The Prince of Risk

by Christopher Reich

  “Good. I’ve spoken to Five. They’ve agreed to take your evidence to a magistrate straightaway. Between what’s happened on our turf and what happened over there, he should be able to obtain a warrant to storm GRAIL’s offices and Salt’s home.”

  “Nice,” said Alex. The British didn’t mess around when it came to thwarting terrorist attacks. If a corner needed to be cut, so be it. They’d glue it back in place afterward.

  “We’re pulling the director out of a breakfast meeting on Capitol Hill to deal with this,” continued McVeigh. “It’s clear he’ll have to go to the British PM. That means the president will have to be read in. You’re really putting the special relationship to the test.”

  “Jan, I need a favor. About that South African e-mail address. Salt called someone named Skinner with a South African phone number immediately after talking to GRAIL.” Alex read off the number. “Give that to the boys in Tech. See if they can ping it, find out where Mr. Skinner is. If my hunch is correct, we’re not going to like the answer.”

  “We’ll need a warrant for that.”

  “The tape should do the trick.”

  “You’re pushing things, kid.”

  “Salt has a contact in the embassy here. He knew I wasn’t in England on official assignment.” Alex read off Salt’s number and gave the exact time of the call. “Trace it and let’s find out who he has on the payroll at the embassy and who his contact called in the Bureau.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Someone in our office. Guarantee it.”

  69

  The house in McLean, Virginia, was a large two-story redbrick with black shutters and a lawn jockey out front to greet the guests. Astor held the knocker in his hand and waited until precisely 7:30 to rap three times. A man in the throes of dressing for work answered almost immediately. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Nossey. I’m Bobby Astor. Sorry to disturb you so early, but I believe my father came by to see you on Sunday. May I come in?”

  Nossey was slim and olive-skinned, with hair cut to the scalp and deep-set brown eyes. He wore khaki pants and a company polo shirt with Britium sewn above the left breast. Astor was in the right place.

  “I’ve been expecting somebody,” said Nossey. “But I thought it would be the FBI or the police.”

  “No law enforcement agents have been by?”

  “Just you. I take it you’re not an agent or anything.”

  “I’m a hedge fund manager. I live in New York.”

  A light went on behind Nossey’s eyes. “Comstock?”

  “That’s me.”

  Nossey sipped from a coffee mug with the words U.S.S. DALLAS on its side. “Come in. I’m just about to shove off for work.”

  “That your ship?” asked Astor, pointing to the mug.

  “Sub, actually. I put in ten years aboard a nuke. In this house, a door’s a hatch, the floor’s the deck, and the bathroom is the head. Wife hates it. Kids think it’s fun as all get-out.” Nossey looked over Astor’s shoulder at the Sprinter parked at the curb. “Yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s bigger than some of the boats I served on. There a driver somewhere in there?”

  “There is.”

  “Why don’t you drive with me to the office? We can talk on the way. I have a call at nine I can’t miss. The new owners.” Nossey rolled his eyes.

  “Sure thing.”

  It took Nossey another ten minutes to finish his coffee, kiss his three children goodbye, and pat his golden retriever. Astor stood at the kitchen door, witnessing the daily ritual. He thought of his own daughter, Katie, currently vacationing in New Hampshire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her in the morning before he went to work, or for that matter when he came home. The office was his wife, mistress, and child, rolled into one. He wouldn’t apologize for it, but he could at least give her a call to say hi and tell her that he loved her.

  After this meeting, he told himself.

  Promise.

  Astor and Nossey sat in the front of a Ford Explorer cruising at 70 miles per hour along the George Washington Parkway. The Potomac flowed to their right, green and lazy. The Sprinter followed behind, more of a bodyguard than Sullivan would ever be.

  “You look like him.”

  “I’m taller,” said Astor.

  “I’m sorry about what happened. Any news?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I’m trying to look into what happened myself. I found your address in my father’s home. He had several articles about Britium, too. You’re not planning on listing on the New York Stock Exchange anytime soon?”

  “We just got bought up by Watersmark. You must know that.”

  Astor nodded. “So my dad was here on other business.”

  Nossey took his cue. “He surprised me, too. I mean, he didn’t call or anything. He just showed up Sunday morning on my doorstep.”

  “We have our reasons for showing up unannounced.”

  Nossey waited, but Astor didn’t elaborate. “Anyway,” Nossey continued, “he was eager to learn about the company. He said he wanted to hear everything about us, A to Z. I tried to put him off. It was Sunday and the kids had a baseball game. He didn’t care. I figured if he’d come all the way down here, it must be important. I sent the kids off with my wife. He came inside and I told him.”

  Astor listened intently as Nossey gave his CEO’s speech. Britium had started out ten years earlier writing application control software, code that automated infrastructure technology, translating varying computer protocols into a common, easily understood language.

  “In English, please,” said Astor.

  “Sorry. You Wall Street guys are pretty wonky. You usually get off on the lingo.”

  “Layman’s terms will be fine.”

  “In a nutshell, we write software that allows a person or a business to control and operate any kind of electronic device, anywhere in the world, via the Internet.”

  “Exactly what kind of electronic device?”

  “Anything. We can help a power grid monitor the temperature of all its turbines and control their speed. Or allow a supervisor to check out a security system from a remote location, to adjust lighting in a building, to control air-conditioning, check out a company’s phone system. You name it.”

  “Can it control an elevator?”

  “An elevator? Sure. It can control anything. And the beauty of it is that it can be done from an easy-to-use interface, kind of like a universal remote control. Take, for example, a hospital. You have all kinds of independent systems running in there. One computer system controls the security system—alarms, cameras, all that. Another runs the employee timekeeping and access system. Still another governs the heating and plumbing. And so on. The problem is that each runs on its own protocol, or language. It’s important for one person to be able to control all of those separate and independent systems from a single location. Our software translates the differing protocols into a common language. Think of it as controlling your TV, Blu-ray, and DVR via a single device from your armchair.”

  “And this is popular?”

  “God, yeah. We call our software the Empire Platform. Right now, Empire controls eleven million devices in fifty-two countries.”

  “Like who?”

  “Hospitals, power plants, airports, jails, government offices. Even the FBI and the CIA use our stuff.”

  “The FBI? What for?”

  “Same as any other large organization that needs to keep track of its employees and manage its infrastructure.”

  “Is there anyone who doesn’t use it?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Watersmark thought so.”

  Nossey left the highway and negotiated the busy streets of Reston, Virginia. He pulled into a lot fronting a five-story glass office tower and parked, then he took Astor to his office on the top floor. “Take a seat.”

  Astor slid into a chair, pausing to look at a set of architectural
plans on the table. Nossey stood beside him. “It’s going to be the tallest building in the world. Empire will control all the building’s critical functions.” The Britium CEO smiled. “Including the elevators.”

  A secretary entered, and Nossey told him to bring coffee and doughnuts. He checked his watch for as long as it took to be rude, then returned his attention to Astor. “Five minutes,” he said, pointing to a clock on the wall.

  “What was my father interested in?”

  “He already knew pretty much everything we did, but he wanted to know if we worked with firms on Wall Street. I said, ‘Of course.’ Every major bank uses Empire technology.”

  “Does the Stock Exchange use the Empire Platform?”

  “Your father asked me the same question. I had to check, but yes, it does.”

  “For what?”

  “Security. Access control. HVAC. Elevators. Telecom.”

  “Why telecom? Shouldn’t that be the phone companies’ job?”

  “Once a call leaves the building, sure. But before it leaves the building we have to make sure all the computers are properly hooked up to the Net. Orders are placed on the floor but are executed off-site. The information has to go out and come back without any interference.”

  “How did he feel about the fact that the NYSE uses your platform?”

  “Tell you the truth, he didn’t seem too happy about any of it, but he was specifically interested in knowing whether Empire was in place before July 2011.”

  July 2011. Astor had no problem recollecting the date. It was around that time that the Flash Crash had occurred, the mysterious breakdown in trading that resulted in the Dow Jones Industrial Average plummeting a thousand points in minutes, only to regain two-thirds of the amount within an hour and the rest a day later. Its cause still offered fertile ground for debate. Hence the articles in his father’s office at Cherry Hill.

  Astor remembered the annual reports he’d found at Penelope Evans’s house. One by one he named the companies, and one by one Nossey confirmed that all used the Empire Platform. Astor began to see Britium and the Empire Platform in a different light. “I hope this isn’t rude,” he said, “but how secure is Empire? It seems that a lot of critical industries use it to control their operations in one way or another. Have there ever been any instances of hacking or cyberattacks against Empire?”

  “Not a single one. The Empire Platform is equipped with its own firewall to stop unwanted incursions dead.”

  “So no one has ever hacked one of your clients and messed with their controls? Not once?”

  The question made Nossey nervous. “I’m not at liberty to discuss security issues. I can direct you to Mr. Hong. He handles queries dealing with product integrity and litigation.”

  Astor raised his hands and smiled. “No need to use the L word. I’m just trying to learn as much as I can about your company.”

  “You can’t be too careful.”

  “I do have one question. Can the Empire Platform be used to control an automobile?”

  Nossey laughed, before realizing the intent of the question. “No, it can’t. Only a driver can control a car.” He rose suddenly. “I’m sorry to kick you out, but my master awaits.”

  Astor stood. “You mentioned that my father was interested in your new owner.”

  “Watersmark? Yes, he was curious about management practices. He wanted to know just how involved they were in our day-to-day operations.”

  “And?”

  “Of course they spent lots of time with us during the due diligence process and for the first six months after completing the acquisition. They studied all our internal systems—accounting, payroll, reporting, things like that. After that, they let us run things our way.”

  “So you’d say things are pretty much the same as before?”

  “Sure, Mr. Hong doesn’t bother us at all.”

  That was the second time Nossey had mentioned the name. “Who is Mr. Hong?”

  “Watersmark put him in and pays his salary. He gathers all the data they want. Looks after the bigger issues. Smart guy. MIT. Stanford. And he’s an engineer. He totally gets what we do.”

  The secretary announced the conference call over the loudspeaker.

  “It’s been fun,” said Nossey. “Hope I helped.”

  “Tremendously,” said Astor, though he wasn’t entirely sure. “I appreciate your time.”

  Nossey walked him to the door. “Mr. Astor,” he said, his face a mask of concern, “you don’t really think Britium had anything to do with your father’s death?”

  “You mean my question about the car? I was just curious after you talked about Empire being like a universal remote control.”

  “Empire can’t control a car. You’d have to hack the GPS, and of course you would have had to install a remote steering system.” Nossey’s demeanor brightened. The nuclear engineer turned software entrepreneur had scented a challenge. “Just maybe…”

  70

  They arrived in two cars, quietly and without pretense. Alex rode in the first with her colleague from MI5, Colonel Charles Graves. Three officers followed in the car behind. A second team had assembled in London outside the offices of GRAIL. It would be a synchronized entry.

  “All right then,” said Graves. “Shall we?” He was blond, blue-eyed, and sandy-haired, handsome except for his permanent frown.

  “Let’s go earn our beer,” said Alex.

  “Guinness, I hope?”

  “Bud.”

  “Crikey.” Graves called his counterpart in London. “We’re a go.” He turned into the drive and accelerated up a long driveway. Trees shaded the path. There was a pasture with horses and a pond with a dock and rowboat. They rounded the bend and Major James Salt’s home came into view. It was a modest Georgian country house, a fat square slab of pale sandstone. The Bennett sisters would call it a big step up. Mr. Darcy would consider it a bigger step down. The road widened as it entered a crushed-gravel forecourt. Graves stopped the car next to a wheezing fountain and climbed out. Alex beat him to the door by a step.

  “By all means,” said Graves, motioning to the doorbell.

  “You’re too kind.” A call to the house ten minutes earlier had established that Salt’s wife was at home. Five’s dossier on Salt said the wife was not involved in his activities. Alex punched it with her index finger.

  Inside, footsteps approached. A stout, matronly woman with messy ginger hair and a cleaning dress opened the door. “Yes?”

  Graves gave his work name and presented matching credentials. “We have a warrant that allows us to search the premises. Any interference will be regarded as a crime against the Crown. We would, however, welcome your help.”

  “Is this about James?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t answer any questions, ma’am. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

  Mrs. Salt stood aside to let the search party enter. “Where is he?” she asked. “I keep calling and he’s not answering.”

  “In custody,” said Graves.

  “But he’s a hero,” Mrs. Salt protested.

  “Not today,” said Alex.

  Mrs. Salt caught the American accent and took a closer look at Alex. Her mouth tightened in distaste at the sight of her swollen eye. “You all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Why is there blood on your trousers then?”

  Alex glanced at her slacks and noted a patch of crusted blood on her knee, visible despite the dark wool. Graves had provided a fresh blouse. There hadn’t been time to pop by Selfridges for a new suit. “Accident.”

  “Is it James?”

  Alex glared at the woman. Mrs. Salt was an accomplice by association. She merited no sympathy. Alex brushed past her into the small, musty foyer. There was a grandfather clock and a throw rug and a tapestry on the wall that was not quite from Bayonne. But the home was immaculate. The major might be broke, but the missus had her pride.

  Graves offered a rare smile. “Might we inquire where your husband’s of
fice is?”

  “Upstairs. Second door on the left. Clean it up while you’re there. He won’t let me touch a thing. He’s retired, you know. He sold his business a few months ago.”

  Alex started up the stairs, Graves and two more officers close behind. One stayed with Mrs. Salt. Behind them, they heard the woman inquiring in increasingly desperate tones, “What have you done with him? Why isn’t he answering?”

  Alex opened the door to Salt’s office.

  It was a room from the nineteenth century, all dark wood and heavy furniture, with grimy oils of British sailing ships covering the walls and velvet curtains obscuring a view to the back garden. An oak desk with feet of lion paws held pride of place. A new Mac sat on the desk, and near it an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. Papers covered every other square inch of the surface, with several stacks piled taller than Alex.

  “Do you mind?” she asked, pulling out the chair.

  “Be my guest,” said Graves.

  “This may take a while.” Alex sat and opened the first folder she saw. It was a personnel file, and clipped to the paperwork was a color photograph of a handsome soldier in the uniform of the French Foreign Legion. She recognized him at once. It was Luc Lambert, a.k.a. Randall Shepherd. “Then again, maybe not.”

  In the end it took two hours.

  Major James Salt was as meticulous in his cataloguing of information pertaining to the project he had named Excelsior as he was careless in keeping it secret. Alex divided the information into three stacks: Personnel, Materiel, and Logistics.

  Personnel contained dossiers on every one of the thirty mercenaries—twenty-two men and eight women—who were originally to take part in the coming action. Each dossier held a photograph, a handwritten employment application, medical records, an employment contract, and a reference to a bank where all fees were to be wired. Each member was to be paid $200,000 up front with a further $800,000 upon completion of the assignment. Graves was quick to point out that such salaries were far above normal compensation and hinted at an assignment with abnormally high risk.