The Prince of Risk

66

The Starbucks at the corner of New Bond Street possessed an unobstructed line of sight less than 100 yards from GRAIL. Alex set her venti latte with a triple espresso shot on a table near the entrance. Digging into her pocket, she retrieved a nubbin-sized receiver and fitted it inside her right ear, taking care to activate it with a flick of her thumbnail. A burst of static gave way to silence, then the sound of someone ticking a pencil against a glass desk. “Jonathan,” came Chris Rees-Jones’s voice. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Something’s come up. And see if the solicitors are free this afternoon. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A door closed. Alex could hear footsteps receding down the hall outside Rees-Jones’s office. The zinc-powered microtransmitter she’d placed beneath the arm of her chair was working better than she had dared dream. It was only a matter of waiting. She had every confidence that the dime would drop at any minute.

Alex opened a copy of the Times and feigned reading. In her ear came the sounds of a drawer opening and closing, papers being arranged, a woman clearing her throat. Alex drank half the latte. The espresso hit her like a thousand volts and she put down the cup. Enough of that. She was already jacked enough.

Rees-Jones dropped something metallic on her desk. “Come on,” she whispered angrily. “Pick up the phone, you bloody prick.”

Alex smiled inwardly. The prey was running. Rees-Jones was making the call. The “bloody prick” was Major James Salt.

“Hello, Jim…Never mind how I am. I just had an unexpected visit from the FBI. The agent was interested in an old mate of yours, a Frenchman named Luc Lambert…What do you mean, you don’t remember? He was one of your boys on that Comoros debacle…I thought you would…‘Lucky Luke’-cute. Well, he ran out of luck. He was killed in a raid outside New York City the day before yesterday…I don’t know where…Queens or something, the woman said…Her name was Forza…Counterterrorism. New York office.”

Alex stared hard at the newspaper, but in her mind’s eye she was inside Rees-Jones’s office, standing in the corner and watching the slick executive sweat.

“Lambert killed three agents…Three, did you hear?…You said this was a Third World operation. Training in Namibia. No damage to Britain or its allies. Another of your far-flung get-rich schemes designed to make you chief headshrinker of Booga-Booga Land. You didn’t say America…Bullshit, you didn’t know…This is totally unacceptable. Your boys have machine guns, grenades, and an antitank weapon. For fuck’s sake, Jim, what the hell is going on?…Well, then find out…New York City, are you out of your mind? The last time someone attacked the city the Americans invaded two countries…Just how much whiskey are you drinking these days?…Are you that fucking broke?…No, I won’t calm down. In fact, I’m just getting started…Of course there are links between us. Our honorarium came from your client, didn’t it?…Their bank may be in Liechtenstein, but ours is in Mayfair. It’s called Citibank, and in case you don’t recall, it is American. I don’t think it will have any qualms about turning over our account information to the FBI…Stop telling me to relax. This Forza woman is a bulldog…How do I know? Because she’s a hard little bitch like me…All right, call me back. But soon. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m going to our solicitors.”

The call ended.

Alex drank the rest of her coffee. On her pad, she’d written the words Namibia and Liechtenstein bank and Citibank/Mayfair branch, and finally, in block letters, SALT. She only wished she could have heard the other side of the conversation.

She checked her watch. It was after eleven, about 5 a.m. in the States. She wondered how Katie was doing. Her daughter had always loved the outdoors, camping, canoeing, cooking dinner over a bonfire or, more likely, a gas burner. It seemed odd to be thinking about her daughter away in New Hampshire when she was in London trying to stop a terrorist attack from taking place on U.S. soil.

During the next forty minutes, Rees-Jones took a call from a Middle Eastern sheikh and agreed to provide a cadre of bodyguards for his upcoming trip to London. The sheikh wanted only former SAS men, and Rees-Jones gave him her word. A second call dealt with a failed kidnapping negotiation in Colombia. The victim’s company had agreed to pay $2 million. The kidnappers had wanted $5 million. The victim was now dead and his family was threatening to sue GRAIL.

Major James Salt called back at high noon. It quickly became clear that he’d been doing some checking on his own.

“You’re sure she’s on her own?” said Rees-Jones. “So what? It doesn’t matter whether New York sent her or not. She’s here and she knows about Lambert’s ties to you…No, I don’t know where she went…She arrived this morning on a private jet…Gatwick…no, I don’t know what kind…wait, it was a Gulfstream…a description…brown hair, shoulder length, rather pretty, athletic. Clothes…why?…We bloody well do have a choice…I won’t be party to that…I won’t and that’s final…Do I have to be afraid, Jim? Jim? Are you there?…Bastard.”

Alex placed Chris Rees-Jones’s business card on the table and dialed the company’s main number.

“GRAIL. How may I direct your call?” The operator was a man, and his accent pegged him as working-class, probably from northern England.

“This is Jane Greenhill from the U.S. embassy for Major Salt.”

“Major Salt no longer works on the premises. May I direct you to a voice mailbox?”

“My apologies. I forgot about the shakeup. Do you have his direct number? The ambassador would like to speak to him on an urgent matter.”

“Of course, Mrs. Greenhill. I do note, however, that you’re not calling on the embassy’s main line.”

“I’m sorry. We’re in a bit of a tizzy here this morning. I’m not at my desk. Would you prefer if I call you back?”

There was a pause, and Alex assumed that the operator was checking the embassy directory for a Jane Greenhill, who was in fact the ambassador’s secretary, and a friend of hers.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Greenhill. I’m happy to let you know where to reach Major Salt.”

Alex jotted the number onto her pad. “Is that his home, office, or mobile? As I said, it’s regarding an urgent matter.”

“His home. I’m not permitted to give out another number.”

“Do you happen to know if he’s there at this hour?”

“Major Salt usually begins the day at his club.”

“The Royal Automobile Club?”

“Good God, no. White’s, on St. James’s Street.”

“Know him well, do you?”

“I served under him in the regiment, yes, ma’am.”

“Major Salt is a good man. The ambassador likes him very much. Thank you, Mr…”

“Nolan.”

“Mr. Nolan. Goodbye.”

Alex folded the newspaper, slipped it into her bag, and was on her feet ten seconds later. The rain had stopped, and once on the street, she hurried to the curb to hail a taxi.

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the cabbie.

“White’s.” Alex jumped into the back seat. “And an extra fiver if you can get me there in ten minutes.”