The Prince of Risk A Novel(19)

“Twenty-five years in the Secret Service. My last post was heading up the PPD—the presidential protective detail.”

“Still have friends in the service?”

“Lots.”

“You know what went down last night. What happened?”

“Word is that the driver lost control of the vehicle.”

“The car was making a run across the South Lawn. That’s a little more than jumping a curb and running into a tree.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Astor thought Thomasson knew more than he was letting on. “Well?”

Thomasson leaned in closer, as if vouchsafing a secret. “When I said ‘lost control,’ I didn’t mean that he was driving too fast or that it was in any way his mistake. I meant that the driver was no longer able to control the vehicle in any way, shape, or fashion.”

“Then who was?”

Astor waited for an explanation, but Thomasson said nothing more. Before Astor was able to press him, a petite, birdlike woman emerged from her office, walked directly to him, and hugged him. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.



Astor returned the hug gently. He could feel her sobbing and he held her until she stopped.

“Please, excuse me,” she said, stepping back and wiping her eyes. “I’m Dolores Kennedy. I worked with your father for the past five years.”

Kennedy was a kindly-looking brunette with short hair and a schoolmarm’s inquisitive gaze.

“I’m afraid we weren’t close,” said Astor.

“Oh, I know,” she said, as if the estrangement pained her. “But he talked about you.”

Astor didn’t comment. He didn’t think he’d like to learn what his father had had to say. He thanked Thomasson, then followed Dolores Kennedy into a large suite of offices. “May I look around?”

“The FBI phoned first thing. They requested that none of his belongings be disturbed until their team arrives.”

“I won’t touch anything.”

The secretary shot a glance over his shoulder. Thomasson nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Right in here.”

The office was palatial, with high molded ceilings, dark carpeting, and a desk that would have done a robber baron proud. Photographs of his father ringing the opening bell with various businessmen, entertainers, athletes, and political figures crowded the credenza, vying for space with Lucite blocks announcing the latest companies to list their shares.

The New York Stock Exchange was a business like any other, and its first priority was to turn a profit. It made money in several ways. First, and most important, it charged a fee on every share of stock bought and sold. The amount had plummeted over the years, from dimes to nickels and then lower. These days the Exchange charged fractions of a penny per share traded. It wasn’t a high-margin business. On the other hand, the volume of shares traded had skyrocketed. A normal day saw well over a billion shares change hands.

The Exchange charged a far larger amount to companies that wanted their shares listed, or available for trading. The four thousand listed companies paid annual fees as high as $250,000, earning the Exchange more than $800 million a year. IBM, Caterpillar, Alcoa: they all had to pony up. The NYSE was a very large enterprise indeed.

“If I might be so bold,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”



Astor responded earnestly but not altogether honestly. “I’m surprised to be here. My father sent me a note last night shortly before the accident occurred. It was the first time in years he tried to contact me. I think he had an idea something bad was going to happen. I wanted to ask you some questions to see if you could shed a little light on what he’d been doing lately.”

“He was a busy man. When he wasn’t traveling, he was hosting guests here at the Exchange or going to meetings.”

“No doubt he was,” agreed Astor. “Can you tell me if he ever mentioned something called Palantir?”

Mrs. Kennedy pursed her lips. Behind her rimless glasses, her eyes were alert and perceptive. “Never heard that word.”

“Never?”

The woman shook her head emphatically.

Astor walked behind his father’s desk. The surface was neat and uncluttered. In and out trays set side by side were empty. He wondered if his father had straightened up, knowing that he might not be back.

“Was he working on anything out of the ordinary?” asked Astor.

“He was seeing Miss Evans quite a bit,” replied Mrs. Kennedy. “She’s his executive assistant. She handles many of his day-to-day assignments—correspondence with our partners, issues with the listed companies and those wishing to list, just about everything.”