“Yeah. How are you, Pete?”
“To tell you the truth, we’re a little concerned, Tony. The boys expected the package to be on its way by now.”
“I’ve had some problems.”
“Has the package been sent?”
“No. It’s still here.”
There was a silence. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, Tony.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to it. I just have to find another way of getting it out of here. There are goddamned narcs all over the place.”
“We’re talking ten million dollars, Tony.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll figure out something.”
“You do that, Tony. You figure out something.”
The line went dead.
A man in a gray suit watched as Tony Rizzoli moved toward the exit. He approached the woman behind the desk.
“Signomi. Do you see that man who’s just leaving?”
The woman looked up. “Ochi?”
“I want to know what number he called.”
“I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to give out that information.”
The man reached into his back pocket and took out a wallet. There was a gold shield pinned to it. “Police. I’m Inspector Tinou.”
Her expression changed. “Oh. He handed me a slip of paper with a number on it, and then he took it back.”
“But you made a copy for your records?”
“Oh, yes, we always do that.”
“Would you give me the number, please?”
“Of course.”
She wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to the inspector. He studied it a moment. The country code was 39, and the exchange was 91. Italy. Palermo.
“Thank you. Do you happen to remember what name the man gave you?”
“Yes. It was Brown. Tom Brown.”
The telephone conversation had made Tony Rizzoli nervous. He had to go to the bathroom. Damn Pete Lucca! Ahead, on the corner of Kolonaki Square, Rizzoli saw a sign: APOHORITIRION, w.c. Men and women alike were walking through the doorway to use the same facilities. And the Greeks call themselves civilized, Rizzoli thought. Disgusting.
There were four men seated around the conference table in the villa in the mountains above Palermo.
“The stuff should’ve been sent already, Pete,” one of them complained. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure. The problem may be Tony Rizzoli.”
“We’ve never had no trouble with Tony before.”
“I know—but sometimes people get greedy. I think maybe we better send someone to Athens to check things out.”
“Too bad. I always liked Tony.”
At No. 10 Stadiou Street, police headquarters in downtown Athens, a conference was being held. In the room were chief of police Livreri Dmitri, Inspector Tinou, and an American, Lieutenant Walt Kelly, an agent with the Customs Division of the U.S. Treasury Department.
“We have word,” Kelly was saying, “that a big drug deal is going to take place. The shipment is going out of Athens. Tony Rizzoli is involved.”
Inspector Tinou sat silent. The Greek police department did not welcome interference from other countries in their affairs. Particularly Americans. They are always too-sou, so sure of themselves.
The chief of police spoke up. “We are already working on it, Lieutenant. Tony Rizzoli made a phone call to Palermo a little while ago. We’re tracing the number now. When we have that, we’ll have his source.”
The telephone on his desk rang. Dmitri and Inspector Tinou looked at each other.
Inspector Tinou picked up the phone. “Did you get it?” He listened a moment, his face expressionless, then replaced the receiver.
“Well?”
“They traced the number.”
“And?”
“The call was made to a public telephone booth in the town square.”
“Gamoto!”
“Our Mr. Rizzoli is very inch eskipnos.”
Walt Kelly said impatiently, “I don’t speak Greek.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. It means he’s cunning.”
Kelly said, “I’d like you to increase the surveillance on him.”
The arrogance of the man. Chief Dmitri turned to Inspector Tinou. “We really don’t have enough evidence to do more, do we?”
“No, sir. Only strong suspicions.”
Chief Dmitri turned to Walt Kelly. “I’m afraid I can’t spare enough men to follow everyone we suspect of being involved in narcotics.”
“But Rizzoli—”
“I assure you, we have our own sources, Mr. Kelly. If we get any further information, we know where to reach you.”