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  I was a perfect complement for the group. As I learned a little while after joining them, Tommy had already started to fade into the background of the team’s day-to-day happenings, something, frankly, he had earned. He was successful on a level beyond most forty-three-year-old men. He could afford to play puppet master and have strong, well-armed foot soldiers who worked to further both his name as well as his bank account. He had personally trained Perry and Jake while raising a family and positioning himself politically within the industry and firm. He was owed a time to handpick his clients and close the deals. He taught Perry and Jake everything they knew. They were two of the best in the business. Their work situation seemed enviable but they would both tell you, just as I am, the timing of my arrival couldn’t have been better.

  Their own success was beginning to suffocate them. More deals were streaming in than there was time for. They needed new blood. Once they accepted that I was more than competent, and as hungry as they were, we were one happy family. This just made us stronger. We enjoyed the long hours we spent together whether at Il Mulino for dinner with clients, or the Rainbow Room for lunch to discuss strategy, it didn’t matter. We had an expense account larger than most Americans’ salaries. The money was mind-blowing.

  My first monster deal came six months into my second year. It was a client I found, a prominent financial institution. Jake and Perry both helped me put the deal together. Two hundred thousand square feet in a mid-town property. The rent averaged $55.00 per square foot over a fifteen-year lease. As far as how a commission works, it’s simple. You take the average yearly rate for the term of the lease, which is usually somewhere between three and fifteen years, and multiply this by a percentage for each year of the lease. For a long-term lease this percentage usually begins around 5

  percent for the first couple of years and works its way down—you get the idea. Once the aggregate number has been devised by adding up the fees taken for each year, 40 percent goes to PCBL and our team splits the rest. Anyway, for the aforementioned deal,

  taking into account that according to the lease the yearly rent accumulated by 3 percent annually, the average yearly rent was around thirteen million dollars. To be precise, PCBL’s commission was $5,651,479.00 with our team getting a $3,390,088.38 share. Tommy got the largest cut of any deal we made. For this one he and I split 60 percent of our team’s share, since it was my client. Jake and Perry each got 20 percent. One deal and I walked away with a little over 1.1 million dollars. Now granted, not every deal made is of this size, but just like that I was wealthy. Not wealthy because my family was wealthy, but wealthy because I was wealthy. I had more money by far than any of my friends, guys who were doing pretty fucking well. In year two I made almost $2.3 million. I gambled in Monte Carlo for vacation and had a VIP table at any club in

  Manhattan. Life was good. My thirst for success was insatiable.

  Like I said, I was terribly wealthy. I understand now I was far from rich.

  Chapter 4

  By 6:20 a.m. I had settled into my office, a mix of a sophistication and technological advancement. PCBL is not one for being stingy so our headquarters are state of the art. All of the molding, as well as the doors and furniture, are mahogany. There is a lot of glass and the floors are lined with plush, hunter green carpeting. The walls are a light shade of cream and are accented with black-and-white stills of the Manhattan skyline as seen through the lenses of award-winning photographers. Color in the space is primarily supplied through fresh, strategically placed eclectic floral arrangements that are changed out every third day. It is the kind of space that could be confused for a prestigious law firm.

  The office is completely wireless, aside from the actual telephone on each desk being plugged into the wall. Everything is heat sensor activated from the light switches to the climate control; rooms actually adjust their temperature based on occupancy. Flat-panel monitors are the norm, and each office is furnished with a desktop as well as a compatible laptop, God forbid someone should be caught without access to the e-world.

  “Awesome party, man.”

  Jake, always in early like me, had walked into my office. He’d been in D.C. the previous day, and we hadn’t yet recapped. I was sitting at my desk looking at my morning schedule. I looked up.

  “You think?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You know it was tremendous.”

  He sat down in one of the chairs facing my desk. He started

  flipping a quarter in his hand as he spoke to me. Jake always had

  a quarter with him. When he was fifteen on some ski trip in Vermont, he got separated from his group or something. I don’t really know the details, but he insists having a quarter to make a phone call saved his life. Anyway, now he always has one with him.

  “And I must say kudos on having Carolyn invite Alan Lansing. How the fuck did you know he’d be in town?”

  Carolyn is my assistant and she’s second to none. She’s a native New Yorker, a hard worker, and a woman who, as much as she hates to admit it, always wanted more. She’ll tell you she’s content as she goes about her business, but there’s a reason she plays every New York State Lottery under the sun whether it’s daily, weekly, one of those scratch offs, whatever. As for Alan Lansing, he’s the CEO of ARAMAX Pharmaceutical, and a potential client. He splits his time between Los Angeles and New York.

  “I have my sources.”

  “You fucking devil. Hey, how about that girl who showed up with Brian? I’ve seen her in all these ads lately. What’s her name? Ellen...Eileen...”

  “Elena.”

  “Eeellleennnnaa,” he repeated, letting the name roll from his tongue slowly. “Definitely Scandinavian or Czech. Is he fucking her?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because after the party she spent the night at my place.”

  We both laughed. Jake grabbed his love handles.

  “Maybe if I lost some of this weight I could have some sort of a sex life too. I mean face it, I may not have your body, but I definitely have a better personality than you.”

  “Let me guess, all the girls want to be your best friend.”

  “Fuck you. Hey, let’s talk LANG and SKILES.”

  Just like that, as was the case most mornings, we went through each of the deals we were working on together. At 6:45 a.m. we called down to the deli for coffee and bagels. It was a normal morning. Normal, that is, until 7:10 a.m. when the phone rang. This was the phone call that would eventually turn my life upside down.

  I hit the speaker button.

  “Jonah Gray.”

  “Jonah, Andreu.”

  “Andreu?” I probed further.

  “Wow. I guess it has been a long time.”

  Then the voice hit me.

  “Andreu!” I exclaimed. “Andreu fucking Zhamovsky, you ghost! How the hell are you?”

  “I’m well, Jonah. I’m well.”

  “What’s it been, two, three years?”

  “Something like that.”

  Andreu Zhamovsky, son of Alexander and Galina Zhamovsky. Back in the days of Communist Russia, Alexander was a key player in the country’s natural reserves ministry. “Post-enlightenment,” as I like to call it, he was awarded the largest ownership interest in, and control of, Prevkos, which today is one of the world’s most vital natural gas corporations. As I tell you this, Prevkos sits somewhere around number two hundred on the list of the world’s five hundred largest companies. The organization controls over 50 percent of the country’s gas reserves and produces about 90 percent of all Russian gas. The firm’s primary exploration fields are located in the Nadym-Pur-Taz region of western Siberia. It is the largest vertically integrated natural gas company in all of Russia, engaged in everything from geological exploration to natural gas production and transportation. Prevkos is one of the most influential corporations tr
aded on the Russia Trading System, Russia’s equivalent of our big board, the New York Stock Exchange, and, subsidiaries included, it employs over three hundred thousand people. Needless to say, the Zhamovsky family is one loaded clan.

  During the 1970s, amid growing talks and realization of one day privatizing business, many potentially well-to-do Russian businessmen were sent all over the world for classified, politically motivated seminars. The simple goal of these seminars was well-defined: to learn what it takes to stand alone in industry without government intervention or direction. One of these secret seminars was held in New York City. My father, considered an expert in Western business practices, was a speaker at that seminar. That’s where my father and the Zhamovskys first met.

  My father and the Zhamovskys kept in touch over the years, becoming close friends. Every summer, even after my mother died, they would meet my father and me in the south of France for a vacation. That is how Andreu, only six weeks my junior, and I became friends. We would write letters a couple of times a year, and as we got older we’d phone each other from time to time. When my father and I were traveling in Europe or Asia, Andreu and I would do our best to get together. But as the years went on, we started to lose touch. Not because we wanted to, but because each of us became so focused on the respective directions of our lives. Lives which were literally continents apart.

  I never really got all the details, but Alexander Zhamovsky tragically died in 1998. From what I understand he was mugged and murdered late one night in a Russian subway station, a mode of transportation I always found odd for him considering his wealth. Anyway, Andreu has been key in running Prevkos ever since.

  “How’s life in Siberia?”

  “Oh Jonah, you owe it to yourself to get to Russia. Our country is truly beginning to thrive again. It’s such an exciting time.”

  “No doubt that fares well for Prevkos—”

  “I can’t complain. We’ve worked hard at positioning ourselves for the future.”

  “Listen to you, you sound so serious,” I said. “It’s a bit frightening.”

  “I am serious, Jonah. I have to be. If you don’t mind my asking, when did you become so easily frightened? You wouldn’t last one second in the Russian business world.”

  “That’s a little more like it.”

  “Seriously though, Jonah, it’s not like I’m the only one who’s been taking things seriously.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve been following your career. You’ve been putting together some pretty incredible deals.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Come on, you think Americans are the only ones on the Internet?”

  “Point taken.”

  “I’ve printed out all of the articles about your business conquests. And I must say, it looks like you are in a prime position to make a run at surpassing the real-estate legacy of your father. Which I must add would be no simple feat.”

  This comment resonated with me. Love him or hate him, my father was a real-estate beast. I couldn’t help but feel complimented by the comparison.

  “Easy there, Stalker,” I shot back. “Why the fuck you so interested anyway? I make tollbooth change compared to you.”

  “It’s not about the money, Jonah. I keep up with you because it helps me feel connected. It’s like e-mailing without actually having to e-mail.”

  I didn’t quite get the analogy. Still don’t.

  “How’s your mother these days?” I asked.

  “She’s terrific. Thanks for asking. Tell you what, I know it’s last minute, but why don’t you clear your schedule and we can talk over dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “I’m in New York, Jonah.”

  I quietly motioned to Jake to close the door. Then I sat down.

  “What are you talking about? You’re here?”

  “I got into town last night.”

  “Business, I take it.”

  “As a matter of fact it is business. I came here to talk with you.”

  “About what?”

  “Let’s for now just say that my firm is looking to branch out in some new directions that concern your industry. It’s not that I desire to be so vague, but I’m not comfortable discussing the matter over phone lines so early in the process.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I hate to impose, but I promise that it will be worth your while.”

  I leaned forward and glanced at my Outlook schedule: Drinks with M. Tate were slated for that evening.

  “I know you’re a busy man,” he continued, “but how often do I get to—”

  I cut him off. A guy of Andreu Zhamovsky’s stature and influence is the type of individual you do your best not to disappoint.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m looking at my schedule right now. I’m fine for tonight.”

  “Excellent. That’s just great. I don’t want you to have to go to any trouble so I’ll pick the place and call you back this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine. I’m actually going to be out of the office all afternoon so just leave word with my assistant, Carolyn. I’ll tell her to expect your call.”

  A few seconds later I hit the speaker button again and he was gone. Jake and I blankly stared at one another.

  “What the fuck was that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. Is Carolyn in yet?”

  Carolyn was often in extra early — something I rewarded her generously for at the end of each year. She did this for me because she knew it helped me to organize my day.

  “I think I just saw her walk by, toward her desk.”

  I hit speaker and dialed Carolyn’s extension.

  “Good morning, Jonah.”

  “Good morning, sunshine. I need you to call Tate’s office for me. I need you to let him know that I can’t meet him this evening. And when you can, check Perry’s, Jake’s, and Tommy’s schedules for me. I need them all to be free and clear first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I already see that Perry has an eight o’clock breakfast with Jerry Winkler.”

  “Reschedule it. I have a feeling we’re going to need a closed-door session.”

  Chapter 5

  At 8:15 p.m. I walked into Sushi Samba on Park South, between 20th and 21st. The place was a bit passé, but I figured I’d give my foreign friend a break. Anyway, the joint was packed.

  “May I help you this evening?”

  “Jonah Gray. There’s going to be two of us tonight. Has—”

  The hostess cut me off.

  “Of course, Mr. Gray. The rest of your party is having a drink at the back bar.”

  My eyes made their way past the centrally located sushi bar all the way to a small gathering at the back of the room. The wet bar unfortunately consisted of only five stools with thirty-five young hotshots looking to get a drink. Andreu was waving to me. He was sitting on the first stool in what seemed to be the exact farthest point away from me in the entire restaurant.

  The space was colorful. Shades of orange and red were the cornerstone of the décor, a dance of Far Eastern and South American culture. Waiters floated around with ice blue, pink, and crystal clear drinks on trays, which became tiny prisms as the room’s light energetically raced through them. Wooden planks with colorful pieces of fresh fish were scattered throughout. A wide, thin chandelier of smoked glass bubbles covered the ceiling.

  I carved a path through the crowd. When I almost reached the bar, Andreu stood up. Someone unaware of my approach stood in my way.

  “Please, excuse my friend here—Excuse him, please.”

  Andreu immediately began shooing the guy aside.

  “Please, don’t you know who this is?” he said.

  All of a sudden, all eyes were on me.

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend,” I said jokingly to the small crowd. “He’s from out of town.”

  “I may be from out of town,” he continued in his Russian ac
cent, “but you must not be as famous as I’ve been told. It doesn’t seem like anyone recognizes you.”

  “Then they must not read the business section very often.”

  We laughed. Then, we hugged.

  “You look great,” Andreu said. “What are you drinking?”

  We had the bartender’s attention, so I ordered straight away.

  “Sapphire and tonic. Three olives.”

  “Still with the gin, I see.”

  “How about you, little girl? What are you going with, Kir Royale? Like some little topless model running around St. Tropez?”

  Andreu looked good. He was, as always, clad in European fashion. He wore a navy Versace suit with a lime green ETRO shirt, no tie. His skin was tanned. His brown hair was getting long, yet he wore it sort of messy a la Hugh Grant.

  “Fuck you, my friend. Bourbon tonight, a man’s drink.”

  Andreu took a long swallow of the rust-colored liquid that filled his glass.

  “Really, though, it’s good to see you,” he continued.

  “It’s nice to see you too. You seem...content.”

  “I am content, Jonah. Things have been great.”

  “I imagine they have. From the looks of you, all day is spent lying in the sun.”

  “I was just in Antalya.”