The Prince of Risk A Novel(100)

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Yet you came all this way.”

“I hoped I might be able to convince Major Salt. He’s a soldier. I can’t imagine he’d want one of his own going to the dark side.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I know that GRAIL would never have anything to do with this kind of operation. If word got out that your company recruited mercenaries to mount a Mumbai-style terrorist attack in New York City, the authorities would close it down in a heartbeat. The directors would be lucky if they got off with a long spell in jail. If they lived that long. Israelis aren’t the only ones pursuing a policy of targeted assassinations these days.”

“Are you threatening me?” asked Rees-Jones angrily.

Alex kept her voice as flat as water. “Do you feel threatened?”

Rees-Jones considered this before conjuring a laugh and a winning smile. “Look, we’re not as bad as all that. I’m sorry if I came off as brusque, but we deal with some pretty rough types. Nature of the beast, I suppose. We do have firm principles, and they are absolutely necessary if we wish to maintain our position in a competitive global market.” Rees-Jones sighed, placed both hands on her glass tabletop, and stood. “Wait here. Let me check our database. If Lambert was a part of Colonel Mann’s expedition, we may still have record of it. Don’t sic the Israelis on me just yet.”



Rees-Jones left the office. Alex opened the black mesh bag and took out a compact and lipstick to reapply her makeup. She traded lipstick for mascara, and sighed when she dropped the mascara on the floor. Her fingers scooped up the mascara but made a detour on the way back, slipping beneath the arm of the chair to attach a listening device.

Rees-Jones returned as Alex finished putting away the mesh bag.

“Not much, but something,” said the Englishwoman as she sat. “This is in no way an admission that we’ve ever had contact with Mr. Lambert. I do, however, have an address for a man by that name who lived in Paris. The address is seven years old, but the French postal authority should be able to help.”

“No French social insurance number? Phones? Next of kin? Anyone we can reach out to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And there’s been no contact since?”

“None. We rather got out of that line of work after the Comoros fiasco.”

“Probably smart,” said Alex, smiling for the first time.

“Indeed.”

Alex looked at the paper. “It’s a start. I’ll get on to the French at once.” She stood. “Thank you for your time. And it was I who was brusque. I lost a close friend the other day. I apologize.”

“No need. If there’s nothing further…” Rees-Jones placed her palms on the table, stood, and led Alex to the entry, where she wished her goodbye.

Back on the street, Alex opened her umbrella and set off up the block. The rain was coming down hard as ever and a corner of her umbrella immediately sagged, ladling water onto her shoulder. She barely noticed. In her mind, she had an image of Chris Rees-Jones’s glass desk and the two damp palm prints visible on its otherwise immaculate surface. A few minutes earlier, the woman’s hands had been as dry as chalk. Something had made her nervous.

Very nervous indeed.





66




The Starbucks at the corner of New Bond Street possessed an unobstructed line of sight less than 100 yards from GRAIL. Alex set her venti latte with a triple espresso shot on a table near the entrance. Digging into her pocket, she retrieved a nubbin-sized receiver and fitted it inside her right ear, taking care to activate it with a flick of her thumbnail. A burst of static gave way to silence, then the sound of someone ticking a pencil against a glass desk. “Jonathan,” came Chris Rees-Jones’s voice. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Something’s come up. And see if the solicitors are free this afternoon. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A door closed. Alex could hear footsteps receding down the hall outside Rees-Jones’s office. The zinc-powered microtransmitter she’d placed beneath the arm of her chair was working better than she had dared dream. It was only a matter of waiting. She had every confidence that the dime would drop at any minute.

Alex opened a copy of the Times and feigned reading. In her ear came the sounds of a drawer opening and closing, papers being arranged, a woman clearing her throat. Alex drank half the latte. The espresso hit her like a thousand volts and she put down the cup. Enough of that. She was already jacked enough.

Rees-Jones dropped something metallic on her desk. “Come on,” she whispered angrily. “Pick up the phone, you bloody prick.”