t police headquarters on Stadiou Street, an emergency meeting had been called. In the conference room were chief of police Dmitri, Inspector Tinou, Inspector Nicolino, Walt Kelly, the U.S. Treasury agent, and half a dozen detectives. The atmosphere was far different than it had been at the previous meeting.

Inspector Nicolino was saying, "We now have reason to believe your information was correct, Mr. Kelly. Our sources tell us that Tony Rizzoli is trying to find a way to smuggle a very large shipment of heroin out of Athens. We have already begun a search of possible warehouses where he might have stored it."

"Did you put a tail on Rizzoli?"

"We increased the number of men this morning," Chief Dmitri said.

Walt Kelly sighed. "I hope to God it isn't too late."

Inspector Nicolino assigned two teams of detectives to handle the surveillance on Tony Rizzoli, but he underestimated his subject. By afternoon Rizzoli became aware that he had company. Whenever he left the little hotel he was staying at, he was followed, and when he returned, someone was always casually loitering in the background. They were real professionals. Rizzoli liked that. It was a sign of respect for him.

He now not only had to find a way to get the heroin out of Athens, but he was going to have a priceless antiquity to smuggle out. Alfredo Mancuso and Gino La-veri are on my back, and the police are all over me like a wet blanket. I've got to make a contact fast. The only name that immediately came to mind was Ivo Bruggi, a small-time ship owner in Rome. Rizzoli had done business with Bruggi in the past. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

Rizzoli was certain that the telephone in his hotel room was tapped. I've got to have a setup where I can receive calls at the hotel. He sat there thinking for a long time. Finally, he rose and walked over to the room across the hall and knocked at the door. It was opened by an elderly, sour-faced man.

"Yeah?"

Rizzoli turned on the charm. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm sorry to bother you. I'm your neighbor across the hall. I wonder if I could come in and talk to you for a minute?"

The man studied him suspiciously. "Lemme see you open the door to your room."

Tony Rizzoli smiled. "Certainly." He stepped across the hall, took out his key, and opened the door.

The man nodded. "All right. Come in."

Tony Rizzoli closed his door and went into the room across the hall.

"What do you want?"

"It's really a personal problem, and I hate to trouble you, but...Well, the truth is, I'm in the middle of getting a divorce, and my wife is having me followed." He shook his head in disgust. "She even had the phone in my room bugged."

"Women!" his neighbor growled. "God damn them. I divorced my wife last year. I should've done it ten years ago.

"Really? Anyway, what I was wondering was if you would be good enough to let me give a couple of friends your room number so they can telephone me here. I promise you there won't be many calls."

The man started to shake his head. "I can't be bother - "

Rizzoli pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. "This is for your trouble."

The man licked his lips. "Oh. Well, sure," he said. "I guess it'll be all right. I'm glad to do a fellow sufferer a favor."

"That's certainly kind of you. Whenever there's a call for me, just knock at my door. I'll be here most of the time."

"Right."

Early the following morning, Rizzoli walked to a public pay station to telephone Ivo Bruggi. He dialed the operator and put in a call for Rome.

"Signor Bruggi, per piacere."

"Non ce in casa."

"Quando arrivera?"

"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..."

"Yes, he would. I can promise you that Mr. Demiris will be happy to give you anything you want."

"Why? What does he get out of it?"

"Nothing."

"That doesn't make sense. Why would Demiris make a deal like that?"

"I'm glad you asked." Lambrou pressed down the intercom button: "Bring in some coffee, please." He looked at Tony Rizzoli. "How do you like yours?"

"Er - black, no sugar."

"Black, no sugar, for Mr. Rizzoli."

When the coffee had been served and his secretary had left the office, Spyros Lambrou said: "I'm going to tell you a little story, Mr. Rizzoli."

Tony Rizzoli was watching him, wary. "Shoot."

"Constantin Demiris is married to my sister. A number of years ago he took on a mistress. Her name was Noelle Page."

"The actress, right?"

"Yes. She cheated on him with a man named Larry Douglas. Noelle and Douglas went on trial for murdering Douglas's wife because she wouldn't give him a divorce. Constantin Demiris hired a lawyer named Napoleon Chotas to defend Noelle."

"I remember reading something about the trial."

"There are some things that were not in the newspapers. You see, my dear brother-in-law had no intention of saving his unfaithful mistress's life. He wanted vengeance. He hired Napoleon Chotas to see that Noelle was convicted. Near the end of the trial, Napoleon Chotas told the defendants he had made a deal with the judges if they pleaded guilty. It was a lie. They pleaded guilty. And they were executed."

"Maybe this Chotas really thought that..."

"Let me finish, please. The body of Catherine Douglas was never found. The reason it was never found, Mr. Rizzoli, is because she is alive. Constantin Demiris had her hidden away."

Tony Rizzoli was staring at him. "Wait a minute. Demiris knew she was alive, and he let his mistress and her boyfriend go to their deaths for killing her?"

"Exactly. I'm not sure precisely what the law is, but I am sure that if the facts were to come out, my brother-in-law would spend a good deal of time in prison. At the very least, he would certainly be ruined."

Tony Rizzoli sat there, thinking about what he had just heard. There was something puzzling him. "Mr. Lambrou, why are you telling me this?"

Spyros Lambrou's lips moved in a beatific smile. "Because I owe my brother-in-law a favor. I want you to go see him. I have a feeling he'll be very happy to let you use his ships."