Reckless Read online

  Reckless

  Andrew Gross

  To the memory of Eleanor Zorman—a devoted fan,

  but an even better mother-in-law

  Contents

  Prologue

  Beep, beep! Beep, beep!”

  Part I

  Chapter One

  They entered the house through the sliding glass doors in…

  Chapter Two

  Remind me again,” Annie Fletcher asked, wiggling out of her…

  Chapter Three

  The gleaming white Dassault Falcon touched down gracefully at Westchester…

  Chapter Four

  They didn’t talk about it much. Over their coffee. The…

  Chapter Five

  About two miles down, Hauck hung a right at Cat…

  Chapter Six

  The bedroom had a few techs and detectives Hauck knew…

  Chapter Seven

  The Talon Group, Hauck’s new employer, was a worldwide security…

  Chapter Eight

  Roger Cantwell stared at his Bloomberg screen in dismay.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next days, Hauck began digging into the background…

  Chapter Ten

  At the same time, Hauck did his best to keep…

  Chapter Eleven

  Within days, the first responses on Thibault began to arrive.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday and Saturday nights Hauck coached a team of twelve-…

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the stylish dining room of her Normandy on Dublin…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Later, after everyone had left, Merrill took off her earrings…

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was after eleven, that same night, when Kevin Mitman…

  Chapter Sixteen

  It wasn’t them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Roger Cantwell stared out at the dark Manhattan sky. The…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once one of Wall Street’s most historic companies, Wertheimer Grant…

  Chapter Nineteen

  In her cluttered, windowless office, in the basement of a…

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday afternoon, Hauck sat in his car across the street…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It took some time for the picture of Dani Thibault…

  Part II

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was two in the morning and James Donovan was…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thanks for coming in, Ty.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The idea that Talon might use him as a kind…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  His daughter Jessie came up for the weekend. Now that…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At 6:40 that Monday morning, Naomi came in from her…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The second investment manager to die under suspicious circumstances quickly…

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On the way home, Hauck took a chance and stopped…

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hauck finally made it home at close to ten. He…

  Chapter Thirty

  The cheers from the crowd and the thwack of the…

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The connection he’d found between Dani Thibault and both dead…

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  What Snell had found coursed through Hauck. Thibault had claimed…

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Outside the garage, Hauck pulled the Beemer into the first…

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The chief’s office had been relocated to the newly completed…

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  My name is Naomi Blum, Mr. Hauck,” the petite agent…

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  There might have been a time, years back, Jack “Red”…

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The man in the Burberry raincoat turned up his collar…

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Thomas Keaton, secretary of the treasury, to whom the Office…

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  That Saturday night, at the Hamill rink in Greenwich, the…

  Chapter Forty

  Red O’Toole pulled the van into the crowded lot a…

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jared!” Hauck shouted toward the locker room and waited for…

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Greenwich police arrived a few minutes later. The first…

  Chapter Forty-Three

  You have to learn to relax more, Ty.” April grinned…

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The phone that they removed from Sonny Merced’s body led…

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Hauck came around his desk. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”…

  Chapter Forty-Six

  News of the impending collapse of the American banking system…

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Over the past few days Hauck had done his best…

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Their food arrived, but neither of them felt particularly hungry.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The easy part was grabbing a few days from the…

  Part III

  Chapter Fifty

  The international airport at Belgrade in Serbia looked like any…

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The next day Hauck was having breakfast around seven in…

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  They decided the best approach was to stake out the…

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  A woman whom Naomi pegged as around seventy, in a…

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Maria Radisovic’s blue Opel pulled out of the small alleyway…

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Inside the farmhouse, Dani Thibault was going crazy.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  They watched Thibault for another day from the same hillside…

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Look!”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Naomi wound her way down to the farmhouse. She waited…

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The lights were from a car coming up to the…

  Chapter Sixty

  Hauck turned away from Thibault, glancing at the overhead TV…

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The two men approaching from down the alley stepped closer.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Hauck raced back through town to Thibault’s farmhouse to pick…

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  They drove on past Thibault’s car in silence. Naomi was…

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The young girl trembled a bit, clearly scared.

  Part IV

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  They arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The al-Bashirs walked a couple of blocks toward Park…

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  All at once, the defiance in Marty al-Bashir’s face…

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Behind the closed doors of their study, Sheera looked at…

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Annie Fletcher picked out the set of spare keys to…

  Chapter Seventy

  The car that came to take al-Bashir and his…

  Chapter Seventy-One

  That wasn’t them! That wasn’t them!”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Empty, dejected, Hauck found his way back to Naomi, who…

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  By the time they made it back to al-Bashir’s…

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Naomi motioned Hauck inside with a concealed wave, closing the…
/>
  Part V

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Hassan ibn Hassani passed through customs at JFK and found…

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Hauck flew back to New York on Sunday. Eight A.M.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Naomi flew back to Washington that Monday afternoon and went…

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  That first night back, Annie came over. Mondays, Hauck generally…

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  The e-mail flashed on Naomi’s laptop when she logged…

  Chapter Eighty

  He was getting ready to leave when his cell rang.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  She did jog on it.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Peter Simons was skimming the Wall Street Journal in the…

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Naomi was at Reagan International, waiting for the government jet…

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Red O’Toole leaned against the car and stared out at…

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Two large black Suburbans pulled up in front of the…

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Peter Simons was pleased.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  They took the Amtrak Metroliner back to DC.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Hauck’s body went rigid with determination.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Hauck froze, focused on Naomi, as O’Toole made his getaway.

  Chapter Ninety

  Only moments before, Thomas Keaton had stood behind the president…

  Part VI

  Chapter Ninety-One

  The resignations of Thomas Keaton and his chief counsel sent…

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  He sat in the BMW looking out at the pleasant…

  Epilogue

  Agent Blum…Mr. Hauck…”

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Andrew Gross

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  London.

  Beep, beep! Beep, beep!”

  Amir, “Marty” al-Bashir’s six-year-old son, raced his motorized Formula One model around the dining room table, almost crashing it into Anna, the Lebanese housemaid, as she brought out their Sunday lunch of flatbread and spiced lamb.

  “Amir, watch out!” his mom, Sheera, yelled. “You’ll run Anna over. Marty, is it not possible for you to tell your son to stop?”

  “Amir, listen to your mother,” Marty called from the den, distracted. He and his older son, Ghassan—they called him Gary—were crouched in front of the wide-screen TV in the midst of a crucial football match. Manchester United versus Chelsea. The match was scoreless with only seconds remaining in the first half, and Man U was his son’s favorite team—they had just acquired Antonio Valencia, his favorite winger and the hottest foot in the game.

  “Oh, no, look!” Gary shouted as Marty focused back on the screen. A Chelsea attacker had curled a thirty-meter beauty just inside the left post, an inch beyond the Manchester goalie’s outstretched dive.

  “Damn, now look what you’ve made me miss, Sheera,” Marty groaned, deflated, “a goal!”

  “A goal, big deal. Your son is driving that thing around the house like Jenson Button. Amir, listen…” Sheera’s voice grew firm. “If you don’t stop this instant, you can forget about going to Universal Studios when we are in L.A. Do you hear?”

  As if on autopilot, the model race car came to a stop. From the floor, Amir caught his father’s amused gaze and grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I hear, Mama.”

  “Come on, boys, your mom’s gone to a lot of trouble for us. Let’s eat.” Marty rose and the family drew chairs around the sleek van der Rohe table in the stylishly decorated town house.

  Outside, the view from the wide third-floor window of their fashionable Mayfair Georgian was over Hyde Park, among the most desirable views in town. The home cost close to six million pounds, but as the chief investment officer of the Royal Saudi Partnership, a sovereign fund of Marty’s native Saudi Arabia, it was hardly more than a rounding error on the daily tallies of one of the largest troves of investment capital in the world.

  “Marty,” which al-Bashir had been called for years, was simply an Americanized form of Mashhur, his birth name, given to him in his undergraduate days when he had studied under Whiting and McComb at the University of Chicago and followed up with stints in portfolio strategy at Goldman and Reynolds Reid, and in private equity at Blackstone in New York.

  It was only back home in his native country that Marty was called anything else.

  Now he oversaw a giant fund with interests that stretched to every point on the globe and every conceivable type of asset. Stocks. Mezzanine capital. Currencies. CDOs. Complex derivatives. They also had vast real estate holdings—in New York’s Rockefeller Center and London’s own Trafalgar Square. When the price of oil rocketed, they bought up ethanol-producing sugarcane fields in Brazil. When the commodity fell, they bought up offshore U.S. development leases and massive tankers. Royal Saudi’s holdings were more than a trillion dollars. Their hands were in everything. In times of crisis, they had even been called on to prop up many national treasuries around the world.

  He and Sheera had met in the U.S. while he was at Reynolds and she, a daughter of a prominent law professor from Beirut, was studying economics at Columbia. They’d been married for twelve years. The job had given him ease—most would say luxury—and over time, they had acquired many Western ways. They had a flat on the Côte d’Azur, a penthouse in the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue in New York; they took the family skiing at Gstaad and Aspen; Gary and Amir were enrolled in the finest schools. His only regret was that, to appease the royal family’s wishes, his wife had had to give up her own career to raise her family. Sometimes he wished that despite his rise to the top of the financial world and the important responsibilities that had been bestowed on him, if she could handle the investments and he could manage the kids, both their home and the Saudi royal portfolio would be in better hands.

  Sunday was their traditional family meal. Afterward, they might head a few blocks away to Hyde Park and kick the football around a bit. On the way back, they might stroll along Shepherd Market window-shopping the fine antiques and new fashions. These days, with teleconferencing and the financial network set up here, he jetted home barely twice a year, mostly to see his folks. He had been away from Riyadh for so many years, distanced himself from their customs, that Marty pretty much thought of the royals as clients now rather than brethren. And he knew, because of the results he produced, his overseers looked the other way.

  “Okay, who wants first?” Marty picked up a plate and looked around. “The cook!” he said proudly, and spooned some of the stewed lamb over the yogurt and bread and handed it to his wife, serving her first in the Western way. If his parents ever saw him, they’d be horrified.

  The trill of his cell phone sounded from somewhere in the house. His office.

  Sheera shook her head and groaned. “Now on Sundays too?”

  “I’ll make it short. Promise.” Marty got up. “You just make sure you save me some of that lamb.” He winked a warning at Amir, whose appetite seemed to never end.

  With the vast amount of activity Royal Saudi controlled there was no such thing as boundaries when it came to nights or weekends. Their interests ran every day, 24/7, across the globe. Though the aroma of lamb and fresh baked bread made ignoring the call momentarily tempting.

  Marty followed the ring to his office and shut the door, stepping over the cables to the Wii video game attached to the TV. Gary’s Christmas gift—another Western concession! The BlackBerry was vibrating on the coffee table and Marty sank himself onto the couch, tightrope-walking over the brightly colored Lego Transformer that had been left on the floor; this one was Amir’s.

  Never ends, he sighed.

 
He expected it to be Len Whiteman, his second at the firm, but Marty’s mood shifted when he checked the digital readout and saw “Private Caller.” His stomach clenched. Cautiously, he drew the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “I hope this call finds you well, Mashhur al-Bashir.”

  The use of Marty’s Saudi name jolted him. He knew immediately who it was. The first call had come six months ago, preparing him. He had just been hoping against hope, as time marched on, as their lives grew and prospered and became more acclimated, that the real call would never come.

  “I am well,” Marty replied, his throat dry, returning the greeting in Arabic.

  “Our sons and daughters around the world require your service, Mashhur al-Bashir. Are you prepared to do what is asked of you?”

  Marty thought to himself that it had been so long. His views, passions, had all been so different then. Never religious, or even political. It was simply more about pride in his culture. The dismissive manner in which his nation had been treated by the West. They had given him his start, his education. Now he had lived among them for years and had changed.

  Six months ago the first call had come. Reminding him of his duty. What he was expected to do. In a flash, all the prosperity in his life and the good fortune he had earned seemed a universe away. There was no turning away from this. He realized he owed them everything. All his good fortune. He had made his bed a long time ago.

  “Yes,” Marty al-Bashir answered dutifully.

  “Good. The tide of events is evolving,” the caller said, “don’t you agree? Global opportunities have shifted. We, here, are not happy with certain signs. We feel it is time for a change in direction. In strategy. Do you understand?”

  “I have a new plan already drawn up,” Marty replied. He knew the ramifications that would result from it and he closed his eyes.

  “Then begin it,” the caller said, “starting tomorrow. Execute your job, Mashhur al-Bashir. The rest is already set.” The caller paused a second. “Shall we say, the planes are in the air.”

  They hung up, the sounds of his family, laughing, returning from outside. Marty remained on the couch for a while.

  All he knew and had grown used to was about to change.

  He got up and stepped over to the window, accidentally kicking over his son’s Transformer, the Lego pieces flying about. “Damn.”

  Tomorrow, the world would wake up, go to school, to work, laugh, love, eat with their family, everything seeming the same. But by day’s end there would be a change like the world had never seen.