The Prince of Risk by Christopher Reich Page B

you’d be so kind as to leave a message, I’ll get back to you promptly. Toodles.”
    An Englishwoman. Cool, resolute, educated, with a royal’s plummy upper-class accent. A snob if ever there was one. And then the chirpy “Toodles,” Miss Evans thumbing her nose at herself and merry old England. A good sport, then.
    Astor placed the second call to her cell. Six rings and counting. As he prepared to hang up, someone picked up. He waited for a greeting, but no one spoke. “Hello?” he said.
    Silence. Astor pressed the phone to his ear, unsure if he heard a person’s rushed breathing. “Miss Evans?” He added hurriedly, “This is Robert Astor—Edward Astor’s son. Are you there?”
    “I’m here.”
    “Yes, hello. As I said, this is Robert Astor. I just left my father’s office. I was wondering if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”
    “What about?”
    “What happened in Washington last night. I was wondering if you had an idea why he might have gone down there.”
    “Why would I?” asked Penelope Evans quickly, defensively.
    Astor turned the pages of the agenda, his eye landing on Penelope Evans’s name time and time again. “Mrs. Kennedy said that you and my father worked together on a number of projects,” he replied. “I thought that he might have mentioned something to you.”
    “My work involved targeting new customers for the Exchange, updating software on our trading platforms, and writing research reports.”
    “According to her, you helped my father with everything.”
    “I did my job.”
    “She was very complimentary of your efforts,” said Astor. “Were you working together on any projects for the government?”
    “No.”
    “So you wouldn’t have an idea why he had to rush down to D.C. to see Martin Gelman and Charles Hughes?”
    “No.”
    “And you and he never worked on any project that might be considered…” Astor searched for the word. “Perilous?”
    “I already said no.” She was no longer just defensive but downright bitchy.
    Astor held his temper. It was apparent that the woman’s skill set did not include lying. There must not be a course in it at Oxford or wherever she’d gone to university. He was done with the kid gloves.
    “Listen, Miss Evans,” he began again. “Penelope…I can tell you’re upset. Scared, even. I would be, too, if my boss got himself killed trying to deliver an urgent message to the president. I know you were working closely with my father, and I know it wasn’t just targeting new clients and updating trading software. So let’s cut the song and dance, shall we? On Friday morning at nine-thirty, immediately after meeting with you to discuss some kind of special project, my father canceled all his meetings for the rest of the day and got the hell out of Dodge. Something was up. I’m asking you again, what were you working on?”
    “Why are you calling me, Mr. Astor? You haven’t been a part of your father’s life for years.”
    “Because he contacted me last night.”
    “Edward phoned you?”
    Astor paused. He wasn’t sure if it was surprise or jealousy he heard in her voice. He knew only that the tone belonged to a woman who had cared for his father.
    “For the first time in five years. I think he was in the car on the way to the White House. He knew something was wrong—that he was in some kind of danger. Anyway, he texted me. Just one word. Can you guess what it was?”
    Penelope Evans did not reply. Astor didn’t hurry her. Finally she said, “They hear everything. That’s why he went to Washington. He had to tell them.”
    “Who’s ‘they’? Palantir?”
    “Palantir’s the source. He told us about them. Of course, we suspected—at least, your father did. Edward didn’t trust anyone. He was smart.” Evans sniffed, and Astor could imagine her drawing herself up straight, gathering herself. “They’re listening now,” she went on. “They’ll have keyed on the text your father sent you. Your phone will be