The Prince of Risk A Novel(122)

Washburn stopped the car in front of the scruffy building. Grillo climbed out and jogged across the street, checking that the tail of his shirt was loose and covering his pistol, a slim Smith & Wesson with a nine-shot clip. The front hall was clogged with bicycles chained to a radiator, bags of trash, and empty beer cans. Salsa music drifted from an open door upstairs. Tiernan’s apartment was at the back of the first floor. Grillo knocked twice and stepped back. He noted that there were two spyglasses built into the door, one at eye level, the other at his waist. He knocked again and the door opened.



Mike Grillo looked at the legless man in the wheelchair. “Gotcha.”

“Good guy or bad guy?”

“You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

“You win.” Paul Lawrence Tiernan rolled his chair back to allow Grillo to enter. “Name?”

“Grillo, Michael T. That would be Captain to you. Fifth Marines. Seventh Battalion.”

“Semper fi,” said Tiernan without conviction. He was a handsome man with short black hair parted neatly, blue eyes, and a reliable set to his jaw. “You a fed these days? DOD? FBI? What?”

“Strictly private sector. I work for Bobby Astor.”

“Do I need to be scared?”

“Not if you help me out.”

Tiernan motioned for Grillo to come in. “It was the Skype, wasn’t it?”

“And some other stuff. Hard to stay hidden when so many people are looking for you.”

In contrast to the ramshackle foyer, Tiernan’s apartment was spotless, if sparsely furnished to provide ample space to move about. A bookshelf held pictures of Tiernan during his time as a United States Marine. He’d served for ten years and been in line for a second rocker when he was hit.

“I was over there, too,” said Grillo. “Helmand. Kandahar. I was lucky.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’ve got a right to be bitter. You don’t have a right to hide information that weighs on the security of the country.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” said Tiernan. “I offered it to the Agency. They didn’t want to pay. They said I owed it to the country to tell them. Edward Astor forked over fifty grand without batting an eye. Now I have a rail in my bathroom so I can use the head easier. Next week they’re coming to install a bigger shower so I can roll all the way in. There might even be enough cash left to buy me a van I can drive myself.”

“I’m glad for you. I’m going to need a copy of the report you prepared for Astor—whatever it was you gave him last Friday morning. Where’d you meet him? Starbucks on 42nd and Broadway?”

“You’re good.”



Grillo shrugged. “The thing about being on my side of things, I don’t have to worry about breaking laws. You’re lucky I got here first. Penelope Evans wasn’t.”

“I saw that.”

“So who’s after you?”

“A big shot in the Chinese government named Magnus Lee. Runs some kind of gigantic investment fund. He uses his fund to buy into companies that manufacture or control critical infrastructure in the U.S. and Europe, South America. We’re talking microchips, satellites, power plants, that kind of thing. Afterward, he puts his people into key positions in those companies, where they can install software to give him control of it.”

“That’s what got Edward Astor so worked up?”

“Only half of it. Lee is planning to sabotage a critical financial system in the States. He’s using the attack to advance his chances to get elected to the Standing Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. He wants to be a vice premier.”

“What financial system are you talking about?”

“That I don’t know. But something that requires a new hardware complex. It’s all in the report. Wait here.” Tiernan spun a one-eighty in his chair and rolled down a hallway. He returned with a folder on his lap. “Have at it.”

Grillo picked up the slim folder. The summary alone made for scary reading. “Edward Astor owe you any more money?”

“We’re square.”

“If things go south, there’re going to be some people want to speak with you.”

“Maybe they’ll offer me a job.”

Grillo shook his head. It was amazing how smart people could be so dumb. “If they do, it’ll be one you can do from a prison cell.”





80




Pain, the purifier.

Astor had lost the first fingernail an hour before. He did not know how he was still conscious, or why he was actually alert and seated in the chair, his eyes locked on the sadistic blue-eyed monk’s. The index finger was ruined. So was the middle finger. They hung limp, as bloody and lifeless as John Sullivan.