The Prince of Risk Read online

  Seeing his phone, Astor dropped to his knees and grasped it. Hand shaking with fear, he entered the last few letters.

  “T–I–”

  A second tire exploded. The car lifted into the air and landed on its side. Astor’s head slammed the window. He tumbled against the door, the phone falling from his grip again. Chairman Hughes landed on top of him, and Astor felt his shoulder pop. His arm went limp and he screamed.

  For an endless moment the car skidded across the lawn. All gunfire ceased. The vehicle slowed and, in an act of capitulation, rolled onto its roof.

  Hughes slid off him. The Fed chairman was unconscious. Gelman sprawled close by, eyes open in terror.

  Astor lay on his back, trying to control his breathing. He was aware of the engine ticking down and of voices shouting instructions to remain inside the vehicle. He turned his head. The phone lay a few inches away. He read the letters typed on the screen. “P–A–L–A–N–T–I–”

  One was missing.

  Astor forced his good arm above and around his head until his fingers clutched the phone. With his thumb, he typed the final letter.

  “You okay?” The driver was bleeding from his forehead.

  “Yes,” said Astor. “I’m fine. But my shoulder is—”

  Edward Astor never finished the sentence. At that moment the fuel tank, filled to capacity with 25 gallons of gasoline, exploded. A blast of infernal heat lifted him, enveloping him, cauterizing his every sense and sensation.

  And in the instant before he died, his fingers curled around the phone, as an infant clutches his mother’s hand, and whether on purpose or accidentally, he pressed Send.

  1

  “Jump!”

  Bobby Astor curled his toes over the lip of the chimney and looked down at the pool 20 feet below. It was a big pool with plenty of room to land. Even so, his knees were shaking and it required his last measure of courage to stand up straight. The problem wasn’t just the height. It was the leap. He had to carry a good 6 feet of flagstone to make it to the water. Call it 8 feet to the safety zone. Anything shy and he’d get a mouthful of cement.

  It was not the smartest bet he’d ever accepted.

  “Two mil,” came another voice. “You can do it!”

  “Come on, Bobby. We don’t have all night.”

  The $2 million wasn’t a bet exactly, but more like a pledge. All Astor had to do was jump from the chimney into the pool and the money would go to charity. Last year he had brought in a million seven walking across a bed of hot coals. The year before he’d parachuted out of a chopper onto the beach. It dawned on him that the stunts were growing increasingly dangerous. It might be better to skip next year altogether and just write a check.

  “Hold your horses,” said Astor, with a bravado he had no right to claim. “Let me enjoy the view.”

  Afternoon thundershowers had left the sky clear. Stars glittered across the evening canopy. Up the coast, the lights of Amagansett on the eastern shore of Long Island glowed invitingly. Closer, the breakers fizzed like seltzer on the black sea. Along Further Lane, his neighbors’ homes were dark.

  Astor steadied himself and studied the water. It was midnight and the pool lights were on, and the water had that spooky aquamarine translucence he’d marveled at off the coast of Phuket and in the ocean grottoes beneath the cliffs of Capri. Twenty feet didn’t sound like much, but when you were perched on a piece of rock the size of a phone book, it was high enough. The wise, cautious part of him urged him to bend down, take hold of the brick, and lower himself onto the roof. He couldn’t, of course. There was the bet. And there was the other thing. The other thing was his pride. Bobby Astor always kept his word.

  “Come on, Bobby! Don’t be a pussy! Jump!”

  “Here, kitty, kitty!”

  Astor raised a hand above his head to show that he was ready. At forty-one, he was lean and fit and stood a few inches under six feet. At prep school and college, he’d played football and lacrosse and earned the nickname “the Hammer” because of the crushing hits he laid on his opponents. He still had an athlete’s build: broad shoulders, flat stomach, muscled legs. He also had an athlete’s knees, with long, ugly scars crisscrossing both, evidence of the nearly dozen operations he’d undergone.

  His hair was dark and short and receding faster than the polar ice cap. His eyes were brown and serious, keen to meet life’s challenges. His smile could win over his bitterest rival. His scowl meant war. If anything, he was too thin. Over the past month he’d lost ten pounds, and his board shorts hung low on his hips. He never ate when he had a big bet on the market.

  Someone turned off the music and the guests quieted. Two hundred sweaty, sun-reddened faces peered up at him. He looked among them, counting his friends. He stopped at three, then cut the number to two. His enemies were more numerous, and easier to spot. But it was the weekend, and hostilities were suspended until the market opened in the morning. Until then, he’d consider them his business associates like the rest, men and women he worked with on the Street. Brokers, traders, fund managers, salesmen, and, of course, his employees. Good people for the most part. Hardworking, intelligent, nearly honest.

  It was July 28, and the seventh annual Comstock Clambake was lurching to a loud, boozy halt. Comstock came from Comstock Partners, Astor’s company, and Comstock Partners was an investment firm that managed a little more than $5 billion of very wealthy people’s money. More commonly, it was referred to as a hedge fund.

  As always, the clambake was a ritzy affair. There were clams, of course, but also lobster, sushi, Wagyu beef, and so on and so forth. There was an open bar and bottle service and plenty of servers wandering around the patio to make certain everyone got their fill. The band had stopped an hour earlier, and a DJ from one of the trendier clubs in the city was on until midnight. To cap things off, every guest received a gift in parting—a Gucci handbag for the ladies and an engraved Dunhill lighter for the men.

  All in all, the clambake ran to a cool half million. Astor had been poor enough once to know the value of every one of those greenbacks. Though born to money, he’d had the silver spoon yanked out of his mouth when he was sixteen. What he’d called pride, his father had called defiance. Astor decided he liked his definition better. The decision left him an emancipated minor living on his own. Not exactly penniless, but as close as he ever wanted to come.

  Astor lived in another world now. In this world, parties cost $500,000 and guests received ungodly expensive purses for showing up. He knew it was crazy and he scolded himself for buying into the entire scene. But in the end, buy he did. And as with everything he committed to, he did it in a big way. The Astor way. He knew enough about luck and risk and the wicked whim of fate to feel privileged to be able to pony up and pay.

  Anyway, it had been a good year.

  “Come on, Bobby! You da man!”

  “Jump!”

  “He’ll never do it,” shouted a Brooklyn-born voice. “All talk and no show.” It was Marv Shank, Comstock’s vice chairman and head trader, and until that outburst Astor’s best friend.

  “Says you,” called Astor. “You’re coming up here next.”

  “Not in a million years,” said Shank, waving him off amid a flurry of expletives.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Astor. “Your attention. As most of you know, it’s our tradition at the clambake to give back a little of the good fortune we who work in this industry have been so lucky to have. A few years back, Marv convinced me that instead of just asking, I ought to do something crazy to help convince you to donate your hard-earned money to an organization I started, Helping Hands, which does a great job with kids in our fine city who didn’t get the fairest shake in life. This year I’m pleased to announce that you nice folks have come up with a cool two million dollars, which I will happily make you pay if and when I gather the courage to jump.”

  “You can do it, Bobby,” shouted a woman.

  “So,” Astor continued, “before I give this a shot, I j
ust want to say thank you for coming out and making this night special for me—and for the kids. Drum roll, please.”

  It was then that a gust blew in off the ocean. Umbrellas swayed on the deck. A woman shrieked as her cap skittered across the flagstones and into the pool. The wind hit Astor like a baseball bat. One foot lifted off the chimney, and for a moment he swayed perilously. He threw his arms out for balance. Teetering, he landed a heel on a barb protruding from the ember grate. He bit his lip, burying a yelp, then quickly waved to show everyone he was all right. He even managed a smile. A smattering of applause broke out. Someone whistled, and with a bold step he retook his position at the edge of the chimney.

  Marv Shank glared at him from the far side of the pool. He was a short, barrel-chested man, a grind in the office and out, argumentative by default. He was as white as a ghost, and his pale stomach bulged obscenely over the waistline of his madras shorts. Shank shook his head, and Astor could read his mind: one more dangerous situation the boss had gotten himself into.

  Because, of course, it hadn’t been Shank’s idea to do the stunt each year.

  It had been Astor’s.

  Shank cupped hands to his mouth and shouted, “Swan dive!”

  “Not a chance!” Astor shook his head furiously, and Shank repeated his demand.

  A current of excitement rolled across the crowd.

  Astor let it build. Shank’s request was no random demand. When it came to Helping Hands, Astor was zealous in his efforts to separate his guests’ money from their wallets. “How much you give me?”

  “Twenty grand,” said Shank.

  “Make it fifty.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Deal,” said Astor. “Any other takers?” He called out a few of his wealthier guests and they graciously agreed to chip in, taking the total to $2,250,000.

  Shank turned to his fellow guests and raised his arms in the air, exhorting them to join him. In a moment the entire crowd was chanting, “Dive! Dive!”

  Over the heads of his guests, Astor caught a pair of headlights turning onto Further Lane a half mile up the road. It wasn’t a BMW or a Mercedes or even a Lexus. The car had its brights illuminated and was moving fast. He followed it up the road until he recognized it as a Dodge Charger. Black. He knew the car’s stats by heart: 5.7 liter V8 Hemi engine. Dual Flowmaster exhausts. Eibach shocks. This one even came with an assault shotgun under the driver’s seat, a 3,000-lumen floodlight, and a light stick of red and blue strobes.

  What was she doing out here at this time of night?

  “Dive! Dive!”

  Astor squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He knew it was too far, and that if he had any brains at all, he’d jump feet first and take his lumps afterward.

  But that was out of the question. A bet was a bet.

  And after all, Bobby Astor was invincible.

  He dove.

  2

  Astor gazed at the tall, athletic brunette standing in the doorway.

  “Hello, Alex. A little past work hours, even for you.”

  “Did you make it?” she asked, taking in his dripping shorts, the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

  “More or less.” Reflexively, he pulled the towel tighter. He didn’t want her to see the red, inflamed skin where his back had struck the water.

  “Showing off again?”

  “Raised two million and change.”

  “Next time write them a check. It’s safer.”

  “You care.”

  “Your daughter cares.”

  The woman wore jeans and a navy T-shirt with three yellow letters stenciled above the breast. Her eyes were hazel, her skin olive and taut, lines forming at the corners of her eyes like cracks in an Old Master’s painting. She’d pulled her thick, glossy hair into a ponytail, which showcased the angles of her face, the high cheekbones, the sharp Roman nose. As was her custom, she wore no makeup. Mascara didn’t go with the Glock she carried on her belt. Against his every wish, he felt something tighten in his stomach, a desire he thought was long quelled, a longing even. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had chosen wisely when they’d admitted this one to the academy. Her name was Alessandra Ambrosiani Forza, but she went by Alex, not Alessandra, and never Astor. For eighteen years she had been his wife.

  “If you’re coming for the clambake,” said Astor, “you’re late.”

  “I got the invitation. Sorry. I was busy.”

  “You still knocking down front doors and rousting homegrown bin Ladens out of their beds in Queens and Rockaway?”

  “I’m still at CT-26, if that’s what you mean. I’m running it now.”

  “So I heard,” said Astor. “Congrats.”

  “Speaking of front doors, you want to ask me in?”

  Astor threw back an arm. “Won’t you come in?”

  Alex brushed past him, and he noted that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes too puffy for just another long day. “This isn’t about Katie?” he asked worriedly.

  “Katie’s fine.”

  Astor was wary of his ex’s civil response. Habit made him jump back to offensive. “And home alone, I take it.”

  “She’s sixteen.”

  “That’s two years shy of being an adult last time I looked.”

  “Not in Manhattan.”

  “When I was sixteen, I was—”

  “Drinking fog cutters at Trader Vic’s while you were playing hooky from Choate,” retorted Alex. “Or whatever rich boy’s academy you were getting kicked out of that year.”

  “It was Deerfield and Kent.”

  “Stop!” she said. “I’m here about your father.”

  Astor took a step back. He swallowed, his throat tightening. “What about him?”

  Alex placed a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Bobby. Your father’s dead.”

  For a moment Astor didn’t respond. He was aware of the music blaring, of several men shouting, and knew that some kind of fracas had started out by the pool. He had been expecting the news since spotting the Dodge. He had not been able to think of another reason that would bring her so far from home so late at night.

  Dad was dead.

  He had not loved the man. The two shared a long adversarial history. More Hatfield and McCoy than father and son. Years had passed since they’d spoken. And so it was a fright when he felt the roiling in his gut, the prickly warmth at the corners of his eyes, the geyser of loss and emotion welling inside him with an uncontrollable and overwhelming rapidity.

  “Bobby…are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he said woodenly. “I…I saw him at the Four Seasons last week. He looked…good. He looked healthy. What happened?”

  “Can we go to the study?” asked Alex. “It’s a little loud.”

  “Sure.” Astor led the way up the stairs. He was thankful for the respite. With each step he tamped down his recalcitrant emotions, much as a man uses a carpet to beat down a stubborn flame. He reminded himself that Edward Astor had no claims on his feelings. The father had ceded those long ago, and it was his fault, not the son’s.

  The black belt.

  The memory came to Astor like a thunderclap. In an instant his stomach calmed. His eyes dried. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he’d stuffed any feelings he had for his father back inside the impregnable vault where he’d kept them locked away for thirty years.

  The study was small and airy, with bookshelves lining the walls and traditional furniture. Astor closed the door behind them and the noise from the party dissipated. “What happened?” he said. “Heart attack? Car accident? I’d have heard if he had cancer.”

  Alex stood facing him, hands hanging by her sides. “This evening at eleven p.m., your father, Charles Hughes, and Martin Gelman were driving together to visit the president,” she began. “Something went wrong with their car after they entered the White House grounds. I don’t have the details, but apparently it left the road and drove across the South Lawn. The Secret Service thought the car was headed directly for the
White House and posed a threat. They opened fire. A bullet punctured the gas tank. There was an explosion.”

  “All of them…dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Astor considered this, the enormity of the event dawning on him. “Let me get this right. The chairman of the Federal Reserve, the treasury secretary, and the head of the New York Stock Exchange were traveling together at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night to see the president. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Astor opened a cabinet in the bookshelf that housed a television and searched for the remote. “The markets must be going apeshit.”

  Alex grabbed his arm. “What are you doing? Who cares about the markets?”

  “He would have.”

  “You’re not him.”

  “If there’s more to it, I need to know. My god, the president must be in his bunker in Maryland by now.”

  “Bobby!”

  “Okay. You win.” Astor put down the remote. He had people working for him who were better placed to respond to a crisis like this. If anything happened to materially affect the firm, they’d let him know.

  “I cared for him,” she said.

  “I know you did,” he said, not unkindly.

  “So I take it you never reached out?”

  “It was up to him.”

  “How does that matter now?”

  “Edward Astor died tonight, and I’m sorry for that. But my father passed away a long time ago.”

  Alex shook her head. “But it was just business. A stupid argument about money.”

  “No, Alex. It was never about business.” That had been the excuse. A business disagreement was the easiest scapegoat. Astor wanted to say more. He wanted to say that he’d picked up the phone a thousand times to call and put it right back down. That she might know Edward Astor as a kind and respectful father-in-law, as the affectionate grandfather to their daughter, but she didn’t know him as he did. If she asked him right then, he’d tell her.

  But Alex shrugged and looked away. She walked to the window and straightened her shoulders, and when she turned around, the woman he’d married was gone. The beast that was the Federal Bureau of Investigation had retaken control of her. “You’ll receive a formal notification any minute,” she said. “You can call the Secret Service to fill you in. They can provide you with more information. I have to go.”