The Prince of Risk (22 page)

F
or a few minutes neither of them spoke. Too much had happened. Each needed time to make sense of it. Alex went to the bathroom and returned with warm towels to wrap Bobby’s wound. She told him he needed to get to a hospital, and he said he felt all right for the time being. She gave him her look, and he promised he would go immediately.

Seized by a need to do something—anything—Astor stood and sorted through the papers on his father’s desk. He was looking for something similar to what he’d found at Penelope Evans’s home. There were letters from member firms, invitations to galas, memos from his father’s office. All appeared related to Edward Astor’s day-to-day responsibilities, both public and private. If his father had been concerned about unwanted attention the investigation might bring, it made sense that he’d conducted his research at Penelope Evans’s home. She was his cover.

“Don’t take anything,” said Alex.

“I’m just looking,” said Astor. “Besides, it’s my house.”

“It’s your father’s house. You have no legal right to be here. Technically, you’re trespassing.”

Astor stopped and faced her. “So?” he said. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“I need the jet. The G4. For work. I didn’t think you’d say yes on the phone.”

“You guys have jets.”

“Officially, I’m supposed to be taking a couple days off. Getting over Malloy and the others.”

“But you can’t?”

Alex shook her head. She almost smiled. “Of course not.”

“So what gives?”

“It has to do with what went down on Windermere Street yesterday. Something bad is about to happen. I can’t go into it.”

“Like what ‘something bad’?” The question was not driven by idle curiosity. The kinds of bad things Alex dealt with might adversely affect the market, and hence his funds. The fact that she was requesting a jet did little to settle his nerves.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Can you tell me where you’re going?”

“London.”

“That’s twenty grand, fuel and pilot there and back. If you hustle, you can pack and still be able to make a commercial flight out of JFK.”

“Too tight. I can’t chance missing it.” Alex brushed hair off her forehead. “Twenty grand isn’t very much to prevent an attack that might take a lot of lives.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

“That’s the idea.”

“You still didn’t answer me.”

“I don’t have to. I’m asking a favor. Just tell me yes or no and let’s cut the horse trading.”

“You’re serious? An attack…where?”

Alex ran a finger over her teeth, tapping them, shaking her head. “Sometimes I think you’re in the wrong job. They could have used you down at Gitmo. You could talk the nuclear codes out of the president. Where’s the attack? Here. New York. Or somewhere close by. At least, that’s my guess.”

“Soon?”

Alex nodded.

“You stop to think it could have something to do with my dad? The guy—Palantir—said something about an attack, too. He talked about their being desperate, whoever they are.”

“This isn’t financial. We’re talking a real physical assault.”

“Something took control of the car my father was in and made it appear as if it were a threat to the White House. If that isn’t physical, I don’t know what is.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am. The same people screwed with my elevator.”

“I’m not willing to make that connection. Your elevator could have malfunctioned on its own. A woman was killed in midtown just last year when an elevator went haywire.”

“This isn’t a coincidence.”

“Bobby, the guys I’m looking for aren’t desperate. They’re well organized and well financed and well armed. I’ve seen nothing that suggests these two incidents are tied together.”

“What are we talking then, another 9/11? A nuke? I don’t know what kind of stuff you guys come up against every day.”

“I’m thinking Mumbai.”

“That’s not good.” Astor knew all about the attack. Alex had called it a shoot and scoot and had been one of the team sent to Mumbai to work with the Indian police to analyze the event, with a view to formulating plans to improve their response. Astor also knew that she had been part of a task force to train the NYPD in how to deal with such an emergency if it took place in Manhattan. “If this thing is going down in New York, why are you so keen on taking the jet to London?”

“Jesus, Bobby, stop hounding me. I have to go to London. That’s all there is to it. Tell me yes or no.”

Astor sat on the edge of the desk. “Yesterday when Sully told me about the shooting out on Long Island, there was a second there when I didn’t know who had been killed. I thought about you—about us.”

“There is no us, Bobby.”

“That was your decision, not mine.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Alex flared before catching herself. “We hadn’t been getting along for years. Don’t act like it was all my fault.”

“You stopped talking. You stopped wanting to be near me. You stopped…well, you stopped everything.”

“Yes, I did, Bobby. You know why? ’Cause you were half in the bag every time I was near you. You weren’t exactly a romantic yourself. When was the last time you tried to make an effort?”

“From my exile in the guest bedroom? Getting into the bedroom was like breaking into Alcatraz.”

“I don’t sleep with drunks,” Alex said.

The word hit Astor like a hammer. She’d never called him that before. He rose and walked to the far side of the room. “I was never a drunk.”

“Maybe not. But it got bad all the same.”

“It did,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

Alex met his gaze. For once, she didn’t challenge him. Something in her face softened.

“Really?”

“I wonder if I’d done something differently…”

“It wasn’t just the drinking. It was your business. It never ended. The first thing you did when you got up and the last thing you did before you went to bed was check the markets. Last couple of years, you even slept with a phone under your pillow so you could look at your positions if you woke up. That’s not a job, Bobby. That’s an addiction.”

“Were you always this harsh?”

“Were you always this sentimental?”

Astor shrugged. “Something about nearly being killed, I guess. I do know that I’m ready to give it another try.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You meet someone?”

“No.” Alex shook her head, angry at letting herself be drawn into this kind of conversation. “It’s none of your business. Leave it alone.”

Astor came closer. It was difficult not to touch her. “We had something good.”

“This is not the time or the place.”

“I’m not going to get another chance. Not if you go to London.” He saw her eyes light up as she realized that she would get the jet. “Just think about it.”

Alex cocked her head. “That’s your best shot?”

“I had more planned, but I can’t have you thinking I’m too sappy.” He took a breath, and when he looked at her, he was looking at the same headstrong, beautiful girl he’d met all those years ago. “I’m still the man you married.”

“I liked that man.”

“Later,” said Astor. “After all this.”

Alex didn’t answer. Not at once. She held his gaze longer than he had imagined, hitting him with her inquisitor’s eyes. “Maybe,” she said.

That was as good as he was likely to get, today or any other day. He had a chance. It was all he could ask for.

He looked at his ex-wife, her eyes steadfast, jaw raised, all of her battle-ready. Her dedication to her job was the quality he admired most, and the one he found most maddening. In his world of masters of the universe and big swinging dicks and London whales, not one of his competitors had balls half the size of hers. He couldn’t fathom what she’d gone through the past two days, losing three colleagues in a gun battle—one of whom was a close friend—not to mention being shot at herself at close range. Yet here she was, driving out to Oyster Bay, not resting, not quitting, but going strong, maybe even gathering steam.

“You’re sure about the jet?” she asked.

“I’ll call the FBO now and get everything set up.”

Alex smiled tentatively. She gently pulled his hand away from his arm and studied the cut. “That’s deep. Emergency room. Pronto.”

“You care,” he said sarcastically.

“I ought to cuff you and take you downtown. That’d show you how much I care. Now come on. Let’s get out of here. I don’t want some of my people showing up and finding you in here.”

“And finding you?”

“Yes, Bobby, and finding me.”

“When are you back?”

“I hope it’ll be a day trip.”

“Good thing you came to ask.”

“Guess it worked out for both of us.” Alex walked out of the office, pausing at the doorway to wait for him. “By the way, what’s up with your phone? I couldn’t reach you.”

“I thought you said you came out here because you thought I’d say no on the phone.”

“I lied.”

“It was hacked. I’m going to buy a new one when I get back to the city. I’ll call you with the number.”

“Do that. I need to be able to reach you.”

Alex ducked into the corridor.

Astor took a last look at the desk. It was then that he observed a splotch of red under a corner of the leather desk pad. Quickly he freed the piece of paper. It was a set of driving directions from MapQuest. The address was in Reston, Virginia. Something clicked. He’d recently read something about Reston. He scanned the header and saw that the directions had been printed on Saturday morning. He looked more closely, and his heart jumped a beat.

Britium Technologies.

It was the company mentioned in the article Penelope Evans had been reading prior to her death.

“Coming?”

Astor folded up the paper and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He caught up to Alex on the landing. “Let’s go.”

Alex said yes, and they walked down the stairs together. They paused to say their goodbyes on the front porch.

“From here,” she said, “you’re going to get your arm taken care of, then go to Jan McVeigh and tell her everything you’ve learned.”

“Are you going to say you found me here?”

“I’m going to say you phoned me when you realized that you were in over your head and that this was a matter for the federal authorities.”

“I’m a civilian. I just say ‘the cops.’”

“Say whatever you want. Just get your butt down there. Ask for protection. Sully’s a little past his sell-by date.”

“I trust him.”

“I trust him, too, but whoever wants you dead got past him going in and going out.” Alex ran her fingers along the lapel of his jacket. “They’ve missed you twice. Three’s a charm.”

Astor lowered his head to kiss her, but she saw it coming a mile away and ducked her head.

“I said maybe.”

M
agnus Lee stood on the balcony of his private office, hands on his hips like a conquering field marshal, marveling at the Eiffel Tower. The original structure had been built more than a century earlier, yet its design remained contemporary and its engineering continued to astound. It was a masterpiece.

Lee looked down upon the Champ de Mars, the wide grass field that led from the Invalides to the Eiffel Tower. Apartments built in the Haussmann style ran for four city blocks on either side. The detail was exact, down to the mansard roofs blue with verdigris, shutters that actually closed, and molded cast iron railings on every balcony. Inside, the apartments boasted hardwood floors, Poggenpohl kitchens, and Sonichi express elevators that opened to the foyers.

Magnus Lee knew this because it was he who had built the apartments and the Eiffel Tower. Like all government officials, he had a second career, one dedicated to making as much money as humanly possible. His salary at the China Investment Corporation was the equivalent of $5,000 a year. His salary running a real estate development company ran to $5 million. Or rather, it had until recently.

Still, it was not his sudden drop in salary that troubled him. It was something else. Magnus Lee had not used his own money to fund his building projects. If he had, he would not be in such a bind. He had used money entrusted to him.

Lee had built other developments, too. The developments had names like St. Mark’s, Belgravia, and even St. Tropez. Like Paris, they resembled the architecture of their namesakes. Of late, however, the market for single-family homes and apartments had not been faring well. In fact, it had been in the shitter.

Lee returned to his desk and fell into his chair, contemplating his fate.

At that moment there was a commotion in the outer office. Miss May’s high voice could be heard uttering supplications. Lee’s door swung open, and a frail old man shuffled into his office. He was not wearing a Western business suit but traditional silk trousers and a high-collared jacket and soft shoes. He was bald and stooped, and his skin had the texture of rice paper.

“Elder Chen,” said Lee, catapulting to his feet. “As always, a great pleasure.”

“Do not get up on my account,” said the old man.

“Come in. Come in. Your presence brightens my day.”

Elder Chen, whose full name was Chen Ka-Ting and whose age Lee could only guess at, stopped on a dime. “Does it need brightening?” he asked sternly. Before Lee could respond, Chen broke into an avuncular grin. “It is enjoyable for a worthless old man to tease such a famous financial genius.”

Lee smiled, too. “You are too kind. I am certainly no genius.”

“Yes, yes,” said Elder Chen, patting Lee on the arm. “Why else would the wise men in Beijing allow you to invest the country’s funds? We were wise to elect you Big Mountain and entrust you with the society’s funds.”

Magnus Lee’s rise in finance was matched only by his ascendance in the Purple Dragon, Beijing’s most revered triad. Triads were secret societies founded in the last century to help support and protect communities from the tyrannies and injustices of government. They provided financing to local businessmen, helped ensure that police or petty government officials did not interfere with their activities, and engaged in other, less proper businesses, such as prostitution, drug trafficking, and extortion. In the end, a triad was a business, and like all businesses, it was required to earn a profit.

The head man in a triad was called Mountain Master. The member in charge of finances was Big Mountain.

Lee’s cheeks ached from smiling. The purpose of the visit was clear. No one had ever accused Elder Chen of being subtle. “Thank you, Elder Chen. May I offer you tea—or coffee, perhaps?”

“Coffee, yuck! Never! A Western calamity. Tea. Red Lip, if by chance you happen to have some in your cupboard. My liver is troubling me.”

“Of course.” Lee wrapped an arm around his visitor and guided him to a chair. “But first you must sit.”

The rumor was that Elder Chen was suffering from cancer and ate only two-turtle soup. When you looked at him, it was hard to determine whether he was healthy or ill. He weighed little more than 100 pounds and his walk was so unsteady that a child’s whisper might blow him over.

Lee called in Miss May and relayed the order for tea. Elder Chen insisted on taking her hand and stroking it for far too long, all the while complimenting her on her beauty. Miss May was a smart, tireless worker, but she possessed the face of a pug. Poor girl, thought Magnus Lee. It wasn’t two-turtle soup that kept the old devil alive. It was the mighty blue pill.

Miss May freed herself and returned with hot tea. The two men drank in silence. Abruptly, Elder Chen set down his cup and stood. “It is a lovely day. Let us walk.”

Lee glanced out the window. The sky was a dense cloud of putrid yellow, no trace of blue to be seen. Emissions from the region’s factories lay trapped beneath a strong inversion layer, blanketing the city with a noxious sulfur monoxide cloud. “A fine idea. It is always nice to get outside.”

The two men left the building and walked along the Champ de Mars. Elder Chen’s bodyguards followed ten steps behind.

“Your work is marvelous,” said Chen, waving an arm in admiration at the buildings on either side of them. “I feel like I really am in Paris.”

“You are. Paris, Beijing prefecture. I officially adopted the name. Buyers appreciate authenticity.” Lee stooped to pick a flower. “See? French tulips imported from Grasse, in the South of France.”

They walked in silence until they reached the base of the Eiffel Tower. Lee’s model was one-quarter the size of the original, approximately 100 feet tall. This morning the smog was so thick he was unable to see the French tricolor waving from the tower’s summit.

“Stunning,” said Chen.

“We even built a restaurant on the mezzanine level. Three stars. It is called the Jules Verne.”

“After the famous chef?” inquired Elder Chen.

“Ah,” said Magnus Lee, wagging a finger at the old man. “It is you who is clever, Elder Chen.”

“Ayee-yah,” said Elder Chen. “Has something died?” Chen gazed down upon the River Seine. The riverbed was dry except for a trickle of raw sewage snaking down its center. The smell provoked an immediate desire to vomit. Lee noticed that the bodyguards had put handkerchiefs to their noses.

“A problem with the water authority,” he explained. “A flaw in the local pumping station.”

Chen turned and started back toward the office. “It is all very impressive, Big Mountain. I am pleased. I’m certain that I may pass along news to the society that you have sold all the apartments.”

“Not yet.”

“Ninety percent?”

“Soon, Elder Chen.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Two percent?”

“Two units. A bit less than one percent.”

Elder Chen showed no reaction. “And the society’s investment?”

“It is safe, as you can see.”

Chen turned, his ugly face contorted with anger. “I see buildings with no occupants. Streets without automobiles. A river that smells like beetle dung. I see a city with no citizens. What do you see?”

“All will change when I get to Beijing and assume the vice premiership.”

“If you get to Beijing.”

“The leaders know my policies. They know I advocate for a more competitive yuan. That is why they have summoned me.”

“And those who wish to keep our currency strong?”

“They are capitalist puppets and will be exposed as such.”

“But the American influence is considerable. They wish us to buy their products and to develop a middle class. They have many allies in the party.”

“In due time we shall follow their example. But not now. Not when factories are closing and people are without work and food. Not when our banks are facing mountainous debts from unsold buildings. Not when people save their last pennies out of fear for the future.”

“You speak wisely, but—”

“As soon as we act, the economy will improve. Our exports will become cheaper. Our businesses will thrive. People will not be afraid to spend. Trust me, Elder Chen.”

“I trust you. You have always been like a son to me. Others I cannot vouch for. They are worried about the society’s money.”

“Silly.”

“One billion dollars is not silly.”

“In time we will have four times that amount. I have taken measures.”

Elder Chen had been a criminal for too long to miss the conspiracy in Lee’s words. “Oh?”

“Something will happen soon that will give our country all the power it needs to resist the Americans.”

Chen smiled a toothless smile. “May I inquire what?”

“Patience, Elder Chen. I can tell you one thing. When it does happen, you will not miss it. Nor will anyone in the world. Especially our American friends.”

“I will relay your message. In the meantime, may I tell them that you will at least be able to repay their investment in your company?”

“You may assure them that their money is safe.”

The men had reached Chen’s Rolls-Royce. A bodyguard held a door open. Miss May sat in the back seat, eyes wide. Lee could see that she was trembling. Elder Chen slid into the car with the ease of a man half his age and placed himself close to the young woman. He looked at Lee.

“One billion dollars, Vice Premier Lee. Shall I tell them Monday?”