The Prince of Risk A Novel(99)

Rees-Jones passed through a doorway into an airy, spartan office. The desk was frosted glass with polished steel legs. There was a phone, a blotter, framed black-and-white photographs of stark landscapes, and not much else. “Please sit. Tea?”

“I’m fine,” said Alex, setting her shoulder bag on the floor as she took her place.

Rees-Jones dropped into a low-backed chair. “Good flight over? Private travel makes things so much easier.”

Alex had said nothing to her contact at Five about using Bobby’s jet, which meant that Chris Rees-Jones had contacts of her own. “I was expecting Major Salt.”

“Major Salt no longer works here.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. A recent change?”

“Three months now. Clients are always surprised to learn that a woman took his place. I see you are, too.”

“A little,” said Alex. It was a lie. She was very surprised. Women might be prominent in law enforcement in the States, and increasingly in Western Europe, but she hadn’t known them to have entered the preserve of private combat arms.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Rees-Jones gazed at her boldly. Her eyes were blue, her skin as smooth as alabaster, and her hair the platinum blond that only the most expensive colorist can guarantee. Alex put her at fifty, give or take. She also had her down as a spy put out to pasture. She was too smooth, too polished to be a police officer.



“You’re wrong,” said the Englishwoman, as if reading her mind. “Not a spook. That’s what they all think. Not Scotland Yard either. I did my training at the LSE, the London School of Economics. I’m a banker. Or I was. Private equity. My firm bought the place three months back. Military privatization’s a growing market.”

“And Major Salt?”

“He was never much of a numbers man. Still likes to get some mud on his boots, if you get my drift.”

“Mud or blood?” asked Alex.

“Probably both.” Rees-Jones smiled politely. “Major Salt sits on our board. He consults.”

Alex nodded, her hopes for getting any information about Lambert fading by the second.

“This is all rather unorthodox,” said Rees-Jones. “Of course, we’re used to visits from our colleagues on the other side.”

“I thought we were on the same side.”

“I meant the public sector.”

“Excuse me,” said Alex. “I thought we were talking law enforcement.”

“We help when possible, but we do like some warning. Don’t you have legates and that sort to arrange these things?”

“There wasn’t time to go through the usual channels.”

Rees-Jones took this in. “So,” she said finally. “What’s up?”

“We’re interested in a man with ties to your company. Luc Lambert.”

“Go on.”

“Lambert’s ex–Foreign Legion. He signed on with Trevor Manning a few years back on the Comoros deal. Major Salt was a part of that, if I’m not mistaken. It’s open knowledge that your office helped recruit the soldiers.”

“That was the old company. Before my time. And if it were not, I still couldn’t comment. It’s policy not to discuss our clients. Ironclad, I’m afraid.” Now that that was settled, Rees-Jones placed her hands on the table and smiled. “What’s this Lambert done, anyway?”

“He’s dead. I thought that given the circumstances, you might wish to make an exception.”

“And the circumstances are?”



“We believe that Lambert figured as part of a larger group planning an imminent attack on U.S. soil.”

Rees-Jones leaned forward, the blue eyes colder. “How imminent?”

“Today, tomorrow, Friday—a week at most.”

“That’s quite a statement.”

Alex explained the events of the past forty-eight hours, beginning with the stakeout in Queens, the shootout with Lambert, and the deaths of the three Bureau men and culminating with the discovery of the weapons cache. “Luc Lambert wasn’t in New York on vacation. He was there to do a job. If we’re right, twenty-three others are either already there or arriving soon to join him.”

“Sounds rather frightening. Why aren’t you putting out the alarm?”

“Not enough to go on yet. We can’t go around causing panic. For the moment, it’s all still strictly internal. We also have rules about sharing information, but in this case we have to make an exception.”

“Special Agent Forza, discretion is the currency of our trade. If word spread that we’d revealed our client list or in any way discussed our business with the authorities, we’d be shuttering the premises within the day. Besides, as I said, that was years ago. Technically a different company altogether.”