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The Prince of Risk A Novel(18)

By:Christopher Reich


“And what would you know about any of this?”

“I’ve been doing some trading. Not real, just on paper…you know, at school.”

“Trading or gambling? There is a difference.”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

“You can’t bullshit the market, Robert.”

“I’ve been doing well. Trading. Like you taught me.”

“A rising tide lifts all boats.”

“I don’t think it’s going to continue. In fact, I think something bad is going to happen. Like a crash. And soon.”

Edward Astor turned from him and spread his arms to the guests. “My son the fortune-teller. Not content to play hooky from school and embarrass me in front of my dearest friends, he’s now giving me advice on the market.”

“Dad, just let me finish…”

“You just did.”

Astor stared into his father’s eyes, wondering how he could have come from this man, how he could share any part of him. Without another word, he made his way from the room and continued downstairs to the cloakroom. He looked at his watch and saw that the time was coming up on ten. He knew the doorman at the Limelight. He forgot all about the 11:04 and school tomorrow and the consequences that his absence would unleash.

“Young man, wait a moment.”

Astor turned. It was the head of the famous investment bank. “Yes, sir?”

“What was your hand?”

“Excuse me?”

“When you were playing poker this afternoon and you beat your proctor, what were you holding?”

Astor put on his overcoat. “Me? Nothing. I was bluffing.”





11




The sound of a truck grinding to a halt nearby returned Astor to the present. Fifty yards away, a large van with NYPD markings stopped at the entry to Exchange Place, the pedestrians-only square fronting the Exchange. A dozen men clad in black assault gear—helmets, vests, boots—jumped from the van, machine guns cradled to their chests. He recognized them as members of the NYPD’s elite Hercules detachment. The Stock Exchange building was one of the city’s prime “hard targets.” Nothing better represented all that was good and bad about America’s brand of capitalism. Living in Manhattan made everyone at least a little bit of an expert in counterterrorism.

Astor presented himself to the uniformed guard at the 2 Broad checkpoint. A blond, ruddy-cheeked man dressed in a blue suit stood a few steps away. Hearing Astor’s name, he came forward. “Sloan Thomasson,” he said, extending a hand. “My condolences. I handled security for your father. Come with me.”

Thomasson led the way into the building. Astor cleared the metal detector, and the two continued to a bank of elevators. “Have you visited before?” asked Thomasson.

“Only the floor.”

“Your father’s office is in 11 Wall. The Exchange complex comprises eight buildings that take up the entire block. It’s a real labyrinth.”

The elevator arrived and Thomasson pressed the button for the seventeenth floor.

Astor waited for the doors to close, then asked, “Did you know my father was planning on going to D.C. this weekend?”

“No, sir, I did not. I’m only required to provide security here at the Exchange and for official trips. I spoke with your father Friday morning as he was leaving the office. He told me he was spending the weekend at his home in Oyster Bay.”

“Taking off on a Friday morning? That doesn’t sound like him. Did he seem preoccupied with anything? In any way out of sorts?”



“It’s not my place to say, but as far as I could see, no. We had a trip planned to Atlanta early in the week. Your father didn’t much like dealing with the new owners. Nothing special about that. But preoccupied? No.”

In December 2012, the New York Stock Exchange had been purchased by IntercontinentalExchange, or ICE, a giant multinational concern active in the trading of futures and derivatives. Astor didn’t think the new owners were the problem. It was his father’s arrogance. Edward Astor didn’t like reporting to anyone but himself.

The elevator slowed. The doors opened. Thomasson zigged and zagged down a series of corridors. Astor stayed at his shoulder. It was his first time in the executive quarters of the Exchange and he was feeling like a rat navigating a maze. Thomasson was right to refer to it as a labyrinth. The corridor emptied into a large, high-ceilinged anteroom with blue carpeting and photographs depicting the Exchange’s history.

“Here we are,” said Thomasson. “Your father’s office is inside. Mrs. Kennedy, his secretary, is expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Astor shook hands. “Tell me something, what did you do before taking this job?”