The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(13)

The chirping sound of her personal cell startled her. She reached inside her shooting jacket for her phone. The screen read PRIVATE CALLER. She hoped it wasn’t the guy she’d had to kick out of her bed that morning—she’d picked him up late the night before at Kelly’s, near Union Station, and hadn’t bothered to get his name. A nice enough guy, he’d wanted to have breakfast together, celebrate the holiday, but she was having none of it. If he was looking for a soul mate, then his dating radar needed serious adjustment.

“Farrah speaking.”

A hollow, mechanical-sounding voice echoed on the line. “Christos Paris has been kidnapped.”

“What? Who is this?”

“Santorini.”

“Wait, what—?” A click, and the call flatlined in her ear.

Her fingers strangled the cell. Christos Paris, the billionaire oil magnate who’d been on the cover of Forbes more times than she could count, kidnapped? Just yesterday, a bulletin had crossed her desk about the upcoming negotiations in Kanzi. A recent massive oil discovery in the impoverished nation could shift the world’s geopolitical balance. Japan, Iran, and Russia had made overtures for the rights to extraction and refining, but Paris Industries and the Chinese National Petroleum Company were the only two players left at the table. If Christos Paris really had been kidnapped, this could be an unmitigated disaster for US interests.

She phoned the team that covered the HRFC desk 24/7. “Trace the number that just dialed my personal cell. Let me know the results immediately.”

Man, she needed a smoke. She packed up her rifle and processed the startling phone call. Who had called, and was it true that Paris had been kidnapped? If so, was it too much to hope that it was a straightforward ransom case? Political kidnappings had the potential to hold a whole country hostage, causing massive disruption at home and abroad. Jimmy Carter’s presidency had dive-bombed after the Iranian hostage crisis. An attempt to rescue American hostages being held in Lebanon had led to Ronald Reagan’s Iran–Contra scandal. Somewhat more recently, Barack Obama’s administration had come to grief over a political-prisoners exchange for Army soldier Bowe Bergdahl.

PPD 12 confirmed that the US government would not make concessions—politico-speak for ransoms—but made it clear for the first time that “no concessions” didn’t meant “no communications.” The government’s position regarding ransoms had altered slightly—from not dealing with terrorists regardless of the circumstances to taking each hostage’s case on its own merits. Now, paying ransom to a terror group might be considered if it would yield intelligence about the kidnappers, such as their identity, their location, or how they moved money. After all, the government’s bigger goal was to gain information that would help locate and eliminate terrorists, capture them and bring them to justice, or cut off their financial networks.

A ransom could not be paid in a one-time deal just to free an American—there had to be a larger strategic purpose in mind. But that wouldn’t be an issue if Christos Paris was the captive. The man’s name was synonymous with the oil that fueled America. The higher-ups would do anything to facilitate his release.

Still, no way would she take some mystery caller’s word for something this pivotal. She reached for her phone but hesitated over the keypad. The one person who could help her was the last person she wanted to contact.

What the hell? We’re both adults. She dialed the number from memory, her CIA training staying with her.

“Maximillian Heros.” The rumble of his baritone brought back memories of that night at the Hotel Grand Bretagne in Athens.

“It’s been a while.”

A moment of silence. “Gabrielle. I thought we were done.”

“We are. This is a business call.”

“Must you save all your empathy for your hostages? At least pretend you care how I am doing.” Disappointment flooded the Hellenic inspector general’s voice.

So much for them both being adults. She’d been up front about her lack of interest in a relationship when they first met, but one night after they’d bonded over a bottle of Scotch and despair over their sisters—hers had cancer, his had been in a bad car accident—he made it clear he wanted more. So she’d shut him down.

“How are you, Max?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“A good man could do wonders for your attitude. What do you need?”

“Information. Anything happening over there?” She quelled the impulse to bite her nails. Her hands itched for a cigarette.

“Perhaps you could be more specific.”

“Kidnapping.”

“In Greece?”

“Santorini,” she said.

“Lots of extra security in Santorini this week because of Christos Paris’s annual party—sheikhs, politicians, rock stars . . . Skata, who was taken?”

She had to give to get. “Paris. Unconfirmed.” Max was wired in like no one else in Greece. If it were true, how could he not know about it?

“Christos Paris has been kidnapped?” Seconds passed. “This has the makings of a modern-day Greek tragedy—such irony.”

“What?”

“Don’t you keep up with Who’s Who in Kidnapping, Gabrielle?” He was toying with her now, making her pay for having had the gall to reject the great Maximillian Heros. Of course he knew about the kidnapping.