The Prince of Risk

by Christopher Reich

  Using both hands, Zarek gingerly replaced the mitt on his shelf, repositioning it several times until it was just so. Satisfied, he turned his attention to his monitor, then spun it around so Astor could see. “We’ve lent you four hundred million.”

  “All collateralized.”

  “When the market moved against you, you were down the eighty million and then some.”

  “It came back.”

  “Today. What if it happens tomorrow?”

  “It’s called leverage. You were okay with the position going in.”

  “You left leverage behind when you jacked up your bet to twenty times what you put down. As it is, you’re shooting craps.”

  “Actually, Brad, I’d like to borrow some more.”

  Zarek blinked as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “We don’t allow customers to leverage up above twenty times.”

  “I’d like another hundred million.”

  “Another hundred million dollars? You’re serious?”

  Astor nodded.

  “Without additional collateral?”

  “You heard me.”

  “We were thinking more along the lines of your either increasing your collateral or cutting your position.”

  “You don’t think I can cover it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, Bobby. It is what it is. There are rules. It’s not 2008 anymore.”

  “How much more collateral are we talking about?”

  “If you could just transfer a hundred million, we’d all be more comfortable.”

  “A hundred million?”

  Zarek nodded. “Just a hundred.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Cash, or just pledge some equities, if you’d like. We’ll make sure word gets out. Look at it as a vote of confidence. It will calm a lot of nerves.” Zarek leaned forward. There was no mistaking the gleam in his eye. It was the gleam a man gets when he’s about to shove a dagger into another man’s gut and give it a nice, vicious twist for good measure. “Within twenty-four hours.”

  Astor shrugged complacently, as if he were on board with the suggestion. “Hey, Brad, tell you what.”

  “Yeah, Bobby?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Astor approached the desk. He had a gleam in his eye, too. It was the kind he got when he was fighting his corner. “What? You need a hearing aid to go along with the balls you’re missing? You guys make me sick. Offer me an umbrella when the sun’s shining and want it back when it starts to rain. Typical.” Astor rapped the desk with his knuckles. “What’s my track record?”

  “Stellar, Bobby. No one is disputing that.”

  “I asked you, what is my track record?”

  “You’ve been up over eight percent ten years running.”

  “And three of those years we were up over twenty. Right?”

  “Right,” said Zarek, backpedaling furiously. “Look, Bobby, the bank wants to be in business with you.”

  “Really? Because it sounds to me like you want to put me out of business.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “Then give me another hundred million.”

  “Impossible,” said Zarek, shaking his head adamantly. “Not going to happen. Be reasonable.”

  “All right, all right,” said Astor, hands raised in a calming gesture. “I hear you. Fair enough.” He returned to his chair, shot his cuffs, composed himself. “Tell you what. Because I respect you and I respect Standard Financial, I can do twenty-five million.”

  “You want me to lose my job?” Zarek shuddered, as if physically repulsed by the offer. “I can make seventy-five work.”

  Astor considered this. He nodded, his eyes narrowed as if it just might work. Then abruptly he shook his head, a man coming to his senses in the nick of time. “Twenty-five.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Forty.”

  “Fifty.”

  “By end of business today?”

  “Done.”

  Zarek extended a hand. Astor grabbed it and shook. “Deal.”

  Astor left before Zarek could change his mind.

  Outside, Astor called Marv Shank. “Transfer fifty to Standard Financial.”

  “Out of petty cash?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’ve got to check with finance and see if we have that kind of cash.”

  “We’ve got it.”

  “If we do, it won’t be by much.”

  “Just do it.”

  “You talk to our guy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Don’t want to abuse the privilege. I’ll ask if and when I think we’re in trouble.”

  “Then why the blip?”

  “Calm down and transfer the money.”

  “You sure there isn’t anything else wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew Zarek was going to hit you up for some dough. He mentioned a hundred mil.”

  “Yeah, and I got him down to fifty.”

  “That’s why I’m worried. Any other day, you wouldn’t have paid him a cent over twenty-five.”

  Astor hung up. Suddenly his victory felt hollow. Shank was right. He’d given in much too early.

  He looked up the street for Sully. There was no sign of the Audi. He checked his watch and calculated the time overseas. He slipped out his phone and brought up his old friend’s number. He thought of what he might ask and imagined his friend’s wonderful erudite voice telling him to stay calm. “Nothing has changed, Robert, has it? There is only one possible outcome.”

  Astor spotted Sully barreling around the corner. Half the afternoon was already shot. He hoped the traffic to Greenwich wouldn’t be too bad. Astor forgot all about making the call to his friend. He wanted to talk to Penelope Evans.

  23

  “So what are we looking at?” asked Janet McVeigh, ADIC of the New York office, before sipping her mug of coffee.

  It was three in the afternoon. Alex sat across the table in the eighth-floor conference room. Bill Barnes sat next to her. He’d changed out of his jeans and polo shirt into a freshly pressed navy suit, white shirt, and blood-red tie. Naturally, there was an American flag pin in his lapel. She noticed that Barnes’s hair was combed as neatly as if he’d just stepped out of the barber’s chair. She caught the faint reflection of herself in the window. She’d been too busy prepping for the meeting to think about getting cleaned up. Her hair was a mess, and she had rings under her eyes that would do a raccoon proud. She sat straighter and tucked her blouse into her pants. Only then did she notice that she had an American flag in her lapel, too. Take that, Hollywood Harry.

  “Here’s the final tally of the arms found at Windermere.” Alex slid a paper across the table, then gave another copy to Barnes. “I sent e-copies to both your mailboxes. As you can see, we have a major haul: machine guns, hand grenades, ammu—”

  “And an antitank weapon,” said Barnes. “We’ve got serial numbers from the machine guns and pistols, as well as batch numbers and shipment information from some of the crates. We’re doing a back-check now.”

  “How soon can we expect to hear anything?” McVeigh was a compact, pretty blond woman in her early fifties. Even after twenty years with the Bureau, she liked to keep her nails longer than practical, buffed and polished in the French style, and was never seen without her makeup just so. Her attractive looks and feminine demeanor hid an interior every bit as steely as Alex’s.

  “The manufacturers are based in Europe,” said Barnes. “We’ll start calling at eight a.m. their time.” He looked sidelong at Alex. “Pardon me—I didn’t mean to cut in.”

  Alex went on. “Besides the weapons, there were cots for six persons and a fully stocked kitchen. However, I don’t think we’re looking at seven bad guys. Based on the numbering found on the communications gear, we can assume there are twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-four? So there may be more safe houses?�
� asked McVeigh.

  “Yes, I think—”

  Again Barnes interrupted. “And more weapons. Only eight machine guns were found at the scene. That contrasts with the number of vests and, as Alex said, the numbering on the communications gear.”

  “Have you alerted Port Authority?” asked McVeigh. “It’s probable that most of this stuff came through JFK or one of the container terminals at Newark, Baltimore, or Philly. We don’t want that guy bringing in any more.”

  “Done,” said Barnes.

  McVeigh made a note on her pad. “What do you know about the shooter?”

  “Shepherd? Not enough,” said Alex. “His wallet held a Texas driver’s license that we’re still checking out, a few debit cards he could have purchased at any supermarket, and fifty dollars.”

  “Phone?”

  “He was smart. He destroyed his SIM card before we entered the house. We did find a passport. Portuguese. Name of Henrique Manuel Lopes Gregorio. Picture matches. I’m guessing it’s a fake or a stolen blank.”

  “I didn’t know you were an expert on phony travel documents,” said Barnes.

  Alex ignored the jibe. “I put in a call to the Portuguese embassy in D.C. They’re checking out the number. The ambassador promised to have an answer for us by morning.”

  McVeigh consulted the inventory of evidence found at the scene. “I like what I’m hearing. We’re moving on a lot of fronts. All the same, this is looking pretty scary.”

  “I want to know more about the shooter,” said Alex. “I’d like your go-ahead to visit the morgue and take a look at the body.”

  “The morgue?” said Barnes. “What for?”

  “Our man was a pro. He shot accurately and he maintained his composure. I’m guessing he’s a soldier. If that’s the case, he’ll most probably have tattoos. We might see something that will give us a clue who he served with. We have his fingerprints. It would make identification that much easier if we knew where to send them.”

  Barnes swiveled his chair to face her. “Look, Alex, we appreciate your help, but it’s been a long day. You’re suffering from emotional trauma. I can handle this from here on out. You’re just not—”

  “I’m fine, Bill.”

  “As evidenced by your earlier outburst at Dr. Lemon.”

  “I said I’m fine. I’m sitting right next to you. If you want to know how I feel, ask me.”

  Barnes returned his attention to McVeigh. “Be that as it may, this is no longer Alex’s bailiwick.”

  “‘Bailiwick’?” said Alex. “Who are you? Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes?”

  “Alex,” cautioned McVeigh.

  “Screw that, Jan. I’m not going to sit here and let Hollywood Harry patronize me. I’m staying on this case and that’s that.”

  “The hell you are,” Barnes retorted. “This is a domestic CT matter now. One of my teams will head this up. Get that through your thick skull.”

  “Cool it, Bill,” said McVeigh.

  “She’s always sticking her nose into everyone’s business. Miss Friggin’ Know-It-All. I’m sick of it.” Barnes smoothed his tie and settled back in his chair. “Jan, you and I agreed that Alex isn’t heading up this investigation. I mean, calling the Portuguese embassy on your own is a little above an SSA’s pay grade. I’ll assign a team from CT-3.”

  “And I’ll be on it,” said Alex.

  “Let’s all of us calm down,” said McVeigh. “We can get back to who’s running what later on.”

  “Jan—”

  “Can it, Bill.” McVeigh studied her notepad, then drew a breath and directed her attention to Alex. “That’s a smart idea to check if our shooter has tattoos, but Bill will handle it.” She smiled in a patronizing way, and Alex knew she was about to get the coup de grâce. “Bill is right,” McVeigh went on. “This is nothing for CT-26. Given the nature of the threat, I’ve made the decision to set up a task force, and I’m asking Bill to head it up.”

  “But this is my deal—”

  “Not anymore it’s not. I want you to take a few days and get some rest. You’ve been through a lot. You need to process this, and you can’t do it working twenty-four hours a day.”

  “We don’t have a few days,” said Alex.

  “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

  Alex grabbed the sheaf of paper listing everything that had been found at Windermere. “Check the inventory. Page three—the list of all the food. I broke it down into meals. Three meals a day. Seven operatives, each eating a minimum of twenty-five hundred calories. There’s enough food for three days.”

  “Guesswork,” said Barnes.

  “Damn right it’s guesswork,” said Alex, putting a fist to the table. “That’s what they pay us to do. You want to call it a guess. I call it a plausible theory. The stuff in that fridge was fresh and perishable. The way I see it, the people who were going to occupy those beds are due in today or tomorrow. I don’t see them hanging around to visit the Statue of Liberty. Not with all that gear hidden in the house. They’re professionals. That clock starts ticking once they hit U.S. soil.”

  “If they’re still coming,” said Barnes.

  “Why wouldn’t they be? Think of the planning required to smuggle those weapons into the country. This isn’t some mom-and-pop job. This is top-drawer. They’ve got an entire network set up. Our killing one of their team and uncovering a cache of weapons isn’t going to stop them. If anything, it’s going to light a fire under their butts. Wake up. This is happening now.”

  “What exactly do you think ‘this’ is?” asked McVeigh.

  “They’re taking a building, a plane, a school—hell, I don’t know. Give me your worst-case scenario and multiply it times ten. What do twenty-four trained terrorists armed to the teeth with everything from AK-47s to antitank weapons go after?”

  “Worse than storming a building or a hostage situation?” asked Barnes. “Stop being such an alarmist.”

  Alex looked at McVeigh. “What if they’re taking Manhattan?”

  “You mean a Mumbai scenario?”

  Alex nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. Mumbai.”

  24

  At nine o’clock at night on November 26, 2008, twelve relatively untrained terrorists landed at the port of Mumbai, India, in rigid rubber-hulled motorboats. The men broke into four teams. Every man carried a machine gun, two hundred rounds of ammunition, hand grenades, and a store-bought cell phone with which to speak to the others. No one had a Kevlar vest. No one had state-of-the-art communications gear, and no one carried an antitank weapon. By any measure, it was a rudimentary martyrdom operation.

  One team attacked the famed Taj Mahal Palace Hotel; another, the nearby Oberoi Trident; another, Mumbai’s central railway station; and yet another, Nariman House, a Jewish Chabad-Lubavitch center. For the next thirty-six hours, the entire city of Mumbai, population 16 million, was effectively paralyzed. Business ground to a halt as the city shut down and all economic activity ceased. The only people more poorly trained than the terrorists were the police. Their ineptness peaked when the police chief and his motorcade drove directly into a terrorist ambush and he was shot dead in the back seat of his car.

  In the end, nearly two hundred people were dead, including more than thirty Western tourists and Jewish émigrés. The Taj Mahal Palace suffered a major fire. Worse was the economic cost to India, in both the short and the long term. Twelve young men armed only with machine guns and grenades and the will to give their lives caused over $5 billion in economic damage and brought one of the world’s most important financial capitals to its knees. The attack coined a new phrase, shoot and scoot, and brought a startling new tactic to the world of international terrorism.

  “Twenty-four people…take Manhattan?” Barnes shook his head. “Come on. Not going to happen.”

  “Look what twelve did to Mumbai,” said McVeigh.

  “That what you think this is?” asked Barnes. “A shoot and scoot?”

  “Too soon to say. Whatever it is, l
ots of people are going to die.”

  “I’m not fighting you on this,” said Barnes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just trying to be prudent. We don’t want to run off half-cocked.”

  “Half-cocked? That sounds like your problem, Bill.”

  Barnes colored and rose in his chair.

  “Hold on, Alex. We’re with you,” said McVeigh. “This is a chance to stop something before it happens. In the past, we’ve arrived late to the ball every time. We’re not going to mess this one up. But Bill’s correct in saying that we’re going to do things the right way. Calmly, efficiently, and professionally.”

  Consensus building. Mediation. All that diplomatic crap. Alex rubbed her eyes, thinking she’d been foolish ever to dream of getting to D.C. That was for people like McVeigh. “Okay, then,” she said. “We’re clear.”

  McVeigh smiled at her like a kindly aunt. “You can’t operate at the level we need going on no sleep for thirty-six hours. I want you to take a couple of days and rest up. We’ll talk Wednesday afternoon, see how you’re doing.”

  “Jan—”

  “That’s it, Alex. Two days on the bricks. No discussion. Give Bill everything you’ve got. If we need anything, we know where to find you. I’ll make sure Barry Mintz keeps you in the loop.”

  “And what about the shooter’s fingerprints?”

  “We’re putting them through the system. If we get anything, we’ll let you know.”

  “But—”

  Jan McVeigh stood. “We’re done here. Go home. Get some rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Alex left the room. She’d be damned if she’d take two days off.

  Didn’t they understand?

  This was happening now.

  25

  It was past four when Astor reached Greenwich.

  The Audi Q7 drove rapidly along the two-lane road, climbing rolling hills, accelerating through forest so dense the sun threatened to disappear. Astor rolled down the window and a blast of warm air, thick with the scent of cut grass, invaded the car. The town of Greenwich, Connecticut, was a forty-minute drive north of Manhattan and a hundred light-years away.