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The Prince of Risk A Novel(124)




“LaGuardia air traffic control is denying us permission to land,” reported the captain of the Gulfstream G4 to Alex. “The wind across the runway is gusting to sixty knots.”

“I have an agent waiting for me on the tarmac.”

“I don’t care if the president of the United States is waiting for you. A gust hits this plane when we’re about to touch down and it will flip us over like a tiddlywink.”

Alex squeezed herself in between the pilot and the copilot. “You heard what’s going on,” she said. “This is a matter of national security. We are hours away from an attack on the city. Put us down.”

The captain consulted with the copilot. “Get strapped in. We’re going to have to go in like a Zero at Midway. I hope you’re used to hard landings.”

Alex hurried to her seat and pulled the safety belt tight against her stomach. A minute later the nose dipped, then dipped some more. Her bag slipped from beneath her chair and slid the length of the cabin. She didn’t think of retrieving it. The plane hit an air pocket and bounced noisily. She gripped the armrests harder.

“Oh, Father,” she said to herself, “help me through this.”

She wasn’t sure whether she was praying to Hoover or to the Lord above.

And then the plane began to rock and roll.

Barry Mintz stood on the tarmac at the base of the stairs. More than ever he looked like a rumpled teenager, all gangly limbs and a head of red hair standing on end in the driving wind.

Alex walked past without acknowledging him. She kneeled to kiss the runway, rose, walked 10 feet away, and vomited.

“A little rough coming in,” said the pilot, standing with arms crossed in the doorframe.



“She okay?” asked Mintz.

“She’ll be fine. She’s one tough customer.”

“Tell me about it,” said Mintz.

The clouds that had threatened since early evening rolled overhead, dark and ominous. A few drops of rain fell. Alex returned, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Screw it. The suit was still soiled with Salt’s blood and she was fresh out of hankies. A little puke wouldn’t hurt. A man from Customs and Border Protection stood nearby. Passport formalities were handled quickly. Alex accepted her passport back and turned to Mintz.

“Good news, please.” It was an order.

“We got him,” said Mintz. “The South Africans pinged Beaufoy’s phone to a home in Darien. We rousted the real estate agent out of bed. He leased the residence to a foreign gentleman from Singapore who paid with a cashier’s check for a three-month period. Same MO as at Windermere.”

“Name on the lease?”

“An alias. We ran it and got nothing.”

Alex picked up her bag and started toward the car. “Call SWAT and the local police. Tell Jan McVeigh.”

“Um, Alex…hold it. You’re not even supposed to be working the case. Bill Barnes is already out there. He’s leading the SWAT team in. He said he’s going to be breacher.”

“Are you in contact with him?”

“He sent a two-man probe team. They have ten heat signatures inside the house.”

“Any sightings?”

“Not sure.”

Alex considered this. Her motion sickness had disappeared the moment she puked, but now a new, more troubling nausea threatened to take its place. “Are you telling me that there are ten bad guys inside the safe house fourteen hours after Salt called Beaufoy to give him a heads-up that I was on the trail? No chance.”

The door to Mintz’s Ford opened. A portly, disheveled man with a five o’clock shadow got out. “Hey, Alex, long time.”

“Marv,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“We can’t find Bobby. He isn’t answering his phone. He’s not at home. I’m worried that something’s happened to him. You know—what with his looking into his father’s death. I called looking for you and got put in touch with Special Agent Mintz.”



“Mintz, did he ever go see Jan?”

“Negative.”

Alex checked her own phone and saw that Bobby hadn’t called back. He never failed to return a message promptly. “Where was he last?”

“He left the office at three to visit a client named Septimus Reventlow at 49th and Park,” said Shank. “Reventlow says the meeting was over quickly and Bobby left a little after four.”

“Who is this Reventlow?”

“An investor. He has a lot of money in one of our funds. The thing is, Bobby was in a pickle. He had a big bet that went south on him. Reventlow put in three hundred million to help us meet a margin call. Essentially, it saved the company. There’s no way Bobby would not call me to talk about it.”