The Prince of Risk (32 page)

A
t 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.”

T
he 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.”

“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.

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.”

P
ain, 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.