The Prince of Risk (21 page)

A
stor broke out of his reverie, his attention caught by a flash in the mirror. Warily he walked to the window behind him. He looked outside and saw nothing. And yet he sensed something. A presence. He opened the door to the terrace, stepped outside, and walked the length of the deck, unsure what he was looking for. Below, in the gravel drive, Sully stood by the car, taking a call.

“Sully, you see anything out here?”

John Sullivan lowered the phone. “Like what?”

Astor looked to either direction. It had been a bird, he decided. Something that had landed on the railing and flown away. “Forget it.”

“Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t take too long. I don’t like this.”

Astor reentered the bedroom, taking in everything with an investigator’s eye. It was immaculate and showed no sign of a rushed departure. He guessed that Penelope Evans had stayed behind when his father traveled to Washington, D.C., and that she had cleaned up after him.

He walked into the bathroom. It, too, was neat and orderly. Shaving cream, aftershave, and deodorant were missing from the medicine cabinet. It had been an overnight trip. On the top shelf were prescriptions for Lipitor and Viagra. Astor smiled. Dad was getting some.

Astor entered the closet. One wall was taken up by suits. Dark gray, light gray, gray pinstripes, gray Prince de Galles, summer weight, winter weight…but gray. He turned, expecting to find the opposite wall similarly racked with clothing. Instead he found himself looking at dozens of framed photographs, laminated articles, and mementos running from floor to ceiling. It was the trophy wall Astor had never given himself. There were photos of Bobby as a preteen, playing baseball and football, and older, skiing in Colorado and the Alps, and of Bobby in high school at the beach in Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons. There were plenty of more recent photographs, too, nearly all of him arm-in-arm with Alex or playing with Katie.

And then there were the articles, taken from numerous newspapers and magazines, chronicling his rise to the top. Astor smiled, seeing the front-page piece from the
Wall Street Journal
with the stipple-pen portrait that made him look like a leering zealot. There was even a framed invitation from his first clambake, which his father had neither attended nor acknowledged.

Everything about
him.

Astor felt his throat tighten. Confusion and comprehension battled. He stared at his life in pictures, and he knew, maybe for the first time, that his father had loved him.

Astor turned away. It was too much. A distraction. Emotion merited no place today.

A dresser stood at the far end of the closet. He opened the top drawer. A polished wooden box with the word
Beretta
engraved on a corner sat on the jumble of socks. The name jarred him back to reality. He set the box on the dresser and flipped open the lid. A stainless steel pistol lay cradled on a bed of black velvet inside. It was a 9mm with a tapered snout and a crosshatched grip. He freed the pistol. It was heavier than he expected, and he noted that the magazine was in and the safety was on. Sully had taught him more than he ever wanted to know about firearms. He racked the slide. A copper-nosed round lay in the chamber.

Ready to fire.

Astor regarded the pistol. His father had been a fire-breathing liberal and no friend of the NRA. Imagining him with a gun was like picturing Mother Teresa brandishing an M-16. There was only one reason for him to possess any kind of weapon. Edward Astor was frightened for his life.

Astor slipped the pistol into his belt. If his father had needed a weapon, so did he. And Penelope Evans? Nothing could have protected her against an assailant so stealthy he could get within an inch of her in broad daylight without her knowing.

Astor left the bedroom. If he were to find answers, he would find them in his father’s office.

The monk leaped the railing, retreated across the roof, and slid down the drainpipe to the back porch. A check around the corner confirmed that the driver remained next to the car. Astor called out from the second floor, asking if the driver had seen anything. The driver responded that he had not. The monk heard Astor cross the terrace, then retrace his steps and reenter the bedroom. Content in his knowledge that Astor was on the second floor and confident that he had not been seen, the monk used a penknife to jimmy a kitchen window and climbed inside the house. A block of cooking knives sat on the counter. He selected a short, slim instrument, ideal for jabbing. Despite its size, the knife had heft. He swung it back and forth, gaining a feel for it. He ran his tongue delicately across the blade and tasted blood. The knife would do.

He left the kitchen and climbed the back stairs. He emerged in a dark, narrow corridor. To his left, the stairs continued up another flight. He walked to the door and gripped the knob firmly. He turned it slowly, feeling the metal components brush against one another, begging to squeak. The knob reached its apex and he opened the door a sliver. He was standing at the rear corner of a landing running around the perimeter of the two-story foyer. Diagonally across the open foyer, the door to the bedroom where the monk had seen Astor stood ajar. The monk placed a hand on the floor. A vibration reached his fingers. One footstep. Another. Slow. Measured. The sound of a man searching intently, without hurry. He saw no shadows in the bedroom. Instinct told him to wait.

The tempo of the footsteps increased. A shadow approached the open doorway. Astor emerged from the bedroom and disappeared down the hall. The monk sprang from his hiding place and glided across the landing, using Astor’s footsteps to conceal his own. He gained the hall and peered around the corner in time to see Astor enter a room at its far end.

The monk paused. He heard a chair scoot across the floor. There was the sound of papers being examined, objects being moved from one place to another, then a soft but definite thud, indicating that Astor had sat down.

The monk advanced down the corridor with patience. He held the knife in front of him, his wrist pronated so the blade faced up, in the killing position.

The noises from within the room grew louder. The clack of a keyboard told him that Astor was at a computer. The monk slowed, allowing his victim a moment to be drawn deeper into his research. There was no risk of his stopping Older Brother’s plan. Anything Astor learned in the next few minutes, he would keep to himself forever.

The monk peered around the doorway. Astor was seated in front of the computer, engrossed in his research. The monk entered the office. He walked with excruciating calm, closing the distance to his victim. He noted something change on the computer screen. There was the sound of a dial tone. A black box opened.

“Who are you?” asked a man’s voice.

The warrior monk froze.

He made the decision not to attack but to listen.

Astor reached a hand inside the top drawer of his father’s desk. The sepia envelope was where it had been twenty-seven years ago. He removed it gingerly and slipped Feodor Itzhak Yastrovic’s immigration papers onto the desk. His past no longer frightened him. What was in a name, anyway? Astor or Yastrovic? Episcopalian or Jew? The ease with which his family slipped between the two showed how little weight a label carried. If his name stood for anything, it was honesty, integrity, and success. If Comstock failed, he would tarnish all those words.

Astor replaced the document in the envelope and set it on the desk, laying the pistol on top. Next to the computer rested the stationery and the fountain pen Penelope Evans had used to write
Cassandra99.
A Hermès scarf lay draped over a chair nearby. On the table next to it stood a glass vase filled with a summer bouquet, the flowers still fresh. Yet something was missing. There hadn’t always been a vase full of flowers on the table. Astor remembered there being a pair of crystal decanters filled with amber liquid in that place. He thought back to his father’s bedroom. He hadn’t seen any liquor there either, yet his father had always kept something close by for a late-night drink.

She’d done it, he realized. She’d broken the old bastard of his habit. Edward Astor had died a teetotaler.

Astor hit Return and the screen lit up. He pulled down the bar for Recent Items. The first application listed was Skype, the Internet phone service. He clicked on the sky-blue icon to launch the program. Astor selected History from the menu. Edward Astor and Penelope Evans had called a single person repeatedly over the past several days.

Cassandra99

Astor opened the correspondent’s details. Snatching the fountain pen, he noted the web address: [email protected].

Ru
for Russia.

The last call had been placed on Saturday at 2 p.m.

Astor moved the cursor to the Connect icon and clicked. A window opened at the center of the monitor, but it was black. No one was visible. A second smaller window displayed his own face, captured by the camera embedded in the computer frame. He looked drawn and tired.

“Who are you?” asked a male voice.

Friend or foe? Astor had no time to deliberate. “Robert Astor. Who are you?”

The man ignored the question. “What do you want?”

“I’m sure you know.”

“I know that you’re Edward Astor’s son. That doesn’t explain your presence at his home.”

“My father texted me a message before he was killed. I believe it had something to do with the reason for his meeting with Gelman and Hughes that night.”

“What did he text you?”

“I need to know who you are first.”

“I’m the person who alerted your father to the problem in the first place.”

“Look,” said Astor, “I’m tired of talking in circles. If you’re not going to tell me your name, at least tell me what this is all about.”

But again the man refused to answer. “What did your father text you?”

“One word. Palantir. I told Penelope Evans, and she seemed to know what I was talking about. Now she’s dead.”

“So you spoke with Penelope?”

“Briefly. She wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. She said that
they
were listening and that
they
knew everything I did.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Not at first.”

“And now?”

“Yes.”

“What changed your mind?”

“When I learned that she had been working with my father, I contacted her to see if we might meet. She told me to come to her house. She asked me to hurry. The only way anyone could have known I was going there was to have hacked my phone and used it as a microphone to listen in on my conversation. I didn’t know that was possible until last night.”

“What convinced you?”

Astor explained about the doctored voice mail luring him to his garage and his near fall into the elevator shaft. “If they could do that, they could easily use my phone as a mike.”

“They’re getting desperate. An incursion like that will leave tracks a mile long. It must be happening soon.”

White noise mottled the screen.

“Is that them?” asked Astor.

“They’re trying to listen even now.” The voice had lost its natural timbre. It sounded robotic, the words strangely modulated.

“What’s happening soon?” demanded Astor. “Who are they? Why did they kill my father?” He had too many questions, and Cassandra99 offered too few answers.

“They killed your father because he knew. I’d venture to say the same about Penelope Evans. I told her to leave. I’m not responsible for her death, too.”

“She was packing a suitcase. She was waiting to speak with me.”

“I told her to leave this alone. I’m telling you the same. It’s too big for you. Do as I say. Leave the premises now and forget anything your father told you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I won’t be responsible for you, too.”

“I’m a big boy,” said Astor. “I can look after myself. Tell me why Penelope Evans was looking into Silicon Solutions and Britium.” Astor listed the names of the other companies whose reports he’d discovered at Evans’s home.

“It’s too late, Mr. Astor. No one will listen to you anyway.”

“But you know?”

“That’s my job.”

“Who killed my father? What are they planning?”

It was then that Astor saw the reflection in the monitor.

A man was standing three feet behind him.

“Go home, Mr. Astor,” the voice on the computer went on. “You were brave to check on Miss Evans and braver to come to your father’s house after the attempt on your life. If you want to live, leave now, go back to work, and forget about this matter entirely.”

The man in the reflection came closer. It was him, Astor knew. It was the phantom who had killed Penelope Evans. Astor willed himself not to look over his shoulder. To look was to die.

“You can’t just let it happen,” he said. “I’m his son. I deserve to know.”

“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. We all will.”

“But—”

A door slammed inside the house. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, echoing through the foyer.

“Bobby!” shouted a female voice. “You in there? It’s me.”

A
stor spun in the chair, raising an arm in an effort to protect himself. “Alex,” he shouted, “run!”

A sharp pain radiated from his forearm to his shoulder. His eyes rested on the man standing a few feet away. He was slim and menacing, a dark forelock falling across almond eyes colored a robin’s-egg blue. He wore black pants and a tan T-shirt that revealed arms corded with muscle. The blue eyes were not on Astor but on the knife protruding from his forearm.

“Bobby!”

The man darted a glance over his shoulder. Astor ignored the knife and lunged for the pistol. Something struck him in the solar plexus. A blow delivered so quickly he had not seen it. A phantom’s blow. The pistol dropped to the floor. Astor could not breathe. He could not move.

The phantom advanced on him, hands and arms extended in a classic martial arts pose.

Footsteps bounded across the landing.

Astor tensed for the blow.

And then the man was gone, running from the room with a speed Astor had never before witnessed or thought possible.

“Freeze!” came Alex’s voice.

Gunfire. One shot. Two.

Astor still could not move. He sat as if entombed, listening.

“Stop!” shouted Alex. “FBI!”

Another shot.

Alex,
he wanted to cry out.
Careful.

The warrior monk ran down the hall. He could hear the woman approaching. He did not need to feel her energy to know she was a force and dangerous. Her voice told him these things and more. He turned the corner to the landing and she was there, 10 feet away, running at him with a pistol in her hand.

“Freeze!” she called.

The monk ran straight ahead. Toward the railing. Toward the expanse of the two-story entry. He heard the gunfire, felt something strike his body, spinning him slightly. Still he kept running. He leapt as if hurdling. His foot landed squarely on the railing, and he propelled himself across the void, his head brushing the chandelier’s crystal prisms. There was no question of making the stairs. He focused on the balustrade, bringing up his hands, lunging for the width of wood. He caught it, his chest slamming into the railing. A rib cracked, but he held on. A breath to find his center, and he flung himself over the balustrade and rushed down the steps, leaping three at a time.

The old man was rushing to the house, struggling to pull a gun from his jacket. The monk leveled him with a forearm to the chest, sending the man sprawling onto his back. The monk didn’t slow. Eyes focused ahead, he charted a path through the orchard and down the hill. He felt a tear in his side, his muscles fighting him. He had been shot. The discomfort was considerable, but he had known worse.

A bullet whizzed past his head. A second clipped a branch nearby.

The monk ran faster.

And then he was out of range, dashing down the slope.

He reached the car minutes later.

“Brother,” he said, when his heart had calmed and he had driven a safe distance from the home. “I found him.”

“Who?”

“The cause of our problems.”

Only then did the monk lift his shirt to study the wound. He saw a bloody track across his side where the bullet had grazed him. Another millimeter and it would have entered his chest and killed him. The wound hurt, but no worse than many other pains he had suffered. He would live.

Alex knelt beside Astor, regarding the knife in his arm. “How is it?”

Astor could speak again. “Bad.”

Alex took the arm gingerly in her hands. “Impaled on the bone. Guess you move pretty fast.”

“I saw him behind me in the monitor.”

Alex removed a handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it. “Hey,” she said. “Can you see Sully from there?”

“Where?” Astor turned his head, squinting at the bright light. Alex grasped his arm and yanked the blade free. He cried out as she clamped a handkerchief on top of the wound. “Just breathe,” she said.

Astor sank down into his chair, the pain reduced to a manageable level.

Alex settled down onto the couch. “I shot the son of a bitch and it didn’t slow him a step.”

“You’re sure you got him?”

“He was six feet away. I got him.”

John Sullivan limped into the room. “Prick knocked me down,” he said, resting against the doorway. “I got off a couple shots, but I never had a chance. Friggin’ jackrabbit.” And then he saw Astor’s arm. “What happened to you?”

“I got to be his pincushion.”

Alex held the knife by her fingernails. “He’s a very lucky boy.”

“I thought you said fast.”

“Fast and lucky.” Alex set the knife on the desk. “We just might find out who he was.”

“It’s him,” said Astor. “From Penelope Evans’s house.”

“You think?” asked Sullivan.

“I’m sure of it.”

“He wasn’t inside earlier. I’d swear it.”

“Don’t sweat it, Sully.” Astor wanted to say more, but his throat was tight and he was shaken. “Give us a minute.”

Sully nodded and stepped outside.

Astor picked up the gun off the floor.

“And whose is that?” asked Alex.

“Dad’s. I found it in his bedroom.”

Alex gently pushed the muzzle toward the ground. “You want to give it to me.”

Astor handed his ex-wife the gun. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“Forget why I’m here. I want to know why you crossed police tape to come inside here and who it was that jumped over this railing like Superman leaping a building in a single bound.”

“He’s a killer, actually,” said Astor.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s the man who killed Penelope Evans.”

“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “But you’re losing me. Who is Penelope Evans?”

“My father’s assistant at the Exchange. She was murdered yesterday in her home in Greenwich. It was all over the news.”

“I’ve been busy with a few things.”

Drawing a breath, Astor related the actions he’d taken since receiving the text from his father two nights before, beginning with his visit to the New York Stock Exchange and the theft of his father’s agenda and culminating with the certainty that the man he had seen standing close behind him was Penelope Evans’s killer.

“And Sully? He just let you traipse off without calling the police?”

“Leave Sully out of it.”

“He’s a cop. He knows better.”

“He
was
a cop. He works for me now. He was looking out for my best interests.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. She knew about Bobby’s interests. She didn’t like them one bit.

“The killer got a knife into her heart before she even knew he was there.”

“Maybe more lucky than fast.” Alex put a hand on his leg, and her touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. She smiled, and for a moment he felt as if everything were okay between them. He knew it was her training. He was the victim. She was there to provide succor. As quickly, the smile faded. Her game face returned.

“My ex, the private eye. You must be doing something right if the bad guys send a contract man to kill you. Why didn’t you call me when you got the text in the first place?”

“You’d just been at the house. You said it wasn’t your case. I didn’t know what
Palantir
meant or if it would lead anywhere.”

Alex sat straighter, her shoulders tightening. “You knew it meant something yesterday afternoon when you found Penelope Evans dead in her house. It ends now. The amateur gumshoeing. The son tracking down his father’s killer. All that bullshit. You’re going straight to Janet McVeigh and tell her everything you just told me.” She paused, appraising her former husband, trying to sense whether he was hiding something. With Bobby, there was always another angle. “And if you leave anything out—I mean
anything
—I’m going to hold you responsible for whatever it is that’s going on here.”

Astor nodded. He’d been honest so far…to a point. He saw no reason for her or anyone else to know about Mike Grillo. “I understand.”

Alex shot him her “for real” glance, and Astor nodded solemnly. She relaxed. “You actually fell into your elevator shaft?”

Astor nodded. “Caught the cable. When the elevator came up, I let myself down onto its roof and managed to open the emergency hatch.”

“And if you hadn’t? Or if that knife had missed your arm and gone into your chest? Your daughter loses her father for no good reason.”

“I’m close to figuring out who killed Dad, Gelman, and Hughes. They were visiting the president for a reason, Alex. They’d discovered something. Some kind of plot. Something about an attack. Whoever is behind it was able to take control of their car, just like those people hijacked my elevator. They hear everything. They listen.” Astor stopped short, realizing he was issuing the same warning that Penelope Evans had given him.

“Who are ‘they’? What kind of attack? Where? When?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s certainly closer than your colleagues,” said the mechanized voice.

Alex shifted on the couch, peering around the office. “Who said that?”

“I did,” came the voice from the computer. “I believe Mr. Astor deserves some credit. After all, he found me before the vaunted Federal Bureau of Incompetence did.”

“He stole evidence that would have led them to the same place.”

“But Ms. Forza, your colleagues were here yesterday.”

Alex stood and approached the computer. “Who are you and how do you know my name?”

“He contacted Dad in the first place,” said Astor, coming to her side. “He warned him.”

“About what?”

“He hasn’t said.” Astor beckoned to the monitor. “If you won’t tell me, tell her. She can take care of herself. I can promise you that.”

“My relationship with the government ended years ago. Messily, I’m afraid. I’ve had enough of leading a horse to water and getting kicked in the groin for my efforts.”

“Whatever may have happened in the past, I can promise the Bureau’s full cooperation in this matter,” said Alex.

“I don’t want the Bureau’s full cooperation,” said the unidentified voice. “Otherwise I would have contacted it myself. The Bureau isn’t safe.”

“What do you mean it isn’t safe?” asked Alex.

“It has been penetrated.”

“By a mole? Is that the information Edward Astor was trying to give the president?”

“Not by a spy per se. But it’s been penetrated nonetheless. Weren’t you listening to your husband when he told you that someone had been listening in on him and Penelope Evans?”

“You’re saying they’re listening to the FBI, too?”

“Why not?”

Alex looked at Astor. “Exactly who’s listening in on whom? How do you know this isn’t the asshole causing all the problems?”

“Alex, please. Calm down.” He turned back toward the computer. “You know why my father was taking Gelman and Hughes to visit the president. What’s stopping you from telling us?”

“Nothing is stopping me. As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. You see, I’ve finally realized that the only way I’m going to get any respect is if I prove to the government that I’m right.”

“So you’re going to help us,” said Astor.

“On the contrary. I’m not going to do a thing.”

“Why should we care what you say anyway?” demanded Alex.

“I’d have thought that was obvious.”

“What? That you’re a hacker—some kind of creep with a bone to pick with the government? Take a number.”

“Because I’m the one you’re looking for. I’m—”

White noise filled the screen. Cassandra99’s words were garbled and unintelligible.

“What did you say?” asked Alex.

The screen cleared. The audio was as crisp as ever.

“I am Palantir.”