Fueled by caffeine, she planned to sprint the tortuous stairs leading up to the town of Firá in under ten minutes. She glanced at her watch. No, today she’d break nine—give her something additional to celebrate at breakfast.
Outside, the brisk, salty air greeted her. “Morning, Piers.” She hopped over the Aphrodite’s transom. A former Koevoet operative from South Africa, her father’s lead bodyguard was climbing out of the ocean-racing Donzi berthed next to the Aphrodite, his shoulders straightening as she appeared, his weather-beaten face breaking into a grin.
“Morning, Ms. Paris. Wager?”
She could listen to his accent all day. “Double or nothing for under nine minutes.” The two of them made bets on anything and everything, but no one ever paid up.
“You’re on.”
She laughed. For her, he always had warmth in his blue eyes. Perhaps because traveling with Christos meant Piers rarely saw his own daughter.
The crisp December breeze raised goose bumps on Thea’s arms and legs, but she wouldn’t be cold for long. A quick wave to Piers, and she headed for the bottom of the stone stairs leading up to Santorini’s capital, Aegis staying in step with her. She was grateful it wasn’t the middle of summer, when out-of-shape tourists saddled donkeys to climb the cliffside or created endless serpentines along the wharf waiting for the cable car.
At the base of the steps, an old woman wrapped in a tattered blanket huddled in a corner. She’d obviously spent the night outside. Her face was heavily lined, her skin sallow, but her eyes were bright and aware. Aegis sniffed her toes, then rubbed against her legs.
Thea found the twenty-euro note she kept in her shorts for emergencies and slipped it into the woman’s hand. “Kala Hristouyienna,” she said, smiling, wishing her a merry Christmas. She’d bring the woman some food from the yacht after finishing her run.
“Efxaristo.” The old woman tightened her fist around the bill and scurried down the pier, as if afraid her benefactor might rescind the gift.
Thea stretched her hamstrings, calves, and quads, then did a few squats to warm up while Aegis paced. Breathing deeply, she admired the stunning vista of the crescent-shaped caldera, the craters of volcanic eruptions in ancient times. Today, Santorini was peaceful, the cerulean sky complementing the dark sapphire waters.
The Aphrodite’s sleek lines and brilliant white fiberglass hull blended well with Santorini’s low-lying, whitewashed architecture. She gave a little salute toward the tinted windows of the yacht’s upper deck. No doubt Papa was standing behind one, setting his own stopwatch to verify her time.
“Lead the way, Aegis.” While the ridgeback rocketed forward, Thea clipped her phone to the back of her shorts, pressed the start button on her Garmin stopwatch, and zoomed up the wide cobblestone steps, her eyes focused slightly ahead of her feet. The uneven surfaces presented a challenge for every footfall.
The stench of the donkey droppings barely registered. She flew past a few restaurateurs sweeping their verandas, preparing for the day’s celebrations. Already, her lungs seared, her calves burned. She negotiated the switchbacks, lunging upward. Her legs were metronomes, her heart a jackhammer.
She reached the halfway point and glanced at her Garmin.
4:38.
Gotta move faster.
The air thinned. Her feet skimmed the cobblestones, barely touching before lifting off again. Moisture dampened her chest. Her long, dark hair matted against her neck. Her body begged her to slow down, but Aegis spurred her on. He led by several steps, as always. Damn, that dog was in great shape.
6:12.
Her cell buzzed against her spine. Whoever it was could wait three minutes.
The final leg of her climb would present the toughest challenge, the cobblestones worn and slick. She bore down. In spite of her intense concentration, a familiar face sprang to mind. Rif. He’d be at Papa’s party tonight. Was he the one calling?
She wasn’t exactly in the mood to see Rifat Asker, but she’d get over it. Apparently he had uncovered more information from their African contacts regarding Chinese-manufactured weapons floating around the continent. That could be interesting to hear firsthand.
Her thoughts distracted her, and she missed a step. She flailed for endless microseconds, her right foot landing hard on the wrong step, but regrouped. Legs pumping like pistons, she sprinted up the last set of stairs, rechanneling her concentration and breathing. A stitch flared in her side.
8:26.
Her phone buzzed again. Forget the call. Forget Rif. Forget everything. Her arms acted as counterweights, propelling her forward and upward. Five steps . . . three . . . one. She reached the top and slapped her finger on the timer.
8:57.
Her best time yet.