The Prince of Risk (30 page)

P
hone pressed to her ear, Alex Forza stared out the window at the shadowy contours of the passing English countryside. It was after nine. The late European dusk was turning to night. Charles Graves sat beside her at the wheel, driving hell-bent for Gatwick Airport. He promised to have her there in an hour. She told him she could make it in forty minutes. They settled for “as bloody fast as possible.”

“I don’t have his new number,” Alex said to Bobby’s secretary. “It’s important that I reach him.”

“He left five minutes ago to see a client. Septimus Reventlow. I believe Mr. Sullivan is driving him. Perhaps you can try him.”

Alex hung up and called Sully’s number. No one answered, and the call rolled to voice mail. “Sully, this is Alex. Tell Bobby to call me right away. It’s urgent.”

Alex tried again, thinking it was the lousy New York City cell-phone reception. Again the call rolled to voice mail.
Damn you, Sully,
she cursed silently, wanting to attribute the failure to him.

There’d been no love lost between them when they’d worked on the JTTF, and her faith in him had taken a further hit after his failure to protect Bobby at Cherry Hill. To her mind, Sully was a slacker. He’d taken a bullet early in his career and coasted on it for thirty years. He wasn’t a bad cop. He was just an average one. To Alex, the two were synonymous.

She hung up and called McVeigh to relate the discoveries made at Salt’s house.

“Hi, Jan. I’m calling to talk to you about Bobby.”

“What about him?”

“He called you yesterday, right?”

“No. What did he need to discuss with the FBI?”

“No?” Alex pressed the phone against her leg for a second, so McVeigh wouldn’t hear her swear. She drew a calming breath, then related as best she could everything she knew about Bobby’s investigation into his father’s death and the links to it she’d found at Salt’s home.

“So you’re saying that Luc Lambert and the weapons we found at Windermere are tied to the deaths of Edward Astor, Charles Hughes, and Martin Gelman?”

“It would appear so. Prior to his death, Edward Astor was looking into the same corporations, which either wittingly or unwittingly helped smuggle the shooters into the States. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“I should say it isn’t. Why didn’t you relay this to me earlier?”

“My bad. I was counting on Bobby to tell you in person so you could sit him down and grill him. Frankly, I didn’t think there was much to go on.”

“This Palantir—all you have is his Skype handle?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, write up the deets and e-mail them to headquarters.”

“Do they have anything new?”

“One thing. The forensic team discovered a device attached to the steering column and throttle of the Secret Service vehicle Astor and the others were riding in. There isn’t much of it left, but the smart money is saying it’s some type of receiver that enables a third party to operate the car.”

“Like a remote control?”

“Exactly.”

“So we can write off the rogue Secret Service agent?”

“Maybe. There are lots of other questions about how anyone could hijack a vehicle. And we still don’t know why Astor insisted on meeting Hughes and Gelman on Sunday and what they planned to tell the president. I’ll pass on your info to the director right away. He’ll be happy to have something to go on.”

“Did we ping the phone?”

“We’re waiting on the phone carrier in South Africa.”

“And the bank?”

“Forget the bank. We’ll never have that information in time. And Alex, tell Bobby to get his butt into my office pronto or else I’m going to send a team to bring him in. And I’ll make sure it isn’t a warm and fuzzy encounter.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m getting on a plane in an hour or so. I’ll see you in the morning. Am I still on the bricks?”

“I’ll decide that tomorrow.”

Alex found Graves staring at her when she ended the call. “What?”

“Sounds like you’re in hot water.”

“You know what they say. Act now. Apologize later.”

“Brave girl.”

“Either that or stupid.”

Alex walked with Charles Graves across the tarmac. A light rain fell, and the weather was forecast to worsen in the next hour. The captain stood at the base of the stairs to Bobby’s jet, motioning for her to hurry. “There’s an active storm cell moving in. We’ve got to get this bird into the air or we’ll be stuck on the ground for hours.”

Alex shook Graves’s hand. “I imagine I’ll be back to give evidence about Major Salt.”

“We’ll see if we can help you avoid that unpleasant piece of business,” said Graves. “Right now, just worry about getting home and stopping the bad guys.”

“I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Godspeed.”

Alex climbed aboard and settled into a seat. From her window, she watched a bolt of lightning rip the sky. She counted slowly, waiting for the rumble of thunder. It came on three, cracking loudly enough to make her jump in her seat. She tightened the belt an extra inch and said a prayer. Not for a safe flight, but for luck in pinging Sandy Beaufoy’s number. It was a long shot. The Bureau would have to contact his phone service provider in South Africa and have them access their records. Johannesburg was an hour ahead of London. She didn’t think there were many telecom executives awake at midnight.

As the plane picked up speed and rolled down the runway, she tried to give John Sullivan one more call. Reception was poor, and the call didn’t go through.

Bobby,
she thought to herself.
Why aren’t you calling me back?

A
stor arrived at Septimus Reventlow’s office at 49th and Park at 3:30 sharp. Sully kept the Sprinter circling the block. Astor promised it would be a short meeting. He entered the building and checked the tenant board. RCH, or Reventlow Consolidated Holdings, was listed at 3810. He decided to put on a necktie to make up for his rude behavior. He wasn’t sure whether it was an admission of victory or defeat. He used the glass as a mirror. Knotting his double Windsor, he saw that a familiar name was also a tenant of the building and also on the thirty-eighth floor. What were the odds? He decided to stop in for a surprise visit before his meeting with Reventlow and ask some questions.

The elevator arrived. Astor paused before stepping inside. A woman held the door, and finally he entered. The ride was mercifully quick, making only a single intermediary stop. Astor exited on thirty-eight. Room 3810 was to his left. He turned right, walking down the hall until he came to a double-doored entry. Raised letters gave the name of the tenant.
China Investment Corporation.
He put his hand on the doorknob and considered entering. What would he say? Who could he speak to? The sovereign wealth fund undoubtedly made its decisions in Beijing, not New York. He retraced his steps and continued to the end of the corridor. The door to Reventlow’s office had the same standard lettering. He opened the door and stepped inside. The reception area was empty. No secretary. No assistants. The office was as quiet as the grave. Astor had the impression that few people visited.

“Septimus,” he called. “I’m here.”

“Come on back. You can’t miss me.”

Astor walked to the end of a short corridor, where an open door admitted a stream of light. Reventlow sat behind an unassuming desk. There was a bookshelf behind him and a small table to one side. A window looked over the roof of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

“Glad you could make it,” said Reventlow. “Sorry to make you come so far uptown this time of day.”

“Cutting it close,” said Astor.

“I have your account details in my system. My banker is expecting my call. Any change in the position?”

“No.”

“So you’re amenable to taking the full three hundred million dollars?”

“We don’t need quite that much to meet the margin call, but we’ll take it for a cushion. You sure you want to do this?”

“Are you sure the yuan is going to depreciate?”

Astor stood up and walked around the room. He didn’t answer Reventlow. The truth was that he wasn’t sure about anything anymore, least of all whether the Chinese government was going to devalue its currency, as Magnus Lee had promised. If the China Investment Corporation did in fact have something to do with his father’s death, and therefore with the attack that Palantir (and Edward Astor) believed was imminent—whatever it was—Lee could not be trusted. For the first time, Bobby Astor had come to see himself as part of the plan. He didn’t know how or why. He only knew that there was a degree of interconnectivity that defied coincidence or happenstance. His malaise was only compounded by Septimus Reventlow’s continued desire to invest $300 million in Comstock.

“You know,” said Astor, “you never told me where the Reventlow family earned its money.”

“A long story,” said Reventlow. “Past history. No time to go into it now. Did you bring the paperwork?”

“In my briefcase,” said Astor. “I just need a few signatures. Did the money come from Germany?”

“Partly, but from before Germany became Germany. You might call it Prussian with a dash of White Russian. Berlin by way of Kiev. Dynasties long since dismantled and consigned to the scrap heap.”

“I didn’t realize it was only you running things here. No secretary?”

“I prefer to see to all administrative details.” Reventlow motioned toward his phone. “I think I should make the call.”

Astor stopped pacing. It came to him that Reventlow was the more nervous of the two. His normally ashen countenance was flushed. Despite the air-conditioning, perspiration dampened his forehead. Then again, thought Astor, he stood to lose quite a bit of money if Comstock went belly-up.

The shelves behind Reventlow were decorated with a dozen Lucite tombstones, mostly small mounted mementos of completed financial transactions. Astor studied them, interested to learn what other investments Reventlow had made, besides pouring $300 million into a wobbly hedge fund. His eye stopped on the third tombstone. For the second time in an hour, he felt as if he’d been struck in the chest by a baseball bat.

“What do you know about these guys?” he asked.

Reventlow took the tombstone that commemorated the purchase of Britium Technologies by Watersmark Partners. “I have a substantial investment in Watersmark. They send me one for every deal.”

“Every one?”

“Yes.”

“What about Silicon Solutions? Watersmark was involved with that transaction, too, weren’t they?” Astor found the tombstone buried among the others. Before he could comment, his phone vibrated against his leg. “Excuse me, I need to check this.” The message from Marv Shank read, “Getting our money? Hey, two FBI agents just came in looking for you. Janet McVeigh wants you to report to her at 26 Federal Plaza by five or else she’s going to issue a warrant for your arrest. Call me when you leave RCH.”

“Important news?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

Astor set down the tombstone. “You work with Oak Leaf Ventures, too?”

“Sit down, Bobby.”

Astor took a seat.

Reventlow steepled his fingers. “What is it you think you know?”

“First off, that I don’t need your money.”

“That’s too bad. You’re going to accept it.”

“So you’re in on this?”

“Yes, Bobby. I’m in on this. And so were you, the moment you accepted our money.”

“Why did you kill my father?”

“I had nothing to do with it. The Secret Service killed him, and no one will ever prove otherwise.”

“Because of Britium?”

“Not because of Britium—with Britium’s help. The Empire Platform is the greatest weapon that has ever been invented. Forget the nuclear bomb. Why wipe out a city when we can take over an entire country without anyone’s even knowing it?”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“If you know about Watersmark and Oak Leaf, you already have the answer.”

“It isn’t a coincidence that the China Investment Corporation is on the same floor.”

“No.”

“And you…you’re not Chinese.”

“In fact I am. I wasn’t lying about the Russian ties. My grandfather was Count Radzinsky. He went to Shanghai to escape the purges after the White Russian army was defeated in the revolution. I inherited more of his genes than I would have liked. When it was decided that I would come to America, I had surgery to help things along.”

“Ray Nossey told me that the Empire Platform was invulnerable to hacking.”

“For the most part it is. That’s why we like it so much.”

“But then…”

“How do we manipulate it? Through people like you and your friends at Watersmark and Oak Leaf. You know already that the CIC owns between thirty and forty-five percent of both, as well as several other private equity firms. Enough to exert some control inside the boardroom. Not enough to be visible outside it. We influence Watersmark or Oak Leaf or the others to purchase companies whose products and technology use Britium’s products, especially the Empire Platform. Once we take control of the company, we use our insider status to legitimately gain access to the source code controlling the products. Buying Britium itself was the pièce de résistance.”

“And then?”

Reventlow smiled, as if he’d escaped a simple ploy.

“I take it Mr. Hong is a friend?” said Astor.

“Herbert? A brilliant man. On the record, he works for Watersmark. But each day he goes to work in Britium’s office. Each day he has free, unfettered access to every system using Britium’s technology.”

“Like giving a thief the keys to your house.”

Astor thought about the companies whose annual reports he’d found at Penelope Evans’s home. Between them, they manufactured power plants, communications satellites, missiles used by the navy and air force, and much, much more. He’d been right to suspect that the private equity firms were the common factor, just in a different way than he had imagined.

“The Flash Crash back in July of 2011—was that you?”

“A test to see if our theory was viable. It was. Frighteningly so. We had to scramble to patch things up and cover our tracks. We certainly didn’t want a full-scale meltdown—then.”

“Was Feudal you, too?” Astor was referring to a recent incident involving Feudal Trading, a bank that had lost over $500 million in the course of three hours when it accidentally uploaded a faulty algorithm into its trading software.

“No comment.”

“And now? Why are you getting so desperate?”

“Desperate? Are we? Is that what your father said, or perhaps this Palantir? You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Why the investment in Comstock?”

“This really is a family office. You see, we believe the yuan is going to lose a fair bit of its value, too. If you fail to meet your margin call, we’ll be out a good deal of money.” Reventlow picked up the phone. “Hello, Rajeev. It’s me. Please make the transfer to Comstock. Immediately. Thank you.” He hung up. “Your turn. Call your CFO and instruct her to use the funds to meet the margin calls.”

“If I don’t?”

“You remember that capable man you met yesterday at your father’s home? Blue eyes. Fast as lightning. He’s my youngest brother. He was trained at the Shaolin Temple as a warrior monk. Unfortunately, he enjoyed practicing his skills a little too much. We were able to get him out of the country before the police jailed him. He particularly liked harming young women. You have a daughter, don’t you? Katie, isn’t it? Sixteen years old. A student at the Horace Mann School. Lives at—”

“Hand me the phone.”

“Do as you’re told and everything will turn out fine. The yuan will depreciate. Comstock will make a killing. You’ll be the new Soros. Isn’t that what you want?”

“How do you know the yuan will depreciate?”

“My brother assures me of it.”

Astor nodded, his stomach sick with worry. “Who is your brother?”

“Magnus Lee. The future vice premier of China.”