The Prince of Risk

91

Magnus Lee sat alone in his office at Excelsior Holdings, watching the terrible news unfold on the television. The attack on the Exchange had been foiled, intercepted before it had begun. Half the mercenaries were dead, the other half taken prisoner. Septimus was not answering his phone. Neither was Daniel. He feared the worst.

Lee’s cell phone buzzed once again. It was the premier, calling for the fourth time. The chief of the army had also called, as had the director of the Ministry of State Security. He had answered none of their calls.

He stood and walked unsteadily to the balcony. The Eiffel Tower was lit top to bottom with bright yellow bulbs. In the night sky, it glowed like an electric jewel. He sighed, then tried to phone his brothers once again. Neither answered.

He was alone.

Lee returned to his desk and poured himself a measure of scotch. He drank it down and shuddered. He realized that the one thing he had forgotten to have his people copy was a decent scotch whiskey. There was still time. He could purchase a small Scottish distillery and pirate the recipe. He wondered what would be a suitable name. He thought of nothing.

It was done.

He would not be elected to the Standing Committee. He would not assume the position of vice premier. His career in the party was finished. But it would end there. He had taken pains to hide his involvement in the affair. There was no proof linking him to any of it. Not the attack on the Exchange or his brother’s infiltration of the Mahwah complex. He would receive a censure, have his hands slapped, perhaps do a year in exile in some provincial backwater, but it would end there.

Lee smiled inwardly. He knew that his safety was assured. He was too valuable, making money for his country and his colleagues.

Make money and get rich.

It was the Chinese way.

Lee turned off the lights and left the building.

He was surprised to see his car and driver waiting. At least there was still one loyal retainer left.

He climbed into the back seat and shut the door.

“Hello, Magnus Lee.”

Lee jumped at the sight of the old man. “Elder Chen. It is a surprise.” He shifted his gaze to the front seat. It was not his driver behind the wheel but Elder Chen’s chauffeur. Lee grew afraid. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked.

It was then that Lee saw the enormous pistol in Elder Chen’s frail hand. The old man shook his head. A flame spit from the snout. The gunshot was unbearably loud. Lee felt a sharp pain in his chest.

“But Elder Chen…” Lee wanted to explain that failure was beyond his control, that he had planned everything to propel his country to a position of pride and prestige it had never known, that he needed only a few more days to repay the society.

The words never came.

Magnus Lee slumped on the seat and died.

“Vice premier,” said Elder Chen. “Never.”