Free The Prince of Risk by Christopher Reich Page A

crowded the credenza, vying for space with Lucite blocks announcing the latest companies to list their shares.
    The New York Stock Exchange was a business like any other, and its first priority was to turn a profit. It made money in several ways. First, and most important, it charged a fee on every share of stock bought and sold. The amount had plummeted over the years, from dimes to nickels and then lower. These days the Exchange charged fractions of a penny per share traded. It wasn’t a high-margin business. On the other hand, the volume of shares traded had skyrocketed. A normal day saw well over a billion shares change hands.
    The Exchange charged a far larger amount to companies that wanted their shares listed, or available for trading. The four thousand listed companies paid annual fees as high as $250,000, earning the Exchange more than $800 million a year. IBM, Caterpillar, Alcoa: they all had to pony up. The NYSE was a very large enterprise indeed.
    “If I might be so bold,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”
    Astor responded earnestly but not altogether honestly. “I’m surprised to be here. My father sent me a note last night shortly before the accident occurred. It was the first time in years he tried to contact me. I think he had an idea something bad was going to happen. I wanted to ask you some questions to see if you could shed a little light on what he’d been doing lately.”
    “He was a busy man. When he wasn’t traveling, he was hosting guests here at the Exchange or going to meetings.”
    “No doubt he was,” agreed Astor. “Can you tell me if he ever mentioned something called Palantir?”
    Mrs. Kennedy pursed her lips. Behind her rimless glasses, her eyes were alert and perceptive. “Never heard that word.”
    “Never?”
    The woman shook her head emphatically.
    Astor walked behind his father’s desk. The surface was neat and uncluttered. In and out trays set side by side were empty. He wondered if his father had straightened up, knowing that he might not be back.
    “Was he working on anything out of the ordinary?” asked Astor.
    “He was seeing Miss Evans quite a bit,” replied Mrs. Kennedy. “She’s his executive assistant. She handles many of his day-to-day assignments—correspondence with our partners, issues with the listed companies and those wishing to list, just about everything.”
    “Sharp gal,” added Thomasson, still standing in the doorway. “English. She worked for one of the big banks for a few years. She’s been with us fourteen months.”
    “May I speak with her?”
    “She’s not in yet,” said Dolores Kennedy.
    Astor checked his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock. “Is she sick?”
    Kennedy shot the security agent, Thomasson, a worried glance before returning her attention to him. “She isn’t answering her phone.”
    “Do you mind if I try to contact her?”
    “I’m not permitted to give you that information.”
    “Please, Dolores. It would mean the world.”
    She looked back at Thomasson, who nodded. “All right, then,” she said. “Stay right here. I’ll print up her phone and address.”
    Kennedy left the room and Thomasson stepped away to answer a call. Suddenly alone, Astor spotted his chance. Moving quickly, he made a reconnaissance of his father’s desk. He opened the top drawer. A leather-bound agenda with the current year stenciled in gold print lay inside. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the cover. The agenda would be considered evidence. Taking it would constitute obstruction of justice, an offense that he knew from his ex-wife counted as a felony. The doorway remained clear. This was hardly the time to worry about the law. Astor snatched the agenda and tucked it into the rear of his trousers, taking care to arrange his jacket over it.
    Hardly a second later, Dolores Kennedy returned. “She lives at 1133 Elm Street, Greenwich,” she said, waving a flap of paper. “I’ll give