“Signor Bruggi, per piacere.”
“Non cè in casa.”
“Quando arriverà?”
“Non lo so.”
“Gli dica, per favore, di chiamare il Signor Rizzoli.”
Rizzoli left the telephone number of the switchboard at his hotel and the room number of his neighbor. He went back to his room. He hated the room. Someone had told him that the Greek word for hotel was xenodochion, meaning a container for strangers. It’s more like a fucking prison, Rizzoli thought. The furniture was ugly: an old green sofa, two battered end tables with lamps, a little writing desk with a lamp and desk chair, and a bed designed by Torquemada.
For the next two days Tony Rizzoli stayed in his room, waiting for a knock on the door, sending a bellboy out for food. No call. Where the fuck is Ivo Bruggi?
The surveillance team was reporting to Inspector Nicolino and Walt Kelly. “Rizzoli’s holed up in his hotel. He hasn’t budged for forty-eight hours.”
“Are you sure he’s in there?”
“Yes, sir. The maids see him in the morning and at night when they make up his room.”
“What about phone calls?”
“Not a one. What do you want us to do?”
“Sit tight. He’ll make his move sooner or later. And make sure the tap on his phone is working.”
The following day, the telephone in Rizzoli’s room rang. Shit! Bruggi shouldn’t have been calling him in this room. He had left a message for the idiot to call him in his neighbor’s room. He would have to be careful. Rizzoli picked up the telephone.
“Yes?”
A voice said, “Is this Tony Rizzoli?”
It was not Ivo Bruggi’s voice. “Who is this?”
“You came to see me at my office the other day with a business proposition, Mr. Rizzoli. I turned you down. I think perhaps you and I should discuss it again.”
Tony Rizzoli felt a sudden thrill of exaltation. Spyros Lambrou! So the bastard has come around. He could not believe his good luck. All my problems are solved. I can ship the heroin and the antique at the same time.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be happy to discuss it. When would you like to meet?”
“Can you make it this afternoon?”
So, he’s hungry to make a deal. The fucking rich are all the same. They never have enough. “Fine. Where?”
“Why don’t you come to my office?”
“I’ll be there.” Tony Rizzoli replaced the receiver, elated.
In the lobby of the hotel, a frustrated detective was reporting to headquarters. “Rizzoli just received a telephone call. He’s going to meet someone at his office, but the man didn’t give a name and we can’t trace the call.”
“All right. Cover him when he leaves the hotel. Let me know where he goes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later, Tony Rizzoli was crawling out a basement window leading to an alley behind the hotel. He changed taxis twice to make sure he was not being followed, and headed for Spyros Lambrou’s office.
From the day Spyros Lambrou had visited Melina in the hospital, he had vowed to avenge his sister. But he had been unable to think of a punishment terrible enough for Constantin Demiris. Then, with the visit from Georgios Lato, and the startling news that Madame Piris had given him, a weapon had been put into his hands that was going to destroy his brother-in-law.
His secretary announced: “A Mr. Anthony Rizzoli is here to see you, Mr. Lambrou. He has no appointment and I told him you couldn’t…”
“Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Spyros Lambrou watched as Rizzoli walked through the doorway, smiling and confident.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Rizzoli.”
Tony Rizzoli grinned. “My pleasure. So, you’ve decided you and I are going to do business together, huh?”
“No.”
Tony Rizzoli’s smile faded. “What did you say?”
“I said no. I have no intention of doing business with you.”
Tony Rizzoli stared at him, baffled. “Then what the hell did you call me for? You said you had a proposition for me and…”
“I do. How would you like to have the use of Constantin Demiris’s fleet of ships?”
Tony Rizzoli sank into a chair. “Constantin Demiris? What are you talking about? He’d never…”