The Prince of Risk (27 page)

T
he Starbucks at the corner of New Bond Street possessed an unobstructed line of sight less than 100 yards from GRAIL. Alex set her venti latte with a triple espresso shot on a table near the entrance. Digging into her pocket, she retrieved a nubbin-sized receiver and fitted it inside her right ear, taking care to activate it with a flick of her thumbnail. A burst of static gave way to silence, then the sound of someone ticking a pencil against a glass desk. “Jonathan,” came Chris Rees-Jones’s voice. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Something’s come up. And see if the solicitors are free this afternoon. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A door closed. Alex could hear footsteps receding down the hall outside Rees-Jones’s office. The zinc-powered microtransmitter she’d placed beneath the arm of her chair was working better than she had dared dream. It was only a matter of waiting. She had every confidence that the dime would drop at any minute.

Alex opened a copy of the
Times
and feigned reading. In her ear came the sounds of a drawer opening and closing, papers being arranged, a woman clearing her throat. Alex drank half the latte. The espresso hit her like a thousand volts and she put down the cup. Enough of that. She was already jacked enough.

Rees-Jones dropped something metallic on her desk. “Come on,” she whispered angrily. “Pick up the phone, you bloody prick.”

Alex smiled inwardly. The prey was running. Rees-Jones was making the call. The “bloody prick” was Major James Salt.

“Hello, Jim…Never mind how I am. I just had an unexpected visit from the FBI. The agent was interested in an old mate of yours, a Frenchman named Luc Lambert…What do you mean, you don’t remember? He was one of your boys on that Comoros debacle…I thought you would…‘Lucky Luke’—cute. Well, he ran out of luck. He was killed in a raid outside New York City the day before yesterday…I don’t know where…Queens or something, the woman said…Her name was Forza…Counterterrorism. New York office.”

Alex stared hard at the newspaper, but in her mind’s eye she was inside Rees-Jones’s office, standing in the corner and watching the slick executive sweat.

“Lambert killed three agents…Three, did you hear?…You said this was a Third World operation. Training in Namibia. No damage to Britain or its allies. Another of your far-flung get-rich schemes designed to make you chief headshrinker of Booga-Booga Land. You didn’t say America…Bullshit, you didn’t know…This is totally unacceptable. Your boys have machine guns, grenades, and an antitank weapon. For fuck’s sake, Jim, what the hell is going on?…Well, then find out…New York City, are you out of your mind? The last time someone attacked the city the Americans invaded two countries…Just how much whiskey are you drinking these days?…Are you that fucking broke?…No, I won’t calm down. In fact, I’m just getting started…Of course there are links between us. Our honorarium came from your client, didn’t it?…Their bank may be in Liechtenstein, but ours is in Mayfair. It’s called Citibank, and in case you don’t recall, it is American. I don’t think it will have any qualms about turning over our account information to the FBI…Stop telling me to relax. This Forza woman is a bulldog…How do I know? Because she’s a hard little bitch like me…All right, call me back. But soon. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m going to our solicitors.”

The call ended.

Alex drank the rest of her coffee. On her pad, she’d written the words
Namibia
and
Liechtenstein bank
and
Citibank/Mayfair branch
, and finally, in block letters,
SALT.
She only wished she could have heard the other side of the conversation.

She checked her watch. It was after eleven, about 5 a.m. in the States. She wondered how Katie was doing. Her daughter had always loved the outdoors, camping, canoeing, cooking dinner over a bonfire or, more likely, a gas burner. It seemed odd to be thinking about her daughter away in New Hampshire when she was in London trying to stop a terrorist attack from taking place on U.S. soil.

During the next forty minutes, Rees-Jones took a call from a Middle Eastern sheikh and agreed to provide a cadre of bodyguards for his upcoming trip to London. The sheikh wanted only former SAS men, and Rees-Jones gave him her word. A second call dealt with a failed kidnapping negotiation in Colombia. The victim’s company had agreed to pay $2 million. The kidnappers had wanted $5 million. The victim was now dead and his family was threatening to sue GRAIL.

Major James Salt called back at high noon. It quickly became clear that he’d been doing some checking on his own.

“You’re sure she’s on her own?” said Rees-Jones. “So what? It doesn’t matter whether New York sent her or not. She’s here and she knows about Lambert’s ties to you…No, I don’t know where she went…She arrived this morning on a private jet…Gatwick…no, I don’t know what kind…wait, it was a Gulfstream…a description…brown hair, shoulder length, rather pretty, athletic. Clothes…why?…We bloody well do have a choice…I won’t be party to that…I won’t and that’s final…Do I have to be afraid, Jim?
Jim? Are you there?…
Bastard.”

Alex placed Chris Rees-Jones’s business card on the table and dialed the company’s main number.

“GRAIL. How may I direct your call?” The operator was a man, and his accent pegged him as working-class, probably from northern England.

“This is Jane Greenhill from the U.S. embassy for Major Salt.”

“Major Salt no longer works on the premises. May I direct you to a voice mailbox?”

“My apologies. I forgot about the shakeup. Do you have his direct number? The ambassador would like to speak to him on an urgent matter.”

“Of course, Mrs. Greenhill. I do note, however, that you’re not calling on the embassy’s main line.”

“I’m sorry. We’re in a bit of a tizzy here this morning. I’m not at my desk. Would you prefer if I call you back?”

There was a pause, and Alex assumed that the operator was checking the embassy directory for a Jane Greenhill, who was in fact the ambassador’s secretary, and a friend of hers.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Greenhill. I’m happy to let you know where to reach Major Salt.”

Alex jotted the number onto her pad. “Is that his home, office, or mobile? As I said, it’s regarding an urgent matter.”

“His home. I’m not permitted to give out another number.”

“Do you happen to know if he’s there at this hour?”

“Major Salt usually begins the day at his club.”

“The Royal Automobile Club?”

“Good God, no. White’s, on St. James’s Street.”

“Know him well, do you?”

“I served under him in the regiment, yes, ma’am.”

“Major Salt is a good man. The ambassador likes him very much. Thank you, Mr.…”

“Nolan.”

“Mr. Nolan. Goodbye.”

Alex folded the newspaper, slipped it into her bag, and was on her feet ten seconds later. The rain had stopped, and once on the street, she hurried to the curb to hail a taxi.

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the cabbie.

“White’s.” Alex jumped into the back seat. “And an extra fiver if you can get me there in ten minutes.”

“P
ull over.”

Alex spotted him standing under the awning at the entrance to White’s. He was tall and trim and rigid, with sandy hair going to gray and a jaw that could break through walls. Reports put his age at fifty, but Alex thought he looked ten years younger. Dressed in a blazer, gray slacks, and a crisp white shirt, Major James Salt was still every inch the officer.

“He’s a friend,” she said. “I want to surprise him.”

The cabbie caught her gaze. “If that’s the way you look at friends, I’d hate to think how you look at your enemies.”

Salt handed a ticket to a car attendant and stepped to the curb.

“I’d like you to follow him for a few blocks,” said Alex.

“Your coin, ma’am. I’ll follow him all the way to Glasgow if you like.”

Alex sat back, her eyes never leaving Salt. It was her first break, and she was grateful for it. A navy Aston Martin came out of the car park and halted in front of the club. Salt clapped a banknote into the attendant’s hand and slid into the driver’s seat. The Aston Martin roared from the curb. The cabbie took the sports car’s speed as an insult and pressed his foot to the floor. The taxi shook and shuddered as it picked up speed. Piccadilly was a long, straight road, and Alex counted only two more traffic lights ahead before it passed Hyde Park. After that, she wouldn’t have a chance.

Ahead the first light turned yellow. The Aston Martin didn’t slow for an instant.

“Go,” said Alex.

The cabbie kept his foot on the pedal, sliding through as the light went to red. He could do nothing to keep up with the Aston Martin. Alex balled her hands into fists, her jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a tooth. The sports car widened the distance. Alex stared at the final signal. Beyond it, Salt would open up the engine and let fly (exactly as she would). Any opportunity to confront him would be gone.

“Can’t you go any faster?” she asked.

“Trying, ma’am. Only have four cylinders. Your friend’s got twelve. Not a fair fight.”

The light turned yellow, then red. The Aston Martin didn’t slow. Alex waited to see its brake lights bloom, praying for Salt to stop at the signal.

A flash of red.

Salt came to a stop. Ten seconds later, the taxi drew to a halt two cars behind him. Alex thrust her fist through the transom in the partition. “Here’s twenty.”

“But—”

Alex was out the door, running up the street, passing one car, then the next, her eyes on the traffic signal, ordering it not even to think of changing. The Aston Martin was still a stride away when the light turned green. Alex lunged for the door. Her fingers grasped the handle and she flung open the door as the car began to gain speed. With a last effort, she pulled herself into the car as the Aston Martin barreled through the intersection.

“What the hell?” said Major James Salt. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You know who I am,” said Alex. “Keep going.”

Major James Salt looked askance at her. “She said you were a hard little bitch.”

“She was right.”

“I could shoot you here and now and be within my rights.”

Alex didn’t detect a gun on Salt’s person, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one close by. “I don’t need a gun, and I couldn’t give a shit about rights. Just drive.”

Salt hit the accelerator. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

“Everything. Names. Targets. Timing. Mostly I want to know who’s behind it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“How did you find me?”

“I’d prefer it if I ask the questions.”

“You’re interrogating me in my own car?”

“Major Salt, you’re in serious trouble. I’d say cooperating is your best bet.”

“Your office didn’t even send you. So what if Lambert served under me once? That was years ago. You’re on nothing but a wild-goose chase.”

“I know you recruited Lambert. I know he was sent to Namibia for training. I know that you paid GRAIL a fee to help you. I think we’re way past a wild-goose chase.”

“You listening in?”

“And it’s all on tape.”

“No court of law will ever admit it,” said Salt. “You can take your tape and shove it up your cute little ass. Why the hell should I talk to you?”

Alex twisted in her seat, reached out her hand, and took firm, unremitting grip of Salt’s unmentionables, giving a salutary squeeze to make sure the good major got the message. “Because if you don’t,” she said, “I’m going to rip your balls off right here and now.”

Salt’s eyes widened. The car swerved wildly.

“Steady,” said Alex. “Eyes on the road. We’re going to have a full and frank discussion. All right?”

Salt nodded. His face was very red. He turned the vehicle into Hyde Park. Traffic was sparse.

“If you think you can hide behind a lawyer on this one, you’re wrong. Your ex-messmate Sergeant Lambert killed one of my dearest friends. I am here on his behalf, his wife’s, and his two baby daughters’. I don’t give a fuck about a warrant, a lawyer, or whether the Bureau sent me here or not. This is between you and me. Are we clear?”

“Just let go,” said Salt. “Please.”

Alex clenched her fingers viciously, then released her grip. Salt exhaled and slid lower in his seat. “Bloody hell. Let me pull over. Do that again and you’ll get us both killed.”

“Talk,” said Alex. “Who contracted you to find Lambert and the rest of them?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Salt. “I’ll tell you. Just let me get off the road.”

The car crossed Serpentine Bridge. Ahead and to the right was a small parking lot. Alex noted that there were only a few cars, probably due to the earlier rain.

Salt looked over his shoulder to signal. Reflexively, Alex looked, too. She realized her mistake a split second too late. She saw only a flash from the corner of her eye before Salt’s forearm clubbed her head, slamming her face against the window. She saw stars. Salt hit her again, this time with his fist, his curled knuckles crunching her cheekbone.

Vaguely, she observed Salt pounding his hand into the dashboard, the compartment falling open, Salt reaching for something black and bulky, and she knew it was a pistol, a Glock like the one she carried. He freed the weapon from the compartment, and she knew that he would use it, that no soldier draws a weapon for show. A bolt of adrenaline returned her faculties. As Salt swung his arm to her head and brought the pistol to bear, she grasped his shooting hand and forced it high and away. The gun fired inches from her face, and Alex felt the powder burn her cheek. The gun fired again. She was deaf and blind, her head clamoring with a terrific ringing, her sight a wall of blackness.

She was at Windermere, lying flat on her back, powerless to stop Lambert from shooting Jimmy Malloy.

Not again.

She blinked and her sight returned. Salt was driving on the wrong side of the road. A great grille of gleaming silver bore down on them.

“Watch out!” she cried.

The truck careened out of their path, the blare of its horn only barely audible over the ringing in her ears. Salt threw the wheel to the left and regained their lane. At that moment Alex rose in her seat, took hold of his upper arm with her left hand, and twisted her torso, wrenching the forearm down across her knee, snapping the arm.

Salt screamed. The pistol fell onto the floor. Alex scooped it up and pressed the snout to Salt’s temple. “Stop the car,” she said.

The Aston Martin turned into the parking lot, still traveling at high speed. Salt braked too hard, and the car fishtailed before shuddering to a halt.

“You bloody bitch. You broke my arm.”

“I want a name,” said Alex. “Or I promise you I’ll break the other one, too.”

“I don’t know his name,” said Salt, cradling his arm. “He contacted me three months ago. Something about assembling a team for a job overseas. A coup. Dangerous business. Promised to pay me a fortune. I’m broke. I needed the money. He never said anything about America.”

“How much did he pay?”

“A million. Pounds, not dollars.”

“Who were the others?”

“Chaps I’ve worked with before. Some from the regiment, some from the legion, like Lambert. There were others from all over. Belgium. Sweden. Women, too.”

“Women?”

“He insisted. Had to blend in.”

“Blend in where?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many?”

“A few. Ten. Maybe twelve.”

“Bullshit.” Alex tapped the fractured limb. “How many?”

“Thirty. Sent them all to Namibia. They had a ranch out there. A training facility or something. Six washed out.” Salt winced. “I’ve got to get to a hospital. Feels like a compound fracture.”

Alex felt the arm, and Salt shuddered. “No bleeding,” she said. “You can stand a little discomfort.”

“Discomfort? This is bloody agony.”

“What do you call him?”

“I don’t. He calls himself my old friend.”

Alex detected hesitation in his response. Salt was lying. No one went to that length to recruit thirty men and women without knowing the name of his employer. She tapped the pistol against Salt’s broken arm. “Don’t lie to me. I want a name.”

Salt gnashed his teeth. “Screw yourself.”

“I want a name!”

And in that instant his other arm rose from his side. Alex saw the flash of silver gleaming between his fingers. She fired the gun twice into Salt’s chest. He fell against the door, and she observed the thrusting knife in his hand, the stubby, razor-sharp blade protruding between his middle and ring fingers.

Salt regarded himself. “Shite.”

“Who paid you?” asked Alex. “Who’s your ‘old friend’?”

“You’re too late anyway,” he said.

“When is it happening? Today? Tomorrow?”

Salt grimaced as a tremor shook his body.

“Please,” said Alex. “Save your friends’ lives at least.”

“Sod off.”

Salt coughed. Blood flowed over his lips. He died.