The Prince of Risk A Novel(47)

At 11 p.m., the first of three vans pulled into the hotel’s forecourt. Eight individuals—six men and two women—climbed aboard. All were trim and fit and in high spirits. They did not speak Portuguese but a mixture of German, French, and English. The van drove them to a private airstrip north of the city. A Pilatus P-3 waited on the asphalt runway. The eight stowed their bags and mounted the staircase. At midnight, the Pilatus took off and pointed its nose north for the five-hour flight to its destination.

Team One was airborne.

The second van collected a group of seven, six men and one woman. Again, all were fit to look at, impressively so. In contrast to the plain van that had picked up Team One, this one was painted sleek black and was as shiny as if it had been driven directly from the car wash. Two golden interlocking S’s adorned the doors on either side. The van drove west across the city to a private airport that catered to the city’s wealthiest citizens—industrialists, oilmen, ranking officials, and the landed gentry who counted as Mexico’s aristocrats. Tonight, however, the armed guards manning the main gate waved the van past without even a cursory inspection.



The van continued to the western end of the 6,000-foot runway where a Cessna Citation business jet waited, stairs lowered, navigation lights flashing, a uniformed steward standing by to help his passengers board. Like the van, the jet had the symbol of interlocking S’s painted on its fuselage.

At 1 a.m. the Citation radioed “wheels up” to the control tower. Its flight plan called for a first leg northwest to the city of Puerto Vallarta before it turned due north, crossed the United States border at El Centro, and continued on to its destination, San Francisco. Somewhere over the Sierra Madre mountain range, the pilot dipped the nose and descended to 6,000 feet. He plugged new coordinates into the plane’s navigation system. Moments later, the wings banked and the needle on the plane’s compass swung to east by northeast. The pilot was pleased to note that the fuel needle had barely strayed from full an hour after takeoff. His passengers were going to need every mile he could get if they hoped to reach their destination.

Team Two was en route.

A third van collected the final group of eight. The van drove all night east through the jungles of eastern Mexico. At 5 a.m. they arrived at the port city of Vera Cruz. The eight did not board a ship, however. Instead, they proceeded to a private airstrip owned by one of the multinational oil corporations based there and boarded a Bombardier business jet for the two-hour flight up the coast to Tampico. In Tampico they exchanged the jet for a CH-53 helicopter, formerly in the service of the United States Marine Corps but purchased recently by Noble Energy Corporation. The helicopter was spacious inside and fitted for another class of able-bodied men and women: roughnecks.

At dawn, they took off for the short flight to Tamondo.

Tamondo was not a city. It was the name of Noble Energy’s newest oil rig located in the Kaskida Field, 250 miles southwest of New Orleans.

Team Three was under way.





32




Dinnertime at Comstock.

As Astor pushed through the doors to his firm and hurried down the corridor toward his office, he was assaulted by a barrage of scents. Teriyaki chicken battled with microwave bean burrito. Someone was having lamb curry and someone else an Italian dish with enough garlic to make his eyes water. He might as well be in the cafeteria of the United Nations building.

The time was a few minutes past seven, and the trading desk was nearly as full as when he’d left that morning. The market had closed two and a half hours earlier, but only the parents left before six. The diehards stayed till nine. Two of the quants from the arb fund were throwing a Nerf football. Astor intercepted a pass and drilled a bullet right back. “That’s how you throw a spiral,” he said.

The trader raised his hands and said, “Touchdown, Astor.”

Astor smiled and patted him on the back. The boss didn’t mind a little ass-kissing now and again.

Marv Shank rounded the far corner with a sheaf of paper in his hands and a giant, dripping hamburger in the other. “The prodigal son returns.”

Astor waited at the entry to his office and extended a hand to show Shank inside.

“Where were you all day?” asked Shank, collapsing into a chair with a huff.

“Private business.” Astor sat down and scanned the market indices. The position was solid. The yuan hadn’t moved a tick since the disturbance that morning.

“Enough with the top-secret bullshit,” said Shank. “I’ve got twenty big bills in the fund. Call me cheap, but I consider that a lot of dough. If you’re not here on a bat-shit day, I deserve to know the reason why.”