The Prince of Risk A Novel(9)

After that, it was just father and son. Astor went off to prep school in seventh grade and never really returned home again. He saw his father on vacations, but briefly, in segmented, scheduled bursts, never more than three or four days at a time. These included a few days at the beginning and end of summer, wedged in between ten-week stays at sleep-away camp in Maine. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring break involved travel to resorts in places such as Vail, St. Moritz, and Bermuda where outdoor activities served to maintain a respectful separation between the two.

It was better that way.

The trouble began at fourteen. Astor was expelled from his first school in ninth grade, his second in tenth, and his third in eleventh. It was never a question of intelligence. When he applied himself, he received top marks. And of course there was the question of the PSAT, on which he earned a perfect score, and the fact that he was named a National Merit Finalist. The problem, his teachers agreed, was motivation, or rather the lack of it.

Astor begged to differ, but he was in no mood to share his family secrets with strangers.

It required the intercession of his father and a considerable donation to the school fund to find him a place for senior year. He made it all of two weeks before being dismissed for “unbecoming conduct,” namely running a sports book out of his dorm room. Alcohol and marijuana were also found. The fact that ten teachers, including the school’s chaplain, were his largest clients was not brought up at his adjudication.

And so that was the end. At seventeen, Astor asked to be declared an emancipated minor. Broke and free of all family ties, he graduated from a public school in western New Hampshire, where he lived with the family of a close friend.

So why me? he wondered, staring at the message. If his father had no other immediate family, he had many close friends, most of whom held positions of considerable power. Surely they were better placed to find out what Palantir meant. Why reach out to a son he hadn’t spoken to in five years?

The question stayed with him as the helicopter banked and the sapphire surface of the Atlantic Ocean enveloped the windscreen. The radio squawked and the air traffic controller gave them clearance to land.



“I have the stick,” said Astor.

“The stick is yours,” said his pilot.

Astor lifted the collective and brought the chopper over the landing pad, nose up, and the wheels touched down firmly.





7




Marv Shank was waiting by the elevators when Astor arrived. “Hey, Bobby. Half day? I didn’t get the memo.”

Astor checked his watch. The time was eight-thirty, but Shank looked as if he’d been at work for hours. His shirt was untucked, his tie askew, his face moist with perspiration. Astor patted him on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you not to bring up my father.”

“You hated the guy. What’s to bring up?” said Shank, hurrying to keep up. “Wanted to make sure I grabbed you before anyone else. Press conference at nine-fifteen from Shanghai. U.S. trade representative.”

“Know what he’s talking about?”

“Not a clue. That’s what makes me nervous.”

“Any change in the position?”

“Nada.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“It’s my job to be nervous.”

“If you didn’t get nervous,” said Astor, “we wouldn’t make any money.”

“But this time…”

Astor stopped and turned to face his friend. “This time what?”

“It’s a little rich for my taste.”

“Show a little faith. Have I been wrong on something this big before?”

Shank pulled open the glass door leading into the office. “The market,” he said, “doesn’t care about before.”

Astor walked inside. “Comstock Partners” was written in gold block lettering on a bleached maple divider behind the reception desk. He rapped his knuckles on the counter as he passed through the reception area. “Hello, ladies,” he said, addressing the receptionists, both young and male and hoping for a shot at the trading desk. “Bring me the usual. This time make sure it’s hot.”

“The usual” was a double espresso with a lemon rind on the side, some biscotti, and a shot of wheatgrass, in case he felt so inspired. In fact, the espresso was always piping hot, but he felt it his duty to keep the newbies on their toes. Lesson one: in this business, you couldn’t be careful enough.



Not breaking stride, Astor continued down a corridor housing administrative offices—accounting, legal, IT. “What about my fifty grand?”

“Check’s on your desk,” said Shank. “That was some dive. Your back okay?”