By six the office was pretty much deserted. The last-minute miracle had sent even the die-hard grinds to the local watering holes to toast Bobby Astor. Shank walked to Astor’s office and peered inside. He checked his phone again, even though he knew that Bobby hadn’t replied to his call or his text. Shank decided he must be tied up at the FBI. He called Sully, but Sully didn’t answer either.
A quiver of unease passed through his body. He felt certain something was wrong.
“Marv, good night. Turn off the lights on your way out.” It was Mandy Price, the chief financial officer. He saw that she was wearing her running clothes, probably off for a quick 10-miler to celebrate. Maniac.
Shank smiled and waved. “Good night. We live to fight another day!”
He stood like that for another minute, gazing around the empty office. He made a slow tour from front to back, taking his time, reminiscing about deals done, about trading strategies that had worked and those that hadn’t, about the pile of money he’d made. He ended where he had started, standing in the middle of the trading floor. He didn’t think he’d ever seen it so quiet.
He looked at his watch and wondered what to do.
He had nowhere to go.
77
At first he was scared.
After an hour he grew restless.
Now Astor was bored.
He sat on a wooden chair in the center of a vacant two-car garage. He had no idea where he was. There were no windows to look out. The garage door was locked, as was the only other entrance, a single door leading to the house he’d been led through. He looked around. There was a lawn mower, trash cans, a rake. He could hear crickets sawing outside, and the smell of cut grass was rich in the air. He took a sip of water from a liter bottle Daniel had left him. He was hungry, so he knew it was after seven o’clock, which was the hour he ate dinner.
Leaving Manhattan, Daniel had placed a hood over his head. No one spoke during the ride. Left alone with his thoughts, Astor had tried to map his journey by the landmarks he passed. One bridge. One tunnel. A long spell on a highway. But which bridge? Which tunnel? And which highway?
Once more he made a tour of his prison, banging on the garage door, shouting “Help!” as loudly as he could, and repeatedly kicking the door to the house. Sully’s betrayal provided his anger with ample fuel. It did no good. The only result was a ruined shoe and a bruised heel.
He gave a last kick for good measure. Regaining his balance, he saw the doorknob turn. The door opened and John Sullivan walked in, followed by Daniel and Septimus Reventlow.
“Take a seat,” said Reventlow.
Astor sat down. He observed that Sully was limping and that his face was swollen and inflamed, as if he’d been crying. Sully looked at him and offered a sad, weary smile. “I’m sor-”
A gunshot cut off the word. Sullivan dropped to the concrete floor, dead.
“Jesus,” said Astor, cringing. The boredom was gone. He was scared. “Why did you…what the…but he was helping you.”
Daniel slipped the Beretta into his waistband. He approached and knelt in front of Astor. The placid blue eyes looked into his. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
Astor extended his left hand warily, and Daniel laid it palm down across his own, gently splaying the fingers. Astor didn’t see him insert the sliver of bamboo beneath his fingernail. A flame traveled through the finger up his arm and into his neck. He screamed, and as quickly the sliver was gone and the monk was patting his hand, holding a cloth to absorb the blood.
Astor looked from Daniel to Reventlow. “You didn’t ask me anything.”
“The questions will come,” said Reventlow. “Daniel needs to soften you up first. By the time he’s done, you’ll be begging to tell me everything you know.”
78
The intel started arriving when Alex was halfway across the Atlantic. First came the download of James Salt’s phone’s internal memory and SIM card. There were a slew of phone numbers, in fact a list of every call placed or received, some six thousand in all. The phone also provided access to Salt’s e-mails for the better part of the past two years. Many contained cc’s to other parties, giving the Bureau and MI5 a plethora of leads. There was less luck with texts, as the phone deleted these, and it was necessary to obtain them from the service provider.
Alex spent the flight crouched in the cockpit, listening as Barry Mintz relayed the information. She was interested in two things: where the bad guys were hiding and what was to be their target, or targets, plural, God help us every man. But even as she guessed at their plans, she kept in mind Jean Eyraud’s words about Lambert and his fellow mercenaries. They were not terrorists. They were professional soldiers who wanted to survive, which meant they had an exit strategy mapped out and memorized.
“Have they pinged that phone yet?” she asked.
“Still waiting on the South Africans.”
“Time frame?”
“Any minute now.”
“You said that an hour ago.” Alex was beside herself with frustration. Trapped in the plane, she could do nothing but monitor progress being made by others. “And Bobby?”
“We can’t reach him anywhere. He’s not answering his cell or home phone. Neither is his driver.”
“What about the office?”
“Closed for the day.”
“Call Marv Shank. He’s Bobby’s best friend. He’ll know where he is.”
“Will do,” said Mintz. “There’s something else. Jan sent him a text ordering him to 26 Federal Plaza at five. He didn’t show.”
Alex was worried. Bobby might disobey her command to get his butt down to Federal Plaza. He would not disobey Janet McVeigh’s. If his meeting had run long, he would have called to explain his tardiness. She tapped the captain on the shoulder. “What’s our ETA?”
“Two hours, but we have a problem. A line of thunderstorms is coming down the Hudson Valley toward the city.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. It extends all the way into western Pennsylvania. The forecast is calling for four to six inches of rain. The storm could shut down every airport in the vicinity until dawn.”
Alex squinted to read the flight instruments. “You got any more juice left in this bird?”
“We’re pushing 500 knots and that’s with a headwind.”
“My Charger goes faster than that.”
“I can get you another fifty knots. Any more than that and we’ll be landing on fumes.”
“Step on it.”
79
“I’m not here,” said Jeb Washburn.
“Definitely not,” said Mike Grillo.
“I am way off the reservation.”
“Different county entirely.”
“County? I need to be in a different country. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Anyone finds out I’m helping you, Grill-O, I am done.”
“You can come work for me.”
“Lord help us both, then.”
The men were parked in Washburn’s car at the corner of 44th and Eleventh across from a Ray’s Pizza. Washburn had exchanged his blazer and flannels for jeans and a bowling shirt that nicely hid his.45 but couldn’t quite make his paunch disappear. Grillo had dressed as casually as he would allow himself, in pressed slacks, a navy polo shirt, and deck shoes. The Shermans were gone, too, replaced by a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He always smoked Cubans on ops.
Grillo glanced down the street, focusing on a three-story brick building a third of the way along. It was a neighborhood of row houses and tenements, one built next to the other. Number 3415 was more run-down than its neighbors, with concrete stairs leading to a glass-paned entry. Among the thirty or so men, women, and children who called it home was a man named Paul Lawrence Tiernan. Grillo preferred to think of him as Palantir.