Septimus Reventlow rose and offered his hand. Astor regarded it, the man’s insincere smile, his patrician demeanor, as a grotesquerie. He extended his hand as if to shake, then drew the pistol from his belt. Before he could bring it to bear, a blow paralyzed his wrist. Daniel, the warrior monk, stood inches away, holding the pistol by the barrel. “Very slow.”
Astor dropped his briefcase and clutched his hand. It hurt badly. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks that way.”
Reventlow came around the desk, picked up the briefcase, and handed it to Astor. “If you make a sound on the way downstairs, he will kill you,” he said. “No one will see him crush your larynx. My advice is to cooperate. And one more thing. If I might have your phone…”
Astor regarded Daniel, and handed Reventlow the phone he’d purchased earlier in the day.
“The FBI,” said Reventlow, reading the last text. “Shall I call them to cancel on your behalf?” He gave Astor an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “We’ll have lots to talk about.”
“After you,” said Daniel.
Astor walked with him to the elevator. They descended to the ground floor and passed through the turnstiles. Crossing the lobby, he spotted Sully double-parked at the curb. It was a little after four, and the lobby was busy but not crowded. Daniel walked at his side. Three officers manned the security desk. Two were fat and uninterested, the third trim and alert.
Astor saw a chance. “Which way?”
“Straight ahead,” said Daniel.
It was the answer Astor wanted to hear. “You have a car waiting?”
“I’ll show you when we get outside.”
Astor passed through the door. A uniformed policeman stood immediately to his right. The sidewalk was bustling. A horn blared. Astor looked at the Sprinter and caught Sully’s eye.
It was now or never.
“Hey!” shouted Astor, wanting to draw the cop’s attention. He dropped the briefcase and ran. “Sully!”
Astor dodged the pedestrians, weaving this way and that. Sully saw him coming and opened the rear door. Astor jumped inside and slammed it shut. He had made it. “Get out of here. Floor it.”
Astor threw himself into the recliner, grasping the armrests in anticipation of accelerating. The car stayed where it was. “Sully. What are you doing? Go!”
John Sullivan did not start the ignition. The side door opened. Daniel climbed in and placed the briefcase on the floor, then closed the door behind him. He looked at Astor, then toward the driver’s seat. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Sullivan.”
Astor leaned forward. “Sully, what’s going on?”
John Sullivan turned in his chair and fixed Astor with a vengeful gaze. “No way I’m letting you fuck up my retirement.”
And with that he turned around, put the Sprinter into drive, and joined the late afternoon traffic.
76
Marv Shank announced the news of Reventlow’s investment in Comstock on the trading floor. As one, every man and woman present rose and cheered.
“The boss did it,” he said, shaking with pride. “He saved our asses.”
Shank walked the length of the desk, shaking hands and exchanging high fives. After a few minutes he retreated to his office and called Astor. There was no answer. He texted, “U da man! Troops over the moon. Comstock lives to fight another day!”
He kept the phone in his hand, waiting for a reply. Astor was always quick to respond to good news. There was no answer, but he had little time to think about it. His phone began ringing, and it didn’t stop for an hour. First there were the lending institutions, which wanted to thank Astor but settled for Shank in his place.
“Never doubted you for a second,” said Brad Zarek from Standard Financial. “Now that we’re all square, the credit committee would like to increase your line of credit. Bobby mentioned another hundred million the other day. It’s yours for the asking. And at Libor plus a quarter. Of course we’ll beat any competitive bid.”
Shank was tempted to hang up. For once he erred on the side of diplomacy, thanking Zarek as nicely as he knew how, which basically meant he didn’t tell him to go screw himself.
Following the banks came the journalists. There were calls from the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, even Der Spiegel. The only thing better than a big shot getting his ass handed to him was a miracle recovery.
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.