The Prince of Risk A Novel(36)

“Then why the blip?”

“Calm down and transfer the money.”

“You sure there isn’t anything else wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew Zarek was going to hit you up for some dough. He mentioned a hundred mil.”

“Yeah, and I got him down to fifty.”

“That’s why I’m worried. Any other day, you wouldn’t have paid him a cent over twenty-five.”

Astor hung up. Suddenly his victory felt hollow. Shank was right. He’d given in much too early.

He looked up the street for Sully. There was no sign of the Audi. He checked his watch and calculated the time overseas. He slipped out his phone and brought up his old friend’s number. He thought of what he might ask and imagined his friend’s wonderful erudite voice telling him to stay calm. “Nothing has changed, Robert, has it? There is only one possible outcome.”

Astor spotted Sully barreling around the corner. Half the afternoon was already shot. He hoped the traffic to Greenwich wouldn’t be too bad. Astor forgot all about making the call to his friend. He wanted to talk to Penelope Evans.





23




“So what are we looking at?” asked Janet McVeigh, ADIC of the New York office, before sipping her mug of coffee.

It was three in the afternoon. Alex sat across the table in the eighth-floor conference room. Bill Barnes sat next to her. He’d changed out of his jeans and polo shirt into a freshly pressed navy suit, white shirt, and blood-red tie. Naturally, there was an American flag pin in his lapel. She noticed that Barnes’s hair was combed as neatly as if he’d just stepped out of the barber’s chair. She caught the faint reflection of herself in the window. She’d been too busy prepping for the meeting to think about getting cleaned up. Her hair was a mess, and she had rings under her eyes that would do a raccoon proud. She sat straighter and tucked her blouse into her pants. Only then did she notice that she had an American flag in her lapel, too. Take that, Hollywood Harry.

“Here’s the final tally of the arms found at Windermere.” Alex slid a paper across the table, then gave another copy to Barnes. “I sent e-copies to both your mailboxes. As you can see, we have a major haul: machine guns, hand grenades, ammu—”

“And an antitank weapon,” said Barnes. “We’ve got serial numbers from the machine guns and pistols, as well as batch numbers and shipment information from some of the crates. We’re doing a back-check now.”

“How soon can we expect to hear anything?” McVeigh was a compact, pretty blond woman in her early fifties. Even after twenty years with the Bureau, she liked to keep her nails longer than practical, buffed and polished in the French style, and was never seen without her makeup just so. Her attractive looks and feminine demeanor hid an interior every bit as steely as Alex’s.

“The manufacturers are based in Europe,” said Barnes. “We’ll start calling at eight a.m. their time.” He looked sidelong at Alex. “Pardon me—I didn’t mean to cut in.”



Alex went on. “Besides the weapons, there were cots for six persons and a fully stocked kitchen. However, I don’t think we’re looking at seven bad guys. Based on the numbering found on the communications gear, we can assume there are twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four? So there may be more safe houses?” asked McVeigh.

“Yes, I think—”

Again Barnes interrupted. “And more weapons. Only eight machine guns were found at the scene. That contrasts with the number of vests and, as Alex said, the numbering on the communications gear.”

“Have you alerted Port Authority?” asked McVeigh. “It’s probable that most of this stuff came through JFK or one of the container terminals at Newark, Baltimore, or Philly. We don’t want that guy bringing in any more.”

“Done,” said Barnes.

McVeigh made a note on her pad. “What do you know about the shooter?”

“Shepherd? Not enough,” said Alex. “His wallet held a Texas driver’s license that we’re still checking out, a few debit cards he could have purchased at any supermarket, and fifty dollars.”

“Phone?”

“He was smart. He destroyed his SIM card before we entered the house. We did find a passport. Portuguese. Name of Henrique Manuel Lopes Gregorio. Picture matches. I’m guessing it’s a fake or a stolen blank.”

“I didn’t know you were an expert on phony travel documents,” said Barnes.

Alex ignored the jibe. “I put in a call to the Portuguese embassy in D.C. They’re checking out the number. The ambassador promised to have an answer for us by morning.”