The Prince of Risk

80

Pain, the purifier.

Astor had lost the first fingernail an hour before. He did not know how he was still conscious, or why he was actually alert and seated in the chair, his eyes locked on the sadistic blue-eyed monk’s. The index finger was ruined. So was the middle finger. They hung limp, as bloody and lifeless as John Sullivan.

Astor watched as the monk’s hand darted forward, as fast as a cobra’s tongue, and the bamboo shoot disappeared into his nail bed. He winced but made no noise. He was done with that. He had already cried for them to stop. He had begged. He’d pleaded to be shot. He’d surrendered his dignity and more.

It was only then that Reventlow had begun his questions.

“How long had you been working with your father? How did you learn about Penelope Evans? Tell me everything you found in her home. What did you tell your ex-wife?” And finally, “Who is Palantir?”

Astor told the truth. He knew nothing more than they did. If anything, he talked too much. He provided Reventlow with more information than he needed. He offered his own theories about Magnus Lee’s plans. He adopted the strategy to lengthen the periods between his torture. A second of respite was worth infinite cunning. But quickly he discovered that his fevered guesses provoked telling responses about the plot, and that by process of elimination he was closing in on what the target really was.

“Why was your father interested in the Flash Crash? Did you know of any safeguards taken to protect the Exchange? Tell me again which companies your father suspected of being infiltrated. Wasn’t he interested in other companies?”

And here Reventlow threw out five or six names, and Astor knew that he was interested in only one of them, so he made himself commit them all to memory.

“Who is this Michael Grillo?”

They had finally arrived at the subject he knew he must lie about.

“A corporate investigator.”

“Why did you hire him?”

“I work with him all the time. He was helping me gather information on a rival fund that I suspected was poaching clients.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ask him. Ask Grillo.”

“That’s the thing. We can’t find him. Tell us what Grillo knows.”

“Nothing. He isn’t involved in this.”

The shoot shot forth.

It was more pain than he had known. More than the first foray beneath his fingernail. This time the shoot probed more deeply into the flesh, finding a fresh bed of nerves to upset. Reventlow repeated his question, but Astor didn’t stray from his story. He had found a new source of strength. It came from his private storehouse of terrible memories. He saw himself standing at his parents’ bed at Cherry Hill, and he recalled the terror he knew as he anticipated the black belt’s first blow. The boy had survived. And so the man would survive, too.

The shoot dug in.

No noise. Not a whimper. When pain consumed you, it lost its ability to frighten. It became a new reality, and a known reality could be endured.

“How can we find Grillo?”

Every minute he delayed was a minute Mike Grillo gained. He would find Palantir, and when he did, he would make him talk. Grillo didn’t need a sharpened bamboo shoot.

“I had his number on my other phone,” said Astor. “I called him. I don’t know where he lives.”

“Where is Grillo?”

“I told you, he’s not involved in this. You’re wasting your time.”

Astor closed his eyes, readying himself for the agony. But the bamboo shoot did not come.

After a moment he looked around and saw Reventlow studying a phone. It was Astor’s phone. “Ha!” he said, a surprised outburst. “His name is Paul Lawrence Tiernan. Palantir. Clever.” He looked up. “It seems Mr. Grillo has done our work for us. He writes that he has found Palantir and is in possession of the report he prepared for your father. He’d like to know where to meet so he can turn it over to you.” Reventlow pondered the matter. “I think he should stay put. After all, you do want to meet the man who was working with your father, don’t you, Bobby? I would.”

Astor said nothing. It was done, then. Game over.

Reventlow texted back a message, then spoke to Daniel in Chinese. The monk stood and walked to the door. Reventlow patted Astor on the shoulder. “We shouldn’t be long. When we get back, we’ll put an end to this charade.”

Reventlow and Daniel left.

Astor dropped his head. His hand was a mess and hurt too much to contemplate. He stood, walked to the garage door, and put his ear against the wood. He heard a car start and drive away. He tried the other door. Locked. He waited a few minutes, expecting one of them to return. A little time passed. No one came.

They were gone.

Astor looked around the garage. At the lawn mower, the rake, the trash barrels. At the cinder-block walls. He noted that the door had been ripped off its rail and that wood blocks nailed it shut. He had an hour, maybe a little more, to free himself.