The Prince of Risk

by Christopher Reich

  Mike Grillo looked at the legless man in the wheelchair. “Gotcha.”

  “Good guy or bad guy?”

  “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

  “You win.” Paul Lawrence Tiernan rolled his chair back to allow Grillo to enter. “Name?”

  “Grillo, Michael T. That would be Captain to you. Fifth Marines. Seventh Battalion.”

  “Semper fi,” said Tiernan without conviction. He was a handsome man with short black hair parted neatly, blue eyes, and a reliable set to his jaw. “You a fed these days? DOD? FBI? What?”

  “Strictly private sector. I work for Bobby Astor.”

  “Do I need to be scared?”

  “Not if you help me out.”

  Tiernan motioned for Grillo to come in. “It was the Skype, wasn’t it?”

  “And some other stuff. Hard to stay hidden when so many people are looking for you.”

  In contrast to the ramshackle foyer, Tiernan’s apartment was spotless, if sparsely furnished to provide ample space to move about. A bookshelf held pictures of Tiernan during his time as a United States Marine. He’d served for ten years and been in line for a second rocker when he was hit.

  “I was over there, too,” said Grillo. “Helmand. Kandahar. I was lucky.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You’ve got a right to be bitter. You don’t have a right to hide information that weighs on the security of the country.”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” said Tiernan. “I offered it to the Agency. They didn’t want to pay. They said I owed it to the country to tell them. Edward Astor forked over fifty grand without batting an eye. Now I have a rail in my bathroom so I can use the head easier. Next week they’re coming to install a bigger shower so I can roll all the way in. There might even be enough cash left to buy me a van I can drive myself.”

  “I’m glad for you. I’m going to need a copy of the report you prepared for Astor—whatever it was you gave him last Friday morning. Where’d you meet him? Starbucks on 42nd and Broadway?”

  “You’re good.”

  Grillo shrugged. “The thing about being on my side of things, I don’t have to worry about breaking laws. You’re lucky I got here first. Penelope Evans wasn’t.”

  “I saw that.”

  “So who’s after you?”

  “A big shot in the Chinese government named Magnus Lee. Runs some kind of gigantic investment fund. He uses his fund to buy into companies that manufacture or control critical infrastructure in the U.S. and Europe, South America. We’re talking microchips, satellites, power plants, that kind of thing. Afterward, he puts his people into key positions in those companies, where they can install software to give him control of it.”

  “That’s what got Edward Astor so worked up?”

  “Only half of it. Lee is planning to sabotage a critical financial system in the States. He’s using the attack to advance his chances to get elected to the Standing Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. He wants to be a vice premier.”

  “What financial system are you talking about?”

  “That I don’t know. But something that requires a new hardware complex. It’s all in the report. Wait here.” Tiernan spun a one-eighty in his chair and rolled down a hallway. He returned with a folder on his lap. “Have at it.”

  Grillo picked up the slim folder. The summary alone made for scary reading. “Edward Astor owe you any more money?”

  “We’re square.”

  “If things go south, there’re going to be some people want to speak with you.”

  “Maybe they’ll offer me a job.”

  Grillo shook his head. It was amazing how smart people could be so dumb. “If they do, it’ll be one you can do from a prison cell.”

  80

  Pain, the purifier.

  Astor had lost the first fingernail an hour before. He did not know how he was still conscious, or why he was actually alert and seated in the chair, his eyes locked on the sadistic blue-eyed monk’s. The index finger was ruined. So was the middle finger. They hung limp, as bloody and lifeless as John Sullivan.

  Astor watched as the monk’s hand darted forward, as fast as a cobra’s tongue, and the bamboo shoot disappeared into his nail bed. He winced but made no noise. He was done with that. He had already cried for them to stop. He had begged. He’d pleaded to be shot. He’d surrendered his dignity and more.

  It was only then that Reventlow had begun his questions.

  “How long had you been working with your father? How did you learn about Penelope Evans? Tell me everything you found in her home. What did you tell your ex-wife?” And finally, “Who is Palantir?”

  Astor told the truth. He knew nothing more than they did. If anything, he talked too much. He provided Reventlow with more information than he needed. He offered his own theories about Magnus Lee’s plans. He adopted the strategy to lengthen the periods between his torture. A second of respite was worth infinite cunning. But quickly he discovered that his fevered guesses provoked telling responses about the plot, and that by process of elimination he was closing in on what the target really was.

  “Why was your father interested in the Flash Crash? Did you know of any safeguards taken to protect the Exchange? Tell me again which companies your father suspected of being infiltrated. Wasn’t he interested in other companies?”

  And here Reventlow threw out five or six names, and Astor knew that he was interested in only one of them, so he made himself commit them all to memory.

  “Who is this Michael Grillo?”

  They had finally arrived at the subject he knew he must lie about.

  “A corporate investigator.”

  “Why did you hire him?”

  “I work with him all the time. He was helping me gather information on a rival fund that I suspected was poaching clients.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Ask him. Ask Grillo.”

  “That’s the thing. We can’t find him. Tell us what Grillo knows.”

  “Nothing. He isn’t involved in this.”

  The shoot shot forth.

  It was more pain than he had known. More than the first foray beneath his fingernail. This time the shoot probed more deeply into the flesh, finding a fresh bed of nerves to upset. Reventlow repeated his question, but Astor didn’t stray from his story. He had found a new source of strength. It came from his private storehouse of terrible memories. He saw himself standing at his parents’ bed at Cherry Hill, and he recalled the terror he knew as he anticipated the black belt’s first blow. The boy had survived. And so the man would survive, too.

  The shoot dug in.

  No noise. Not a whimper. When pain consumed you, it lost its ability to frighten. It became a new reality, and a known reality could be endured.

  “How can we find Grillo?”

  Every minute he delayed was a minute Mike Grillo gained. He would find Palantir, and when he did, he would make him talk. Grillo didn’t need a sharpened bamboo shoot.

  “I had his number on my other phone,” said Astor. “I called him. I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Where is Grillo?”

  “I told you, he’s not involved in this. You’re wasting your time.”

  Astor closed his eyes, readying himself for the agony. But the bamboo shoot did not come.

  After a moment he looked around and saw Reventlow studying a phone. It was Astor’s phone. “Ha!” he said, a surprised outburst. “His name is Paul Lawrence Tiernan. Palantir. Clever.” He looked up. “It seems Mr. Grillo has done our work for us. He writes that he has found Palantir and is in possession of the report he prepared for your father. He’d like to know where to meet so he can turn it over to you.” Reventlow pondered the matter. “I think he should stay put. After all, you do want to meet the man who was working with your father, don’t you, Bobby? I would.”

  Astor said nothing. It was done, then. Game over.

  Reventlow texted back a message, then spoke to Daniel in Chinese. The
monk stood and walked to the door. Reventlow patted Astor on the shoulder. “We shouldn’t be long. When we get back, we’ll put an end to this charade.”

  Reventlow and Daniel left.

  Astor dropped his head. His hand was a mess and hurt too much to contemplate. He stood, walked to the garage door, and put his ear against the wood. He heard a car start and drive away. He tried the other door. Locked. He waited a few minutes, expecting one of them to return. A little time passed. No one came.

  They were gone.

  Astor looked around the garage. At the lawn mower, the rake, the trash barrels. At the cinder-block walls. He noted that the door had been ripped off its rail and that wood blocks nailed it shut. He had an hour, maybe a little more, to free himself.

  81

  “LaGuardia air traffic control is denying us permission to land,” reported the captain of the Gulfstream G4 to Alex. “The wind across the runway is gusting to sixty knots.”

  “I have an agent waiting for me on the tarmac.”

  “I don’t care if the president of the United States is waiting for you. A gust hits this plane when we’re about to touch down and it will flip us over like a tiddlywink.”

  Alex squeezed herself in between the pilot and the copilot. “You heard what’s going on,” she said. “This is a matter of national security. We are hours away from an attack on the city. Put us down.”

  The captain consulted with the copilot. “Get strapped in. We’re going to have to go in like a Zero at Midway. I hope you’re used to hard landings.”

  Alex hurried to her seat and pulled the safety belt tight against her stomach. A minute later the nose dipped, then dipped some more. Her bag slipped from beneath her chair and slid the length of the cabin. She didn’t think of retrieving it. The plane hit an air pocket and bounced noisily. She gripped the armrests harder.

  “Oh, Father,” she said to herself, “help me through this.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she was praying to Hoover or to the Lord above.

  And then the plane began to rock and roll.

  Barry Mintz stood on the tarmac at the base of the stairs. More than ever he looked like a rumpled teenager, all gangly limbs and a head of red hair standing on end in the driving wind.

  Alex walked past without acknowledging him. She kneeled to kiss the runway, rose, walked 10 feet away, and vomited.

  “A little rough coming in,” said the pilot, standing with arms crossed in the doorframe.

  “She okay?” asked Mintz.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s one tough customer.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Mintz.

  The clouds that had threatened since early evening rolled overhead, dark and ominous. A few drops of rain fell. Alex returned, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Screw it. The suit was still soiled with Salt’s blood and she was fresh out of hankies. A little puke wouldn’t hurt. A man from Customs and Border Protection stood nearby. Passport formalities were handled quickly. Alex accepted her passport back and turned to Mintz.

  “Good news, please.” It was an order.

  “We got him,” said Mintz. “The South Africans pinged Beaufoy’s phone to a home in Darien. We rousted the real estate agent out of bed. He leased the residence to a foreign gentleman from Singapore who paid with a cashier’s check for a three-month period. Same MO as at Windermere.”

  “Name on the lease?”

  “An alias. We ran it and got nothing.”

  Alex picked up her bag and started toward the car. “Call SWAT and the local police. Tell Jan McVeigh.”

  “Um, Alex…hold it. You’re not even supposed to be working the case. Bill Barnes is already out there. He’s leading the SWAT team in. He said he’s going to be breacher.”

  “Are you in contact with him?”

  “He sent a two-man probe team. They have ten heat signatures inside the house.”

  “Any sightings?”

  “Not sure.”

  Alex considered this. Her motion sickness had disappeared the moment she puked, but now a new, more troubling nausea threatened to take its place. “Are you telling me that there are ten bad guys inside the safe house fourteen hours after Salt called Beaufoy to give him a heads-up that I was on the trail? No chance.”

  The door to Mintz’s Ford opened. A portly, disheveled man with a five o’clock shadow got out. “Hey, Alex, long time.”

  “Marv,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “We can’t find Bobby. He isn’t answering his phone. He’s not at home. I’m worried that something’s happened to him. You know—what with his looking into his father’s death. I called looking for you and got put in touch with Special Agent Mintz.”

  “Mintz, did he ever go see Jan?”

  “Negative.”

  Alex checked her own phone and saw that Bobby hadn’t called back. He never failed to return a message promptly. “Where was he last?”

  “He left the office at three to visit a client named Septimus Reventlow at 49th and Park,” said Shank. “Reventlow says the meeting was over quickly and Bobby left a little after four.”

  “Who is this Reventlow?”

  “An investor. He has a lot of money in one of our funds. The thing is, Bobby was in a pickle. He had a big bet that went south on him. Reventlow put in three hundred million to help us meet a margin call. Essentially, it saved the company. There’s no way Bobby would not call me to talk about it.”

  “He didn’t say a word? Not even a text?”

  “He talked to our CFO to tell her to expect an incoming wire transfer. That’s the last we heard.”

  “And that was at four?”

  “More or less.”

  Alex weighed the information. If Bobby left Reventlow’s office at four, he would have had plenty of time to make it downtown for his appointment with Janet McVeigh. “What about Sully? I left two messages for him.”

  “Nothing. I tried his home, too. Nada. Don the doorman hasn’t seen Bobby either. It’s like the two of them have disappeared.”

  Mintz took a call. “Barnes is suiting up. They have the place surrounded. If we want to make it out there, we have to go now.”

  A drop of rain hit Alex’s cheek. She gazed up at the sky. Any minute, it was going to dump buckets. She looked at Marv Shank, then back at Mintz.

  “What was Sully driving?” she asked.

  “The Sprinter,” said Shank.

  “Get in. Let’s go find my husband.”

  Alex’s first assignment upon joining the Bureau had been bank robbery. The work was fast and exciting, and there were plenty of arrests. She was shot at twice (both misses), and she herself shot and wounded three assailants. Good times. Bank robbers, she learned, were not the smartest guys in the room. Most were druggies, drinkers, your basic street-level perp in need of a quick five grand and too stupid to consider that ten years of hard time were too steep an interest to pay on the money. Many used stolen cars in the commission of their crimes, thinking that a hot vehicle would offer an anonymous getaway. Nine out of ten forgot that nearly all late-model automobiles come equipped with LoJack, a location finder/radio transmitter hidden in the rear tire well of an automobile. If the car was stolen, the LoJack office nearby would activate that car’s transmitter and immediately receive a ten-digit GPS location, pinpointing the car to a 2-square-foot patch of planet Earth. It could also, if desired, disable the car’s engine.

  Bobby’s half-million-dollar Sprinter had the same kind of LoJack as any Nissan or Hyundai, except that Mercedes-Benz charged $5,000 for it instead of $500. Alex needed two calls to get a mark on the Sprinter; the first to the insurance company to get Bobby’s license number and the second to LoJack to ask the company to turn on its transmitter. In three minutes she had the location of Bobby’s Sprinter.

  “It’s at 27 Foxhollow Road, New Canaan,” she announced after hanging up.

  “Sully lives in New Canaan,” said Shank.

  “I know.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,
” Shank went on. “Sully never drives the Sprinter home. It’s Bobby’s car.”

  “Well, it’s there now, and it’s not moving a muscle,” said Alex. “The engine has been disabled.”

  Shank remained unsatisfied. “But if Sully’s at home, why isn’t he answering his phone?”

  The drive to New Canaan took forty minutes. Alex shooed Mintz aside and took the wheel. She was done with being a passenger. The winding country roads were her own private racetrack. If her aggressive driving bothered anyone, no one dared admit it.

  Sully lived outside the city, and she needed her onboard navigation to steer her through the country roads. She abandoned the GPS when she turned onto Foxhollow Road. She had an easier beacon to follow. Directly ahead, a wall of flame rose into the sky. Cresting a rise, she saw a platoon of fire trucks pulled up in front of John Sullivan’s home. The Sprinter was parked a few yards away. Alex slid in behind an EMT’s truck and got out of the car. The firefighters were only just arriving and were running to attach a hose to a hydrant. The chief stood by the main engine, establishing his battle plan.

  Alex flashed her identification and introduced herself. “Is anyone inside the home?”

  “Too hot to go in,” the chief responded. “The place could collapse at any second. We’re going to spray down the roof with water and retardant, then send a team in the front door.”

  Alex ran as close to the entry as the flames would allow and called Bobby’s name. No reply came. The heat was ferocious, battling her back. She called again, but there was no response. A firefighter tugged her sleeve and told her to retreat from the flames. Alex shook her arm free and stayed where she was. “Bobby!”

  The flames were growing rapidly, the crackling of timber and popping of the dry shingles lending the blaze an explosive, hazardous character. She looked for ways to get closer, if only to be able to hear her ex-husband’s cries. If he was alive, she wanted to know it.

  Then she saw something. On the ground, inches from the garage door, lay a small, colorful card.