The Prince of Risk

61

Click.

Mike Grillo stood across the street from the office building on Third Avenue, his eyes on the revolving doors. It was eight o’clock. The evening exodus was long over. Men and women trickled out intermittently alone and in pairs. Grillo marked each departure with a flip of the Zippo’s cover.

Click.

He considered himself a reasonable man. He knew the world was a complicated place. Rarely was an issue black or white. Too often, gray was the palette of choice. He realized that everyone, himself included, had to make bargains from time to time. Compromises. Settlements not entirely to their liking. Still, there were a few lines he didn’t cross. He did not steal from clients. He did not engage in activities that might cause harm to come to a person. He did not lie to his friends. So when one of his friends lied to him, he was upset. He wanted to put that person’s head through a plate-glass window.

Click.

A shadow approached the revolving door. Even through the tinted glass, he recognized the shambling gait, the air of world-weary fatigue. A moment later, an African-American man wearing a rumpled blazer, khaki pants, and crappy loafers emerged from the building and walked north. Grillo dropped the Zippo into his pocket and checked his watch. Eight-oh-three. He couldn’t fault his friend for shortchanging the American taxpayer.

Grillo set off up the sidewalk, following from across the street. The man turned west on 70th Street. The light was with Grillo and he crossed, walking faster now. The sidewalk was crowded. He saw his moment.

“Hello, Jeb,” he said when he reached the man’s shoulder. “Funny running into you again.”

Jeb Washburn barely turned his head to answer. “You smooth, Grill-O. Didn’t see you coming for a sec.”

“You should know that I’ve got a piece on you right now. A little PPK aimed right at your kidney. It’s got one of those Czech silencers we used to use. Don’t work for shit, but in this traffic, it’ll do.” Grillo nudged him with the barrel.

“Guess you’re serious.”

“You didn’t tell me he contacted you.”

“You didn’t ask. You asked if I knew who he was. The answer is still no.”

It was there in the file Grillo had received from the phone company, as plain as day. The list of calls placed to and from the phone Palantir had used to contact Edward Astor showed that Palantir had spoken with Jeb Washburn on six occasions between June 10 and June 30.

“I’m waiting.”

“He called in June to say that he had something for us. Proof about a cyberattack to be initiated by a foreign power against our national infrastructure. At first he was all over the place. Could be against the power grid, air traffic control, the Net. Then he narrowed it down to the financial infrastructure. Even so, he was vague. Wouldn’t name the country involved or the place. Didn’t have a firm date. The only thing he knew for sure was that the financial industry was the target. There was something else.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He said it was a game changer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ask him. Whatever, it can’t be good.”

“So what’d you do?”

“What I was trained to do. I evaluated the intake and passed it up the chain of command.”

“And that’s it? Didn’t talk to him again? Done?”

Washburn shook his head slowly, as if bemused. “Grill-O, this is way above your pay grade.”

“I’m private sector now, bro. I don’t have a pay grade. That’s why I can afford my seven-hundred-dollar Italian loafers and you’re wearing resoled Weejuns. By the way, are you the preppiest black man on the planet?”

“In my blood. What can I say?” Washburn gave him a smile.

Grillo didn’t bite. “Ever meet with him in person?”

“Negative. Last contact I had was end of June. He wanted a paycheck before he’d play ball. Said something about DARPA still owing him for work he did a few years back.”

“So DARPA must have his name.”

“If they do, they didn’t say. Wouldn’t even admit they’d ever heard of the software program.”

“One of those, eh?”

“One of those.”

“And so you gave his number to the NSA to see if they could track him down.”

“They looking for him, too?” Washburn curled his mouth in distaste. “Figures.”

“The NSA put a Code Black priority on his number on June eleventh.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. That’s the problem with the intelligence business in this country. Right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Except in this case there are more like a hundred hands. All of ’em are looking for something to do and no one wants to say jack about it.”

“And you give me your word you didn’t know the NSA was trying to track him down?”

Washburn shook his head. “As you recall, our shop is not allowed to operate on home soil. If we do get info about something going down, we pass it along to the proper domestic agency.”

“Just what is it you do these days?”

“Threat mitigation. You were on offense. Me, I play defense. You got something you want to pass along to me, Grill-O? For example, just why in the world you are so interested in Palantir? And don’t give me that client confidentiality crap. We are way beyond that.”

“Palantir contacted Edward Astor in early July. I’m guessing that whoever you passed the information along to declined to pay him for his services. Anyway, Astor wasn’t so cheap. He probably saw himself as a patriot endeavoring to do some good for his country. The way I see it, Palantir delivered the goods last Friday. Astor left work early and headed to midtown, I’m guessing to meet with Palantir. He went home, digested the material, and-”

“And set up the meet with Hughes and Gellman?” Washburn suggested.

“Not right away. First he contacted a company in Reston. Britium. Looks like he paid the place a visit.”

“Britium, eh? Never heard of it.”

“My guess is that he had to check out whether Palantir was on the money before taking the whole thing upstairs.”

“It appears he was.”

“Yes, it does.”

Washburn’s eyes dropped to Grillo’s jacket. “You going to put away that gun now?”

“Someone’s killing off anyone with an interest in Palantir. I’d rather play it safe.”

Washburn laughed gently. “You’re safe with me, Grill-O. We’re all after the same thing.”

“Not exactly. I’m only being paid to find him. Interdiction, arrest, sanction-all the messy shit is up to you.”

“You got something to take us all another step down the road?”

There it was. The offer of the deal Grillo had been working toward. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

“Couple things,” he said. “My client spoke to Palantir today. Apparently whatever he was warning everyone about is set to go down soon. He was cagey, wouldn’t give any details. Sounds like he has a real hard-on for the government. I can give you his Skype address and a number he used to call Edward Astor Friday morning. Give the information to your friends, have them put it in their magic box and shake it around a little. If they’re as good as they’re always bragging, we should have a name, address, Social Security number, and favorite brand of condom.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Washburn.

“Screw your best. Just get me an answer.”

Washburn buttoned his jacket. “Say, Mike, that’s not really a gun in your pocket, is it?”

Grillo withdrew his hand, his fingers shaped in the form of a pistol. “Bang.”

Washburn shook his head. “Been behind a desk way too long.”