The Prince of Risk

34

Michael Grillo sat at his customary table at the rear of Balthazar, the French brasserie in SoHo that did double duty as his private office. It was 9 p.m. and the joint was packed. The appetizing scents of roast chicken and French onion soup drifted from the kitchen. Grillo sipped his Campari and soda and reread the message he’d received earlier from Bobby Astor giving Edward Astor’s mobile phone number as well as his Social Security number. Taking a pencil from his coat, he transferred both to a notepad. For a man of Grillo’s talent, the two were more than enough information to unlock a trove of personal information, information he hoped would shed light on Astor’s activities and help his client discover who or what Palantir was and how it had played a role in Edward Astor’s death.

Grillo sent the message to his personal server. Immediately afterward, he deleted it from his phone. He knew about the vulnerability of cellular technology. He made his living exploiting it. Below the two numbers he wrote the word Palantir. The name was familiar, though he wasn’t sure why, or where he might have heard it before. His instinct told him to be wary. Grillo paid his instinct close mind. It had kept him alive through three wars.

His first call was to the private number of a highly placed executive at the nation’s largest phone carrier. A woman answered on the second ring. “Hello, Mike.”

“Hello yourself. Got a sec?”

“For you, always.”

Grillo smiled his prim, menacing, gambler’s smile. “Have a pen?”

He read off Edward Astor’s cell number and the woman asked him to hold. She returned to the line thirty seconds later. Grillo could tell that she had moved to a quieter location, and when she spoke the warmth had bled from her voice. “You know whose number this is?”

“I do.”

“The FBI already called.”

“They’re upping their game.” Grillo kept his eyes on the door. A gaggle of tourists-he guessed Spanish by their coloring and dress-entered and approached the maitre d’. “Is it yours?” he asked, meaning did the number belong to the carrier?

“It’s ours.”

“If it makes any difference, I’m working with the family.”

“I’ll sleep more soundly tonight.”

“I’m pleased.”

“How far back do you need?”

“Two billing cycles. Sixty days should do the trick. I’m most interested in the last week. Calls to and from. If you can get names and addresses, it would help.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A rough-looking man stood outside the restaurant peering through the plate-glass window. Six feet, jeans, black T, chiseled arms. Grillo took out his lighter and flicked the cover open and closed. It was a stainless silver Zippo. He’d carried it into battle on three continents, and his father had carried it before him in Korea.

“If you can give me a head start,” he suggested, “I’d appreciate it.”

“That’s a big if.”

“It carries four zeroes.”

“I’m sure your client can afford it.”

“Impress me.” Grillo hung up. The hard type with the black T-shirt was coming through the front door. A little girl with pigtails held his hand. He picked her up and asked a waitress for a restroom. Grillo put away the lighter. It came to him what he’d heard about Palantir. Something about a firm that did security work for the NSA. Cutting-edge stuff.

Well, thought Grillo, it had to be. Everyone acknowledged that the National Security Agency was pretty much the smartest guy in the room. Twenty thousand souls locked away inside a compound in the rolling hills outside of Washington, D.C., scouring the world’s communications traffic for any and all things sinister and threatening to the security of the United States of America and its allies. On the record, the NSA admitted to pulling down twenty petabytes of raw data a day from the world’s digital traffic: phones, Internet, satellites, all of it. That was enough information to fill the Library of Congress a hundred times. The NSA was as secret as secret got. Doing security work for it was like being a bodyguard for the marines.

He looked at the word on his notepad.

Palantir.

Bobby Astor had no business putting his nose into this kind of stuff.

Grillo walked outside and smoked a cigarette. The night was hot and sticky, but he kept his jacket on. He disliked walking around in shirtsleeves and a necktie. A uniform was a uniform. Ten years back it was cammies and combat boots. These days it was Tom Ford and Ferragamos. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.

Inside the brasserie, the staff had wiped down his table and refilled the coffee. He sat, careful to adjust his trousers and jacket. His next call was to a small but respected credit advisory bureau. He read off Edward Astor’s Social Security number and requested a list of all credit cards in Astor’s name. His contact promised an answer by tomorrow afternoon. Grillo told him he wanted it by noon and hung up.

The daily specials were pot-au-feu, grilled trout, and cuisses de grenouille.

“The usual,” he told the server. “And remember, bleu.”

“Bien sûr, monsieur.”

Grillo started playing with his Zippo again. It was all coming back now. He remembered the man who’d mentioned the name. The recollection did little to boost his spirits. A man from the murkiest depths of the secret world.

The server arrived with Grillo’s steak. “Voilà. Votre steak frites.”

“Bleu?” Grillo asked with friendly disbelief.

“Comme vous l’aimez.”

Grillo cut into the steak. The center was dark red, essentially untouched by heat.

“Eh bien?” asked the waiter.

“Parfait,” said Grillo.

Content, the server bowed and left.

Grillo cut himself a piece of meat. Strangely, he could not bring himself to take a bite. He had lost his appetite.