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.
66
The Starbucks at the corner of New Bond Street possessed an unobstructed line of sight less than 100 yards from GRAIL. Alex set her venti latte with a triple espresso shot on a table near the entrance. Digging into her pocket, she retrieved a nubbin-sized receiver and fitted it inside her right ear, taking care to activate it with a flick of her thumbnail. A burst of static gave way
to silence, then the sound of someone ticking a pencil against a glass desk. “Jonathan,” came Chris Rees-Jones’s voice. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Something’s come up. And see if the solicitors are free this afternoon. Tell them it’s urgent.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A door closed. Alex could hear footsteps receding down the hall outside Rees-Jones’s office. The zinc-powered microtransmitter she’d placed beneath the arm of her chair was working better than she had dared dream. It was only a matter of waiting. She had every confidence that the dime would drop at any minute.
Alex opened a copy of the Times and feigned reading. In her ear came the sounds of a drawer opening and closing, papers being arranged, a woman clearing her throat. Alex drank half the latte. The espresso hit her like a thousand volts and she put down the cup. Enough of that. She was already jacked enough.
Rees-Jones dropped something metallic on her desk. “Come on,” she whispered angrily. “Pick up the phone, you bloody prick.”
Alex smiled inwardly. The prey was running. Rees-Jones was making the call. The “bloody prick” was Major James Salt.
“Hello, Jim…Never mind how I am. I just had an unexpected visit from the FBI. The agent was interested in an old mate of yours, a Frenchman named Luc Lambert…What do you mean, you don’t remember? He was one of your boys on that Comoros debacle…I thought you would…‘Lucky Luke’—cute. Well, he ran out of luck. He was killed in a raid outside New York City the day before yesterday…I don’t know where…Queens or something, the woman said…Her name was Forza…Counterterrorism. New York office.”
Alex stared hard at the newspaper, but in her mind’s eye she was inside Rees-Jones’s office, standing in the corner and watching the slick executive sweat.
“Lambert killed three agents…Three, did you hear?…You said this was a Third World operation. Training in Namibia. No damage to Britain or its allies. Another of your far-flung get-rich schemes designed to make you chief headshrinker of Booga-Booga Land. You didn’t say America…Bullshit, you didn’t know…This is totally unacceptable. Your boys have machine guns, grenades, and an antitank weapon. For fuck’s sake, Jim, what the hell is going on?…Well, then find out…New York City, are you out of your mind? The last time someone attacked the city the Americans invaded two countries…Just how much whiskey are you drinking these days?…Are you that fucking broke?…No, I won’t calm down. In fact, I’m just getting started…Of course there are links between us. Our honorarium came from your client, didn’t it?…Their bank may be in Liechtenstein, but ours is in Mayfair. It’s called Citibank, and in case you don’t recall, it is American. I don’t think it will have any qualms about turning over our account information to the FBI…Stop telling me to relax. This Forza woman is a bulldog…How do I know? Because she’s a hard little bitch like me…All right, call me back. But soon. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m going to our solicitors.”
The call ended.
Alex drank the rest of her coffee. On her pad, she’d written the words Namibia and Liechtenstein bank and Citibank/Mayfair branch, and finally, in block letters, SALT. She only wished she could have heard the other side of the conversation.
She checked her watch. It was after eleven, about 5 a.m. in the States. She wondered how Katie was doing. Her daughter had always loved the outdoors, camping, canoeing, cooking dinner over a bonfire or, more likely, a gas burner. It seemed odd to be thinking about her daughter away in New Hampshire when she was in London trying to stop a terrorist attack from taking place on U.S. soil.
During the next forty minutes, Rees-Jones took a call from a Middle Eastern sheikh and agreed to provide a cadre of bodyguards for his upcoming trip to London. The sheikh wanted only former SAS men, and Rees-Jones gave him her word. A second call dealt with a failed kidnapping negotiation in Colombia. The victim’s company had agreed to pay $2 million. The kidnappers had wanted $5 million. The victim was now dead and his family was threatening to sue GRAIL.
Major James Salt called back at high noon. It quickly became clear that he’d been doing some checking on his own.
“You’re sure she’s on her own?” said Rees-Jones. “So what? It doesn’t matter whether New York sent her or not. She’s here and she knows about Lambert’s ties to you…No, I don’t know where she went…She arrived this morning on a private jet…Gatwick…no, I don’t know what kind…wait, it was a Gulfstream…a description…brown hair, shoulder length, rather pretty, athletic. Clothes…why?…We bloody well do have a choice…I won’t be party to that…I won’t and that’s final…Do I have to be afraid, Jim? Jim? Are you there?…Bastard.”
Alex placed Chris Rees-Jones’s business card on the table and dialed the company’s main number.
“GRAIL. How may I direct your call?” The operator was a man, and his accent pegged him as working-class, probably from northern England.
“This is Jane Greenhill from the U.S. embassy for Major Salt.”
“Major Salt no longer works on the premises. May I direct you to a voice mailbox?”
“My apologies. I forgot about the shakeup. Do you have his direct number? The ambassador would like to speak to him on an urgent matter.”
“Of course, Mrs. Greenhill. I do note, however, that you’re not calling on the embassy’s main line.”
“I’m sorry. We’re in a bit of a tizzy here this morning. I’m not at my desk. Would you prefer if I call you back?”
There was a pause, and Alex assumed that the operator was checking the embassy directory for a Jane Greenhill, who was in fact the ambassador’s secretary, and a friend of hers.
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Greenhill. I’m happy to let you know where to reach Major Salt.”
Alex jotted the number onto her pad. “Is that his home, office, or mobile? As I said, it’s regarding an urgent matter.”
“His home. I’m not permitted to give out another number.”
“Do you happen to know if he’s there at this hour?”
“Major Salt usually begins the day at his club.”
“The Royal Automobile Club?”
“Good God, no. White’s, on St. James’s Street.”
“Know him well, do you?”
“I served under him in the regiment, yes, ma’am.”
“Major Salt is a good man. The ambassador likes him very much. Thank you, Mr.…”
“Nolan.”
“Mr. Nolan. Goodbye.”
Alex folded the newspaper, slipped it into her bag, and was on her feet ten seconds later. The rain had stopped, and once on the street, she hurried to the curb to hail a taxi.
“Where to, ma’am?” asked the cabbie.
“White’s.” Alex jumped into the back seat. “And an extra fiver if you can get me there in ten minutes.”
67
“Pull over.”
Alex spotted him standing under the awning at the entrance to White’s. He was tall and trim and rigid, with sandy hair going to gray and a jaw that could break through walls. Reports put his age at fifty, but Alex thought he looked ten years younger. Dressed in a blazer, gray slacks, and a crisp white shirt, Major James Salt was still every inch the officer.
“He’s a friend,” she said. “I want to surprise him.”
The cabbie caught her gaze. “If that’s the way you look at friends, I’d hate to think how you look at your enemies.”
Salt handed a ticket to a car attendant and stepped to the curb.
“I’d like you to follow him for a few blocks,” said Alex.
“Your coin, ma’am. I’ll follow him all the way to Glasgow if you like.”
Alex sat back, her eyes never leaving Salt. It was her first break, and she was grateful for it. A navy Aston Martin came out of the car park and halted in front of the club. Salt clapped a banknote into the attendant’s hand and slid into the driver’s seat. The Aston Martin roared from the curb. The cabbie took the sports car’s speed as an insult and pressed his foot to the floor. The taxi shoo
k and shuddered as it picked up speed. Piccadilly was a long, straight road, and Alex counted only two more traffic lights ahead before it passed Hyde Park. After that, she wouldn’t have a chance.
Ahead the first light turned yellow. The Aston Martin didn’t slow for an instant.
“Go,” said Alex.
The cabbie kept his foot on the pedal, sliding through as the light went to red. He could do nothing to keep up with the Aston Martin. Alex balled her hands into fists, her jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a tooth. The sports car widened the distance. Alex stared at the final signal. Beyond it, Salt would open up the engine and let fly (exactly as she would). Any opportunity to confront him would be gone.
“Can’t you go any faster?” she asked.
“Trying, ma’am. Only have four cylinders. Your friend’s got twelve. Not a fair fight.”
The light turned yellow, then red. The Aston Martin didn’t slow. Alex waited to see its brake lights bloom, praying for Salt to stop at the signal.
A flash of red.
Salt came to a stop. Ten seconds later, the taxi drew to a halt two cars behind him. Alex thrust her fist through the transom in the partition. “Here’s twenty.”
“But—”
Alex was out the door, running up the street, passing one car, then the next, her eyes on the traffic signal, ordering it not even to think of changing. The Aston Martin was still a stride away when the light turned green. Alex lunged for the door. Her fingers grasped the handle and she flung open the door as the car began to gain speed. With a last effort, she pulled herself into the car as the Aston Martin barreled through the intersection.
“What the hell?” said Major James Salt. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You know who I am,” said Alex. “Keep going.”
Major James Salt looked askance at her. “She said you were a hard little bitch.”
“She was right.”
“I could shoot you here and now and be within my rights.”
Alex didn’t detect a gun on Salt’s person, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one close by. “I don’t need a gun, and I couldn’t give a shit about rights. Just drive.”
The Prince of Risk Page 28