The Prince of Risk

72

Phone pressed to her ear, Alex Forza stared out the window at the shadowy contours of the passing English countryside. It was after nine. The late European dusk was turning to night. Charles Graves sat beside her at the wheel, driving hell-bent for Gatwick Airport. He promised to have her there in an hour. She told him she could make it in forty minutes. They settled for “as bloody fast as possible.”

“I don’t have his new number,” Alex said to Bobby’s secretary. “It’s important that I reach him.”

“He left five minutes ago to see a client. Septimus Reventlow. I believe Mr. Sullivan is driving him. Perhaps you can try him.”

Alex hung up and called Sully’s number. No one answered, and the call rolled to voice mail. “Sully, this is Alex. Tell Bobby to call me right away. It’s urgent.”

Alex tried again, thinking it was the lousy New York City cell-phone reception. Again the call rolled to voice mail. Damn you, Sully, she cursed silently, wanting to attribute the failure to him.

There’d been no love lost between them when they’d worked on the JTTF, and her faith in him had taken a further hit after his failure to protect Bobby at Cherry Hill. To her mind, Sully was a slacker. He’d taken a bullet early in his career and coasted on it for thirty years. He wasn’t a bad cop. He was just an average one. To Alex, the two were synonymous.

She hung up and called McVeigh to relate the discoveries made at Salt’s house.

“Hi, Jan. I’m calling to talk to you about Bobby.”

“What about him?”

“He called you yesterday, right?”

“No. What did he need to discuss with the FBI?”

“No?” Alex pressed the phone against her leg for a second, so McVeigh wouldn’t hear her swear. She drew a calming breath, then related as best she could everything she knew about Bobby’s investigation into his father’s death and the links to it she’d found at Salt’s home.

“So you’re saying that Luc Lambert and the weapons we found at Windermere are tied to the deaths of Edward Astor, Charles Hughes, and Martin Gelman?”

“It would appear so. Prior to his death, Edward Astor was looking into the same corporations, which either wittingly or unwittingly helped smuggle the shooters into the States. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“I should say it isn’t. Why didn’t you relay this to me earlier?”

“My bad. I was counting on Bobby to tell you in person so you could sit him down and grill him. Frankly, I didn’t think there was much to go on.”

“This Palantir-all you have is his Skype handle?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, write up the deets and e-mail them to headquarters.”

“Do they have anything new?”

“One thing. The forensic team discovered a device attached to the steering column and throttle of the Secret Service vehicle Astor and the others were riding in. There isn’t much of it left, but the smart money is saying it’s some type of receiver that enables a third party to operate the car.”

“Like a remote control?”

“Exactly.”

“So we can write off the rogue Secret Service agent?”

“Maybe. There are lots of other questions about how anyone could hijack a vehicle. And we still don’t know why Astor insisted on meeting Hughes and Gelman on Sunday and what they planned to tell the president. I’ll pass on your info to the director right away. He’ll be happy to have something to go on.”

“Did we ping the phone?”

“We’re waiting on the phone carrier in South Africa.”

“And the bank?”

“Forget the bank. We’ll never have that information in time. And Alex, tell Bobby to get his butt into my office pronto or else I’m going to send a team to bring him in. And I’ll make sure it isn’t a warm and fuzzy encounter.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m getting on a plane in an hour or so. I’ll see you in the morning. Am I still on the bricks?”

“I’ll decide that tomorrow.”

Alex found Graves staring at her when she ended the call. “What?”

“Sounds like you’re in hot water.”

“You know what they say. Act now. Apologize later.”

“Brave girl.”

“Either that or stupid.”

Alex walked with Charles Graves across the tarmac. A light rain fell, and the weather was forecast to worsen in the next hour. The captain stood at the base of the stairs to Bobby’s jet, motioning for her to hurry. “There’s an active storm cell moving in. We’ve got to get this bird into the air or we’ll be stuck on the ground for hours.”

Alex shook Graves’s hand. “I imagine I’ll be back to give evidence about Major Salt.”

“We’ll see if we can help you avoid that unpleasant piece of business,” said Graves. “Right now, just worry about getting home and stopping the bad guys.”

“I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Godspeed.”

Alex climbed aboard and settled into a seat. From her window, she watched a bolt of lightning rip the sky. She counted slowly, waiting for the rumble of thunder. It came on three, cracking loudly enough to make her jump in her seat. She tightened the belt an extra inch and said a prayer. Not for a safe flight, but for luck in pinging Sandy Beaufoy’s number. It was a long shot. The Bureau would have to contact his phone service provider in South Africa and have them access their records. Johannesburg was an hour ahead of London. She didn’t think there were many telecom executives awake at midnight.

As the plane picked up speed and rolled down the runway, she tried to give John Sullivan one more call. Reception was poor, and the call didn’t go through.

Bobby, she thought to herself. Why aren’t you calling me back?