All right, Rizzoli thought. Now let’s see how the boys in Thailand do it.
Rizzoli’s next stop was Bangkok. When his bona fides had been established he was allowed on a Thai fishing vessel that carried drugs wrapped in polyethylene sheeting packed into empty kerosene drums, with rings attached to the top. As the shipping boats approached Hong Kong they jettisoned the drums in a neat row in shallow water around Lima and the Ladrone Islands, where it was simple for a Hong Kong fishing boat to pick them up with a grappling hook.
“Not bad,” Rizzoli said. But there has to be a better way.
The growers referred to heroin as “H” and “horse,” but to Tony Rizzoli, heroin was gold. The profits were staggering. The peasants who grew the raw opium were paid $350 for ten kilos, but by the time the opium was processed and sold on the streets of New York, its value had increased to $250,000.
It’s so easy, Rizzoli thought. Carella was right. The trick is not to get caught.
That had been in the beginning, ten years earlier. But now it was more difficult. Interpol, the international police force, had recently put drug smuggling at the top of its list. All vessels leaving the key smuggling ports that looked even slightly suspicious were boarded and searched. That was why Rizzoli had gone to Spyros Lambrou. His fleet was above suspicion. It was unlikely that the police would search one of his cargo ships. But the bastard had turned him down. I’ll find another way, Tony Rizzoli thought. But I’d better find it fast.
“Catherine—am I disturbing you?”
It was midnight. “No, Costa. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Is everything going well?”
“Yes—thanks to you. I’m really enjoying my job.”
“Good. I’ll be coming to London in a few weeks. I’ll look forward to seeing you.” Careful. Don’t push too fast. “I want to discuss some of the company’s personnel.”
“Fine.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
This time she was calling him. “Costa—I don’t know what to say. The locket is beautiful. You shouldn’t have…”
“It’s a small token, Catherine. Evelyn told me what a big help you are to her. I just wanted to express my appreciation.”
It’s so easy, Demiris thought. Little gifts and flattery.
Later: My wife and I are separating.
Then the “I’m so lonely” stage.
A vague talk of marriage and an invitation on his yacht to his island. The routine never failed. This is going to be particularly exciting, Demiris thought, because it’s going to have a different ending. She’s going to die.
He telephoned Napoleon Chotas. The lawyer was delighted to hear from him. “It’s been a while, Costa. Everything goes well?”
“Yes, thank you. I need a favor.”
“Of course.”
“Noelle Page owned a little villa in Rafina. I want you to buy it for me, under someone else’s name.”
“Certainly. I’ll have one of the lawyers in my office…”
“I want you to handle it personally.”
There was a pause. “Very well. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
Napoleon Chotas sat there, staring at the phone. The villa was the love nest where Noelle Page and Larry Douglas had carried on their affair. What could Constantin Demiris possibly want with it?
Chapter Seven
The Arsakion Courthouse in downtown Athens is a large, gray stone building that takes up the entire square block at University Street and Strada. Of the thirty courtrooms in the building, only three rooms are reserved for criminal trials: rooms 21, 30, and 33.
Because of the enormous interest generated by the murder trial of Anastasia Savalas, it was being held in Room 33. The courtroom was forty feet wide and three hundred feet long, and the seats were divided into three blocks, six feet apart, with nine wooden benches to each row. At the front of the courtroom was a raised dais behind a six-foot mahogany partition, with high-backed chairs for the three presiding judges.
In front of the dais was a witness stand, a small raised platform on which was fixed a reading lectern, and against the far wall was a jury box, filled now with its ten jurors. In front of the defendant’s box was the lawyers’ table.