father. I’ve been taking condolences for two hours now and I’m fed up with it.”
“Screw you, too,” said Detective First Grade (retired) John Sullivan, turning in his seat and fixing Astor with his watery blue eyes. He was sixty-seven, stout, and ruddy, very much in fighting trim. Since retiring from the force two years earlier, he’d worked as Astor’s official chauffeur and unofficial bodyguard. “My condolences on the passing of your father.”
“Condolences accepted,” said Astor. “Get me to midtown.”
Sullivan guided the car into traffic. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a shitty day. First your dad and then this thing out on Long Island.”
“What thing is that?” Astor asked, only half interested. He freed the agenda from his back and set it on his lap, eager to study his father’s business dealings for a clue as to what
Palantir
might mean.
“In Inwood, near JFK. Three FBI agents were killed in some kind of operation. It’s all over the news.”
Astor looked up from the agenda. “Did they give any names?”
Sullivan’s blue eyes peered at him in the rearview. “Not yet. You know—have to contact the relatives first. Why?”
“Alex was on a raid last night.”
“Long Island?”
“I think so.” Astor speed-dialed his ex. He tapped his foot, waiting for her to answer.
“You’re an hour late,” said Alex when she picked up. “And yes, I’m all right.”
Astor was more relieved than he cared to admit at hearing her voice. “Was it Jimmy?”
“He, Jason Mara, and Terry DiRienzo.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Yeah, well.”
“What happened?”
“You know I can’t discuss it. Listen, I’m busy right now. We can talk later.”
Astor hung up, shaken, feeling somehow as if he were the one who had dodged a bullet.
“She okay?” asked Sullivan.
“Same as ever. Her partner was killed. Jim Malloy. Good guy.”
“God bless,” said Sullivan.
“Yeah. God bless,” said Astor. “What the hell was she doing out there?”
Sullivan didn’t answer. There was a time when he’d worked with Alex. The two didn’t get along. He called her a maverick and thought she was too keen on taking risks, too eager to put herself and her team into the line of fire. Astor had no grounds to argue with him. Alex was Alex. She knew only one direction: forward. And always at top speed. Astor was the same. He often thought it was their similarities that had drawn them together, each seeing his or her own best traits in the other. It had made for a torrid romance. But narcissism, in whatever form, wasn’t a good recipe for a long-term relationship.
Astor’s phone buzzed. He checked the number. “What is it, Marv?”
Shank’s voice rattled the car’s speakers. “We got problems. Some of our guys called. They saw what happened earlier. They’re nervous about the position.”
By “guys,” Shank meant the banks that had lent Astor the money to finance his bet on the yuan. Astor checked the monitor built into the rear seat. The yuan was holding steady at 6.30. “We’re good. What are they complaining about?”
“Afraid it might happen again. They’re talking about upping our margin deposit.”
“They can screw themselves. A deal’s a deal.”
“Tell that to our lenders. If you’ve got a minute, you might want to stop by and boost their spirits.”
Astor knew this was an order, not a request. “Who?”
“Brad Zarek.”
Zarek was a senior VP who ran the prime direct brokerage department at Standard Financial. Not Astor’s favorite guy. “How much are we into them?”
“Four hundred million.”
Four hundred million was a substantial sum. Zarek had every right to be calling. “Listen, Marv, any other day I’d be there in a heartbeat. I’ve got something else going.”
“This isn’t any other day. If Standard Financial sneezes, all the other guys will get the flu.”
“Yeah, all right. Call Zarek and tell him I’ll be over. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Head over
“Screw you, too,” said Detective First Grade (retired) John Sullivan, turning in his seat and fixing Astor with his watery blue eyes. He was sixty-seven, stout, and ruddy, very much in fighting trim. Since retiring from the force two years earlier, he’d worked as Astor’s official chauffeur and unofficial bodyguard. “My condolences on the passing of your father.”
“Condolences accepted,” said Astor. “Get me to midtown.”
Sullivan guided the car into traffic. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a shitty day. First your dad and then this thing out on Long Island.”
“What thing is that?” Astor asked, only half interested. He freed the agenda from his back and set it on his lap, eager to study his father’s business dealings for a clue as to what
Palantir
might mean.
“In Inwood, near JFK. Three FBI agents were killed in some kind of operation. It’s all over the news.”
Astor looked up from the agenda. “Did they give any names?”
Sullivan’s blue eyes peered at him in the rearview. “Not yet. You know—have to contact the relatives first. Why?”
“Alex was on a raid last night.”
“Long Island?”
“I think so.” Astor speed-dialed his ex. He tapped his foot, waiting for her to answer.
“You’re an hour late,” said Alex when she picked up. “And yes, I’m all right.”
Astor was more relieved than he cared to admit at hearing her voice. “Was it Jimmy?”
“He, Jason Mara, and Terry DiRienzo.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Yeah, well.”
“What happened?”
“You know I can’t discuss it. Listen, I’m busy right now. We can talk later.”
Astor hung up, shaken, feeling somehow as if he were the one who had dodged a bullet.
“She okay?” asked Sullivan.
“Same as ever. Her partner was killed. Jim Malloy. Good guy.”
“God bless,” said Sullivan.
“Yeah. God bless,” said Astor. “What the hell was she doing out there?”
Sullivan didn’t answer. There was a time when he’d worked with Alex. The two didn’t get along. He called her a maverick and thought she was too keen on taking risks, too eager to put herself and her team into the line of fire. Astor had no grounds to argue with him. Alex was Alex. She knew only one direction: forward. And always at top speed. Astor was the same. He often thought it was their similarities that had drawn them together, each seeing his or her own best traits in the other. It had made for a torrid romance. But narcissism, in whatever form, wasn’t a good recipe for a long-term relationship.
Astor’s phone buzzed. He checked the number. “What is it, Marv?”
Shank’s voice rattled the car’s speakers. “We got problems. Some of our guys called. They saw what happened earlier. They’re nervous about the position.”
By “guys,” Shank meant the banks that had lent Astor the money to finance his bet on the yuan. Astor checked the monitor built into the rear seat. The yuan was holding steady at 6.30. “We’re good. What are they complaining about?”
“Afraid it might happen again. They’re talking about upping our margin deposit.”
“They can screw themselves. A deal’s a deal.”
“Tell that to our lenders. If you’ve got a minute, you might want to stop by and boost their spirits.”
Astor knew this was an order, not a request. “Who?”
“Brad Zarek.”
Zarek was a senior VP who ran the prime direct brokerage department at Standard Financial. Not Astor’s favorite guy. “How much are we into them?”
“Four hundred million.”
Four hundred million was a substantial sum. Zarek had every right to be calling. “Listen, Marv, any other day I’d be there in a heartbeat. I’ve got something else going.”
“This isn’t any other day. If Standard Financial sneezes, all the other guys will get the flu.”
“Yeah, all right. Call Zarek and tell him I’ll be over. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Head over
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