“Ah, yes. Mr. Demiris told me you would be coming to see me. He mentioned that there might be a change of course?”
“Right. I’ll let you know. When will we be arriving off the coast of Florida?”
“In approximately three weeks, Mr. Rizzoli.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
Rizzoli left and strolled around the ship—his ship. The whole goddamned fleet was his. The world was his. Rizzoli was filled with a euphoria such as he had never known.
The crossing was smooth, and from time to time, Rizzoli dropped into Constantin Demiris’s cabin.
“You should have some broads on board,” Rizzoli said. “But I guess you Greeks don’t need broads, do you?”
Demiris refused to rise to the bait.
The days passed slowly, but every hour brought Rizzoli closer to his dreams. He was in a fever of impatience. A week passed, then another week, and they were nearing the North American continent.
On Saturday evening Rizzoli was standing at the ship’s rail looking out at the ocean when there was a flash of lightning.
The first mate came up to him. “We might be in for some rough weather, Mr. Rizzoli. I hope you’re a good sailor.”
Rizzoli shrugged. “Nothing bothers me.”
The sea began its swell. The ship started to dip into the sea and then buck upward as it plowed through the waves.
Rizzoli began to feel queasy. So I’m not a good sailor, he thought. What’s the difference? He owned the world. He returned to his cabin early and got into bed.
He had dreams. This time, there were no golden ships or beautiful naked girls. They were dark dreams. There was a war going on, and he could hear the roar of cannons. An explosion woke him up.
Rizzoli sat up in bed, wide awake. The cabin was rocking. The ship was in the middle of a goddamned storm. He could hear footsteps running through the corridor. What the hell was going on?
Tony Rizzoli hurried out of bed and went into the corridor. The floor suddenly listed to one side and he almost lost his balance.
“What’s happening?” he called to one of the men running past him.
“An explosion. The ship’s on fire. We’re sinking. You’d better get up on deck.”
“Sinking…?” Rizzoli could not believe it. Everything had gone so smoothly. But it doesn’t matter, Rizzoli thought. I can afford to lose this shipment. There will be plenty more. I’ve got to save Demiris. He’s the key to everything. We’ll send out a call for help. And then he remembered that he had ordered the wireless destroyed.
Fighting to keep his balance, Tony Rizzoli made his way toward the companionway and climbed up to the deck. To his surprise, he saw that the storm had cleared. The sea was smooth. A full moon had come out. There was another loud explosion, and another, and the ship started to list farther. The stern was in the water, going down rapidly. Sailors were trying to lower the lifeboats, but it was too late. The water around the ship was a mass of burning oil. Where was Constantin Demiris?
And then Rizzoli heard it. It was a whirring sound, pitched high above the thunder of the explosions. He looked up. There was a helicopter poised ten feet above the ship.
We’re saved, Rizzoli thought jubilantly. He waved frantically at the helicopter.
A face appeared at the window. It took Rizzoli a moment to realize that it was Constantin Demiris. He was smiling, and in his raised hand he was holding up the priceless amphora.
Rizzoli stared, his brain trying to put together what was happening. How had Constantin Demiris found a helicopter in the middle of the night to…?
And then Rizzoli knew, and his bowels turned to water. Constantin Demiris had never had any intention of doing business with him. The son of a bitch had planned the whole thing from the beginning. The phone call telling him that Demiris was running away—that phone call hadn’t come from Spyros Lambrou, it had come from Demiris! He had laid his trap to get him on the ship, and Rizzoli had leaped into it.
The tanker started to sink deeper, faster, and Rizzoli felt the cold ocean lapping at his feet, and then his knees. The bastard was going to let them all die here, in the middle of nowhere, where there would be no trace of what happened.