lithos by Branham Rendlen, a local artist he thought was dynamite; and, of course, the Mercedes.

There were other claims on his money. He saw to his mother's needs, helped out with his sisters' occasional purchases- washing machines here, new pickups there, schooling for their kids if they asked. He kept a fair amount in the bank, a little in stocks and bonds. (Or at least he had until he'd stuffed it all into his company.) He had enough to take care of him and his family in comfort should everything go to hell in a handbasket.

The rest he gave away.

The ballroom was filling up quickly. Elegant couples drifted through the carousel of tables, a monochromatic mélange of tuxedos, cocktail dresses, and ball gowns, laughing, chatting, and, to his eye, having a sincerely good time. San Franciscans enjoyed their liquor, and under the influence of a stiff drink or two their voices began to rise and fill the room with a jolly din.

Gavallan ordered another drink, then asked Nina if she wouldn't mind going to their table. Bruce Jay Tustin and Tony Llewellyn-Davies were already seated, Tustin with his wife, Nadia, Two Names with his partner, Giles, another wayward Brit. Meg sat at the adjoining table with her husband of forty years, Harry.

Gavallan greeted his guests with exaggerated bonhomie. He wanted it clear that the day's problems were behind them. Tonight they could relax and let their hair down. "Don't I know you nice folks?" he called, lending his voice a bit of the old Rio Grande twang.

The table stood as one. To Caesar, his due.

"Look who's here," said Bruce Jay Tustin. "And I thought security was supposed to keep the riffraff out. Do you have a ticket, young man?"

Meg sprang from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. "Congratulations, Jett. We're all so proud. You done good."

And then the others were up, shaking his hand, hugging him, treating him like a returning war hero. It was easy to forget that he'd only left them two hours earlier.

"Seriously, Jett, we're honored to share this evening with you," sounded Tony Llewellyn-Davies. "Believe it or not, we care about you deeply." He held Gavallan at arm's length, then proclaimed, "Oh, what the hell. I'll say it for everyone. We love you and we're overjoyed to be here. And that's the last nice word you'll get from any of us this evening." And with that he gave Gavallan a peck on the cheek.

"Here, here," added Giles, a handsome youth in his twenties. The two-carat diamond stud in his ear and eighteen-karat gold Cartier on his wrist hinted that his interest in Tony was more pecuniary than personal. Gavallan hoped his friend wasn't being played for the sap.

"The honor is mine, ladies and gents," he said, touched by the outpouring of affection. "It's rare that you get to work with your friends, and for that I feel both privileged and grateful. Now enough of this smarmy nonsense. Let's sit down and enjoy the evening." Raising his glass, he quoted from Bum Phillips, former coach of the Houston Oilers and honorary "good old boy." "Every man have a drink. Every good man have two!"

"Hoo-yeah!" shouted Tustin, glass raised high.

Gavallan clinked glasses with Tustin and his wife, Two Names, Giles, Meg, Harry, and Nina. He couldn't help but think of the one man who was missing from their ranks. After everyone quieted, he raised his glass again.

"To Grafton Byrnes. Let's pray for his health and safe return."

It was midnight in Potomac, Maryland. Streets in the leafy suburb were so calm as to be deserted. A warm, gusty evening breeze carried the sweet scent of cut grass and the merry sawing of crickets. On Dumbarton Road, the lights in most houses were dimmed, the occupants asleep. But in the Vann residence, a stuttering spectral light glowed from the second-floor dormer windows.

In his bedroom, Jason Vann dashed from computer to computer, pausing long enough to type in a sentence or two, before moving to the next. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. A hunted look shadowed his drawn face. Round and round he went, enraptured by this game of his creation. A game of cat and mouse. Vann was after the Private Eye-PO. He was trying to lure him into the open, and his bait was praise and scorn and disbelief and any number of the hundred emotions that stock enthusiasts routinely express.

At that moment, he was working five characters on the IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, and they were discussing the Mercury Broadband IPO to be brought to market in five days by Black Jet Securities. Mario was a high school student who was president of his stock club. Julie was a middle-class housewife who grew interested in the market after her husband had lost all of their money. Al was a New York know-it-all, a seasoned investor, and a veteran of many (losing) campaigns. Krystof was a programmer of Polish descent who believed that the stock market was every immigrant's way to riches. Heidi was a computer science teacher in Mamaroneck, New York, who had just invested her first five thousand dollars. And they all lived in a twisted corner of Jason Vann's conniving mind.