The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(18)

“We also can’t discount the guerrillas and politicians who exploit the oil wealth in their countries. And that list should include General Ita Jemwa and Prime Minister Kimweri.” Her stomach twisted at the thought of Papa at the mercy of a Kanzi militia, possibly cold, wet, beaten, locked in a cage somewhere. A wave of dizziness caught her off guard. She reached into her purse and grabbed an energy bar.

“Anyone want one?”

“No thanks,” Hakan said.

Rif narrowed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe she was thinking of eating at a time like this. Only three people knew about her diabetes—Papa, Nikos, and her doctor—but Rif was observant, intuitive. Was it possible he knew? Her hands trembled. She peeled back the wrapper and dove in.

“If Paris Industries bows out of the Kanzi deal, who gets in?”

“Russia’s oil company, Rosneft, was a close third, given its geographical location. I’ll ask Ahmed for the Paris Industries research on it,” Hakan said.

“They’d certainly know people capable of a professional kidnap,” Thea conceded. “Still, we can’t point fingers without proof. What about Ares and some of the other prominent kidnap groups? We need to look at every angle. Sometimes the most obvious explanation isn’t the correct one. Someone smart taught me that,” she said.

Hakan frowned. “That someone doesn’t feel very smart today. All these emotions are a distraction,”

“Agreed. You know what the experts say—a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. So, should we really be handling this case?” she asked, knowing there wasn’t an alternative. One more bite of the bar, and the room righted, the sheen of sweat cooled on her skin, and her focus returned.

“No one cares more than we do; no one has as much insider information—information Christos would never want revealed to others. Besides, I could never forgive myself if I outsourced this and something went sideways.”

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from one of their analysts. “The Latin message on Papa’s phone was sent from a burner cell purchased in Athens. Untraceable.”

“No surprise. I’m going to check in with Freddy, see if he’s come up with anything,” Hakan said.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting Peter Kennedy in ten. I’d better go. Do you mind feeding Aegis?” She handed Hakan one of her room keys.

“Two ravenous bachelors having room service. Sounds like a plan.”

“Thanks.” She strode across the room.

Rif joined her at the door. She turned to Hakan. “Is this really necessary?”

“I need your mind focused on figuring out who took Christos, not protecting yourself. If something happened to you, your father would never forgive me,” Hakan said.





Chapter Ten



Rif escorted Thea down the cobblestone path outside the hotel. Shadows from the olive trees wavered in the brisk breeze, playing tricks on his eyes as he scanned ahead. Nothing would happen to Thea on his watch. Not that she couldn’t look after herself; she was correct about that. But right now she was vulnerable, maybe more than she realized. Christos had been snatched while she watched, unable to help, an eerie parallel to when Nikos had been taken twenty years ago.

“Let’s be clear,” she said. “This is my interview. Do what you do best. Intimidate through silence.”

The edges of his lips turned slightly upward. “That’s almost a compliment.” Given the recent tension about Nigeria, it was practically effusive.

She stopped walking and faced him, her eyes brimming with emerald fire. “I’m just as keen as you are about your new babysitting gig, but our animosity about Nigeria can’t get in the way of finding Papa. That’s all that matters.”

Our animosity? Right. She reminded him of that porcupine they’d run into on the mission, all quills and attitude. No thanks for saving her and Johansson’s asses, no thanks for taking extreme personal risk to find her hostage, no thanks for putting her needs above his.

“Lead the way.”

She strode toward Club 33, her long legs handling the stilettos with authority. He caught up to her in a few strides, reaching the entrance at the same time. “Please, allow me.” He stepped into the dimly lit club. White marble floors, funky lights attached to a curved ceiling, and loud music—it was one of the premier nightclubs in Firá. A lone bartender dressed in black served whiskey to two wobbly figures perched at the bar. Too early for the dancing crowd to arrive.

A blond man commandeered the rear booth as if it was his private palace. Peter Kennedy, Christos’s rising star, complete dickhead, and total ETC—empty the clip—candidate. In Kennedy’s case, Rif would empty it twice.

He’d met Peter several times at Paris Industries functions, and the kindest thing he could say about the guy was that he was Rain Man–smart with numbers. Climbing his way to the top of Paris Industries, he had left his designer-shoe imprint on countless backs. Given Christos’s disdain for Nikos, and Thea’s lack of interest in joining her father’s company, either Peter Kennedy or Ahmed Khali could be the heir apparent. And if Rif’s godfather didn’t survive the kidnapping, Peter would be one step closer to the top.

He’d call that motive.

He stepped aside to allow Thea to slide into the booth first. Peter started to stand, but she waved him off.