The Prince of Risk A Novel(113)

Magnus Lee. His special contact. The man whose advice he had summoned to place the biggest investment in his firm’s history.



Astor blinked, not quite believing his eyes—maybe not wanting to believe them. He stood, his feet as heavy as if they were embedded in concrete.

Lee was the connection.

Lee was the man behind his father’s death.

Astor forced himself back to his desk. He landed in his chair with a thud.

The next link read, “Oak Leaf Ventures Sells Twenty-five Percent Stake in Firm to China Investment Corporation.” It went on to say that the CIC would send three of its executives to Oak Leaf’s offices in Chicago. Again Magnus Lee was quoted as being “thrilled” with the investment while pointing out that CIC’s participation would be strictly as a silent partner.

Lies. Lies. More lies.

For ten minutes Astor continued reading link after link.

The China Investment Corporation had invested billions of dollars in each of the private equity firms involved with the corporations his father had been investigating. Lee always made the point that the investments were passive, but in every case the CIC had placed a few executives at the private equity firms as “executives in training.”

Read “spies.”

Astor remembered the Asian man with the keen blue eyes who had tried to kill him yesterday. Eyes the color of Magnus Lee’s.

Astor pulled up Watersmark’s web page. He searched under its list of executives and was not surprised to find a familiar name: “Herbert Hong. PhD Stanford, MIT…born in China.” Hong was one of the CIC execs implanted in Watersmark, who had then gone on to work at Britium.

Suddenly it was clear to him. The CIC used its power as a minority partner in Watersmark and Oak Leaf and all the others to gain influence over certain key companies in the funds’ portfolios—companies involved in critical sectors of the nation’s economy: computers, energy, satellites, missiles. But to what end?

Control.

Until now, Lee’s actions—and by extension his country’s—had been hidden behind the cloak of everyday corporate activity. But Astor knew that time was coming to an end. Lee was no longer content to spy. He had something else in mind. Something terrible was brewing. His father had had knowledge of it and it had cost him his life. Palantir knew it, too.



“They’re getting desperate.”

Lee himself had told him to wait until Friday.

Whatever it was, it was happening now.

Astor took out his phone to call Alex. He’d gone as far as he could. He felt no satisfaction from his efforts, only horror. It was up to the FBI. As he dialed, his secretary’s voice came over the speaker. “Call for you, Bobby. Septimus Reventlow.”

Astor looked at the clock. It was one minute before three. One and a half hours until the funds to meet the margin call were due. One and a half hours to bankruptcy.

Astor hung up the cell and picked up the landline.

“Hello, Septimus.”





72




Phone pressed to her ear, Alex Forza stared out the window at the shadowy contours of the passing English countryside. It was after nine. The late European dusk was turning to night. Charles Graves sat beside her at the wheel, driving hell-bent for Gatwick Airport. He promised to have her there in an hour. She told him she could make it in forty minutes. They settled for “as bloody fast as possible.”

“I don’t have his new number,” Alex said to Bobby’s secretary. “It’s important that I reach him.”

“He left five minutes ago to see a client. Septimus Reventlow. I believe Mr. Sullivan is driving him. Perhaps you can try him.”

Alex hung up and called Sully’s number. No one answered, and the call rolled to voice mail. “Sully, this is Alex. Tell Bobby to call me right away. It’s urgent.”

Alex tried again, thinking it was the lousy New York City cell-phone reception. Again the call rolled to voice mail. Damn you, Sully, she cursed silently, wanting to attribute the failure to him.

There’d been no love lost between them when they’d worked on the JTTF, and her faith in him had taken a further hit after his failure to protect Bobby at Cherry Hill. To her mind, Sully was a slacker. He’d taken a bullet early in his career and coasted on it for thirty years. He wasn’t a bad cop. He was just an average one. To Alex, the two were synonymous.

She hung up and called McVeigh to relate the discoveries made at Salt’s house.

“Hi, Jan. I’m calling to talk to you about Bobby.”

“What about him?”

“He called you yesterday, right?”

“No. What did he need to discuss with the FBI?”

“No?” Alex pressed the phone against her leg for a second, so McVeigh wouldn’t hear her swear. She drew a calming breath, then related as best she could everything she knew about Bobby’s investigation into his father’s death and the links to it she’d found at Salt’s home.