Something expensive, but not too à la mode. I don’t want to be the oldest person in the room. Le Bernardin or San Pietro.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
The billionaire wished he could ask him if he’d received any word on California, but his assistant knew nothing about what was transpiring out there. Standing was very careful about keeping things compartmentalized. “No,” he replied. “Nothing else.”
“Very good,” replied the assistant as he backed out of the office.
The financier waited until he heard the door click shut and then removed the encrypted BlackBerry from his desk. He had waited long enough. He should have heard something by now.
He was about to dial, when one of the multiple flat-screen televisions covering the various cable networks cut to footage of a fancy gated driveway. He searched for the remote so he could turn up the sound. One by one, all of the other networks started running similar footage, including aerial shots.
So, it’s done, Standing thought to himself. Good. He now had something very much worth celebrating tonight. A thorn had been removed from his paw. The California problem had been taken care of. Or had it?
Turning up the volume of the TV tuned to CNBC he caught the closing remarks of a local reporter throwing back to the studio in New York. “At this point,” she stated, “authorities have no idea where Larry Salomon is or what happened to the man seen accompanying him. All that is known, and again, this is still unofficial at this point, is that Hollywood movie mogul Lawrence Salomon is not—I repeat, apparently not—among the dead. Back to you in New York.”
CHAPTER 17
T HAMES H OUSE
MI5 H EADQUARTERS
L ONDON
R obert Ashford sensed his phone was going to ring before it actually did. It wasn’t any grand feat of clairvoyance on his part, though. He’d been expecting the call most of the day. In fact, he should have been the one initiating it.
Considering how the Los Angeles operation appeared to have gone sideways, he probably also should have taken the day off to monitor things from a secure location. But that was exactly why he had come in to work. On the remote chance that things went bad in L.A., he needed to be able to maintain as much plausible deniability as possible.
Dismissing his staff from around the small conference table, the barrel-chested man in his early sixties with steel-gray hair and a flat, broad nose unwound the earbuds from around his cell phone. He was one of the deans of British intelligence, and those who worked under Ashford were used to his secretive and sometimes enigmatic nature. They saw him as “old school,” an espionage legend who had cut his teeth in the Cold War and who continued to play his cards very close to his vest.
From his perfectly knotted tie, neatly manicured nails, and gleaming cufflinks, to the mirror-fine polish of his shoes and knifelike creases in his trousers, he cut the gallant figure of an aging British gentleman.
He had been with Britain’s domestic intelligence service for more than thirty years. MI5 was responsible for national security, counterterrorism, and counterespionage within the United Kingdom. It was similar to America’s FBI and was often confused with its sister organization, MI6, which was like the American CIA.
Ashford’s staff also knew that he had personal relationships with many in the royal family, as well as leading figures in the British business world. No sooner had they exited and closed the door to his office than the speculation began about what powerful figure he was most likely speaking to. Little would they suspect that he wasn’t doing any of the talking.
“What’s going on, Robert?” James Standing demanded. “This was supposed to be a simple undertaking. In fact, what was that stupid cockney expression you used with me? Bright and breezy?”
Though Standing was speaking on the encrypted phone that Ashford had provided for him, he had
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
The billionaire wished he could ask him if he’d received any word on California, but his assistant knew nothing about what was transpiring out there. Standing was very careful about keeping things compartmentalized. “No,” he replied. “Nothing else.”
“Very good,” replied the assistant as he backed out of the office.
The financier waited until he heard the door click shut and then removed the encrypted BlackBerry from his desk. He had waited long enough. He should have heard something by now.
He was about to dial, when one of the multiple flat-screen televisions covering the various cable networks cut to footage of a fancy gated driveway. He searched for the remote so he could turn up the sound. One by one, all of the other networks started running similar footage, including aerial shots.
So, it’s done, Standing thought to himself. Good. He now had something very much worth celebrating tonight. A thorn had been removed from his paw. The California problem had been taken care of. Or had it?
Turning up the volume of the TV tuned to CNBC he caught the closing remarks of a local reporter throwing back to the studio in New York. “At this point,” she stated, “authorities have no idea where Larry Salomon is or what happened to the man seen accompanying him. All that is known, and again, this is still unofficial at this point, is that Hollywood movie mogul Lawrence Salomon is not—I repeat, apparently not—among the dead. Back to you in New York.”
CHAPTER 17
T HAMES H OUSE
MI5 H EADQUARTERS
L ONDON
R obert Ashford sensed his phone was going to ring before it actually did. It wasn’t any grand feat of clairvoyance on his part, though. He’d been expecting the call most of the day. In fact, he should have been the one initiating it.
Considering how the Los Angeles operation appeared to have gone sideways, he probably also should have taken the day off to monitor things from a secure location. But that was exactly why he had come in to work. On the remote chance that things went bad in L.A., he needed to be able to maintain as much plausible deniability as possible.
Dismissing his staff from around the small conference table, the barrel-chested man in his early sixties with steel-gray hair and a flat, broad nose unwound the earbuds from around his cell phone. He was one of the deans of British intelligence, and those who worked under Ashford were used to his secretive and sometimes enigmatic nature. They saw him as “old school,” an espionage legend who had cut his teeth in the Cold War and who continued to play his cards very close to his vest.
From his perfectly knotted tie, neatly manicured nails, and gleaming cufflinks, to the mirror-fine polish of his shoes and knifelike creases in his trousers, he cut the gallant figure of an aging British gentleman.
He had been with Britain’s domestic intelligence service for more than thirty years. MI5 was responsible for national security, counterterrorism, and counterespionage within the United Kingdom. It was similar to America’s FBI and was often confused with its sister organization, MI6, which was like the American CIA.
Ashford’s staff also knew that he had personal relationships with many in the royal family, as well as leading figures in the British business world. No sooner had they exited and closed the door to his office than the speculation began about what powerful figure he was most likely speaking to. Little would they suspect that he wasn’t doing any of the talking.
“What’s going on, Robert?” James Standing demanded. “This was supposed to be a simple undertaking. In fact, what was that stupid cockney expression you used with me? Bright and breezy?”
Though Standing was speaking on the encrypted phone that Ashford had provided for him, he had
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