The Prince of Risk A Novel(104)

“I want a name,” said Alex. “Or I promise you I’ll break the other one, too.”

“I don’t know his name,” said Salt, cradling his arm. “He contacted me three months ago. Something about assembling a team for a job overseas. A coup. Dangerous business. Promised to pay me a fortune. I’m broke. I needed the money. He never said anything about America.”

“How much did he pay?”

“A million. Pounds, not dollars.”



“Who were the others?”

“Chaps I’ve worked with before. Some from the regiment, some from the legion, like Lambert. There were others from all over. Belgium. Sweden. Women, too.”

“Women?”

“He insisted. Had to blend in.”

“Blend in where?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many?”

“A few. Ten. Maybe twelve.”

“Bullshit.” Alex tapped the fractured limb. “How many?”

“Thirty. Sent them all to Namibia. They had a ranch out there. A training facility or something. Six washed out.” Salt winced. “I’ve got to get to a hospital. Feels like a compound fracture.”

Alex felt the arm, and Salt shuddered. “No bleeding,” she said. “You can stand a little discomfort.”

“Discomfort? This is bloody agony.”

“What do you call him?”

“I don’t. He calls himself my old friend.”

Alex detected hesitation in his response. Salt was lying. No one went to that length to recruit thirty men and women without knowing the name of his employer. She tapped the pistol against Salt’s broken arm. “Don’t lie to me. I want a name.”

Salt gnashed his teeth. “Screw yourself.”

“I want a name!”

And in that instant his other arm rose from his side. Alex saw the flash of silver gleaming between his fingers. She fired the gun twice into Salt’s chest. He fell against the door, and she observed the thrusting knife in his hand, the stubby, razor-sharp blade protruding between his middle and ring fingers.

Salt regarded himself. “Shite.”

“Who paid you?” asked Alex. “Who’s your ‘old friend’?”

“You’re too late anyway,” he said.

“When is it happening? Today? Tomorrow?”

Salt grimaced as a tremor shook his body.

“Please,” said Alex. “Save your friends’ lives at least.”

“Sod off.”

Salt coughed. Blood flowed over his lips. He died.





68




Alex climbed out of the car, stumbling and unsteady. A few deep breaths restored her strength but did little to lessen the pounding in her skull. She had a concussion. Her cheek was tender to the touch, and she could feel her eye swelling. She needed distance, room to make sense of her predicament.

She took stock of her surroundings. Rain had given way to scattered clouds and sun. She counted three other cars in the lot. All were parked a ways away. For the time being, she saw no one nearby, but that would change soon. A truck rattled along the main road, and then she was alone, with only the whipping wind and her own labored breathing to keep her company.

Alex looked back at the car. Salt sat slumped at the wheel. He was very bloody, and she knew she must think fast in case a policeman drove past. There was no question of running. She’d killed a man. She was a law enforcement officer. On or off duty, she wouldn’t try to escape her actions.

Alex returned to the car.

There was no running, but there was still work to be done.

She slid into the passenger seat and searched Salt’s person. She found his wallet in his coat pocket. In three minutes she’d made a note of every credit card he possessed, as well as his driver’s license number and social insurance card. He carried £500 in cash. No pictures. Only a few old business cards listing him as founder/CEO of GRAIL.

Salt kept his phone in his trouser pocket. She scrolled through his recent calls, eager to learn who he’d contacted after receiving the tip-off from Chris Rees-Jones. Salt was nothing if not efficient. Each call was listed for her. The call from GRAIL was followed by a call to the U.S. embassy. The call lasted three minutes. Salt was canny. He was smart enough to use the main number and have the call forwarded to his contact. Still, it would be no problem to learn that person’s name.



Alex was more interested in finding out who Salt’s source at the embassy had phoned at the FBI at 5:15 a.m. New York time. She reasoned it had to be someone close to her, maybe even someone in CT.

The next call was to his solicitor. The third was to someone named Skinner. No last name attached. Duration, fourteen minutes. Some weighty matters to discuss, no doubt. It took her a moment to recognize the country code. South Africa.