“Everyone has a breaking point. For his sake, I hope this is a criminal kidnap, not a political one. Theo Padnos had a hell of a time in captivity with al-Nusra.” In political cases, the kidnappers were motivated by ideology. She remembered the debriefing report from the American journalist’s case. Padnos had been beaten, kept in solitary confinement in a Syrian-run prison, exposed to extreme cold, and even buried alive for half an hour. When he first returned home, he barely ate or slept, his thoughts scattered, his emotions mercurial, swinging from elation to crying fits. If terrorists had kidnapped Christos Paris, he wouldn’t come back the same man, if he came back at all.
“Padnos is lucky to be alive. I wonder if his captors knew about his book Undercover Muslim. The guy converted to Islam and studied at one of the most radical mosques, and his book might be considered apostasy in Islamic circles.” Max shook his head.
“All hostages have secrets, and those secrets can get them killed.”
“Going to tell me yours?”
“I’m not your hostage.”
“You could be.”
“Focus on the case, Max.”
“Paris’s daughter is in Athens. We’ll go see her after we finish at the hangar.”
Max’s foot pressed the gas pedal, the force of the acceleration thrusting Gabrielle back against her headrest. She typed the plane’s tail number into her cell and texted Ernest, the researcher on her team, asking him to procure all the information he could.
The Aston Martin threaded the corners, riding low to the ground. They drove to the coast, soaking in the scenic landscape and relentless sunshine. But Gabrielle’s mood was dark—she didn’t want to see Christos Paris in an orange jumpsuit being paraded on a world stage for political gain. There had been enough of those videos.
“We’re here.” Max’s baritone brought her back to the present. They snaked along the paved driveway leading to the small airport. It was nestled on the coast, a perfect locale if someone wanted to transfer illegal cargo—or a kidnap victim—from a helicopter to a plane without drawing unnecessary attention.
He pulled into the closest parking space near the air traffic control building. She stubbed out her cigarette. Her phone chimed. An encrypted text from her boss: The team ID’d three ISIS training camps in Syria. Unusual activity at one. Looking into the possibility of Paris being held there. Also tracking all ships and planes leaving Greece around the time of the kidnapping. Will keep you posted.
Was it possible that Paris was being held by ISIS? She stashed her cell in her purse. Before she could open her door, Max was already opening it for her.
They hurried up the steps and entered the building. Max flashed his badge and smiled at the receptionist, and they were immediately ushered into a rear office. Photos of Santorini covered the hallway walls, the famous whitewashed church with the blue dome featured prominently. Hard to imagine a more beautiful place—definitely not your typical kidnapping site.
The airport manager had just finished his lunch and was wiping his gaunt face with a napkin. The scent of hummus dredged up memories for Gabrielle of her late mother’s version of the dish.
Max identified himself in Greek and asked if the man spoke English.
He nodded. “Konstantin Philippoussis.”
“This is Gabrielle Farrah from the United States.”
“Yes, America.” The cadaverous man had a heavy accent, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence.
“Have you visited?” she asked, trying to establish a bond.
“Never. But my daughter like big statue with crown.”
“The Statue of Liberty, in New York City. A gift from France.”
“We’re interested in any information you have on this plane’s tail number.” Max passed him the Post-it.
Konstantin wrinkled his brow. “Yes, I remember. Nice legs.”
Max laughed. “I never forget a pair myself. Who were these attached to?”
“Asian lady. She floated on high heels like exotic petalouda.”
Gabrielle gave Max an inquiring look.
“Butterfly,” he translated. “When was this?”
“Yesterday, after I start work. The plane fly away after she come.”
“Was she alone?”
Konstantin nodded.
“Did she take a cab, rent a car?”
“A white limo pick her up.” He pointed out his window. “I saw those legs when she got in.”
“What about the plane? Did the pilot file a flight plan?”
“One minute.” He trudged out of the office.
Max shrugged. “Might just be some wealthy Asian woman visiting the sights.”
“Christos Paris was supposed to negotiate for the Kanzi oil rights later this week. His main competition is the Chinese National Oil Company.”
“You see conspiracies everywhere. . . .”
Konstantin shuffled back in. “No flight plan. Either the pilot not file one, or it is lost.”
Dammit. She was hoping for a lead on the plane’s destination. They’d have to find the woman instead. Max would be able to discover her identity—there couldn’t be that many white limos driving Asian women in Athens.
Her phone buzzed. She scrutinized the text from Ernest while Max continued questioning Konstantin: Tail number belongs to a Belgian shell corporation connected with Ares arms deals. Will continue to dig.
Gabrielle’s palms dampened. Ares had a reputation for financing the abductions of prominent CEOs. Had he just landed the mother lode?
Chapter Eighteen