The Prince of Risk

75

Astor knew Reventlow was lying. Everything would not turn out fine. He and his brother, Magnus Lee, would not put this behind them. All who knew about the CIC and its plan to exercise control over key components of the country’s financial and national security infrastructure had to be eliminated. There would be no handshake and promise to keep it all a secret. Astor possessed information vital to his nation’s defense; in fact, every bit as vital as the pictures from on high showing Soviet missiles being installed on Cuban soil in 1962. As Reventlow had said, why wipe out a city when you can control an entire country without anyone’s even knowing it?

Astor called his CFO and told her to expect an incoming wire any minute and to call each of Comstock’s lenders and inform them that Comstock would meet its margin call. He handed over the papers for Reventlow to sign, then replaced them in his briefcase.

“Are we done?”

“For now. But don’t be in a hurry to leave. I can’t let you go just yet.”

“I need to get back to the office. My lawyers are expecting me.”

“I’m sure they will celebrate their reprieve just fine without you. I’m afraid I do need to ask you some more questions. It’s important for us to learn how much you know about our affairs. My brother told me you were speaking with someone on your father’s computer who was involved in his investigation. Does Cassandra99 ring a bell?”

“That was Palantir. He might have helped my father earlier, but he refused to help me.”

“I wish I could believe you. We also have a record of your call to a Michael Grillo, a corporate investigator. We weren’t able to listen to his calls, so we must rely on you to tell us what you were discussing.”

“It had nothing to do with this. Grillo does other work for my company.” Astor picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. Standing in the doorway was the man from Cherry Hill. The warrior monk. Alex had said she was sure she had shot him, but he appeared to be in good health.

“May I introduce my brother Daniel,” said Reventlow. “He’s going to escort you to a private spot where we all can chat.”

“Hello, Mr. Astor,” said Daniel, his English unaccented, essentially an American’s.

“Hello,” said Astor. “And by the way, my arm’s fine.”

During the entire meeting, Astor had felt his father’s Beretta pressing against his spine. He measured the distance between him and the monk as 15 feet. Four long strides, to be sure. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”

Septimus Reventlow rose and offered his hand. Astor regarded it, the man’s insincere smile, his patrician demeanor, as a grotesquerie. He extended his hand as if to shake, then drew the pistol from his belt. Before he could bring it to bear, a blow paralyzed his wrist. Daniel, the warrior monk, stood inches away, holding the pistol by the barrel. “Very slow.”

Astor dropped his briefcase and clutched his hand. It hurt badly. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks that way.”

Reventlow came around the desk, picked up the briefcase, and handed it to Astor. “If you make a sound on the way downstairs, he will kill you,” he said. “No one will see him crush your larynx. My advice is to cooperate. And one more thing. If I might have your phone…”

Astor regarded Daniel, and handed Reventlow the phone he’d purchased earlier in the day.

“The FBI,” said Reventlow, reading the last text. “Shall I call them to cancel on your behalf?” He gave Astor an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “We’ll have lots to talk about.”

“After you,” said Daniel.

Astor walked with him to the elevator. They descended to the ground floor and passed through the turnstiles. Crossing the lobby, he spotted Sully double-parked at the curb. It was a little after four, and the lobby was busy but not crowded. Daniel walked at his side. Three officers manned the security desk. Two were fat and uninterested, the third trim and alert.

Astor saw a chance. “Which way?”

“Straight ahead,” said Daniel.

It was the answer Astor wanted to hear. “You have a car waiting?”

“I’ll show you when we get outside.”

Astor passed through the door. A uniformed policeman stood immediately to his right. The sidewalk was bustling. A horn blared. Astor looked at the Sprinter and caught Sully’s eye.

It was now or never.

“Hey!” shouted Astor, wanting to draw the cop’s attention. He dropped the briefcase and ran. “Sully!”

Astor dodged the pedestrians, weaving this way and that. Sully saw him coming and opened the rear door. Astor jumped inside and slammed it shut. He had made it. “Get out of here. Floor it.”

Astor threw himself into the recliner, grasping the armrests in anticipation of accelerating. The car stayed where it was. “Sully. What are you doing? Go!”

John Sullivan did not start the ignition. The side door opened. Daniel climbed in and placed the briefcase on the floor, then closed the door behind him. He looked at Astor, then toward the driver’s seat. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Sullivan.”

Astor leaned forward. “Sully, what’s going on?”

John Sullivan turned in his chair and fixed Astor with a vengeful gaze. “No way I’m letting you fuck up my retirement.”

And with that he turned around, put the Sprinter into drive, and joined the late afternoon traffic.