Astor didn’t need a full-time bodyguard, but he didn’t mind having someone licensed to carry a firearm drive him around town. There was an additional upside to hiring a cop as a chauffeur. When necessary, Sullivan could drive as fast as needed, run every red light in the city, and park where his heart desired, or rather, where Astor told him to. No detective first grade, retired or otherwise, ever got a traffic violation in New York City.
Astor turned his attention to the agenda. He opened to the month of July and began reading. It was apparent that Edward Astor kept a meticulous record of his activities. A check of the past Monday showed a 7 a.m. breakfast with the CEO of a prominent social networking company about to do its IPO, or initial public offering. At nine there was a meeting with Sloan Thomasson to review the itinerary of the Germany trip. Nine-fifteen brought “P. Evans” for an “update.” By 9:30 he was expected on the floor to ring the opening bell with a United States marine who had been awarded the Medal of Honor. And so the day continued-meeting upon meeting-until 7 p.m., when he departed.
The days afterward had been equally busy. Edward Astor arrived before seven in the morning and never departed before seven at night. Twelve-hour days were the norm, fourteen and fifteen hours all too common. Astor saw where he’d acquired his own work habits. He was reminded of the saying apropos of those who chose a career on Wall Street: “You won’t know your children, but you’ll be best friends with your grandchildren.”
Astor turned to the past Friday, his father’s last day in the office. The day started with a breakfast, this time with the chairman of the floor traders’ association, followed by a meeting with “P. Evans.” Astor thumbed back through the past ten days. It appeared that his father had had no fewer than twenty meetings with “P. Evans” during that time, and that didn’t count the times they’d breakfasted and lunched.
Astor returned to the most recent Friday. At 9:15, the notation listed “Update on Special Project-P. Evans,” whatever the “special project” was. The day ended there. He noted a diagonal line drawn through all meetings scheduled after 10 a.m., along with the word canceled.
Why? Astor wondered. Sloan Thomasson had felt certain that nothing had been bothering his father that morning. He was not sick. So what had forced Edward Astor to cancel all his appointments?
Astor’s thumb returned to the entry for 9:15. “Update on Special Project-P. Evans.”
He suspected that Penelope Evans might be the one to tell him.
17
Astor’s first call was to Penelope Evans’s home phone. After six rings, the call went to voice mail.
“You’ve reached the home of Penelope Evans. If you’d be so kind as to leave a message, I’ll get back to you promptly. Toodles.”
An Englishwoman. Cool, resolute, educated, with a royal’s plummy upper-class accent. A snob if ever there was one. And then the chirpy “Toodles,” Miss Evans thumbing her nose at herself and merry old England. A good sport, then.
Astor placed the second call to her cell. Six rings and counting. As he prepared to hang up, someone picked up. He waited for a greeting, but no one spoke. “Hello?” he said.
Silence. Astor pressed the phone to his ear, unsure if he heard a person’s rushed breathing. “Miss Evans?” He added hurriedly, “This is Robert Astor-Edward Astor’s son. Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Yes, hello. As I said, this is Robert Astor. I just left my father’s office. I was wondering if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”
“What about?”
“What happened in Washington last night. I was wondering if you had an idea why he might have gone down there.”
“Why would I?” asked Penelope Evans quickly, defensively.
Astor turned the pages of the agenda, his eye landing on Penelope Evans’s name time and time again. “Mrs. Kennedy said that you and my father worked together on a number of projects,” he replied. “I thought that he might have mentioned something to you.”
“My work involved targeting new customers for the Exchange, updating software on our trading platforms, and writing research reports.”
“According to her, you helped my father with everything.”
“I did my job.”
“She was very complimentary of your efforts,” said Astor. “Were you working together on any projects for the government?”
“No.”
“So you wouldn’t have an idea why he had to rush down to D.C. to see Martin Gelman and Charles Hughes?”
“No.”
“And you and he never worked on any project that might be considered…” Astor searched for the word. “Perilous?”
“I already said no.” She was no longer just defensive but downright bitchy.
Astor held his temper. It was apparent that the woman’s skill set did not include lying. There must not be a course in it at Oxford or wherever she’d gone to university. He was done with the kid gloves.
“Listen, Miss Evans,” he began again. “Penelope…I can tell you’re upset. Scared, even. I would be, too, if my boss got himself killed trying to deliver an urgent message to the president. I know you were working closely with my father, and I know it wasn’t just targeting new clients and updating trading software. So let’s cut the song and dance, shall we? On Friday morning at nine-thirty, immediately after meeting with you to discuss some kind of special project, my father canceled all his meetings for the rest of the day and got the hell out of Dodge. Something was up. I’m asking you again, what were you working on?”
“Why are you calling me, Mr. Astor? You haven’t been a part of your father’s life for years.”
“Because he contacted me last night.”
“Edward phoned you?”
Astor paused. He wasn’t sure if it was surprise or jealousy he heard in her voice. He knew only that the tone belonged to a woman who had cared for his father.
“For the first time in five years. I think he was in the car on the way to the White House. He knew something was wrong-that he was in some kind of danger. Anyway, he texted me. Just one word. Can you guess what it was?”
Penelope Evans did not reply. Astor didn’t hurry her. Finally she said, “They hear everything. That’s why he went to Washington. He had to tell them.”
“Who’s ‘they’? Palantir?”
“Palantir’s the source. He told us about them. Of course, we suspected-at least, your father did. Edward didn’t trust anyone. He was smart.” Evans sniffed, and Astor could imagine her drawing herself up straight, gathering herself. “They’re listening now,” she went on. “They’ll have keyed on the text your father sent you. Your phone will be in their system. It was one of their acquisitions. They hear everything we say.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Astor repeated.
“I’ve said enough, Mr. Astor. You don’t need to be any more involved in this matter than you already are.”
“My father thought differently.” There was a pause. He could hear the woman breathing rapidly. “Please.”
“Not over the phone.”
“I’m free now. Where can we meet?”
“Do you know Morse code, Mr. Astor?”
“No. Why should I?”
“I do,” said Sullivan, who could hear the call on the speaker system. “She can spell it out and I’ll do my best.”
A tap for a dot. A “Shh” for a dash.
There followed an excruciating two minutes of cat and mouse with Sullivan doing his best to decipher the series of dots and dashes. “Got it,” he said afterward.
“Sure?” asked Astor.
“I was an Eagle Scout, wasn’t I?”
“How quickly can you meet me?” asked Penelope Evans.