There was a small line at Olympic Airways. When Atanas reached the head of the line, he handed the clerk his ticket. “Is the flight on time?”
“Yes.” The clerk looked at the name on the ticket, Atanas Stavich. He looked up at Atanas again, then glanced at a man standing nearby and nodded. The man walked over to the ticket counter.
“May I see your ticket?”
Atanas handed him the ticket. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
The man said, “I’m afraid we’ve overbooked this flight. If you’d like to come into the office, I’ll try to straighten everything out.”
Atanas shrugged. “All right.” He followed the man toward the office, filled with a feeling of euphoria. Demiris was probably out of jail by now. He was too important a man for the law to touch him. Everything had gone perfectly. He would take the fifty thousand dollars and put it into one of his Swiss numbered accounts. Then a little vacation. The Riviera perhaps, or Rio. He liked the male prostitutes in Rio.
Atanas walked into the office and stopped, staring. He turned pale. “You’re dead! You’re dead! I killed you!” It was a scream.
Atanas was still screaming when they led him out of the room and into a police van. They watched him leave, and Alan Hamilton turned to Catherine. “It’s over now, darling. It’s finally over.”
Chapter Thirty-two
In the basement, several hours earlier, Catherine had tried desperately to free her hands. The more she struggled, the tighter the rope became. Her fingers were getting numb. She kept looking over at the dial on the boiler. The needle had reached 250 degrees. When that dial reaches 400 degrees, the boiler will explode. There has to be a way out of this, Catherine thought. There has to be! Her eyes lit on the brandy bottle that Atanas had dropped on the floor. She stared at it and her heart began to pound wildly. There is a chance! If only she could…Catherine slumped down against the post and stretched out her feet toward the bottle. It was out of reach. She slid down farther, the splinters of the wooden post tearing into her back. The bottle was an inch away. Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. One more try, she thought. Just one more. She slumped down farther, her back raked with splinters, and pushed again, with all her strength. One foot touched the bottle. Careful. Don’t push it away. Slowly, slowly, she hooked the neck of the bottle on the rope that bound her ankles. Very carefully, she pulled her feet in, drawing the bottle closer. Finally, it was next to her.
She looked up at the dial. It had climbed to 280 degrees. She was fighting panic. Slowly, she inched the bottle in back of her with her feet. Her fingers found it but they were too numb to get a grip on it, and they were slippery with the blood from her wrists where the rope had cut into them.
The basement was getting hotter. She tried again. The bottle slipped away. Catherine glanced at the dial on the boiler. 300 now, and the dial seemed to be racing upward. Steam was beginning to pour out of the boiler. She tried again to get a grip on the bottle.
There! She had the bottle in her bound hands. Holding it tightly, she raised her arms and slid them down the post, smashing the glass bottle down against the concrete. Nothing happened. She cried aloud with frustration. She tried it again. Nothing. The dial was climbing inexorably upward. 350! Catherine took another deep breath and slammed the bottle down with all her strength. She heard the bottle shatter. Thank God! Moving as quickly as she dared, Catherine gripped the broken neck of the bottle in one hand and started to saw at the ropes with the other. The glass cut into her wrists but she ignored the pain. She felt one strand snap and then another. And suddenly her hand was free. She hurriedly loosened the rope on the other hand and untied the ropes binding her ankles. The dial had reached 380. Heavy jets of steam were pouring out of the furnace. Catherine struggled to her ankles. Atanas had bolted the basement door. There was no time to escape from the building before the explosion.