The Prince of Risk

56

“If McVeigh asks where I am, just say I’m not feeling well. Make up something about the incident hitting me harder than I’d thought. You know the drill.”

Alex sat inside Barry Mintz’s Ford at the highway rest stop 5 miles from Teterboro Airport, where Bobby kept the jet.

“I know the drill,” said Mintz. “The question is if Jan will buy it.”

“Let’s hope so, or else it may not be such a happy homecoming.” Alex looked over at Mintz, who was retrieving a black mesh bag from the back seat. “You got everything I asked for?”

“I want to live, don’t I?” Mintz unzipped the bag and took out the items one by one for her examination. “One zinc-powered microtransmitter, one in-ear receiver, one extra battery.”

“And the other thing?” asked Alex after she’d handed each back.

“And the other thing,” said Mintz.

It was wiser not to discuss the “other thing,” a next-generation information gathering apparatus. Suffice it to say that possession of said device constituted an infraction of the legal code for both civilians and law enforcement professionals. Alex called it “the vacuum.”

She zipped up the bag and opened the door. “I’ll let you know what gives as soon as I learn something. I should be back late tomorrow night or early Thursday morning.”

Mintz tried on an encouraging smile. “You’re hanging it out there pretty far on this one-I mean, even for you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Act first, apologize later.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Just keep an eye on Bill Barnes for me. If you learn anything, I want to know it before he does.”

Alex climbed into the Charger with renewed purpose. She had the plane. She had her toys. Now she just needed to find her source. Someone in London knew who had hired Luc Lambert. She wasn’t coming home until she knew as well.

She covered the 5 miles to Teterboro in three minutes flat. She dropped the speed from 110 to 85 (to be safe) when she turned into the airport entrance and found a convenient space in the parking lot adjacent to the Jet Source fixed-base operation, or FBO. Before leaving the car, she tucked Mintz’s bag of goodies into her overnight bag.

Alerted to her arrival, a steward in livery waited at the curb. “May I take your bag, ma’am?”

Alex continued past him directly into the modern terminal. “Just get me to the plane.”

The protocol for flying internationally on private jets was similar to that for commercial air travel, she noted, but without the lines, bad attitudes, fussy children, and, most important, the chance of a tardy departure. Five minutes after checking in, she was crossing the tarmac to the G4. The sleek black aircraft was gassed up and ready to go.

The copilot stood alongside the stairs and offered a hand as she mounted the first step. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Astor,” he said.

Alex stopped cold, staring at the man. She started to dress him down, but her anger deserted her. “Good afternoon.”

“Watch your head.”

Alex ducked to enter the cabin, but once inside, she found she could stand to her full height. The aircraft was designed to accommodate twelve passengers comfortably. There were six oversized leather chairs facing each other on either side of the cabin, a desk to the right, and a couch running along the back left wall.

Alex collapsed into a chair and went to work. Unzipping her bag, she removed her notebooks and set them on a folding table. The notebooks contained everything she’d downloaded concerning Executive Outcomes, the private military company that had recruited Luc Lambert for the ill-fated coup in West Africa, and the company’s successor, Global Research Analysis and Intelligence, or GRAIL.

The steward offered her a warm towel and set a bowl of roasted almonds in front of her. He informed her that the dinner en route would be roast duck à l’orange with wild rice and braised Brussels sprouts. Should madam wish a hot lava cake for dessert, she should say so now so that it could follow her meal promptly and allow madam time to enjoy a restful night’s sleep. Madam declined the dessert and an offer of champagne, asking instead for an espresso and some peace and quiet, thank you very much.

At 5:12 the aircraft’s wheels left the runway. Alex was airborne. Flying time was six hours and ten minutes, with landing previewed at 5:22 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time. If she wished to arrive earlier, she had only to ask the captain. Fuel was no object. He could shave fifteen minutes off their time. Alex said it wouldn’t be necessary. The company she planned on visiting did not open before nine-thirty. She had more than enough time to take the Underground into central London and even give herself a proper English breakfast.

She stared out the window for a few minutes, before lowering the window shade and turning her attention to work. She had surprisingly little to go on besides open-source information-newspaper and magazine articles she’d found on the Net and a Wikipedia brief. The Bureau had no information on either company. Private military companies and security consultants fell under the CIA’s purview, and she hadn’t had time to reach out to her contacts at Langley. She had tried to reach a colleague at MI5 en route to the airport, but it was late in the U.K. and he hadn’t responded. She settled for leaving a message.

One thing was clear. GRAIL had grown and prospered in the years since its founding. Articles mentioned contracts with the United States and British governments totaling tens of millions of dollars. A download from the company’s website offered its mission statement:

To provide a highly professional and confidential military advisory service to legitimate governments.

To provide sound military and strategic advice.

To provide the most professional military training packages currently available to armed forces, covering aspects related to sea, air, and land warfare.

To provide advice to armed forces on weapon and weapon platform selection.

To provide a totally apolitical service based on confidentiality, professionalism, and dedication.

Alex put down the paper. GRAIL could call itself an international security consultant all it wanted, but as far as she was concerned, it was still a private military company, or as they used to say in the Old West, a gun for hire.

She leafed through the remaining newspaper articles discussing the firm, but the reports failed to hold her interest. Instead she found herself thinking about Bobby. The burst of sentimentality she’d been witness to at Cherry Hill wasn’t like him. Was it because his life had been threatened, or had he really changed? She chastised herself for considering the possibility. Maybe she was the sappy one. In her experience, people rarely changed. If anything, their dominant personality traits grew stronger, and more dominant, as they aged. In Bobby’s case, those traits counted as arrogance, stubbornness, overconfidence, and, she had to admit, generosity.

Alex forced Bobby from her mind. Sitting straighter, she tried once again to read the documents. Air travel made her tired, and the words quickly grew fuzzy. A dozen espressos couldn’t stop her eyelids from drooping. Bobby came to her thoughts again. She imagined his touch on her skin, the texture of his cheek against hers…

With an effort, Alex fought off sleep. Her memories frightened her. Every relationship had its good times. Why were they always so much easier to remember than the bad times? The plane banked and flew due east. Darkness enveloped the aircraft. Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was not about work but about him.

Bobby.

Did he really mean it about giving things another go?