“Thirty million for a month. That’s a hundred and twenty percent annualized.”
“What do you care? You’re the genius who’s going to make a fortune when the Chinese surprise the entire world and decide to depreciate the yuan.”
Astor smiled to himself. Loan-sharking was alive and well and operating in plain daylight on Central Park West. “Can you have the funds in my account by three tomorrow?”
“I can have them there at nine in the morning.”
Astor extended a hand. “Deal.”
Steinmetz regarded him. He smiled cagily, and Astor thought, I knew this was too easy. “One more thing. I’d like you to ask nice.”
“I just did.”
Steinmetz knocked back the rest of the vodka. “You call that nice? I’m thinking you take a knee.”
“Pardon?”
“Hit the carpet.” Steinmetz teetered, and Astor realized that he was drunk.
“That’s enough, Jack. Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
“Actually, two knees. I want to see you grovel.”
“Be serious.”
Steinmetz threw his hands on Astor’s shoulders and tried to force him down. “Grovel.”
Astor hit him. He didn’t know where the fist came from, but his knuckles ached and Steinmetz lay sprawled on his couch, blood trickling from his mouth.
“That’s assault,” sputtered Steinmetz, struggling to get to his feet.
“Actually, it’s battery. Arrest me.”
Steinmetz came at him and Astor chucked him aside, sending the older man toppling onto a coffee table. Astor bent down to help him up, but Steinmetz refused his help. “Where you going to go now? I was giving you a bargain. You’re toast, Astor. Hear me? Toast.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Astor. French fried, with maple syrup.
He left before he decided to hit Steinmetz again.
61
Click.
Mike Grillo stood across the street from the office building on Third Avenue, his eyes on the revolving doors. It was eight o’clock. The evening exodus was long over. Men and women trickled out intermittently alone and in pairs. Grillo marked each departure with a flip of the Zippo’s cover.
Click.
He considered himself a reasonable man. He knew the world was a complicated place. Rarely was an issue black or white. Too often, gray was the palette of choice. He realized that everyone, himself included, had to make bargains from time to time. Compromises. Settlements not entirely to their liking. Still, there were a few lines he didn’t cross. He did not steal from clients. He did not engage in activities that might cause harm to come to a person. He did not lie to his friends. So when one of his friends lied to him, he was upset. He wanted to put that person’s head through a plate-glass window.
Click.
A shadow approached the revolving door. Even through the tinted glass, he recognized the shambling gait, the air of world-weary fatigue. A moment later, an African-American man wearing a rumpled blazer, khaki pants, and crappy loafers emerged from the building and walked north. Grillo dropped the Zippo into his pocket and checked his watch. Eight-oh-three. He couldn’t fault his friend for shortchanging the American taxpayer.
Grillo set off up the sidewalk, following from across the street. The man turned west on 70th Street. The light was with Grillo and he crossed, walking faster now. The sidewalk was crowded. He saw his moment.
“Hello, Jeb,” he said when he reached the man’s shoulder. “Funny running into you again.”
Jeb Washburn barely turned his head to answer. “You smooth, Grill-O. Didn’t see you coming for a sec.”
“You should know that I’ve got a piece on you right now. A little PPK aimed right at your kidney. It’s got one of those Czech silencers we used to use. Don’t work for shit, but in this traffic, it’ll do.” Grillo nudged him with the barrel.
“Guess you’re serious.”
“You didn’t tell me he contacted you.”
“You didn’t ask. You asked if I knew who he was. The answer is still no.”
It was there in the file Grillo had received from the phone company, as plain as day. The list of calls placed to and from the phone Palantir had used to contact Edward Astor showed that Palantir had spoken with Jeb Washburn on six occasions between June 10 and June 30.
“I’m waiting.”
“He called in June to say that he had something for us. Proof about a cyberattack to be initiated by a foreign power against our national infrastructure. At first he was all over the place. Could be against the power grid, air traffic control, the Net. Then he narrowed it down to the financial infrastructure. Even so, he was vague. Wouldn’t name the country involved or the place. Didn’t have a firm date. The only thing he knew for sure was that the financial industry was the target. There was something else.”