No one except the Chinese.
America’s “old friend.”
There would be no calls for the yuan to be revalued. If the Chinese preferred a weak yuan to bolster their export sector, they were welcome to it. If Chinese-made products resembled those of their American competitors a bit too much, nothing would be said. If a breach of a defense contractor’s most sophisticated weapons systems was traced to a Chinese computer, the discussion would be made behind doors and without acrimony.
America knew how to be grateful.
The attack wasn’t about bringing down America permanently.
It was about control.
75
Astor knew Reventlow was lying. Everything would not turn out fine. He and his brother, Magnus Lee, would not put this behind them. All who knew about the CIC and its plan to exercise control over key components of the country’s financial and national security infrastructure had to be eliminated. There would be no handshake and promise to keep it all a secret. Astor possessed information vital to his nation’s defense; in fact, every bit as vital as the pictures from on high showing Soviet missiles being installed on Cuban soil in 1962. As Reventlow had said, why wipe out a city when you can control an entire country without anyone’s even knowing it?
Astor called his CFO and told her to expect an incoming wire any minute and to call each of Comstock’s lenders and inform them that Comstock would meet its margin call. He handed over the papers for Reventlow to sign, then replaced them in his briefcase.
“Are we done?”
“For now. But don’t be in a hurry to leave. I can’t let you go just yet.”
“I need to get back to the office. My lawyers are expecting me.”
“I’m sure they will celebrate their reprieve just fine without you. I’m afraid I do need to ask you some more questions. It’s important for us to learn how much you know about our affairs. My brother told me you were speaking with someone on your father’s computer who was involved in his investigation. Does Cassandra99 ring a bell?”
“That was Palantir. He might have helped my father earlier, but he refused to help me.”
“I wish I could believe you. We also have a record of your call to a Michael Grillo, a corporate investigator. We weren’t able to listen to his calls, so we must rely on you to tell us what you were discussing.”
“It had nothing to do with this. Grillo does other work for my company.” Astor picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. Standing in the doorway was the man from Cherry Hill. The warrior monk. Alex had said she was sure she had shot him, but he appeared to be in good health.
“May I introduce my brother Daniel,” said Reventlow. “He’s going to escort you to a private spot where we all can chat.”
“Hello, Mr. Astor,” said Daniel, his English unaccented, essentially an American’s.
“Hello,” said Astor. “And by the way, my arm’s fine.”
During the entire meeting, Astor had felt his father’s Beretta pressing against his spine. He measured the distance between him and the monk as 15 feet. Four long strides, to be sure. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”
Septimus Reventlow rose and offered his hand. Astor regarded it, the man’s insincere smile, his patrician demeanor, as a grotesquerie. He extended his hand as if to shake, then drew the pistol from his belt. Before he could bring it to bear, a blow paralyzed his wrist. Daniel, the warrior monk, stood inches away, holding the pistol by the barrel. “Very slow.”
Astor dropped his briefcase and clutched his hand. It hurt badly. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks that way.”
Reventlow came around the desk, picked up the briefcase, and handed it to Astor. “If you make a sound on the way downstairs, he will kill you,” he said. “No one will see him crush your larynx. My advice is to cooperate. And one more thing. If I might have your phone…”
Astor regarded Daniel, and handed Reventlow the phone he’d purchased earlier in the day.
“The FBI,” said Reventlow, reading the last text. “Shall I call them to cancel on your behalf?” He gave Astor an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “We’ll have lots to talk about.”
“After you,” said Daniel.
Astor walked with him to the elevator. They descended to the ground floor and passed through the turnstiles. Crossing the lobby, he spotted Sully double-parked at the curb. It was a little after four, and the lobby was busy but not crowded. Daniel walked at his side. Three officers manned the security desk. Two were fat and uninterested, the third trim and alert.
Astor saw a chance. “Which way?”
“Straight ahead,” said Daniel.
It was the answer Astor wanted to hear. “You have a car waiting?”
“I’ll show you when we get outside.”
Astor passed through the door. A uniformed policeman stood immediately to his right. The sidewalk was bustling. A horn blared. Astor looked at the Sprinter and caught Sully’s eye.
It was now or never.
“Hey!” shouted Astor, wanting to draw the cop’s attention. He dropped the briefcase and ran. “Sully!”
Astor dodged the pedestrians, weaving this way and that. Sully saw him coming and opened the rear door. Astor jumped inside and slammed it shut. He had made it. “Get out of here. Floor it.”
Astor threw himself into the recliner, grasping the armrests in anticipation of accelerating. The car stayed where it was. “Sully. What are you doing? Go!”
John Sullivan did not start the ignition. The side door opened. Daniel climbed in and placed the briefcase on the floor, then closed the door behind him. He looked at Astor, then toward the driver’s seat. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Sullivan.”
Astor leaned forward. “Sully, what’s going on?”
John Sullivan turned in his chair and fixed Astor with a vengeful gaze. “No way I’m letting you fuck up my retirement.”
And with that he turned around, put the Sprinter into drive, and joined the late afternoon traffic.
76
Marv Shank announced the news of Reventlow’s investment in Comstock on the trading floor. As one, every man and woman present rose and cheered.
“The boss did it,” he said, shaking with pride. “He saved our asses.”
Shank walked the length of the desk, shaking hands and exchanging high fives. After a few minutes he retreated to his office and called Astor. There was no answer. He texted, “U da man! Troops over the moon. Comstock lives to fight another day!”
He kept the phone in his hand, waiting for a reply. Astor was always quick to respond to good news. There was no answer, but he had little time to think about it. His phone began ringing, and it didn’t stop for an hour. First there were the lending institutions, which wanted to thank Astor but settled for Shank in his place.
“Never doubted you for a second,” said Brad Zarek from Standard Financial. “Now that we’re all square, the credit committee would like to increase your line of credit. Bobby mentioned another hundred million the other day. It’s yours for the asking. And at Libor plus a quarter. Of course we’ll beat any competitive bid.”
Shank was tempted to hang up. For once he erred on the side of diplomacy, thanking Zarek as nicely as he knew how, which basically meant he didn’t tell him to go screw himself.
Following the banks came the journalists. There were calls from the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, even Der Spiegel. The only thing better than a big shot getting his ass handed to him was a miracle recovery.
By six the office was pretty much deserted. The last-minute miracle had sent even the die-hard grinds to the local watering holes to toast Bobby Astor. Shank walked to Astor’s office and peered inside. He checked his phone again, even though he knew that Bobby hadn’t replied to his call or his text. Shank decided he must be tied up at the FBI. He called Sully, but Sully didn’t answer either.
A quiver of unease passed through his body. He felt certain something was wrong.
“Marv, good night. Turn off t
he lights on your way out.” It was Mandy Price, the chief financial officer. He saw that she was wearing her running clothes, probably off for a quick 10-miler to celebrate. Maniac.
Shank smiled and waved. “Good night. We live to fight another day!”
He stood like that for another minute, gazing around the empty office. He made a slow tour from front to back, taking his time, reminiscing about deals done, about trading strategies that had worked and those that hadn’t, about the pile of money he’d made. He ended where he had started, standing in the middle of the trading floor. He didn’t think he’d ever seen it so quiet.
He looked at his watch and wondered what to do.
He had nowhere to go.
77
At first he was scared.
After an hour he grew restless.
Now Astor was bored.
He sat on a wooden chair in the center of a vacant two-car garage. He had no idea where he was. There were no windows to look out. The garage door was locked, as was the only other entrance, a single door leading to the house he’d been led through. He looked around. There was a lawn mower, trash cans, a rake. He could hear crickets sawing outside, and the smell of cut grass was rich in the air. He took a sip of water from a liter bottle Daniel had left him. He was hungry, so he knew it was after seven o’clock, which was the hour he ate dinner.
Leaving Manhattan, Daniel had placed a hood over his head. No one spoke during the ride. Left alone with his thoughts, Astor had tried to map his journey by the landmarks he passed. One bridge. One tunnel. A long spell on a highway. But which bridge? Which tunnel? And which highway?
Once more he made a tour of his prison, banging on the garage door, shouting “Help!” as loudly as he could, and repeatedly kicking the door to the house. Sully’s betrayal provided his anger with ample fuel. It did no good. The only result was a ruined shoe and a bruised heel.
He gave a last kick for good measure. Regaining his balance, he saw the doorknob turn. The door opened and John Sullivan walked in, followed by Daniel and Septimus Reventlow.
“Take a seat,” said Reventlow.
Astor sat down. He observed that Sully was limping and that his face was swollen and inflamed, as if he’d been crying. Sully looked at him and offered a sad, weary smile. “I’m sor—”
A gunshot cut off the word. Sullivan dropped to the concrete floor, dead.
“Jesus,” said Astor, cringing. The boredom was gone. He was scared. “Why did you…what the…but he was helping you.”
Daniel slipped the Beretta into his waistband. He approached and knelt in front of Astor. The placid blue eyes looked into his. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
Astor extended his left hand warily, and Daniel laid it palm down across his own, gently splaying the fingers. Astor didn’t see him insert the sliver of bamboo beneath his fingernail. A flame traveled through the finger up his arm and into his neck. He screamed, and as quickly the sliver was gone and the monk was patting his hand, holding a cloth to absorb the blood.
Astor looked from Daniel to Reventlow. “You didn’t ask me anything.”
“The questions will come,” said Reventlow. “Daniel needs to soften you up first. By the time he’s done, you’ll be begging to tell me everything you know.”
78
The intel started arriving when Alex was halfway across the Atlantic. First came the download of James Salt’s phone’s internal memory and SIM card. There were a slew of phone numbers, in fact a list of every call placed or received, some six thousand in all. The phone also provided access to Salt’s e-mails for the better part of the past two years. Many contained cc’s to other parties, giving the Bureau and MI5 a plethora of leads. There was less luck with texts, as the phone deleted these, and it was necessary to obtain them from the service provider.
Alex spent the flight crouched in the cockpit, listening as Barry Mintz relayed the information. She was interested in two things: where the bad guys were hiding and what was to be their target, or targets, plural, God help us every man. But even as she guessed at their plans, she kept in mind Jean Eyraud’s words about Lambert and his fellow mercenaries. They were not terrorists. They were professional soldiers who wanted to survive, which meant they had an exit strategy mapped out and memorized.
“Have they pinged that phone yet?” she asked.
“Still waiting on the South Africans.”
“Time frame?”
“Any minute now.”
“You said that an hour ago.” Alex was beside herself with frustration. Trapped in the plane, she could do nothing but monitor progress being made by others. “And Bobby?”
“We can’t reach him anywhere. He’s not answering his cell or home phone. Neither is his driver.”
“What about the office?”
“Closed for the day.”
“Call Marv Shank. He’s Bobby’s best friend. He’ll know where he is.”
“Will do,” said Mintz. “There’s something else. Jan sent him a text ordering him to 26 Federal Plaza at five. He didn’t show.”
Alex was worried. Bobby might disobey her command to get his butt down to Federal Plaza. He would not disobey Janet McVeigh’s. If his meeting had run long, he would have called to explain his tardiness. She tapped the captain on the shoulder. “What’s our ETA?”
“Two hours, but we have a problem. A line of thunderstorms is coming down the Hudson Valley toward the city.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. It extends all the way into western Pennsylvania. The forecast is calling for four to six inches of rain. The storm could shut down every airport in the vicinity until dawn.”
Alex squinted to read the flight instruments. “You got any more juice left in this bird?”
“We’re pushing 500 knots and that’s with a headwind.”
“My Charger goes faster than that.”
“I can get you another fifty knots. Any more than that and we’ll be landing on fumes.”
“Step on it.”
79
“I’m not here,” said Jeb Washburn.
“Definitely not,” said Mike Grillo.
“I am way off the reservation.”
“Different county entirely.”
“County? I need to be in a different country. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Anyone finds out I’m helping you, Grill-O, I am done.”
“You can come work for me.”
“Lord help us both, then.”
The men were parked in Washburn’s car at the corner of 44th and Eleventh across from a Ray’s Pizza. Washburn had exchanged his blazer and flannels for jeans and a bowling shirt that nicely hid his .45 but couldn’t quite make his paunch disappear. Grillo had dressed as casually as he would allow himself, in pressed slacks, a navy polo shirt, and deck shoes. The Shermans were gone, too, replaced by a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He always smoked Cubans on ops.
Grillo glanced down the street, focusing on a three-story brick building a third of the way along. It was a neighborhood of row houses and tenements, one built next to the other. Number 3415 was more run-down than its neighbors, with concrete stairs leading to a glass-paned entry. Among the thirty or so men, women, and children who called it home was a man named Paul Lawrence Tiernan. Grillo preferred to think of him as Palantir.
“You ready to roll?”
Washburn shook his head. “I can’t believe I am doing this for you.”
“’Cause I’m one of the good guys, remember?”
“Better not forget those shoes.”
“Size seven.”
Washburn slipped his gun free and put it on the center console. “You going to recognize him?”
“You think there are other guys like him in there?”
“Wouldn’t doubt it, all the boys that got hurt over there.”
“Amen,” said Grillo. “Let’s roll.”
Washburn put the car into gear and slowly cruised down the block. It
was 10 p.m. and the sky was black with clouds, the air buzzing as it does before a storm. A few people walked along the sidewalk, heading toward Times Square.
“Hey, man,” said Grillo. “Whichever way it goes, thanks.”
A fist bump between friends.
It had required all the pieces of the puzzle to locate Palantir. The agenda, the credit card bills, the phone records, and finally the Skype address that had tied it all together. It was not, as it turned out, the first time the NSA had seen Cassandra99.ru. The same address had turned up in a search a few years earlier in a request from DARPA asking to investigate a cyberattack against its server. At that time two phone numbers were associated with a credit card used to pay for the Skype account. One of the numbers matched a phone Palantir had used to contact Edward Astor. By means of triangulation, the NSA had narrowed down Cassandra99’s location to one of two areas. Using Edward Astor’s credit card receipts from last Friday morning, when he had ventured to midtown to meet Palantir, Grillo was able to offer an educated guess as to which location was more likely to be Palantir’s home. The triangulation was accurate to 10 feet as far as latitude and longitude were concerned. It did not, however, offer much help in terms of altitude. Number 3415 was a three-story tenement. It required a human’s gumshoeing to find out who lived inside the building. In this case, Grillo had slipped the postman a twenty to let him look at the names of all those receiving mail at the address. Paul Lawrence Tiernan fit the bill. The military records Grillo obtained afterward confirmed that he had his man, as well as the probable reasons for Palantir’s grudge against the United States government.
Washburn stopped the car in front of the scruffy building. Grillo climbed out and jogged across the street, checking that the tail of his shirt was loose and covering his pistol, a slim Smith & Wesson with a nine-shot clip. The front hall was clogged with bicycles chained to a radiator, bags of trash, and empty beer cans. Salsa music drifted from an open door upstairs. Tiernan’s apartment was at the back of the first floor. Grillo knocked twice and stepped back. He noted that there were two spyglasses built into the door, one at eye level, the other at his waist. He knocked again and the door opened.
The Prince of Risk Page 33