The Prince of Risk (26 page)

A
firm hand awoke Alex from her sleep.

“Ms. Forza. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Alex opened her eyes. The pilot stood above her. “Yes,” she said. “I must have dozed off. I’m sorry…what time is it?”

“Just after nine p.m. New York time. Three in London. Someone wants to talk to you. A Special Agent Mintz. He’s patched through to the cockpit. He says it’s urgent.”

Alex threw off her blanket and moved forward through the cabin. The copilot handed her a headset. “Yeah, this is Alex.”

“It’s Barry. Got some news that you need to know about right away. Looks like our shooters came through Mexico City last night.”

“How do you know?”

“This group was coming out of Caracas traveling on virgin Portuguese passports that had been stolen from the embassy in Macao.”

“Lambert’s passport was Portuguese.”

“Exactly. And you’ll never guess how many.”

“Twenty-three.”

“Bingo. Same as on those city maps. And they weren’t speaking Portuguese. All of them were speaking English.”

“Do we still have a bead on them?”

“All we know is that they climbed into a couple of vans and drove away. Two big shots from the Federales greased their arrival. Neil Donovan is trying to locate them now, see if he can sweat them.”

“Not likely,” said Alex.

“Turns out you were right, boss.”

“About what?” asked Alex.

“The groceries in the cupboard at Windermere Street. If the shooters hit Mexico last night, there’s no reason that they couldn’t already be here.”

“Did you tell Barnes?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“He’s presenting it to the mayor, the police commissioner, and Homeland Security in the morning. Says he needs more info before hitting the panic button.”

“In the morning? That could be too late.”

“Alex?”

“What?”

“Hurry.”

M
idnight on the Jersey Turnpike.

Astor sat in the passenger seat of the Sprinter, peering out the window at the rotting hulk of industrial America. Newark, Trenton, New Brunswick. All were beaten down by time, neglect, and obsolescence. Rusted factories and abandoned plants loomed in the distance, specters of a hopeful, prosperous past. Astor was no doomsayer. He believed that the American dream was alive and well. He just didn’t understand why no one cared that it had been snuffed out here.

“Everything feel okay?” he asked Sullivan. “No problems steering or anything like that?”

“You mean am I driving it myself and not some asshole with a remote control a thousand miles away?”

“Something like that.”

“So far, so good. First sign of the body snatchers, I’ll let you know. Till then, why don’t you get some sleep? You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m good.”

“You want, I can pull over and let you climb in the back. The bed’s nice.”

“You’ve tried it?”

“Sneaked in one night after I’d had a few too many. Knew the Mrs. would kill me and I didn’t want to shell out for a room at the Athletic Club.”

“Cheapskate.”

“You try bringing up four kids on a cop’s salary.”

“What did you make your best year?”

“A hundred, maybe one-oh-five with overtime. ’Bout what you dump in a month.”

“That’s about right. Tough raising a kid on my salary.”

“With all due respect, fuck you.”

“Get in line, Sully. Get in line. But seriously, how much did you put away?”

“The wife was good about saving. Her brother was a broker. We handed him the nest egg. He wasn’t so good about investing.”

“Lose it all?”

“Not all, but in dribs and drabs. He was always putting us in the next hot stock. Me, I’m a Mick from Queens. What do I know?”

“How much you got with me?”

“Everything I got left.”

“Nothing in the bank?”

“And what, earn one percent per year? I hear what you and your buddies are pulling down. I figure I’ll stay with the master. What did that magazine call you? ‘The prince of risk’?”

“Where are you now?”

“We started at two twenty-five. Think you got us up to four and a quarter. Thank you.”

“That’s something.”

“Not like I can stop working. I’m sixty-seven. I’m feeling pretty good. Who knows how long before I crap out?”

Astor saw a shadow pass over Sullivan’s features. “Don’t worry, Sully. I won’t screw the pooch.”

Sullivan nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

Astor sat up straighter and yawned. “How long we got?”

“Two hundred miles to our destination, though I have no idea what you want to do when we get there at four in the morning.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Astor looked away so Sullivan couldn’t read the doubt in his face. For the first time, Bobby Astor wasn’t sure if he would.

T
he safe house was a large, unloved Colonial located in the rolling hills outside the town of Darien in the Connecticut countryside one hour north of New York City. The house needed paint and a new roof, but it would be just fine for the summer, provided it didn’t rain too much. The leasing agent had called it a steal at $3,000 a month. The tall, vaguely Asian gentleman with the vaguely German name who signed the papers offered no comment. He didn’t mind the flaking paint or the leaky roof. What interested him was the home’s isolated location, the endless back yard that ran into a glade of elms, and the fact that the nearest neighbor lived 500 yards away, with a steep hill to separate them.

“A summer retreat for my family visiting from Singapore,” the client had explained. “They have enough of the sea. It’s land they want.”

The leasing agent took one look at his suit, his shoes, and his solid gold Breguet wristwatch and didn’t ask another question. Clients who paid in advance were a rare commodity—and a cashier’s check to boot. Done.

Team One landed at Westchester County Airport at 7 p.m. local time. The plane taxied to the end of runway two-niner at the far end of the airfield, where a hangar blocked it from view. As the flight had originated in Harlingen, Texas, there were no customs formalities to complete or passport control to clear. An unmarked van belonging to the Sonichi Corporation waited at the designated spot. Keys were left in an envelope inside the dash.

The eight passengers deplaned at 7:09.

At 7:10, all were seated comfortably inside the van.

At 7:15, the van left the airport grounds through the east exit. A lone security guard manned the gate. She was too busy watching the New York Mets wallop the Atlanta Braves to register who was in the van, let alone which direction it traveled in.

The driver kept the speed at the legal limit and made the 48-mile trip in just under an hour. It was full dusk when the van arrived in Darien. The passengers alighted wordlessly. It had been a long day, and it was far from over.

Team Two arrived at 8 p.m. after an eight-hour drive from upstate New York. After crossing the border, the team traveled to the Silicon Solutions distribution center in Buffalo, where they traded the cramped confines of the delivery truck for the more comfortable interior of an unmarked passenger van. From there it was a straight shot east by southeast, traversing the breadth of New York State, turning north at the coast, and entering Connecticut.

Team Three landed at Tweed New Haven Airport at 8 p.m. following a three-hour flight from New Orleans aboard a Noble Energy jet. As they had no luggage, they proceeded directly through baggage claim. A van waited at the curb. As the driver signaled to pull into traffic, an airport policeman motioned for him to stop. The policeman walked up and down the van, eyeing the young men and women inside.

“Who are your passengers?” he asked.

The driver was recently arrived from Poland. His English was passable. He had no idea who his passengers were. He’d been tasked with picking up eight arriving passengers and that is what he had done. He shrugged and shook his head.

The policeman came closer.

“Here for a conference in the city,” volunteered a tall blond man in the front seat who had spent five years as a noncommissioned officer attached to the SBS, or Special Boat Service, a crack commando unit of the British armed forces. “Noble Energy. We’re the European sales staff. Know any places to go to find the ladies?”

The policeman was a fan of English Premier League soccer. The Brits were good people. “In New Haven? Nah. You’re better off heading into Manhattan. Standard Hotel. You’ll be fine there.”

“Thanks, mate.”

The drive to the safe house was brisk and uneventful.

Upon arrival of all three teams, the first order of business was to remove the weapons and equipment from storage and prepare it for tactical use. By now, all of the mercenaries were aware of the loss of the operation’s commander, Luc Lambert, and the capture of the weapons store. Though regrettable, neither occurrence was a disaster. This was a military operation, and military operations by definition made contingencies for setbacks exactly like these. As mandated prior to their departure, Lieutenant Sandy Beaufoy, the leathery South African commando known better as Skinner, took command. His first concern was to organize the delivery of a replacement cache of weapons and supplies to the safe house. Arrangements were made for a delivery first thing in the morning.

Skinner gathered the team in the garage to draw their gear. Each member was issued a Kevlar vest, a communications belt with a virgin cell phone and a two-way military-grade radio, a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol and fifty rounds of hollow-point ammunition, a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun along with fifteen clips, each of which contained twenty-seven rounds, two antipersonnel hand grenades, one white phosphorus grenade, a Camelbak hydration system, a packet of high-grade dextroamphetamine, better known as “go pills,” and a KA-BAR knife and sheath.

All members received a last item: a protective plastic pouch containing one 500mg capsule of pure sodium cyanide.

The carrot was the sum of $800,000 to be paid to each member upon successful completion of the mission, on top of the $200,000 each had already banked. The stick was a life sentence without the possibility of parole, to be served at a supermax prison. There inmates spent twenty-three hours a day locked inside a 10-by-7-foot cell where the lights never went out. Exercise was taken one hour a day inside a narrow yard with walls rising 40 feet on all sides and fencing covering the sliver of daylight visible above.

Death was preferable to capture, either by a New York City policeman’s bullet or by the lethal poison tablet.

The mercenaries spent the next hour getting familiar with their gear. Pistols were disassembled and put back together. Machine guns were field-stripped, examined, and modified to meet individual demands. Clips were loaded and stowed in gear bags.

Afterward, Skinner Beaufoy ordered the teams to assemble in the garage with all tactical gear. All donned their vests and commo belts with pistols and spare clips. They slung their gear bags over their shoulders and strapped their machine guns to their chests. Fully equipped, each carried a load of more than 35 pounds.

“Long day,” he said, looking with pride at the group. “Lights out in an hour. Hit the rack and get as much sleep as you can. When you get up, I want you to stay inside until I recce the area and give the all-clear. We’ve made it this far—let’s not muck it up. Thirty-six hours, lads.
Gott mit uns
.”

I
t was raining in London.

Alex stepped out of the cab at the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street. She struggled to open her umbrella. A moment was enough for the downpour to douse her hair and soak her jacket. The fare from Gatwick was £90, nearly $140. She counted out the notes, consoling herself that at least she hadn’t had to purchase an airline ticket.

The cab pulled away and Alex looked to her left and right, orienting herself. She knew the city. Shortly after separating from Bobby, she’d spent a month at Scotland Yard as part of an interagency task force on cybercrime. On weekends she’d jogged along the Embankment east to west, a distance of 9 miles, then walked back, taking hours to explore the city’s neighborhoods.

Alex continued south two blocks, then turned the corner at Brook Street. Mayfair counted as the city’s poshest borough, and New Bond Street was its epicenter. Art galleries, boutiques, and local outposts of the world’s most elegant fashion labels lined either side of the street. In the midst of them, she found 200 New Bond Street. Instead of a show window, there was a two-story wall of milky green glass. Five stainless steel letters placed at eye level on the right-hand side of the building announced the inhabitants. GRAIL. Entry was through a brushed steel door at the end of a recessed doorway. She pressed the buzzer and lifted her head so the security camera could get a good look at her. There was no speaker visible, and no disembodied voice asked her name. The softest of clicks sounded as the lock disengaged. She pushed open the door and entered a dimly lit foyer.

Carpeted stairs led to a first-floor reception area. There was a desk with no one behind it. Smoked glass walls blocked her view of the rest of the office. She could see shadows moving behind them. A glass panel swung open and a trim blond woman dressed in a pale gray two-piece suit approached, hand outstretched. “Chris Rees-Jones,” she said crisply. “Nice to meet you.”

“Alex Forza. You’re kind to see me.”

“One likes to keep one’s friends at Five happy.”

“Future employees?”

“Something like that,” said Rees-Jones, with a Cheshire Cat’s grin. “This way.”

Rees-Jones led Alex through an open warren of desks and workspaces. Occasionally a man occupied a desk. All wore fancy striped dress shirts, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. A few read the morning paper. One was on the phone, but when he spoke his voice was so soft, it sounded like rustling velvet.

“Quiet day?”

“Not so much.”

Alex could expect that half the employees were former intelligence agents of one sort or another, with time at MI5, known colloquially as Box, or at MI6, the security service. The rest would come from Scotland Yard and various branches of the British military, primary among them the SAS, or Special Air Service.

Rees-Jones passed through a doorway into an airy, spartan office. The desk was frosted glass with polished steel legs. There was a phone, a blotter, framed black-and-white photographs of stark landscapes, and not much else. “Please sit. Tea?”

“I’m fine,” said Alex, setting her shoulder bag on the floor as she took her place.

Rees-Jones dropped into a low-backed chair. “Good flight over? Private travel makes things so much easier.”

Alex had said nothing to her contact at Five about using Bobby’s jet, which meant that Chris Rees-Jones had contacts of her own. “I was expecting Major Salt.”

“Major Salt no longer works here.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. A recent change?”

“Three months now. Clients are always surprised to learn that a woman took his place. I see you are, too.”

“A little,” said Alex. It was a lie. She was very surprised. Women might be prominent in law enforcement in the States, and increasingly in Western Europe, but she hadn’t known them to have entered the preserve of private combat arms.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Rees-Jones gazed at her boldly. Her eyes were blue, her skin as smooth as alabaster, and her hair the platinum blond that only the most expensive colorist can guarantee. Alex put her at fifty, give or take. She also had her down as a spy put out to pasture. She was too smooth, too polished to be a police officer.

“You’re wrong,” said the Englishwoman, as if reading her mind. “Not a spook. That’s what they all think. Not Scotland Yard either. I did my training at the LSE, the London School of Economics. I’m a banker. Or I was. Private equity. My firm bought the place three months back. Military privatization’s a growing market.”

“And Major Salt?”

“He was never much of a numbers man. Still likes to get some mud on his boots, if you get my drift.”

“Mud or blood?” asked Alex.

“Probably both.” Rees-Jones smiled politely. “Major Salt sits on our board. He consults.”

Alex nodded, her hopes for getting any information about Lambert fading by the second.

“This is all rather unorthodox,” said Rees-Jones. “Of course, we’re used to visits from our colleagues on the other side.”

“I thought we were on the same side.”

“I meant the public sector.”

“Excuse me,” said Alex. “I thought we were talking law enforcement.”

“We help when possible, but we do like some warning. Don’t you have legates and that sort to arrange these things?”

“There wasn’t time to go through the usual channels.”

Rees-Jones took this in. “So,” she said finally. “What’s up?”

“We’re interested in a man with ties to your company. Luc Lambert.”

“Go on.”

“Lambert’s ex–Foreign Legion. He signed on with Trevor Manning a few years back on the Comoros deal. Major Salt was a part of that, if I’m not mistaken. It’s open knowledge that your office helped recruit the soldiers.”

“That was the old company. Before my time. And if it were not, I still couldn’t comment. It’s policy not to discuss our clients. Ironclad, I’m afraid.” Now that that was settled, Rees-Jones placed her hands on the table and smiled. “What’s this Lambert done, anyway?”

“He’s dead. I thought that given the circumstances, you might wish to make an exception.”

“And the circumstances are?”

“We believe that Lambert figured as part of a larger group planning an imminent attack on U.S. soil.”

Rees-Jones leaned forward, the blue eyes colder. “How imminent?”

“Today, tomorrow, Friday—a week at most.”

“That’s quite a statement.”

Alex explained the events of the past forty-eight hours, beginning with the stakeout in Queens, the shootout with Lambert, and the deaths of the three Bureau men and culminating with the discovery of the weapons cache. “Luc Lambert wasn’t in New York on vacation. He was there to do a job. If we’re right, twenty-three others are either already there or arriving soon to join him.”

“Sounds rather frightening. Why aren’t you putting out the alarm?”

“Not enough to go on yet. We can’t go around causing panic. For the moment, it’s all still strictly internal. We also have rules about sharing information, but in this case we have to make an exception.”

“Special Agent Forza, discretion is the currency of our trade. If word spread that we’d revealed our client list or in any way discussed our business with the authorities, we’d be shuttering the premises within the day. Besides, as I said, that was years ago. Technically a different company altogether.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Yet you came all this way.”

“I hoped I might be able to convince Major Salt. He’s a soldier. I can’t imagine he’d want one of his own going to the dark side.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I know that GRAIL would never have anything to do with this kind of operation. If word got out that your company recruited mercenaries to mount a Mumbai-style terrorist attack in New York City, the authorities would close it down in a heartbeat. The directors would be lucky if they got off with a long spell in jail. If they lived that long. Israelis aren’t the only ones pursuing a policy of targeted assassinations these days.”

“Are you threatening me?” asked Rees-Jones angrily.

Alex kept her voice as flat as water. “Do you feel threatened?”

Rees-Jones considered this before conjuring a laugh and a winning smile. “Look, we’re not as bad as all that. I’m sorry if I came off as brusque, but we deal with some pretty rough types. Nature of the beast, I suppose. We do have firm principles, and they are absolutely necessary if we wish to maintain our position in a competitive global market.” Rees-Jones sighed, placed both hands on her glass tabletop, and stood. “Wait here. Let me check our database. If Lambert was a part of Colonel Mann’s expedition, we may still have record of it. Don’t sic the Israelis on me just yet.”

Rees-Jones left the office. Alex opened the black mesh bag and took out a compact and lipstick to reapply her makeup. She traded lipstick for mascara, and sighed when she dropped the mascara on the floor. Her fingers scooped up the mascara but made a detour on the way back, slipping beneath the arm of the chair to attach a listening device.

Rees-Jones returned as Alex finished putting away the mesh bag.

“Not much, but something,” said the Englishwoman as she sat. “This is in no way an admission that we’ve ever had contact with Mr. Lambert. I do, however, have an address for a man by that name who lived in Paris. The address is seven years old, but the French postal authority should be able to help.”

“No French social insurance number? Phones? Next of kin? Anyone we can reach out to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And there’s been no contact since?”

“None. We rather got out of that line of work after the Comoros fiasco.”

“Probably smart,” said Alex, smiling for the first time.

“Indeed.”

Alex looked at the paper. “It’s a start. I’ll get on to the French at once.” She stood. “Thank you for your time. And it was I who was brusque. I lost a close friend the other day. I apologize.”

“No need. If there’s nothing further…” Rees-Jones placed her palms on the table, stood, and led Alex to the entry, where she wished her goodbye.

Back on the street, Alex opened her umbrella and set off up the block. The rain was coming down hard as ever and a corner of her umbrella immediately sagged, ladling water onto her shoulder. She barely noticed. In her mind, she had an image of Chris Rees-Jones’s glass desk and the two damp palm prints visible on its otherwise immaculate surface. A few minutes earlier, the woman’s hands had been as dry as chalk. Something had made her nervous.

Very nervous indeed.