He slumped back in his seat. He felt beaten and exhausted, as though he had just been through some terrible battle. But had he won or lost?
When the taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Grande Bretagne, Korontzis said to the driver, “Wait here, please.” He took a last look at the precious package on the backseat, then got out and quickly walked into the lobby of the hotel. Inside the door he turned and watched. A man was entering the taxi. A moment later it sped away.
So. It was done. I’ll never have to do anything like this again, Korontzis thought. Not as long as I live. The nightmare is over.
At three o’clock Sunday afternoon, Tony Rizzoli walked out of his hotel and strolled toward the Platia Omonia. He was wearing a bright red check jacket, green trousers, and a red beret. Two detectives were trailing him. One of them said, “He must have gone shopping for those clothes at a circus.”
At Metaxa Street, Rizzoli hailed a taxi. The detective spoke into his walkie-talkie. “The subject is getting into a taxi heading west.”
A voice replied, “We see him. We’re following. Return to the hotel.”
“Right.”
An unmarked gray sedan pulled in behind the taxi, keeping a discreet distance. The taxi headed south, past Monastiraki. In the sedan, the detective seated next to the driver picked up the hand microphone.
“Central. This is Unit four. The subject is in a taxi. It’s driving down Philhellinon Street…Wait. They just turned right at Peta Street. It looks like he’s headed for the Plaka. We might lose him in there. Can you have a detail follow him on foot?”
“Just a minute, Unit four.” A few seconds later, the radio crackled back to life. “Unit four. We have assistance available. If he gets off at the Plaka, he’ll be kept under surveillance.”
“Kala. The subject is wearing a red check jacket, green trousers, and a red beret. He’s hard to miss. Wait a minute. The taxi is stopping. He’s getting out at the Plaka.”
“We’ll pass on the information. He’s covered. You’re clear. Out.”
At the Plaka, two detectives were watching as the man emerged from the taxi.
“Where the hell did he buy that outfit?” one of the detectives wondered aloud.
They closed in behind him and began to follow him through the crowded maze of the old section of the city. For the next hour he strolled aimlessly through the streets, wandering past tavernas, bars, souvenir shops, and small art galleries. He walked down Anaphiotika and stopped to browse at a flea market filled with swords, daggers, muskets, cooking pots, candlesticks, oil lamps, and binoculars.
“What the hell is he up to?”
“It looks like he’s just out for an afternoon stroll. Hold it. There he goes.”
They followed as he turned into Aghiou Geronda and headed for Xinos restaurant. The two detectives stood outside at a distance, watching him order.
The detectives were beginning to get bored. “I hope he makes a move soon. I’d like to go home. I could use a nap.”
“Stay awake. If we lose him, Nicolino will have our ass.”
“How can we lose him? He stands out like a beacon.”
The other detective was staring at him.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said…”
“Never mind.” There was a sudden urgency in his voice. “Did you get a look at his face?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. Tiflo! Come on.”
The two detectives hurried into the restaurant and strode up to his table.
They were looking into the face of a complete stranger.
Inspector Nicolino was in a fury. “I had three teams assigned to follow Rizzoli. How could you lose him?”
“He pulled a switch on us, Inspector. The first team saw him get into a taxi and…”
“And they lost the taxi?”
“No, sir. We watched him get out. Or at least we thought it was him. He was wearing a wild outfit. Rizzoli had another passenger hidden in the taxi, and the two men switched clothes. We followed the wrong man.”
“And Rizzoli rode away in the taxi.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you get the license number?”
“Well, no, sir. It—it didn’t seem important.”