“I wouldn’t know about that. That’s the problem with the intelligence business in this country. Right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Except in this case there are more like a hundred hands. All of ’em are looking for something to do and no one wants to say jack about it.”
“And you give me your word you didn’t know the NSA was trying to track him down?”
Washburn shook his head. “As you recall, our shop is not allowed to operate on home soil. If we do get info about something going down, we pass it along to the proper domestic agency.”
“Just what is it you do these days?”
“Threat mitigation. You were on offense. Me, I play defense. You got something you want to pass along to me, Grill-O? For example, just why in the world you are so interested in Palantir? And don’t give me that client confidentiality crap. We are way beyond that.”
“Palantir contacted Edward Astor in early July. I’m guessing that whoever you passed the information along to declined to pay him for his services. Anyway, Astor wasn’t so cheap. He probably saw himself as a patriot endeavoring to do some good for his country. The way I see it, Palantir delivered the goods last Friday. Astor left work early and headed to midtown, I’m guessing to meet with Palantir. He went home, digested the material, and—”
“And set up the meet with Hughes and Gellman?” Washburn suggested.
“Not right away. First he contacted a company in Reston. Britium. Looks like he paid the place a visit.”
“Britium, eh? Never heard of it.”
“My guess is that he had to check out whether Palantir was on the money before taking the whole thing upstairs.”
“It appears he was.”
“Yes, it does.”
Washburn’s eyes dropped to Grillo’s jacket. “You going to put away that gun now?”
“Someone’s killing off anyone with an interest in Palantir. I’d rather play it safe.”
Washburn laughed gently. “You’re safe with me, Grill-O. We’re all after the same thing.”
“Not exactly. I’m only being paid to find him. Interdiction, arrest, sanction—all the messy shit is up to you.”
“You got something to take us all another step down the road?”
There it was. The offer of the deal Grillo had been working toward. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.
“Couple things,” he said. “My client spoke to Palantir today. Apparently whatever he was warning everyone about is set to go down soon. He was cagey, wouldn’t give any details. Sounds like he has a real hard-on for the government. I can give you his Skype address and a number he used to call Edward Astor Friday morning. Give the information to your friends, have them put it in their magic box and shake it around a little. If they’re as good as they’re always bragging, we should have a name, address, Social Security number, and favorite brand of condom.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Washburn.
“Screw your best. Just get me an answer.”
Washburn buttoned his jacket. “Say, Mike, that’s not really a gun in your pocket, is it?”
Grillo withdrew his hand, his fingers shaped in the form of a pistol. “Bang.”
Washburn shook his head. “Been behind a desk way too long.”
62
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.”
63
Midnight 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, Su
lly. 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.
64
The 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.”
65
It 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 Stre
et. 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.
The Prince of Risk Page 27