It was done.
He would not be elected to the Standing Committee. He would not assume the position of vice premier. His career in the party was finished. But it would end there. He had taken pains to hide his involvement in the affair. There was no proof linking him to any of it. Not the attack on the Exchange or his brother’s infiltration of the Mahwah complex. He would receive a censure, have his hands slapped, perhaps do a year in exile in some provincial backwater, but it would end there.
Lee smiled inwardly. He knew that his safety was assured. He was too valuable, making money for his country and his colleagues.
Make money and get rich.
It was the Chinese way.
Lee turned off the lights and left the building.
He was surprised to see his car and driver waiting. At least there was still one loyal retainer left.
He climbed into the back seat and shut the door.
“Hello, Magnus Lee.”
Lee jumped at the sight of the old man. “Elder Chen. It is a surprise.” He shifted his gaze to the front seat. It was not his driver behind the wheel but Elder Chen’s chauffeur. Lee grew afraid. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked.
It was then that Lee saw the enormous pistol in Elder Chen’s frail hand. The old man shook his head. A flame spit from the snout. The gunshot was unbearably loud. Lee felt a sharp pain in his chest.
“But Elder Chen…” Lee wanted to explain that failure was beyond his control, that he had planned everything to propel his country to a position of pride and prestige it had never known, that he needed only a few more days to repay the society.
The words never came.
Magnus Lee slumped on the seat and died.
“Vice premier,” said Elder Chen. “Never.”
92
“What do you think?”
Bobby Astor pushed open the door to his new office.
“This is it?” asked Alex, walking inside, taking a skeptical look at the shoddy surroundings.
“It’s just me and Marv. Like the old days.”
The office measured 1,000 square feet and was located on the seventh floor of an older building directly across the river from Battery Park in New Jersey. The carpet was worn but clean. The fluorescent lights didn’t flicker too badly. And the subway was only a quarter of a mile away. They did, however, have a wonderful view of Manhattan.
“What are you calling it?” asked Alex.
“Renaissance Capital. Corny, but hey, if it fits…”
“I like it.”
Marv Shank trundled into the office and dropped a box of office supplies on one of the two desks that made up the furnishings. He opened the box and took out a bottle of champagne and glasses. He popped the cork and poured two glasses. He handed one to Alex and lifted the other.
Astor regarded the bottle of champagne, then poured the rest of his Coke into the third glass. “To renaissance,” he said.
“To new beginnings,” said Alex.
“To family,” said Shank.
They drank and looked at the view for a minute.
Shank set down his glass. “Which side do you want?”
Astor looked at the two desks, pressed face-to-face. “The first big corporate decision,” he said. “You pick. You’re the boss. I only work here.”
Shank sat down at the desk on the right. “That’ll be the day.”
The three months following the attack had not been kind to Comstock or to Bobby Astor. It was never officially confirmed that Magnus Lee had engineered the plot to sabotage the West’s financial system, or that China had been in any way involved in the failed assault on the New York Stock Exchange. All the same, the yuan made a sudden and abrupt about-face and not only retraced its earlier appreciation but surpassed it, making a historical high against the dollar.
Unofficially, someone knew.
The revaluation resulted in a $600 million loss. Astor was ruined. He’d been telling the truth when he said that he had everything tied to the fund. It was all gone now. The house in the Hamptons, the ranch in Wyoming, the ski cabin in Aspen. He’d even sold his duplex in Chelsea to repay investors.
As for his father’s estate, Edward Astor had bequeathed the entire amount to Helping Hands.
Bobby Astor was broke. Almost.
Shank looked at Astor, then at Alex. “So what’s this vibe I’ve been getting the last few weeks? You kids going to give it another try?”
Astor regarded his ex-wife. Alex was dressed in a natty blue suit, her hair cut so that it touched her shoulders. She looked much too coiffed, a little too mature, and way too responsible.
“If she slows down,” he said. “After all, we’re looking at the new assistant director for the New York office.”
“If he gives it a rest,” said Alex. “No more fourteen-hour days.”
“Hey,” said Astor. “We’re just starting up.”
Shank looked between the two. “Is that a yes or a no?”
Astor faced Alex. “That’s a yes. Definitely.”
Alex crossed her arms and gave Bobby her most intimidating glare. She looked back at Shank. “All right,” she said finally, before breaking into a grin. “That’s a yes.”
Just then her phone buzzed. She checked the screen. “Gotta go, boys. Duty calls.”
Astor kissed her. “See you at home.”
“Carbonara for supper?” asked Alex.
“You got it. With extra bacon, just like you like it.”
She kissed him again and then turned to Shank. “Have him home by six.”
Alex left the office.
Shank looked at Astor, horrified. “You’re the cook?”
Astor walked to the door and made sure Alex was gone. “For now.”
Shank made a tour of the small office. “So, buddy, you figure how much cash we’re starting with?”
“I’ve got fifty grand in my account,” Astor said. “What about you?”
“A little more. I didn’t put everything in Comstock.”
Astor smiled guiltily. “Actually, neither did I.” He opened a large moving-box sitting in the corner and pulled out the package wrapped in brown paper. With care, he peeled back a corner and looked at the painting.
Shank screwed up his face. “God, that is ugly,” he said. “Who did that?”
“Picasso.”
“What’d you pay?”
“Two. But that was ten years ago.”
Shank offered the painting a more appreciative gaze. “And now?”
“I showed it to Sotheby’s. They made me an offer.”
“Yeah? More than two?”
“A little.” Astor showed him the e-mail from the famed auction house. Shank’s eyes opened wide. “For real?”
“Give or take five million.”
Shank did a little jig, then picked up Astor and held him in a bear hug.
“Easy, Marv,” Astor groaned.
“Sorry.” Shank released him. “I know, I know. If you want a friend—”
“Hold it,” said Astor.
“What?”
“I do want a friend. We’re going to do it differently this time.” Astor put out his hand.
Shank looked at it uncertainly. “We are?”
“Yes, we are,” said Astor. “I want a friend…and a partner.”
Shank took Astor’s hand and shook it. For once, he was speechless. After a moment he walked to the window. He stood there for a long time, staring across the water at the greatest city in the world.
Astor walked to the other desk and sat down. He hit a button on the keyboard and the flatscreen monitors came to life. He moved his chair closer, studying the columns of symbols and numbers, the dozens of figures ticking up and down that spoke to him in their own secret language. The markets were open and working as efficiently as ever.
A current of electricity ran up his spine.
Sit down. Buckle up. And plug in.
Astor smiled.
He was back.
Acknowledg
ments
It is my great pleasure to thank the following individuals for their assistance in the writing of this book: Jonathan Knee of Evercore Partners, David Ballard and Robert Sloan of S3 Partners, Drew Nordlicht of Hightower Partners, Nate Hughes at Stratfor, Stan Scheufler, Phil Trubey, Dr. Jon Shafqat, Doug Fischer, and Ted Janus.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Special Agent Anne Beagan of the FBI and her colleagues at the New York Counterterrorism Division and Joint Terrorism Task Force.
At Doubleday, I would like to thank my talented and energetic publishing team: Bill Thomas, Todd Doughty, John Pitts, Alison Rich, Rob Bloom, Bette Alexander, and, of course, my editor and good friend, Jason Kaufman.
Finally, I can’t say thank you enough to my incredible team at Inkwell Management: Michael Carlisle, Kim Witherspoon, David Hale Smith, Lyndsey Blessing, Alexis Hurley, Charlie Olsen, Eliza Rothstein, and, most of all, my agent, Richard Pine.
A Note About the Author
Christopher Reich is the New York Times bestselling author of Rules of Deception, Rules of Vengeance, Rules of Betrayal, Numbered Account, The Devil’s Banker, and many others. His novel The Patriots Club won the International Thriller Writers award for Best Novel in 2006. He lives in Encinitas, California.
Other titles by Christopher Reich available in eBook format
Rules of Deception • 9780385526937
Rules of Vengeance • 9780385530309
Rules of Betrayal • 9780385531559
Visit: ChristopherReich.com
Like: facebook.com/ChristopherReichAuthor
ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER REICH
Rules of Betrayal
Rules of Vengeance
Rules of Deception
The Patriots Club
The Devil’s Banker
The First Billion
The Runner
Numbered Account
The Prince of Risk Page 38