Whoever had made that mechanical call—her team had tracked it down to an untraceable burner phone—obviously had inside information. Hell, it could have been the kidnappers themselves. Now that the news about the oil baron’s abduction had been announced in the press, the US government was in an uproar about the head of Paris Industries being taken captive. And her boss, Stephen Kelly, the deputy director of the Hostage Recovery Fusion Cell, had mobilized a full support team to back her up while he updated the Special Presidential Envoy for Hostage Affairs. If there was one thing that fueled the political machine, it was access to oil.
During the flight, she’d immersed herself in the Paris family dossier. The son’s kidnapping had the same tragic feeling as the Lindbergh saga, except Christos’s son had been lucky enough to come home alive. Now in his thirties, Nikos Paris ran a Kanzi-based import/export business that funded a large charity for orphans that he co-sponsored with his sister. Not involved in Paris Industries at all. Wonder why not? Still, good to see that he’d recovered from his own ordeal and was helping children. Not every hostage was lucky enough to return to a functional life.
The patriarch of the family had a reputation as a ruthless, self-made tycoon. He’d lost his first wife in a sailing accident. After that, he’d been married four more times; currently he was in wedded bliss with a Frenchwoman named Helena.
Thea Paris, the only daughter, worked at one of the world’s preeminent K&R firms as a response consultant, probably motivated to join the fight because of her brother’s kidnapping. In her field, she was the only female operative, known for her ability to free hostages under the direst circumstances.
No one in the Paris household did anything halfway. A psychiatrist would have a field day with this family.
The bell rang on the baggage carousel, jolting her out of her reverie. Finally. Gabrielle scanned the bags, looking for her hard-case Samsonite. Inspector Maximillian Heros would be picking her up—and, knowing Max, he’d have updated information on the case. The last time they’d been together, she’d been working at the State Department, and he’d unearthed critical information that’d helped her clear her case. The celebration afterward had led them to the hotel room. One night only—that was her creed. And no pillow talk. Her sister accused her of acting like a guy in her encounters. Gabrielle took it as a compliment.
Grabbing her Samsonite, she headed for the exit. The double doors opened to reveal the Greek police inspector in question leaning against his sleek silver Aston Martin, a lazy smile on his face.
“Looks like the olive business is booming.” She’d almost forgotten that Max was filthy rich, his family one of the premier olive oil producers in Greece. Well, he could buy lunch. She was on a government salary.
He stepped onto the concrete sidewalk and opened his arms. “I have a welcome present for you.”
His familiar scent of tobacco and vanilla brought back vivid memories of their night together. She sidestepped his embrace, handing him her suitcase instead. “Christos Paris has been returned to his rightful throne, and I can enjoy an authentic Greek salad before returning home?”
He laughed, a deep rumble. “I see you have not lost your admiration of the hoi oligoi.”
“I have the utmost empathy for kidnapped oil billionaires whose business my government relies upon.” The corners of her lips turned upward, and she lit the Gitanes.
“You are a cruel woman—maybe that is why I cannot forget you.” He stowed her suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the soft black leather seat.
He climbed in and fired the engine. The V12 erupted in a throaty roar.
“About that present . . .” She inhaled deeply, the cigarette delivering a much-needed nicotine hit.
“Paris was snatched from his yacht in Santorini. Had to be by chopper, but a helicopter has a limited range. Paris is a hero in Greece, so it wouldn’t be safe to house him here. I checked the private airports, looking at flight manifests, and one plane stood out.” He shifted into gear and passed her a Post-it note. “I got this from a friend via the Interpol I-24/7 line—it’s the tail number. I’m taking you to the private airport where it refueled.”
“The list of suspects is endless at this point,” she offered. “We’ve had a huge surge in chatter from ISIS in the last twenty-four hours. Grabbing someone with Paris’s wealth could yield a bounty that would swell their coffers for years to come.” She didn’t state the obvious: that he could also be used as a political bargaining chip. “Things could get very difficult for the man.”
“I’ve known Christos for years. Same circles. He’s tough—he’ll be fine.”