“Cassandra99.donetsk.ru.”
“Russia. Figures.”
“Can you find him?”
“With a Skype handle? Not likely. But it’ll help. Every little bit gets us a little closer.”
“And you?” asked Astor. “Find anything?”
“Palantir’s the real thing. I can tell you that. Did some work for the Pentagon. Very hush-hush stuff. Didn’t earn many friends along the way. We can assume that’s why he didn’t want to bring in the FBI on this.”
“Did his work have anything to do with Britium or something that tied in with the companies my father was looking into?”
“Wouldn’t know.” Grillo leaned closer, so Astor could smell his cologne and see how his wrinkles carved canyons around his eyes. “All I can say is that whatever it was he and your father were investigating, some very powerful people don’t want them—or anyone else—to find out.”
“The man who tried to kill me was Asian, but he had these strange blue eyes.”
“Asian, eh?”
Astor provided a detailed description of his dress.
“Speak English?”
“We didn’t get a chance to talk.”
Grillo entered Palantir’s Skype address into his smartphone, then stood. “Do you need protection?”
“I have Sully.”
“Don’t go home. Stay where people can see you. You still got that apartment in your office? That might be okay.” Grillo squinted and shook his head. “Actually, scratch that. Go to a friend’s. Maybe a hotel.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good. You never know where these guys are going to turn up.”
59
The operations center was as busy as Grand Central during morning rush. Forming the Joint Terrorism Task Force, over thirty law enforcement agencies kept representatives in the FBI’s New York counterterrorism office. Normally their varied duties combined to keep nearly all of them out of the office at any one time. Not today. As Barry Mintz hurried across the room, he counted off agents from police, fire, DEA, ATF, Port Authority, parks and wildlife, nuclear regulatory, and everything in between.
Alex wanted an investigation. She got one.
“Mintz. Hold up.”
Mintz stopped a foot shy of being clear of the room. “Hi, Bill.”
Bill Barnes was in his media best: blue suit, white shirt, red tie with the American flag prominently displayed. “Where you been?”
“Out running down some more info on Luc Lambert.”
“Who? Oh, Shepherd. That’s right. I forgot his real name for a second. Who you talk to?”
“The Agency.”
Barnes shook his head. “Take forever.”
“Had to try.”
“’Course you did.” Barnes tucked a file beneath his arm and took up position a bad breath away. “What’s Alex up to?”
“Guess she’s at home. Resting.”
“I’ve tried her phone a bunch of times. Keeps going to voice mail. She won’t answer my texts, either.”
“She’s probably sleeping.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow. “We talking about the same Alex?” He leaned closer, as if they were two buddies sharing a secret. “Come on, Mintz. You can tell me. What’s she doing? No way she’s at home sleeping. What’s that Alex is always saying? She’ll sleep when she’s dead?”
Mintz met his gaze and winced, hating to say what he was about to say. “Between you and me, she’s not doing so hot. Losing Malloy knocked the wind out of her sails. I think she needed a couple drinks.”
Barnes smiled cruelly. “Figures. She talks a good game with that crazy picture of Hoover and the battering ram on the floor, but in the end she’s still a woman. I knew she’d buckle.” He chuckled. “Maybe you should take her some chicken soup.”
“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” said Mintz. “Anything new here?”
“Got a lead on those AKs. Shipped originally to China, then exported to their great ally, Venezuela. No idea how they got here.” A call came in on Barnes’s phone. He gave Mintz a thumbs-up. “Good talking, Bar. Keep up the fine work. Don’t count on Langley. Bunch of hard-ons.” He began his conversation, then stopped abruptly. “If you do talk to Alex, tell her I phoned London. They’re checking up on those firms right away. Should have an answer by Friday. Monday latest.”
Mintz gave a thumbs-up in return and continued toward his desk, making sure to close the door to Alex’s office before he sat down so he wouldn’t have to work with J. Edgar Hoover’s damning gaze aimed at his shoulders. Barnes was right about the picture. It was weird.