At first glance, he looked more the affluent bachelor than the driven executive. Tall and fit, he'd dressed for the day in his usual outfit: jeans, moccasins, and a faded chambray shirt, throwing on a navy cashmere blazer for good measure. He was finished with uniforms, be they dress blues or three-button worsteds from Savile Row. In the same disobedient spirit, he kept his sandy hair cut long, sure that it brushed his collar and hid the tops of his ears. His face was strong rather than handsome. Creases dimpled weathered cheeks. Wrinkles bracketed eyes hard and gray as agate. His nose was slim and straight, the boldest testament to his Scottish ancestry. His jaw was steadfast, and as usual raised an extra degree, as if he were trying to peer over the horizon. A pillar of the yacht club, you might guess. A regular at the nineteenth hole.
But a second look would give you pause. His gaze was direct, and when not combative, confrontational. His gait was compelling and hinted at tensions simmering within, some urgent, inner purpose. You would never, for example, stop him on the street to ask for directions. It was his hands, though, that gave him away. They were the hands of a brawler, large and callused, the knuckles swollen from long-ago fights. No Ivy Leaguer he, you might say, and take a step back. This one was hewn from rougher stock. This one had required polishing.
Even at this hour, the hallways were abuzz. The day's first conference call originated at four-thirty. Everyone present in the office at that hour- usually about sixty traders, analysts, and brokers- gathered in the company conference room to share earnings announcements, analysts' reports, and street gossip with branches in New York and London. Video cameras, color monitors, and microphones linked the participants, and for thirty minutes they hashed out anything that might boost a particular stock's price or knock it down. Information was the market's universal deity- rational, impartial, and above all merciless- and it was worshiped accordingly.
Inside his office, Gavallan turned on the light. A glance at his watch gave him ten minutes until the conference call began. Not bothering to unbutton his jacket, he sat at his desk and checked his E-mail. Seventy-four new messages had come in since yesterday evening. Hurriedly, his eyes scanned the flat panel screen. The usual brokerage recommendations: Buy Sanmina, hold Microsoft; so-and-so initiating coverage on Nortel. Delete. Delete. Delete. Notes from a few venture capitalists in the Valley. An invitation to a golf tournament in Vegas. "Don't think so," he muttered, hitting the delete key; he'd take his clubs out of storage when the world righted itself. A smattering of messages from his colleagues in the firm. He'd check these later.
"Byrnes, Byrnes, where are you, buddy?" He looked for Grafton Byrnes's handle but didn't see anything. "Damn it," he muttered, rocking in his chair.
He'd hardly slept, expecting his number two to call with an update on the trip to Moscow. At the least, he'd hoped for an E-mail. Finding nothing, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and located a square slip of paper bearing the initials G.B. and a ten-digit number. He picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. Good afternoon."
Gavallan snapped to attention. "Yes, good afternoon. I'd like to speak with one of your guests. Mr. Grafton Byrnes."
"One moment."
Where are you, my boy? he wondered, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. You're my ace in the hole. Pick up the goddamn phone and tell me everything's all right. Tell me I was a fool to worry and that we can put some champagne and caviar on ice for our European friends.
"Mr. Byrnes is not in the hotel."
"Very good," said Gavallan, though in fact he was curious as to why Byrnes hadn't finished his work yet. Drawing a manila file from his desk, he flipped open the cover. Inside lay the photographs- the reasons for Grafton Byrnes's last-minute trip.
The first showed the façade of a two-story building that could have been a warehouse or a manufacturing plant. A sign above the entry read "Mercury Broadband." The photo was captioned "Moscow Network Operations Mainstation." A second picture purported to show the building's interior: room after room packed with standard telephone switching equipment, circa 1950, gray rectangular dinosaurs sprouting black connector cables like unruly hair.
Founded in 1997, Mercury Broadband was the leading provider of high-speed Internet service in Russia, the Ukraine, Belarus, and the Czech Republic- an area that Gavallan, with his training as a Cold War jet jock, would forever think of as "the communist bloc." Through its network of coaxial cable, fixed wireless, and satellite relays, Mercury Broadband serviced over two million businesses and residential customers and had contracted rights to service an additional twenty-seven million. It also packaged and offered multimedia content and E-commerce in the form of Red Star, a multilingual portal similar to America Online that boasted over seven million subscribers.
But here was the good part: Not only had the company doubled its revenues each of the last three years, it had begun turning a profit as of third-quarter fiscal 2000. In six days, Black Jet Securities would take Mercury Broadband public on the New York Stock Exchange in an IPO set to raise two billion dollars. The seventy million in fees the deal generated was crucial to relieving Black Jet's worsening financial malaise. Every bit as important was the boost to the company's reputation a successful offering would bring. From regional mighty mite to international presence in one fell swoop.
Which brought Gavallan back to the photographs. He had another picture in his manila file, also purporting to show the interior of the Moscow network operations center. This one positively beamed with the latest in Internet hardware- Sun servers, Cisco routers, Lucent switches- and it was this photo he'd showed to his investors.
"I'd like to leave a message," he said. "Please tell him Mr. Gavall-"
"Mr. Byrnes is not in the hotel," the Russian operator interrupted.
"Yes, I heard you. If you don't mind I'd like to leave a-"
"No sir, you do not understand," cut in the operator again. "Mr. Byrnes has checked out."
"That's not possible. He's not due to return to the States until tomorrow. Please check again." And before the operator could protest, he shouted, "Do it!"
"Very well." The "sir" was distinctly missing.
Confused, Gavallan ran his eyes over the computer screen, reconfirming he hadn't received any E-mails from Byrnes. His instructions had been clear: Once Graf picked up something about Mercury- good or bad- he was to let Gavallan know. Immediately.
"Sir? Our records indicate that Mr. Byrnes checked out of the hotel yesterday evening at eleven-thirty."
"Eleven-thirty? You're sure?"
Moscow was eleven hours ahead of San Francisco; 11:30 P.M. in the Russian capital meant lunchtime in the office. Byrnes had called in four hours before that, at around eight yesterday morning, to report that he'd arrived safely and would start his investigations the next day. The notion that he'd checked out without spending the night was as unsettling as it was absurd.
"Mr. Byrnes is no longer a guest with us," replied the operator. "If you'd like to speak with our general manager, I'd be happy to connect you."
"No. That won't be necessary."
" Po Zhausta. Da Svidaniya."
Gavallan put down the phone and strode to the window. For a long time, he remained still, looking out over the city. Through the rain, he could make out Telegraph Hill, and beyond it the bow lights of a supertanker advancing slowly out to sea. Farther to his left, pale red beacons glimmered atop the cable towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Staring at the melancholy panorama, he experienced a sudden tremor, a shiver that rustled his spine and caused him to cross his arms and hug himself as if fending off a stern winter's breeze. It was the same yawn of anxiety that had passed over him two days earlier, when on a foggy Monday morning he'd first broached the idea of a trip to Moscow to Grafton Byrnes.