The Prince of Risk

3

Outside, Astor snaked through the crush of guests to the bar. “Vodka,” he said to the bartender. “Make it a double.”

“Any brand in mind?”

“The kind that’s eighty proof.”

The bartender filled a glass with ice, poured in a few fingers of vodka, then placed the bottle next to it. Astor picked up the glass and walked toward the guest villa. Several people approached to congratulate him on the dive. He ignored them. He was done talking for the night.

Inside the guest villa, he changed back into his clothes. He picked up his phone and saw that it was already filling with voice mail. First was a text message from a number he didn’t recognize. Astor was careful about his privacy. He gave his number only to friends whose own numbers he catalogued. The text was from a local area code. Something about the number rang a bell. He opened the message.

One word.

PALANTIR.

It meant nothing to him.

The message had arrived at 11:07, more than an hour earlier. He placed his thumb on the Delete key, then changed his mind. Alex had said that his father had died around eleven. He called the number. After seven rings, the call went to voice mail.

A smoky, bourbon-aged baritone spoke. He had not heard the voice in five years. Even so, it took only a syllable to make the hair on his arms stand to attention and send a current of undistilled dread from head to toe.

“You’ve reached Edward Astor. Leave a message.”

Astor picked up the glass of vodka, walked to the pool, and poured it in.

“Hey!” he shouted as he jumped onto the diving board and walked to the end. “Everyone, listen up.”

No one paid him any attention. He stuck his pinkie and index finger into his mouth and whistled. The music skidded to a halt. The guests turned his way.

“Party’s over.”