He left the kitchen and climbed the back stairs. He emerged in a dark, narrow corridor. To his left, the stairs continued up another flight. He walked to the door and gripped the knob firmly. He turned it slowly, feeling the metal components brush against one another, begging to squeak. The knob reached its apex and he opened the door a sliver. He was standing at the rear corner of a landing running around the perimeter of the two-story foyer. Diagonally across the open foyer, the door to the bedroom where the monk had seen Astor stood ajar. The monk placed a hand on the floor. A vibration reached his fingers. One footstep. Another. Slow. Measured. The sound of a man searching intently, without hurry. He saw no shadows in the bedroom. Instinct told him to wait.
The tempo of the footsteps increased. A shadow approached the open doorway. Astor emerged from the bedroom and disappeared down the hall. The monk sprang from his hiding place and glided across the landing, using Astor’s footsteps to conceal his own. He gained the hall and peered around the corner in time to see Astor enter a room at its far end.
The monk paused. He heard a chair scoot across the floor. There was the sound of papers being examined, objects being moved from one place to another, then a soft but definite thud, indicating that Astor had sat down.
The monk advanced down the corridor with patience. He held the knife in front of him, his wrist pronated so the blade faced up, in the killing position.
The noises from within the room grew louder. The clack of a keyboard told him that Astor was at a computer. The monk slowed, allowing his victim a moment to be drawn deeper into his research. There was no risk of his stopping Older Brother’s plan. Anything Astor learned in the next few minutes, he would keep to himself forever.
The monk peered around the doorway. Astor was seated in front of the computer, engrossed in his research. The monk entered the office. He walked with excruciating calm, closing the distance to his victim. He noted something change on the computer screen. There was the sound of a dial tone. A black box opened.
“Who are you?” asked a man’s voice.
The warrior monk froze.
He made the decision not to attack but to listen.
Astor reached a hand inside the top drawer of his father’s desk. The sepia envelope was where it had been twenty-seven years ago. He removed it gingerly and slipped Feodor Itzhak Yastrovic’s immigration papers onto the desk. His past no longer frightened him. What was in a name, anyway? Astor or Yastrovic? Episcopalian or Jew? The ease with which his family slipped between the two showed how little weight a label carried. If his name stood for anything, it was honesty, integrity, and success. If Comstock failed, he would tarnish all those words.
Astor replaced the document in the envelope and set it on the desk, laying the pistol on top. Next to the computer rested the stationery and the fountain pen Penelope Evans had used to write Cassandra99. A Hermès scarf lay draped over a chair nearby. On the table next to it stood a glass vase filled with a summer bouquet, the flowers still fresh. Yet something was missing. There hadn’t always been a vase full of flowers on the table. Astor remembered there being a pair of crystal decanters filled with amber liquid in that place. He thought back to his father’s bedroom. He hadn’t seen any liquor there either, yet his father had always kept something close by for a late-night drink.
She’d done it, he realized. She’d broken the old bastard of his habit. Edward Astor had died a teetotaler.
Astor hit Return and the screen lit up. He pulled down the bar for Recent Items. The first application listed was Skype, the Internet phone service. He clicked on the sky-blue icon to launch the program. Astor selected History from the menu. Edward Astor and Penelope Evans had called a single person repeatedly over the past several days.
Cassandra99
Astor opened the correspondent’s details. Snatching the fountain pen, he noted the web address:
[email protected].
Ru for Russia.
The last call had been placed on Saturday at 2 p.m.
Astor moved the cursor to the Connect icon and clicked. A window opened at the center of the monitor, but it was black. No one was visible. A second smaller window displayed his own face, captured by the camera embedded in the computer frame. He looked drawn and tired.
“Who are you?” asked a male voice.
Friend or foe? Astor had no time to deliberate. “Robert Astor. Who are you?”
The man ignored the question. “What do you want?”
“I’m sure you know.”
“I know that you’re Edward Astor’s son. That doesn’t explain your presence at his home.”
“My father texted me a message before he was killed. I believe it had something to do with the reason for his meeting with Gelman and Hughes that night.”