“I don’t sleep with drunks,” Alex said.
The word hit Astor like a hammer. She’d never called him that before. He rose and walked to the far side of the room. “I was never a drunk.”
“Maybe not. But it got bad all the same.”
“It did,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
Alex met his gaze. For once, she didn’t challenge him. Something in her face softened.
“Really?”
“I wonder if I’d done something differently…”
“It wasn’t just the drinking. It was your business. It never ended. The first thing you did when you got up and the last thing you did before you went to bed was check the markets. Last couple of years, you even slept with a phone under your pillow so you could look at your positions if you woke up. That’s not a job, Bobby. That’s an addiction.”
“Were you always this harsh?”
“Were you always this sentimental?”
Astor shrugged. “Something about nearly being killed, I guess. I do know that I’m ready to give it another try.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You meet someone?”
“No.” Alex shook her head, angry at letting herself be drawn into this kind of conversation. “It’s none of your business. Leave it alone.”
Astor came closer. It was difficult not to touch her. “We had something good.”
“This is not the time or the place.”
“I’m not going to get another chance. Not if you go to London.” He saw her eyes light up as she realized that she would get the jet. “Just think about it.”
Alex cocked her head. “That’s your best shot?”
“I had more planned, but I can’t have you thinking I’m too sappy.” He took a breath, and when he looked at her, he was looking at the same headstrong, beautiful girl he’d met all those years ago. “I’m still the man you married.”
“I liked that man.”
“Later,” said Astor. “After all this.”
Alex didn’t answer. Not at once. She held his gaze longer than he had imagined, hitting him with her inquisitor’s eyes. “Maybe,” she said.
That was as good as he was likely to get, today or any other day. He had a chance. It was all he could ask for.
He looked at his ex-wife, her eyes steadfast, jaw raised, all of her battle-ready. Her dedication to her job was the quality he admired most, and the one he found most maddening. In his world of masters of the universe and big swinging dicks and London whales, not one of his competitors had balls half the size of hers. He couldn’t fathom what she’d gone through the past two days, losing three colleagues in a gun battle-one of whom was a close friend-not to mention being shot at herself at close range. Yet here she was, driving out to Oyster Bay, not resting, not quitting, but going strong, maybe even gathering steam.
“You’re sure about the jet?” she asked.
“I’ll call the FBO now and get everything set up.”
Alex smiled tentatively. She gently pulled his hand away from his arm and studied the cut. “That’s deep. Emergency room. Pronto.”
“You care,” he said sarcastically.
“I ought to cuff you and take you downtown. That’d show you how much I care. Now come on. Let’s get out of here. I don’t want some of my people showing up and finding you in here.”
“And finding you?”
“Yes, Bobby, and finding me.”
“When are you back?”
“I hope it’ll be a day trip.”
“Good thing you came to ask.”
“Guess it worked out for both of us.” Alex walked out of the office, pausing at the doorway to wait for him. “By the way, what’s up with your phone? I couldn’t reach you.”
“I thought you said you came out here because you thought I’d say no on the phone.”
“I lied.”
“It was hacked. I’m going to buy a new one when I get back to the city. I’ll call you with the number.”
“Do that. I need to be able to reach you.”
Alex ducked into the corridor.
Astor took a last look at the desk. It was then that he observed a splotch of red under a corner of the leather desk pad. Quickly he freed the piece of paper. It was a set of driving directions from MapQuest. The address was in Reston, Virginia. Something clicked. He’d recently read something about Reston. He scanned the header and saw that the directions had been printed on Saturday morning. He looked more closely, and his heart jumped a beat.
Britium Technologies.
It was the company mentioned in the article Penelope Evans had been reading prior to her death.
“Coming?”
Astor folded up the paper and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He caught up to Alex on the landing. “Let’s go.”
Alex said yes, and they walked down the stairs together. They paused to say their goodbyes on the front porch.
“From here,” she said, “you’re going to get your arm taken care of, then go to Jan McVeigh and tell her everything you’ve learned.”
“Are you going to say you found me here?”
“I’m going to say you phoned me when you realized that you were in over your head and that this was a matter for the federal authorities.”
“I’m a civilian. I just say ‘the cops.’”
“Say whatever you want. Just get your butt down there. Ask for protection. Sully’s a little past his sell-by date.”
“I trust him.”
“I trust him, too, but whoever wants you dead got past him going in and going out.” Alex ran her fingers along the lapel of his jacket. “They’ve missed you twice. Three’s a charm.”
Astor lowered his head to kiss her, but she saw it coming a mile away and ducked her head.
“I said maybe.”
53
Magnus Lee stood on the balcony of his private office, hands on his hips like a conquering field marshal, marveling at the Eiffel Tower. The original structure had been built more than a century earlier, yet its design remained contemporary and its engineering continued to astound. It was a masterpiece.
Lee looked down upon the Champ de Mars, the wide grass field that led from the Invalides to the Eiffel Tower. Apartments built in the Haussmann style ran for four city blocks on either side. The detail was exact, down to the mansard roofs blue with verdigris, shutters that actually closed, and molded cast iron railings on every balcony. Inside, the apartments boasted hardwood floors, Poggenpohl kitchens, and Sonichi express elevators that opened to the foyers.
Magnus Lee knew this because it was he who had built the apartments and the Eiffel Tower. Like all government officials, he had a second career, one dedicated to making as much money as humanly possible. His salary at the China Investment Corporation was the equivalent of $5,000 a year. His salary running a real estate development company ran to $5 million. Or rather, it had until recently.
Still, it was not his sudden drop in salary that troubled him. It was something else. Magnus Lee had not used his own money to fund his building projects. If he had, he would not be in such a bind. He had used money entrusted to him.
Lee had built other developments, too. The developments had names like St. Mark’s, Belgravia, and even St. Tropez. Like Paris, they resembled the architecture of their namesakes. Of late, however, the market for single-family homes and apartments had not been faring well. In fact, it had been in the shitter.
Lee returned to his desk and fell into his chair, contemplating his fate.
At that moment there was a commotion in the outer office. Miss May’s high voice could be heard uttering supplications. Lee’s door swung open, and a frail old man shuffled into his office. He was not wearing a Western business suit but traditional silk trousers and a high-collared jacket and soft shoes. He was bald and stooped, and his skin had the texture of rice paper.
“Elder Chen,” said Lee, catapulting to his feet. “As always, a great pleasure.”
“Do not get up on my account,” said the old man.