The Prince of Risk A Novel(90)

It had been so much simpler in the beginning. No possessions. No family. No money. There was just the job. But as the years passed, all that changed. He married. He had a child. He hired employees. He earned money. He hired more employees. He earned more money. He bought a home. His name appeared in the paper. He began to have status and he enjoyed it.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Until voilà! One day, here he was. He was the same Bobby Astor who’d started his business on a wing and a prayer and the fifty grand he’d made at poker tables around the city. Yet there was no denying he’d grown into someone different. Someone bigger. Someone more substantial. It was as if success, responsibility, fatherhood, and philanthropy had fused to create a new Bobby Astor, and that Bobby Astor demanded a larger physical portion of the world. He’d started out a gecko and grown into Godzilla. And goddammit, he liked it. He liked it a lot. No apology necessary.

And then came the descent.

The estrangement from his father.

The separation from Alex, and then the divorce.

And now the bet on the yuan.

From the heights of Olympus to the edge of the abyss. What had taken twenty years to create, he stood to lose within twenty-four hours.

Astor looked in the mirror. Fighting eyes glared back.





58




Astor spotted Grillo seated at the end of the bar.

“This public enough?” asked the investigator.

It was six, and the Oak Bar in the Plaza Hotel was packed. Tourists with red faces and sweat-moistened shirts mingled with executives in pressed suits and polished shoes. Drawn blinds shaded the dark, wood-paneled room in permanent air-conditioned gloom. It was a place for making deals and plotting takeovers and planning divorces.

“It should do,” said Astor, though he was by no means certain.

Grillo smiled his gambler’s smile, then took a sip of his drink. Astor looked at the rivulets of water sliding down the highball glass. He could smell the sour-mash whiskey, the happy hint of sweet vermouth. A manhattan, then.

“Drink?”

Astor could feel the cooled blend coating the inside of his mouth, soothing his throat, soothing his life. “Sure.”

Grillo signaled the bartender.

Astor swallowed, waiting, deciding. The bartender arrived.

“Pellegrino with lime. Highball glass. Big lime.” He saw Grillo give him the look. He waited for the drink, and when it came he drank half of it straightaway.

“I talked to him,” said Astor.

“Who?”

“Palantir.”

Grillo lost the smile. “How’s that?”

“Skype. At my dad’s place in Oyster Bay. My father was in touch with him online. Palantir was helping with the investigation. In fact, he said he was the one who had contacted my father in the first place.”

“About?”

“He didn’t get that far.”

“Slow down.”



“All I know is that they’re listening. That’s why I had Sully call you on the pay phone.”

“Not to me, they’re not. I take precautions.” Grillo had taken his Zippo lighter from his pocket and was flipping the cover open and closed with his thumb. “Give it to me slow. Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out. I’m a good listener.”

Astor relayed the events of the past thirty-six hours just as he had to Alex, beginning with his visit to Penelope Evans’s house in Greenwich and continuing through the trip to Cherry Hill. Grillo didn’t ask why he hadn’t been more forthcoming when they’d met the day before. Astor knew he’d been right not to tell. He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and revealed the bandage. “The guy stuck me and took off,” he said in conclusion. “So here we are.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” asked Grillo.

“He was as close to me as you are.”

“A description might help. Tell me after. Once more about the companies.”

Astor went back over the annual reports he’d found at Evans’s house and his belief that the key could be found in the companies’ common tie to private equity firms.

“But different sponsors invested in each,” said Grillo.

“Five of them. Two sponsors invested in more than one of the companies.”

“And the companies themselves aren’t in any way related.”

“No, but still…” Astor’s argument slipped away like sand through his fingers.

“Tell me more about the company your father visited.”

“Might have visited.” Astor handed him the article he’d found and pointed out the mention of Britium. “Mean anything?”

“Not to me, but I’ll ask around.” Grillo slid his lighter back into his pocket. “One last thing. Did you get the web address of the man who said he was Palantir?”