thing of the past.
“Shall we find someplace private to speak?” Kirov asked Gavallan, and grasping him amicably by the arm, led him from the crowded reception room into a quiet hallway outside. “There, that is better. Now we can talk. Man to man.”
Kirov was a slim, compact man with narrow shoulders and an economical step. Leaving the reception area, Gavallan remarked upon the strict posture and bowed head, the carriage of the arms tucked close to his body, and rushed ahead to open the door, as if ushering a clergyman or someone whose life conveyed a sanctity of purpose greater than the never-ending quest for the almighty dollar. This higher calling was also visible in Kirov’s face. It was grave and focused, the skin so pale as to be translucent, the eyes dark, deep-set, and menacing as a witches’ hollow. His hair was a raven’s black. Cropped close to the skull, it accentuated the sharp cheekbones and drawn jowls. But there was fun in him, too. His mouth was puckish, as if ready to smile given the slightest reason. His eyes could surprise you with their playfulness. And he had a fine, boisterous laugh, louder than one would expect from such a small man. Mostly, though, what Gavallan sensed about the man was a monastic self-control, a zealot’s singularity of purpose.
“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Gavallan,” Kirov went on. “Believe me when I say the honor is all mine. Thank you for making the trip to see me. Since you have come, I take it you are familiar with my company, Mercury Broadband?”
“Naturally,” said Gavallan, aware he was being patronized. He sure as hell hadn’t driven to Palo Alto to brush up on the principles of American democracy. “You’ve built an exciting platform for the industry. We’re all very impressed.”
The mandate to take Mercury public was the hottest ticket on the street. All the big boys wanted in. Credit Suisse, Morgan, Goldman. Gavallan considered it a miracle in itself he’d been able to secure an hour of face time with the Russian tycoon.
“Yes, it is time we offer shares in Mercury to the investing public,” said Kirov. “Time to show the world Russia is no longer a second-class country. That Russia is not a land
of
criminals,
for
criminals, and
by
criminals. That rights of ownership, once documented, are respected by rule of law.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Gavallan, liking the man: the muted confidence, the palpable determination. Of course, if Mercury Broadband had been solely a Russian company, as Kirov was implying, Gavallan wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole. But with operations in Switzerland, the Czech Republic, and Germany—and even an R&D facility literally just up the road in Palo Alto—Mercury Broadband deserved to be called a multinational, and multinationals were exactly the kind of client Gavallan was looking for. “The timing is ideal. The market’s hungry for a first-class international operation like Mercury. I’m confident an offering would be greeted favorably.”
“I am of the same opinion,” said Kirov.
“Mercury’s revenues have demonstrated a pattern of consistent growth. You have a solid record of earnings and a sustainable business model. We’ve taken a close look at the financial statements you so kindly provided, and my colleagues and I believe an offering in the neighborhood of five hundred million dollars is realistic.”
“Five hundred million?” Kirov pursed his lips, his expression puckered with uncertainty.
“For ten percent of the company,” Gavallan hastened to explain. “We’ll go out with fifty million shares priced at ten bucks per, then float another ten percent in a year when the market sees what a great job you’re doing and values the company accordingly. We don’t want to sell Mercury short before you realize your true worth.”
Normally, if a company met its revenue forecasts, it could count on floating additional shares within twelve to twenty-four months at a
“Shall we find someplace private to speak?” Kirov asked Gavallan, and grasping him amicably by the arm, led him from the crowded reception room into a quiet hallway outside. “There, that is better. Now we can talk. Man to man.”
Kirov was a slim, compact man with narrow shoulders and an economical step. Leaving the reception area, Gavallan remarked upon the strict posture and bowed head, the carriage of the arms tucked close to his body, and rushed ahead to open the door, as if ushering a clergyman or someone whose life conveyed a sanctity of purpose greater than the never-ending quest for the almighty dollar. This higher calling was also visible in Kirov’s face. It was grave and focused, the skin so pale as to be translucent, the eyes dark, deep-set, and menacing as a witches’ hollow. His hair was a raven’s black. Cropped close to the skull, it accentuated the sharp cheekbones and drawn jowls. But there was fun in him, too. His mouth was puckish, as if ready to smile given the slightest reason. His eyes could surprise you with their playfulness. And he had a fine, boisterous laugh, louder than one would expect from such a small man. Mostly, though, what Gavallan sensed about the man was a monastic self-control, a zealot’s singularity of purpose.
“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Gavallan,” Kirov went on. “Believe me when I say the honor is all mine. Thank you for making the trip to see me. Since you have come, I take it you are familiar with my company, Mercury Broadband?”
“Naturally,” said Gavallan, aware he was being patronized. He sure as hell hadn’t driven to Palo Alto to brush up on the principles of American democracy. “You’ve built an exciting platform for the industry. We’re all very impressed.”
The mandate to take Mercury public was the hottest ticket on the street. All the big boys wanted in. Credit Suisse, Morgan, Goldman. Gavallan considered it a miracle in itself he’d been able to secure an hour of face time with the Russian tycoon.
“Yes, it is time we offer shares in Mercury to the investing public,” said Kirov. “Time to show the world Russia is no longer a second-class country. That Russia is not a land
of
criminals,
for
criminals, and
by
criminals. That rights of ownership, once documented, are respected by rule of law.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Gavallan, liking the man: the muted confidence, the palpable determination. Of course, if Mercury Broadband had been solely a Russian company, as Kirov was implying, Gavallan wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole. But with operations in Switzerland, the Czech Republic, and Germany—and even an R&D facility literally just up the road in Palo Alto—Mercury Broadband deserved to be called a multinational, and multinationals were exactly the kind of client Gavallan was looking for. “The timing is ideal. The market’s hungry for a first-class international operation like Mercury. I’m confident an offering would be greeted favorably.”
“I am of the same opinion,” said Kirov.
“Mercury’s revenues have demonstrated a pattern of consistent growth. You have a solid record of earnings and a sustainable business model. We’ve taken a close look at the financial statements you so kindly provided, and my colleagues and I believe an offering in the neighborhood of five hundred million dollars is realistic.”
“Five hundred million?” Kirov pursed his lips, his expression puckered with uncertainty.
“For ten percent of the company,” Gavallan hastened to explain. “We’ll go out with fifty million shares priced at ten bucks per, then float another ten percent in a year when the market sees what a great job you’re doing and values the company accordingly. We don’t want to sell Mercury short before you realize your true worth.”
Normally, if a company met its revenue forecasts, it could count on floating additional shares within twelve to twenty-four months at a
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