The Prince of Risk (34 page)

S
upervisory Special Agent Bill Barnes, head of intelligence for the FBI’s New York counterterrorism division, former leader of its SWAT team, crouched at the foot of the driveway. Twelve men dressed in assault gear, faces blackened with night grease, stood in an arc around him, the rain sluicing off their helmets like so many waterfalls.

“Normally this would be Jimmy Malloy’s slot,” said Barnes. “We all know what happened to him. I’m taking his position and it’s an honor. Okay, then, it’s a long run up to the house. We’re exposed the entire way, but the weather is on our side. If we skirt the tree line, no one will see us until we’re already on top of them. We break into two teams. I’ll take my guys through the front. The rest of you take the back. We go in hot. Whoever is inside, they are not nice guys. Shoot first, ask questions later. These are the animals that took out Jimmy, Terry, and Jason. Take them down hard. If you can, try to leave one or two alive so we can ask them what they have planned. I want the place cleared inside of thirty seconds.”

Barnes extended a gloved hand. Twelve others covered it. “Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.”

He broke formation, put on his helmet, and started up the drive. He jogged along a grass berm that bordered the driveway and ran alongside the forest. He glanced over his shoulder. His men were shadows. He rounded a bend and the home came into view. It was an old, rambling, one-story place with a shingled roof and two chimneys. Lights burned in the front window. He had the floor plan etched into his memory. Four bedrooms, three baths, living room, den, library, and kitchen. A 4,200-square-foot maze with low ceilings and two back doors. He couldn’t have picked a worse house.

Barnes gripped his pistol tightly. The rain had picked up in the last minute and the grass was soft and slick. He kept his eye on the front door. The probe team sent three hours earlier had scanned the residence with an infrared heat detector and come up with ten separate heat blooms. Jan McVeigh had relayed Alex’s view that the mercenaries had decamped long before. Maybe. Maybe not. Something was creating the heat blooms. Either someone was growing pot with heat lamps or there were ten bad guys inside.

Barnes raised a fist. Behind him, his men halted. The front door stood 50 feet away across an expanse of lawn. No protection there. They had no choice but to run, a difficult task when you were wearing 35 pounds of body armor and equipment. New York’s FBI office did not possess an armored vehicle to plow down the front door. He and his men would have to do things the old-fashioned way. They would have to put their lives on the line.

Barnes directed two fingers at the house. His men sprinted across the lawn, lining up in single file at the front door. Barnes hit the side of the house, breathing hard. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and gave the signal to go.

A man ran ahead and broke open the door with a battering ram. Barnes was breacher, which meant that he was first man in. He turned on his pistol’s laser sight and flashlight and stormed into the house, tossing in a flashbang to say hello.

The stun grenade exploded. He heard the second team come through the back door. Another grenade. His men ran past him, securing each room. Cries of “Clear!” sounded through the house.

Barnes’s boot knocked something over. It was a tin bucket. He bent to pick it up but pulled his hand away when he noted that it was glowing with heat. Next to the bucket was a Sterno can—a solid-fuel canister used to heat food. It was apparent that the bucket had been placed atop the Sterno can for hours. Hence the glow. Hence the heat blooms. He ran through the house and found nine similar setups.

Barnes returned to the front door. The smoke was clearing now, and he switched on the lights. There were no bad guys. The FBI had been played. It was then that he saw the black wire stretched against the wall. He followed it toward the door, where it lay on the ground, snapped in two by his own careless feet.

“Out! Out! Out!” he shouted. “The place is booby-trapped.”

He stood by the door, counting his men as they ran past. The last man brushed by.

Barnes turned to leave.

He never made it.

Twenty-nine seconds after he had entered the house, a 10-pound charge of C4 plastic explosive wrapped in a bed sheet filled with cutlery, candelabra, and cooking ware and hidden in the dresser 2 feet away detonated.

Supervisory Special Agent Bill Barnes was vaporized.

Miraculously, no other member of the SWAT team was seriously injured.

M
ichael Grillo took a long, satisfying draw from his cigar. Jeb Washburn sat next to him, enjoying one of his own. The men were talking to Paul Lawrence Tiernan about his Palantir software and how it had spotted the coming attack.

“I first noticed the pattern a year ago. I use the program to trend stock market activity. I noted that a lot of investments were being made in corporations with high national security quotients. Power plants, oil, satellites, microchips, Net hardware. Companies you’d never allow a foreigner to own, especially someone who wasn’t an ally. I ran a regression analysis to see if I could find a common thread. Bingo! There it was. All the purchases were run through private equity firms. But then I thought, no way. Each firm can’t be making its decision independently. It’s statistically impossible for that kind of activity to be random. There has to be some kind of correlation, something that ties them together. I dug deeper, and that’s when I hit on the CIC, the China Investment Corporation, which had made large investments in all the private equity firms. Still, I thought the connection might be benign. There are a lot of sovereign wealth funds and it’s their job to invest all around the world. I decided to do some dirty work. Those sly bastards in Shanghai aren’t the only ones who can hack at will.” Tiernan took a sip of Coke and grinned.

“You know the best way into a closed system? Photocopiers. They’re all linked to the Net and they have virtually no defense at all. I got into the CIC’s internal system and everything kept feeding up the ladder to Magnus Lee. He wasn’t just running the CIC. He also headed up a covert organization called i3, the Institute for Investment Initiative, which he created to steal every industrial secret in the United States, Japan, and Europe. The Chinese are not just making fake Rolexes anymore. We’re talking stealing the latest car designs from General Motors, microchip architecture from Intel, stealth technology from Northrop. I don’t know how, but they have eyes and ears everywhere. This is government-sanctioned piracy.” Tiernan looked from one man to the other. “That’s when things got scary and I reached out to Mr. Washburn here. I know when I’m out of my depth. When his supervisors didn’t want to remunerate me for my considerable investment in time and money, I thought about who else might be interested in getting their hands on this information. I saw that Edward Astor sat on the CIC’s international board of advisers. No way he knew about this. He’s a hard-ass. Boy, I thought, would he be pissed if he learned about all this.”

“You still haven’t said anything about the target,” said Grillo.

“In China, everything is about face. Dignity. Standing. How people regard you. Lee’s goal is to elevate the reputation of China as an international financial center. He’s up for a slot as vice premier of finance. No better way of getting it than bringing mighty America down a notch or two. Right now New York, London, and Tokyo are the world’s financial centers. Shanghai is way down on the list. He wants to change that.”

“How?” asked Washburn.

“Not sure. Edward Astor thought they had had a hand in the Flash Crash a few years back and in that Feudal Trading debacle, where that company lost a billion dollars of its own money in thirty minutes, supposedly by entering the wrong algorithm. I don’t know whether they did or they didn’t. What I do know is that Lee has everything he needs to bring our financial infrastructure to its knees. The last company Watersmark bought built the hardware that runs the New York Stock Exchange’s brand-new trading platform. That ought to tell you something.”

“So the Exchange is the target?” asked Washburn. “I’ve got to make a call.”

There was a knock on the door. “That’s Mr. Astor,” said Grillo.

Grillo rose and put his eye to the peephole. He saw the back of Astor’s head, a dark T-shirt.

“Come on in,” he said, opening the door.

A fist drove into his solar plexus. Another smashed his cheek. He collapsed on the floor as a slim Asian man stepped over him. A taller, imperious man followed, slamming the door behind him.

Washburn dropped his phone and stood, struggling to free his gun. The Asian launched a flying roundhouse that snapped Washburn’s jaw and sent him sprawling. The pistol fell to the floor. Washburn reached for it, but the Asian scooped it up, stepping on Washburn’s wrist and breaking it with an audible snap.

Grillo rose to a knee. He had a glimpse of Tiernan turning and wheeling himself down the hall before a heel struck him flush across the face, slamming his head into the floor. Grillo lay on his back, stunned and hurting. His nose was broken, and he suspected that his sternum was bruised. Worse, his pistol was missing. There came the sound of a scuffle, of furniture being violently rearranged. Then a truncated scream. The Asian dragged Tiernan into the room by a dislocated arm.

“You’re Grillo?” the tall man asked the corporate investigator.

“That’s me.”

“Well done. Or perhaps I should say thank you. Paul Lawrence Tiernan.
Pal-an-tir.
Clever.”

“I thought you guys were the ones listening in on everyone,” said Grillo.

“We found you, didn’t we? Just a little late.”

“Where’s Mr. Astor?”

“Safe and cooperating with us.”

“I’m not buying that.”

“At this point, I don’t care what you buy.” The tall man addressed Tiernan, who despite his injured arm had pushed himself up against the couch. “The report, please.”

“On the desk,” said Grillo.

“I’d like all the copies.”

“That’s the only hard copy,” said Tiernan. “The original is on my computer.”

“Really. I thought you of all people would know better than to store it in such a vulnerable location, so easy for people like…well, like you and me to find. I’m guessing you store your research somewhere safer, say on a flash drive.”

“Don’t give it to him,” said Washburn.

“And you are?”

“None of your damned business.”

“If you’re not Grillo and you’re not Mr. Tiernan, then I really don’t care who you are.” The tall man looked at the Asian. “Daniel.”

Washburn tried to get to his feet, but the Asian was ungodly fast. A curled fist struck Washburn’s throat, crushing his larynx. The CIA agent dropped to his knees, clutching at his fractured windpipe. The Asian locked his arms around his neck and snapped his spine.

“Okay,” said Tiernan. “You can have it. It’s on the flash on the desk next to my computer. I swear that’s the only copy.”

“Show me.”

“Can you get me my chair…please.”

The Asian retrieved the wheelchair and lifted Tiernan into it. The tall man rolled him to his office. Grillo busied himself with his nose, groaning, making it appear that he was in too much agony to be aware of what was going on around him. There was quite a bit of blood. The Asian lost interest and walked around the apartment.

The tall, pale man returned with Tiernan five minutes later. He held a flash drive in his palm. “I believe we’re done. Of course, there is one other place you have the report.” He tapped his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t take you with me. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

The tall man left.

The Asian looked at Grillo, who was still recumbent, then picked up a pillow from the couch and approached Tiernan.

“No, man…no,” said Palantir, doing his best to wheel himself backward with his one functioning arm. “Please!”

The Asian put the pillow to Tiernan’s face, buried the pistol in its folds, and fired three times. The muffled gunshots sounded no louder than heavy footsteps.

By then Grillo was up off the floor. All this time he had been marshaling his resources, gathering his strength for one charge. He knew a little about martial arts, too. He’d earned black belts in Brazilian jujitsu and full-contact karate. He’d also spent six months learning Krav Maga with the Israeli Defense Force. The sum of his experience, aided by the vicious blows he’d received, told him that the Asian was a superior fighter. In a prolonged bout, Grillo didn’t stand a chance. It would have to be fast, ugly, and with deadly force.

As the Asian turned, Grillo was on him, landing a frontal kick. His foot struck the intruder’s chest, sending him sprawling over Tiernan’s body and upending the wheelchair. The Asian turned his fall into a back somersault and rose unhurt, hands in a fighting position, eyes seeking advantage.

The pistol lay on the floor between them.

Grillo launched a roundhouse kick to the jaw. He was slow. The Asian saw it coming and dropped to the floor, sweeping his foot and knocking his opponent’s legs out from under him. Grillo hit the floor hard. The Asian lunged for the pistol. Grillo locked his legs around the Asian’s neck and twisted his torso, and then brought his knees together to crush the man’s larynx. The Asian was strong. Inch by inch, he pulled himself toward the pistol. And then he had it. He threw his arm behind him and fired wildly, the shots bracketing Grillo’s head. The third shot struck Grillo’s shoulder. He bucked, trying to create a whiplash to snap the Asian’s neck. The gun dropped from the Asian’s hand and slid across the floor, stopping inches from Grillo. Close, but not close enough. The Asian arched his back and pried Grillo’s legs apart. He was pulling free. Grillo stretched an arm toward the weapon. His fingers brushed the grip. His assailant turned on his side, and Grillo knew he was losing him.

Grillo unlocked his legs and hurled himself at the pistol.

He saw a shadow from the corner of his eye. A form descended on him. A knee dug into his back. Hands gripped his neck, arching his spine as if it were a bow. Grillo searched for something to latch on to to gain leverage. His hand found the solid ashtray. Not leverage, but maybe just as effective. He lashed out behind him, throwing blows over his shoulder. Again and again the ashtray struck the intruder’s head, but there was no lessening of pressure. A verterbra snapped. A current sizzled along his spine and into his neck. Grillo lost sensation in his fingertips. The hands tightened around his neck, fingers crushing his throat. Grillo found Jeb Washburn’s dead eyes staring at him. They offered neither hope nor encouragement, only resignation. Grillo struck out again. The grip weakened. Again. And then he was free, rolling to his side.

He looked up to find the Asian aiming the pistol at him.

A gunshot cracked the air.

Grillo felt nothing.

The Asian lowered his gun. Blood trickled from a perfect hole in his forehead. He pitched forward onto the floor.

Grillo turned. A gangly redheaded man stood in the doorway, a wisp of smoke rising from his pistol. An athletic, dark-haired woman stood behind him. Her eye was swollen and she looked like hell.

Alex Forza tapped Barry Mintz on the shoulder. “Nice shot, Deadeye.”