“What happened?”
“That was the end. Goodbye, Palantir. Whoever created Palantir disappeared. Went off the grid.”
“And that’s it? No one’s heard from him since?”
“You expecting him to make contact after we dumped him?” Washburn gave him a look. “Sounds like you’ve been talking to him more recently than we have.”
Grillo pulled a grimace. It meant “No comment.”
Washburn gave him a thump on the shoulder. “I’m outta here. Any of my bosses see me talking to a rich-ass boy like yourself, they’ll think I’m pulling an Aldrich Ames.”
“In this case, I’d say it’s the opposite. You’re helping the good guys.”
“Good guys?” said Washburn. “Who are they?”
“You know who they are.”
“Maybe I do. You’re one of ’em, Grill-O. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
The two men reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and stopped before crossing, allowing the pedestrians to stream around them.
“Look, Jeb, my client would like to thank you for your services.”
“No way,” said Washburn in horror. “I do this for God and country.”
“Maybe I’ll buy you a pair of shoes. Ferragamos.”
“Buy my wife a pair. Size seven. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“You got it, Jeb.”
Washburn turned and looked Grillo in the eye. “You still smokin’ those nasty cigarettes?”
“Shermans? Yeah. Want one?”
“Hell, no. Just wondering why a smart, suave motherfucker like you wants to kill himself.” Washburn laughed. “Cigarettes ain’t bad enough, now you go asking about Palantir. Tell you something for free, Grill-O. Your days are numbered.”
48
The CH-53 Super Stallion carrying the eight members of Team Three approached the Tamondo oil rig from the south and touched down on the landing platform at 8:20 local time. The rig was a hive of activity. The night crew had four hours remaining on their shift, and the roustabouts and roughnecks could be seen scrambling among the rig’s catwalks, tending to the giant drill that turned twenty-four hours a day, bringing heavy crude to the surface. Nearly half of the sixty-five-man shift worked in confined environs deep inside the rig, where temperatures routinely hit 100 degrees and the mechanical noise was deafening. Only a few people noted the helicopter’s arrival, and they were quick to turn their heads and quicker to forget that the bird had ever arrived. Word had spread about a group of visitors inbound from Mexico. Word said to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut. None of the crew had a problem with that. Roughnecks knew how to follow orders.
The members of Team Three jumped onto the deck. A supervisor in a hard hat and sunglasses led them to a private dining room adjacent to the chow hall. A regal spread awaited. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, baked goods, and a variety of juices filled the buffet table. The mercenaries loaded their plates and ate quickly and without comment. They had been given instructions, too. Eat. Get in. Get out. And shut the hell up.
Thirty minutes after touching down, they returned to the landing platform and boarded the refueled helicopter. At two minutes past nine the helicopter took off and banked north toward the coast of the United States of America. At no point had anyone checked their travel documents, though technically they had arrived from a foreign country. Nor had anyone made an official notation of their presence. For all intents and purposes, Team Three had never set foot on the Tamondo rig.
Two hours later, the CH-53 landed at the Noble Energy compound in Houma, Louisiana. Team Three hit the tarmac and walked to a waiting van. Again, no travel documents were checked. No customs officials were present. What was the point? To watching eyes, the team was just another crew happy to be back on dry land after their two-week stint at sea.
Team Three was on American soil.
49
“Where we headed?” asked John Sullivan.
“Cherry Hill.” Settling into the backseat, Astor caught Sullivan’s look of surprise. “You heard me. And step on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan navigated north to Delancey Street and crossed the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge before merging onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. At 10:15, traffic was light, and the vehicle made good time driving north, reaching I-495 in just fifteen minutes.
“Got your wheatgrass if you’re interested,” said Sullivan when the ride had smoothed.
“Screw my wheatgrass.”
Astor stared out the window glumly. How quickly they deserted the cause. At the first signs of adversity, they all fled like rats from a sinking ship. Marv had likened the firm to the Titanic. If he was right, the rats were the smart ones, and Astor was the fool rushing around the deck mustering the band to play one last waltz. He felt a blackness nipping at his heels. It wasn’t fear. It was doubt, which was more ill-defined and thus more dangerous.
On an early trip to Paris with Alex, he had visited the sculpture garden decorated with many larger-than-life artworks by Rodin. One black marble piece showed a powerful, confident man poised in reflection, his countenance gripped by a terrible uncertainty. Gripped by doubt. It wasn’t audacity that killed a trader. It was doubt. Doubt led to indecision, and only the decisive survived on the Street.
Astor played back the conversation with Longfellow and Goodchild. Their reasoning was sound. China was posturing. Some sort of political gamesmanship was occurring, but in the end Astor was right. And Magnus Lee had confirmed it.
Screw doubt.
“I know it,” said Astor aloud, banging his fist on the armrest.
“Everything okay, boss?”
“What?” Astor shook himself back to the real world. Leaning forward, he clutched his driver’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Yeah, Sully. Never better.”
Cherry Hill sat on top of a broad grassy knoll overlooking the expanse of Oyster Bay. It was an old Victorian pile built in the 1880s, when the Roosevelt family had lived nearby on Sagamore Hill. Over the years each owner had added on a room or a terrace or a porch until it resembled a sprawling hotel more than a home. The Astors had purchased it in 1950 for the then astounding sum of $175,000. Following in the tradition of their predecessors, they’d expanded the kitchen, built a sauna on the second floor, and added a gymnasium on the third for Edward, then a boy.
A paved road wound up the slope and emerged from an orchard onto an immense lawn that collared the estate and made Cherry Hill look like a frosted white decoration atop a wedding cake.
Sullivan spotted the striped tape stretched across the front door first. “We’re late,” he said. “The feds have already been by to have a look.”
Astor opened the car door before the Audi came to a halt. He was out and striding across the gravel forecourt as Sullivan hurried to join him.
“Tampering with evidence is a felony. Be careful what you touch.”
Astor stopped at the top of the front stairs. “It’s my house. I have every right to go in. Besides, who you going to tell?”
Sullivan reached his side. “Have it your way. But let me take a look first. We don’t want any surprises.”
Astor noted that the alarm system was disarmed and the door locked. He fished in his pocket for his old key. It worked like a charm. “You’re the only one who knows I’m here,” he said, ducking under the tape as he pushed the door open. “Be my guest.”
Sullivan passed beneath the tape and entered the foyer, his pistol held in front of him. “Wait here. I’m going to do a quick walk-through.”
“Knock yourself out,” said Astor.
Sullivan padded down the stairs five minutes later. “All yours. Looks like the feds took a look around and left everything here. I’d count on them being back anytime. They’ll be taking another look now that Penelope Evans is dead, too.”