The Atlantis revelation

12

Vadim was parked across from the service entrance of the Andros Palace in the dark, making his calls while he waited for Mercedes to emerge. He set his 9mm Rook on the passenger seat next to his copy of The Four-Hour Workweek.

Despite his boasting to Yeats, his Vadimin vitamin supplements were not selling as well as he had hoped. So while Yeats was undoubtedly making love to Sir Midas's French blyad, Vadim was on his cell phone making calls on behalf of the collection agency Midas owned in Bangalore to shake down money from customers behind on their credit card payments. He took perverse pleasure in squeezing money from the debt-ridden pockets of Americans and their knowledge that foreigners were doing it.

A figure stepped outside the hotel-Yeats, from the looks of him at a distance-and climbed into a black BMW 7 series sedan. Vadim started his car and caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. He saw the patch over his eye and cursed. The BMW drove off.

Vadim pulled out and had started to follow it around front when Mercedes emerged from the hotel's main entrance and walked toward him. He stopped and let her climb in the back.

"You were supposed to kill him," Vadim said as he drove off after the BMW.

"So were you," she said sharply. "He's going to the airstrip."

Vadim looked up in the mirror. "And from there?"

"Athens, Dubai, God knows where," she said. "I invited him to my place in Paris."

Very clever, Vadim thought. She had guessed that Vadim's orders were to kill her as soon as she killed Yeats. This way she had hoped to keep herself alive a while longer. But if Yeats got off the island alive, Vadim's orders were to kill Mercedes instantly and make it appear that Yeats had done it. The time of death would be vital for the Greek coroner's report.

The car with Yeats stopped ahead. Two police cars were blocking its path. Vadim slowed down and watched as the police made the passenger step out of the limousine for inspection. Only it wasn't Yeats. It was a slightly younger man-Chris Andros III, the Greek billionaire.

"What is the meaning of this?" Andros asked.

"Signomi, Kyrios Andros. We thought you were somebody else."

"Obviously, you're mistaken. What do you want?"

"Where are you going?"

"My jet. I have business in Athens, as you know."

"Our apologies," the police officer said.

Vadim didn't bother to watch Andros get back in his sedan; he had already reversed course and was driving back on a small dirt road. In the mirror, he could see Mercedes getting nervous.

"Where are you taking me?" she said.

Vadim pulled to a stop and looked over his shoulder at her. She was scared. She should be. "Did you lift Dr. Yeats's fingerprints like Sir Midas requested?"

"Yes, off a bottle of wine," she said, and handed him a white card with Dr. Yeats's fingerprints trapped on clear tape. "What is Conrad supposed to have done now?"

"Killed you with this gun," said Vadim as he leveled his Rook over the seat and shot her twice in the chest.