Tony Rizzoli had turned to an alternate plan. He had arranged for a mule—in this case, a seventy-year-old tourist named Sara Murchison who was visiting her daughter in Athens—to take a suitcase back to New York for him. She had no idea what she would be carrying.
“It’s some souvenirs I promised to send my mother,” Tony Rizzoli explained, “and because you’re nice enough to do this, I want to pay for your ticket.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sara Murchison protested. “I’m happy to do it for you. I live not far from your mother’s apartment. I look forward to meeting her.”
“And I’m sure she’d like to meet you too,” Tony Rizzoli said glibly. “The problem is, she’s pretty sick. But there will be someone there to take the suitcase.”
She was perfect for the job—a sweet, all-American grandmother. The only thing customs would be worrying about her smuggling would be knitting needles.
Sara Murchison was to leave for New York the following morning.
“I’ll pick you up and drive you to the airport.”
“Why, thank you. What a thoughtful young man you are. Your mother must be very proud of you.”
“Yes. We’re very close.” His mother had been dead for ten years.
The following morning, as Rizzoli was about to leave his hotel for the warehouse to pick up the package, his telephone rang.
“Mr. Rizzoli?” It was a stranger’s voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Patsaka at the Athens Hospital emergency ward. We have a Mrs. Sara Murchison here. She tripped and fell last night and broke her hip. She was very anxious for me to tell you how sorry…”
Tony Rizzoli slammed the phone down. “Merda!” That was two in a row. Where was he going to find another mule?
Rizzoli knew he had to be careful. There was a rumor that a hotshot American narcotics agent was in Athens working with the Greek authorities. They were watching all exits from Athens, and planes and ships were routinely being searched.
As if that weren’t enough, there was another problem. One of his gowsters—a thief who was an addict—had informed him that the police were beginning to search warehouses, looking for stored drugs and other contraband. The pressure was mounting. It was time to explain the situation to the Family.
Tony Rizzoli left his hotel and walked down Patission Street toward the City Telephone Exchange. He was not sure whether his hotel phone was being bugged, but he did not want to risk the chance.
Number 85 Patission was a large brownstone building with a row of pillars in front and a plaque that read: O.T.E. Rizzoli walked into the entry and looked around. Two dozen telephone booths lined the walls, each one numbered. Shelves were filled with telephone directories from all over the world. In the center of the room was a desk where four clerks were taking orders for calls to be placed. People were lined up waiting to be put through.
Tony Rizzoli approached one of the women behind the desk. “Good morning,” he said.
“Can I help you?”
“I’d like to place an overseas call.”
“There will be a thirty-minute wait, I’m afraid.”
“No problem.”
“Would you give me the country and the number, please?”
Tony Rizzoli hesitated. “Sure.” He handed a piece of paper to the woman. “I’d like to make the call collect.”
“Your name?”
“Brown. Tom Brown.”
“Very well, Mr. Brown. I will call you when it comes through.”
“Thank you.”
He went over to one of the benches across the room and sat down.
I could try to hide the package in an automobile, and pay someone to drive it across the border. But that’s risky; cars are searched. Maybe if I could find another…
“Mr. Brown…Mr. Tom Brown…” The name was repeated twice before Rizzoli realized it was for him. He rose and hurried over to the desk.
“Your party is accepting the call. Booth seven, please.”
“Thank you. By the way, could I have the piece of paper back that I gave you? I’ll need the number again.”
“Certainly.” She handed him back the slip.
Tony Rizzoli walked into booth seven and closed the door.
“Hello.”
“Tony? Is that you?”