The First Billion

Gavallan affixed his violent slash to the documents as indicated. "That it?"

"That's it, my friend." Norgren added his own signature as witness, then gathered up the papers and laid them neatly in the out tray. "First payment isn't for sixty days. After that it's twenty-five grand a month, every month. And that's on top of your regular nut. That's a lot for a guy who hasn't taken a salary since Christmas."

Gavallan figured that taking a paycheck was like robbing Peter to pay Paul. He was all too aware of his precarious circumstances. "Not to worry, Sten. I'll have the entire amount paid back by the end of the month."

"Thousand-dollar prepayment penalty, just so you know. Couldn't get them to drop it. Come on, I'll walk you out." When they reached the reception area, Norgren said, "Sorry if I'm being a nervous Nelly. It's just that you're cutting it awfully close this time- I mean putting it all on this deal. Frankly, if you weren't my friend, I'd tell you you were out of your blazing mind. You sure it's going to work out?"

Gavallan smiled slyly as he threw an arm over the attorney's shoulder. "You saying you don't want your Mercury shares? Is that it?"

"Jett, I'm serious. If Mercury goes south- even if you have to shelve it for a few months- you'll be feeling the pain. You and your company. Think about what I said. About cutting. Make it temporary. A three-month vacation."

"Relax, Sten. It's not that big of a deal."

"Better yet, let me make that call. I'm just wondering if it's wise to bet it all on one number. It is a big deal, Jett."

"Nah," said Gavallan, shaking his friend's hand. "Betting it all isn't such a big deal- losing it is. Anyway, didn't you know? The house always wins."

Waving good-bye, Gavallan strode confidently to the elevator. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and as the car descended, his stomach went with it.

Cutting it close? Norgren had no idea. Gavallan was down to three thousand dollars in his checking account, a hundred grand in certificates of deposit, and his prize Mercedes parked out front, its value beyond reckoning. He had a first mortgage of eighteen thousand dollars a month, a second of twenty-five grand kicking in in sixty days, and a quarterly tax payment of two hundred and eighty thousand dollars due on the 21st based on a salary he wasn't receiving- and that was before he put one foot out of bed.

Walking to his car, he considered his other obligations. To his three sisters and a widowed mother, all in Texas. To a club of broken and battered men spread around the world whom he'd adopted as his own. To a hospital that this very evening would fete him as its Man of the Year.

"And so, Mercury," he whispered, with a secret hope.

And so, seventy million dollars in fees and a spigot of related business to come down the pike.

And so, a twenty-first-century return to normalcy.

Gavallan started the motor. He had one more stop before returning to the office.

The team of three men and one woman worked quickly, efficiently, and silently. They entered Gavallan's residence through the rear door, disabling the security system, then spreading out through the four-thousand-square-foot home to their assigned target areas. Each knew the house by rote. They had studied architectural drawings of the home as well as an electrical schema of its wiring. They carried the tools of their trade in black web belts hidden beneath striped cotton shirts declaring them employees of Pacific Gas and Electric.

It was a standard "look and listen" job. Two of the men, known in agency lingo as the "ears," planted ultrahigh-frequency wireless listening devices in strategic locations throughout the house. Under the dining room table. On top of the refrigerator. Behind the headboard of Gavallan's bed. Each bug had been assigned its own frequency, so that there would be no risk of one transmission interfering with another.

A third man, "the eyes," installed the cameras. They were very small and designed to replace the screws securing the faceplates of standard electrical outlets. Where this proved impractical- in the study, for example, where it was crucial that the lens be granted an unobstructed view of any materials Mr. Gavallan might be reading- he drilled a hole the circumference of a surgical needle into a gilded picture frame and inserted an even smaller model. Afterward, he applied a coat of colored translucent epoxy over the pinhole, making it invisible to the naked eye.

The last member of the team walked straight to Gavallan's private office and installed herself at his desk. She was the only person that morning engaged in a function outside the scope deemed legal by the court order issued the previous day by the Eighth Circuit Court in Washington, D.C. In her belt she carried a set of Czech-made titanium alloy skeleton keys, a dozen picks, and two dummy credit cards. She didn't need any of them. Giving a gentle pull, she discovered the desk to be unlocked. Methodically, she withdrew the papers, set them neatly upon the desk, and photographed them with a digital camera. Once she was finished with the top drawer, she returned the contents to their place and attacked the two larger drawers to her right.

When the team departed twenty-two minutes and fifty-one seconds later, a total of eleven bugs and six wireless cameras had been planted throughout the house. Two hundred twelve photographs of the suspect's most confidential documents waited to be enlarged and scrutinized. Mr. John J. Gavallan, subject of federal warrant SJ-74A001, under investigation in co

Walk in the park.

Roy DiGenovese waited until the Mercedes 300 SL had exited the office car park, then put the Ford in gear and pulled into traffic. He was not particularly worried about losing his mark. Gavallan was a steady driver, fast, aggressive, but safe. He used turn signals and didn't run red lights. A bakery truck pulled away from the curb, momentarily blocking Gavallan's car from view. DiGenovese didn't mind. He knew that when traffic picked up, all he'd have to do would be slide to the left and peek down the road. The white Mercedes, with its slot back and flat roof, would be there as usual, exactly three car lengths ahead of him, sticking out like a sore thumb.

"Zebra base, this is Zebra two, come in."

DiGenovese calmly picked up the walkie-talkie. "Roger, Zebra two."

"Went off like a charm. Target is wired for sound and light. Copy."

"Roger that, Zebra two. Rendezvous at the ranch at 1600. Drive on, Airborne."

DiGenovese put down the walkie-talkie and checked his watch. It was 8:07. In and out in under twenty-three minutes. "Outstanding," he murmured, remembering the long hours he'd put in on the case, the endless calls overseas, the numbing arguments with one after another federal magistrate to obtain his precious search warrants.

Setting up surveillance on Gavallan's residence was the final step in the casting of an all-encompassing electronic net over the suspect. Phone taps had gone into effect last night. Calls in and out of Black Jet, as well as his home, were screened for a succession of keywords and names. Mercury, Moscow, Novastar, Andara, Futura, and Kirov, Baranov, Tustin, and a hundred others. At the first mention of any of them, sophisticated computers at the National Security Agency would track and record the conversations.

Better yet was the second-generation Internet eavesdropping software being installed even as he drove. Nicknamed "Daisy," in deference to the flak brought down on their heads by its predecessor- the ineptly titled "Carnivore" system- the FBI's newest cybersurveillance tool was housed in a black metal box no larger than a Palm personal assistant and powered by state-of-the-art software developed by the Bureau's in-house programmers. Installed at Gavallan's and Black Jet's wireless and Internet service providers, Daisy monitored every E-mail he or his executives received, their RIM Blackberries, cellular phones, or digital pagers for the list of keywords that DiGenovese and his superiors in D.C. had deemed likely to indicate conversations of a criminal bent.