The Prince of Risk A Novel(110)

Graves gave his work name and presented matching credentials. “We have a warrant that allows us to search the premises. Any interference will be regarded as a crime against the Crown. We would, however, welcome your help.”

“Is this about James?”



“I’m afraid we can’t answer any questions, ma’am. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

Mrs. Salt stood aside to let the search party enter. “Where is he?” she asked. “I keep calling and he’s not answering.”

“In custody,” said Graves.

“But he’s a hero,” Mrs. Salt protested.

“Not today,” said Alex.

Mrs. Salt caught the American accent and took a closer look at Alex. Her mouth tightened in distaste at the sight of her swollen eye. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“Why is there blood on your trousers then?”

Alex glanced at her slacks and noted a patch of crusted blood on her knee, visible despite the dark wool. Graves had provided a fresh blouse. There hadn’t been time to pop by Selfridges for a new suit. “Accident.”

“Is it James?”

Alex glared at the woman. Mrs. Salt was an accomplice by association. She merited no sympathy. Alex brushed past her into the small, musty foyer. There was a grandfather clock and a throw rug and a tapestry on the wall that was not quite from Bayonne. But the home was immaculate. The major might be broke, but the missus had her pride.

Graves offered a rare smile. “Might we inquire where your husband’s office is?”

“Upstairs. Second door on the left. Clean it up while you’re there. He won’t let me touch a thing. He’s retired, you know. He sold his business a few months ago.”

Alex started up the stairs, Graves and two more officers close behind. One stayed with Mrs. Salt. Behind them, they heard the woman inquiring in increasingly desperate tones, “What have you done with him? Why isn’t he answering?”

Alex opened the door to Salt’s office.

It was a room from the nineteenth century, all dark wood and heavy furniture, with grimy oils of British sailing ships covering the walls and velvet curtains obscuring a view to the back garden. An oak desk with feet of lion paws held pride of place. A new Mac sat on the desk, and near it an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. Papers covered every other square inch of the surface, with several stacks piled taller than Alex.



“Do you mind?” she asked, pulling out the chair.

“Be my guest,” said Graves.

“This may take a while.” Alex sat and opened the first folder she saw. It was a personnel file, and clipped to the paperwork was a color photograph of a handsome soldier in the uniform of the French Foreign Legion. She recognized him at once. It was Luc Lambert, a.k.a. Randall Shepherd. “Then again, maybe not.”

In the end it took two hours.

Major James Salt was as meticulous in his cataloguing of information pertaining to the project he had named Excelsior as he was careless in keeping it secret. Alex divided the information into three stacks: Personnel, Materiel, and Logistics.

Personnel contained dossiers on every one of the thirty mercenaries—twenty-two men and eight women—who were originally to take part in the coming action. Each dossier held a photograph, a handwritten employment application, medical records, an employment contract, and a reference to a bank where all fees were to be wired. Each member was to be paid $200,000 up front with a further $800,000 upon completion of the assignment. Graves was quick to point out that such salaries were far above normal compensation and hinted at an assignment with abnormally high risk.

“For that money, I give ’em fifty-fifty odds of getting back,” he said. “It’s their last payday and they know it. Make it out alive and retire to a white sand beach far, far away.”

“Twenty-four shooters earning a million apiece,” said Alex. “And it was supposed to be thirty. Who’s got that kind of dough?”

“Want my answer?” said Graves. “State-sponsored.”

Alex nodded. But which state? Only a rogue nation would go outside its own intelligence bureau to mount such a large operation.

One personnel dossier especially interested her. It belonged to an Alexander “Sandy” Beaufoy, age forty, former lieutenant in the South African Army and, like Lambert and Salt, a participant in the ill-fated Comoros coup. Under the section marked “Past Experience,” she noted that Beaufoy’s nickname was Skinner. It was Beaufoy who had sent Salt the ominous message stating “The Eagle Has Landed. Gott mitt uns” and with whom Salt had spoken for fourteen minutes shortly after GRAIL had alerted him to Alex’s visit.