The Prince of Risk A Novel(137)

The pistol fired.

Reventlow fell.

He was dead before the flash drive hit the floor.

“No,” said Alex. “We’re not.”





91




Magnus Lee sat alone in his office at Excelsior Holdings, watching the terrible news unfold on the television. The attack on the Exchange had been foiled, intercepted before it had begun. Half the mercenaries were dead, the other half taken prisoner. Septimus was not answering his phone. Neither was Daniel. He feared the worst.

Lee’s cell phone buzzed once again. It was the premier, calling for the fourth time. The chief of the army had also called, as had the director of the Ministry of State Security. He had answered none of their calls.

He stood and walked unsteadily to the balcony. The Eiffel Tower was lit top to bottom with bright yellow bulbs. In the night sky, it glowed like an electric jewel. He sighed, then tried to phone his brothers once again. Neither answered.

He was alone.

Lee returned to his desk and poured himself a measure of scotch. He drank it down and shuddered. He realized that the one thing he had forgotten to have his people copy was a decent scotch whiskey. There was still time. He could purchase a small Scottish distillery and pirate the recipe. He wondered what would be a suitable name. He thought of nothing.

It was done.

He would not be elected to the Standing Committee. He would not assume the position of vice premier. His career in the party was finished. But it would end there. He had taken pains to hide his involvement in the affair. There was no proof linking him to any of it. Not the attack on the Exchange or his brother’s infiltration of the Mahwah complex. He would receive a censure, have his hands slapped, perhaps do a year in exile in some provincial backwater, but it would end there.

Lee smiled inwardly. He knew that his safety was assured. He was too valuable, making money for his country and his colleagues.

Make money and get rich.



It was the Chinese way.

Lee turned off the lights and left the building.

He was surprised to see his car and driver waiting. At least there was still one loyal retainer left.

He climbed into the back seat and shut the door.

“Hello, Magnus Lee.”

Lee jumped at the sight of the old man. “Elder Chen. It is a surprise.” He shifted his gaze to the front seat. It was not his driver behind the wheel but Elder Chen’s chauffeur. Lee grew afraid. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked.

It was then that Lee saw the enormous pistol in Elder Chen’s frail hand. The old man shook his head. A flame spit from the snout. The gunshot was unbearably loud. Lee felt a sharp pain in his chest.

“But Elder Chen…” Lee wanted to explain that failure was beyond his control, that he had planned everything to propel his country to a position of pride and prestige it had never known, that he needed only a few more days to repay the society.

The words never came.

Magnus Lee slumped on the seat and died.

“Vice premier,” said Elder Chen. “Never.”





92




“What do you think?”

Bobby Astor pushed open the door to his new office.

“This is it?” asked Alex, walking inside, taking a skeptical look at the shoddy surroundings.

“It’s just me and Marv. Like the old days.”

The office measured 1,000 square feet and was located on the seventh floor of an older building directly across the river from Battery Park in New Jersey. The carpet was worn but clean. The fluorescent lights didn’t flicker too badly. And the subway was only a quarter of a mile away. They did, however, have a wonderful view of Manhattan.

“What are you calling it?” asked Alex.

“Renaissance Capital. Corny, but hey, if it fits…”

“I like it.”

Marv Shank trundled into the office and dropped a box of office supplies on one of the two desks that made up the furnishings. He opened the box and took out a bottle of champagne and glasses. He popped the cork and poured two glasses. He handed one to Alex and lifted the other.

Astor regarded the bottle of champagne, then poured the rest of his Coke into the third glass. “To renaissance,” he said.

“To new beginnings,” said Alex.

“To family,” said Shank.

They drank and looked at the view for a minute.

Shank set down his glass. “Which side do you want?”

Astor looked at the two desks, pressed face-to-face. “The first big corporate decision,” he said. “You pick. You’re the boss. I only work here.”

Shank sat down at the desk on the right. “That’ll be the day.”

The three months following the attack had not been kind to Comstock or to Bobby Astor. It was never officially confirmed that Magnus Lee had engineered the plot to sabotage the West’s financial system, or that China had been in any way involved in the failed assault on the New York Stock Exchange. All the same, the yuan made a sudden and abrupt about-face and not only retraced its earlier appreciation but surpassed it, making a historical high against the dollar.