The Prince of Risk

16

Bobby Astor stepped to the curb and raised a hand in the air. A steel-gray Audi SUV swerved into the right lane and pulled to a halt in front of him. Astor jumped into the back seat. “Good morning, Sully. You will kindly refrain from any mention of my father. I’ve been taking condolences for two hours now and I’m fed up with it.”

“Screw you, too,” said Detective First Grade (retired) John Sullivan, turning in his seat and fixing Astor with his watery blue eyes. He was sixty-seven, stout, and ruddy, very much in fighting trim. Since retiring from the force two years earlier, he’d worked as Astor’s official chauffeur and unofficial bodyguard. “My condolences on the passing of your father.”

“Condolences accepted,” said Astor. “Get me to midtown.”

Sullivan guided the car into traffic. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a shitty day. First your dad and then this thing out on Long Island.”

“What thing is that?” Astor asked, only half interested. He freed the agenda from his back and set it on his lap, eager to study his father’s business dealings for a clue as to what Palantir might mean.

“In Inwood, near JFK. Three FBI agents were killed in some kind of operation. It’s all over the news.”

Astor looked up from the agenda. “Did they give any names?”

Sullivan’s blue eyes peered at him in the rearview. “Not yet. You know-have to contact the relatives first. Why?”

“Alex was on a raid last night.”

“Long Island?”

“I think so.” Astor speed-dialed his ex. He tapped his foot, waiting for her to answer.

“You’re an hour late,” said Alex when she picked up. “And yes, I’m all right.”

Astor was more relieved than he cared to admit at hearing her voice. “Was it Jimmy?”

“He, Jason Mara, and Terry DiRienzo.”

“I’m sorry, Alex.”

“Yeah, well.”

“What happened?”

“You know I can’t discuss it. Listen, I’m busy right now. We can talk later.”

Astor hung up, shaken, feeling somehow as if he were the one who had dodged a bullet.

“She okay?” asked Sullivan.

“Same as ever. Her partner was killed. Jim Malloy. Good guy.”

“God bless,” said Sullivan.

“Yeah. God bless,” said Astor. “What the hell was she doing out there?”

Sullivan didn’t answer. There was a time when he’d worked with Alex. The two didn’t get along. He called her a maverick and thought she was too keen on taking risks, too eager to put herself and her team into the line of fire. Astor had no grounds to argue with him. Alex was Alex. She knew only one direction: forward. And always at top speed. Astor was the same. He often thought it was their similarities that had drawn them together, each seeing his or her own best traits in the other. It had made for a torrid romance. But narcissism, in whatever form, wasn’t a good recipe for a long-term relationship.

Astor’s phone buzzed. He checked the number. “What is it, Marv?”

Shank’s voice rattled the car’s speakers. “We got problems. Some of our guys called. They saw what happened earlier. They’re nervous about the position.”

By “guys,” Shank meant the banks that had lent Astor the money to finance his bet on the yuan. Astor checked the monitor built into the rear seat. The yuan was holding steady at 6.30. “We’re good. What are they complaining about?”

“Afraid it might happen again. They’re talking about upping our margin deposit.”

“They can screw themselves. A deal’s a deal.”

“Tell that to our lenders. If you’ve got a minute, you might want to stop by and boost their spirits.”

Astor knew this was an order, not a request. “Who?”

“Brad Zarek.”

Zarek was a senior VP who ran the prime direct brokerage department at Standard Financial. Not Astor’s favorite guy. “How much are we into them?”

“Four hundred million.”

Four hundred million was a substantial sum. Zarek had every right to be calling. “Listen, Marv, any other day I’d be there in a heartbeat. I’ve got something else going.”

“This isn’t any other day. If Standard Financial sneezes, all the other guys will get the flu.”

“Yeah, all right. Call Zarek and tell him I’ll be over. Listen, I gotta go.”

“Head over there now. The sooner we nip this in the bud, the better. You coming back in, after?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass. It’s not just the banks that are calling. I’m fielding calls left, right, and center from our clients. People are scared. They don’t want to talk to a schmuck like me. They want the schmuck whose name is on the fund.”

“That would be me.”

“That would be you, schmuck.”

“Yeah, okay…I’ll see what I can do.”

And the hits keep coming, thought Astor. He leaned forward and told Sullivan to take him to Standard Financial’s headquarters at 45th and Sixth. Astor patted his driver on the shoulder. “Hey, Sully, sorry I barked at you like that earlier.”

“Don’t sweat it, chief. I’ve gotten worse.”

John Sullivan had first pinned on a badge in 1966 at the age of twenty. He’d seen all the hot spots: narcotics, vice, homicide. Somewhere in there he’d been shot. Word was he’d pulled the bullet out himself and chased down the bad guy. Astor met him when Sullivan was working with Alex on the Joint Terrorism Task Force, better known as the JTTF, the force within a force run together with the FBI and a multitude of smaller agencies.

Astor didn’t need a full-time bodyguard, but he didn’t mind having someone licensed to carry a firearm drive him around town. There was an additional upside to hiring a cop as a chauffeur. When necessary, Sullivan could drive as fast as needed, run every red light in the city, and park where his heart desired, or rather, where Astor told him to. No detective first grade, retired or otherwise, ever got a traffic violation in New York City.

Astor turned his attention to the agenda. He opened to the month of July and began reading. It was apparent that Edward Astor kept a meticulous record of his activities. A check of the past Monday showed a 7 a.m. breakfast with the CEO of a prominent social networking company about to do its IPO, or initial public offering. At nine there was a meeting with Sloan Thomasson to review the itinerary of the Germany trip. Nine-fifteen brought “P. Evans” for an “update.” By 9:30 he was expected on the floor to ring the opening bell with a United States marine who had been awarded the Medal of Honor. And so the day continued-meeting upon meeting-until 7 p.m., when he departed.

The days afterward had been equally busy. Edward Astor arrived before seven in the morning and never departed before seven at night. Twelve-hour days were the norm, fourteen and fifteen hours all too common. Astor saw where he’d acquired his own work habits. He was reminded of the saying apropos of those who chose a career on Wall Street: “You won’t know your children, but you’ll be best friends with your grandchildren.”

Astor turned to the past Friday, his father’s last day in the office. The day started with a breakfast, this time with the chairman of the floor traders’ association, followed by a meeting with “P. Evans.” Astor thumbed back through the past ten days. It appeared that his father had had no fewer than twenty meetings with “P. Evans” during that time, and that didn’t count the times they’d breakfasted and lunched.

Astor returned to the most recent Friday. At 9:15, the notation listed “Update on Special Project-P. Evans,” whatever the “special project” was. The day ended there. He noted a diagonal line drawn through all meetings scheduled after 10 a.m., along with the word canceled.

Why? Astor wondered. Sloan Thomasson had felt certain that nothing had been bothering his father that morning. He was not sick. So what had forced Edward Astor to cancel all his appointments?

Astor’s thumb returned to the entry for 9:15. “Update on Special Project-P. Evans.”

He suspected that Penelope Evans might be the one to tell him.