The Prince of Risk A Novel(95)
“Oh yeah?”
“He said it was a game changer.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ask him. Whatever, it can’t be good.”
“So what’d you do?”
“What I was trained to do. I evaluated the intake and passed it up the chain of command.”
“And that’s it? Didn’t talk to him again? Done?”
Washburn shook his head slowly, as if bemused. “Grill-O, this is way above your pay grade.”
“I’m private sector now, bro. I don’t have a pay grade. That’s why I can afford my seven-hundred-dollar Italian loafers and you’re wearing resoled Weejuns. By the way, are you the preppiest black man on the planet?”
“In my blood. What can I say?” Washburn gave him a smile.
Grillo didn’t bite. “Ever meet with him in person?”
“Negative. Last contact I had was end of June. He wanted a paycheck before he’d play ball. Said something about DARPA still owing him for work he did a few years back.”
“So DARPA must have his name.”
“If they do, they didn’t say. Wouldn’t even admit they’d ever heard of the software program.”
“One of those, eh?”
“One of those.”
“And so you gave his number to the NSA to see if they could track him down.”
“They looking for him, too?” Washburn curled his mouth in distaste. “Figures.”
“The NSA put a Code Black priority on his number on June eleventh.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. That’s the problem with the intelligence business in this country. Right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Except in this case there are more like a hundred hands. All of ’em are looking for something to do and no one wants to say jack about it.”
“And you give me your word you didn’t know the NSA was trying to track him down?”
Washburn shook his head. “As you recall, our shop is not allowed to operate on home soil. If we do get info about something going down, we pass it along to the proper domestic agency.”
“Just what is it you do these days?”
“Threat mitigation. You were on offense. Me, I play defense. You got something you want to pass along to me, Grill-O? For example, just why in the world you are so interested in Palantir? And don’t give me that client confidentiality crap. We are way beyond that.”
“Palantir contacted Edward Astor in early July. I’m guessing that whoever you passed the information along to declined to pay him for his services. Anyway, Astor wasn’t so cheap. He probably saw himself as a patriot endeavoring to do some good for his country. The way I see it, Palantir delivered the goods last Friday. Astor left work early and headed to midtown, I’m guessing to meet with Palantir. He went home, digested the material, and—”
“And set up the meet with Hughes and Gellman?” Washburn suggested.
“Not right away. First he contacted a company in Reston. Britium. Looks like he paid the place a visit.”
“Britium, eh? Never heard of it.”
“My guess is that he had to check out whether Palantir was on the money before taking the whole thing upstairs.”
“It appears he was.”
“Yes, it does.”
Washburn’s eyes dropped to Grillo’s jacket. “You going to put away that gun now?”
“Someone’s killing off anyone with an interest in Palantir. I’d rather play it safe.”
Washburn laughed gently. “You’re safe with me, Grill-O. We’re all after the same thing.”
“Not exactly. I’m only being paid to find him. Interdiction, arrest, sanction—all the messy shit is up to you.”
“You got something to take us all another step down the road?”
There it was. The offer of the deal Grillo had been working toward. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.
“Couple things,” he said. “My client spoke to Palantir today. Apparently whatever he was warning everyone about is set to go down soon. He was cagey, wouldn’t give any details. Sounds like he has a real hard-on for the government. I can give you his Skype address and a number he used to call Edward Astor Friday morning. Give the information to your friends, have them put it in their magic box and shake it around a little. If they’re as good as they’re always bragging, we should have a name, address, Social Security number, and favorite brand of condom.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Washburn.
“Screw your best. Just get me an answer.”
Washburn buttoned his jacket. “Say, Mike, that’s not really a gun in your pocket, is it?”