that, but I won’t,” said the senior partner. “I know when I’ve got the best and I intend to hold him. We’ll bank it for you.” Talbot paused, then spoke quietly, urgently. “Joel, I have to ask you. Did this thing a few hours ago have anything to do with the Anstett business?”
Converse gripped the telephone with such force his wrist and fingers ached. “Nothing whatsoever, Larry,” he said. “There’s no connection.”
Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos. Since Barbarossa’s conquest it had been host to successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the Meltemi winds—Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally Creeks—placed and displaced over the centuries, a small landmass alternately honored and forgotten until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft, symbols of a different age. Low-slung automobiles—Porsches, Maseratis, Jaguars—now sped over the narrow roads past starch-white windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound residents who made their livings from the sea and the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their open shirts and tight pants, their sun-burned skins serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.
Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in the time zones, it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon when the airport taxicrawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses, and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a dazzling snare for tourists; money would be left on the white-washed island; the tavernas and the shops would be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The ouzo would flow and Creek fishermen’s caps would disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying heads of suburbanites from Grosse Point and Short Hills. And when night came and the last
efharisto
and
paracalo
had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors, other games would begin—the courtiers and courtesans, the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent children of the blue Aegean, would start to play. Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were counted and spent in amounts that would stagger even those who had opulent suites on the highest decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was contrary, Mykonos was accommodating—in ways the long-ago Turks might have envied.
Joel had called the bank from the airport, not knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he expected not only a passport that would clear a spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston Halliday with his signature, said signature to be subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A. Preston Halliday.
“We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most unfortunate,” Laskaris had said.
“I’ll tell his wife and children how your grief overwhelms me.”
Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and attaché case, grateful that the door was opened by a uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who whipped his harem’s women in a courtyard when they failed to arouse him.
Kostas Laskaris was not at all what Joel had expected from the brief, disconcerting conversation over the phone. He was a
Converse gripped the telephone with such force his wrist and fingers ached. “Nothing whatsoever, Larry,” he said. “There’s no connection.”
Mykonos, the sun-drenched, whitewashed island of the Cyclades, neighboring worshiper of Delos. Since Barbarossa’s conquest it had been host to successive brigands of the sea who sailed on the Meltemi winds—Turks, Russians, Cypriots, finally Creeks—placed and displaced over the centuries, a small landmass alternately honored and forgotten until the arrival of sleek yachts and shining aircraft, symbols of a different age. Low-slung automobiles—Porsches, Maseratis, Jaguars—now sped over the narrow roads past starch-white windmills and alabaster churches; a new type of inhabitant had joined the laconic, tradition-bound residents who made their livings from the sea and the shops. Free-spirited youths of all ages, with their open shirts and tight pants, their sun-burned skins serving as foil for adornments of heavy gold, had found a new playground. And ancient Mykonos, once a major port to the proud Phoenicians, had become the Saint-Tropez of the Aegean.
Converse had taken the first Swissair flight out of Geneva to Athens, and from there a smaller Olympic plane to the island. Although he had lost an hour in the time zones, it was barely four o’clock in the afternoon when the airport taxicrawled through the streets of the hot, blinding-white harbor and pulled up in front of the smooth white entrance of the bank. It was on the waterfront, and the crowds of flowered shirts and wild print dresses, and the sight of launches chopping over the gentle waves toward the slips on the main pier, were proof that the giant cruise ships far out in the harbor were managed by knowledgeable men. Mykonos was a dazzling snare for tourists; money would be left on the white-washed island; the tavernas and the shops would be full from early sunrise to burning twilight. The ouzo would flow and Creek fishermen’s caps would disappear from the shelves and appear on the swaying heads of suburbanites from Grosse Point and Short Hills. And when night came and the last
efharisto
and
paracalo
had been awkwardly uttered by the visitors, other games would begin—the courtiers and courtesans, the beautiful, ageless, self-indulgent children of the blue Aegean, would start to play. Peals of laughter would be heard as drachmas were counted and spent in amounts that would stagger even those who had opulent suites on the highest decks of the most luxurious ships. Where Geneva was contrary, Mykonos was accommodating—in ways the long-ago Turks might have envied.
Joel had called the bank from the airport, not knowing its business hours, but knowing the name of the banker he was to contact. Kostas Laskaris greeted him cautiously over the phone, making it clear that he expected not only a passport that would clear a spectrograph but the original letter from A. Preston Halliday with his signature, said signature to be subjected to a scanner, matching the signature the bank had been provided by the deceased Mr. A. Preston Halliday.
“We hear he was killed in Geneva. It is most unfortunate,” Laskaris had said.
“I’ll tell his wife and children how your grief overwhelms me.”
Converse paid the taxi and climbed the short white steps of the entrance, carrying his suitcase and attaché case, grateful that the door was opened by a uniformed guard whose appearance brought to mind a long-forgotten photograph of a mad sultan who whipped his harem’s women in a courtyard when they failed to arouse him.
Kostas Laskaris was not at all what Joel had expected from the brief, disconcerting conversation over the phone. He was a
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