The Secret Heiress

by Judith Gould

  When the ride was over, her father shook her awake. The helicopter was descending onto a concrete runway. She hadn’t seen the enormous expanse of lights that illuminated Athens, a city of four million people. A big fuel truck and another aircraft were parked nearby, and in the distance she could see huge metal buildings of some kind.

  After the pilot cut the engines, he turned in his seat to face them. “You can unbuckle now.”

  Thrassos removed Ariadne’s seat belt as the copilot unlocked the cabin door. He stood back while Thrassos retrieved Ariadne’s suitcase, then led her down the lowered steps.

  “We’ll be waiting,” the captain called to him.

  Thrassos led Ariadne toward the small jet a hundred feet away. She gazed at him in alarm, suddenly fully awake. “What now, Papa?”

  “Another short ride,” he replied. “A really nice one.”

  They reached the sleek Gulfstream V, and he guided her up the steps. His pace slowed as they neared the top. Once inside the jet, he set her suitcase down.

  Ariadne gazed about the interior and was surprised to see that, in contrast with the helicopter, it was luxuriously appointed, with leather seats and thick carpeting. A man rose to his feet from one of the large seats and shook her father’s hand. The stranger was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and a silk tie. His shoes shone with polish, and his hair was carefully cut. He smiled down at her, exhibiting perfect white teeth.

  “You must be Ariadne?” he said in a mellifluous voice.

  Ariadne looked up at him but didn’t speak. His dark eyes gleamed frighteningly.

  “I am Nikos,” the man said. He extended a hand, but the child didn’t take it. She suddenly clutched her father’s arm with both hands.

  “This is Ariadne,” her father said. He bent down and kissed her. “I’m going to leave now,” he said, “but you will have a very good time on this trip, Ariadne.”

  “Where are you going, Papa?” she asked anxiously.

  “I’m going back to your mama,” he said, “but you are going on an exciting trip. You must be a very good girl.”

  “But why?” she asked, panicked. “Aren’t you coming, Papa?”

  “Not on this one,” he replied. “But it will be wonderful.” Her father hugged her tightly and kissed her.

  “I—I must g-go now.” He relinquished his hold on her and gazed at the man with a pleading look that Ariadne had never seen before. “Please take good care of her.”

  “No need to worry,” the man replied.

  Ariadne lunged for her father, but he stepped out of reach. The other man grabbed her shoulder. “Papa?” she cried. “No, no! Papa!”

  Her father hurried out the cabin door and then descended the steps quickly.

  “Papa!” she cried after him. “Papa!” But he never turned around. In a few moments he had retreated to the helicopter that had brought them.

  “Here, here, Ariadne,” Nikos said. “Come and sit down.”

  Ariadne didn’t move but stared up at him suspiciously. “No,” she cried, her voice trembling with fear.

  The man’s dark eyes flashed with madness, and he clutched her arm in a viselike grip. He shoved her into a seat, slamming her against its back.

  “Papa!” she wailed, tears running down her cheeks. “Papa!”

  Chapter One

  January 2005

  The landscape was Dantean in this part of Be larus. Smokestacks belched poisonous black clouds into the sky night and day, coating everything as far as the eye could see with a filthy residue. Animals had long since fled the area, having learned not to venture anywhere near the perimeter of the steel mill. What little vegetation that remained was blackened and dead, resembling nothing so much as Gorey’s darkest wintry scenes. Over twenty thousand employees of the plant kept its outdated blast furnaces operating, and although they hated the conditions, they had to put food on the table. People joined in long lines to get work at the Belarus division of PPHL, Papadaki Private Holdings Limited.

  The management complained to European headquarters in London, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. Thus, the fatal explosion that occurred came as no surprise. Sixty-two workers were killed in the blast, many of them incinerated to ash. Several hundred others were injured. Emergency crews swarmed to the plant to fight the fire caused by the explosion and cart off the dead and wounded.

  “Let us in!” the crowd gathered outside screamed. Word had spread fast throughout the nearby town, and terrified relatives began to assemble at the high chain-link fencing that enclosed the steel mill. They shouted and begged with the armed gatekeepers to let them in. They wanted to know if husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons had been injured. But they were not allowed in, nor were they given any information concerning the explosion, the fatalities, or the wounded.

  They began to protest, led by Anna Portnova, whose husband and son both worked at the steel mill. In desperation she attacked one of the guards with her fists, pounding his chest with all her might. In another moment the butt of his rifle slammed against her head. She was knocked to the ground unconscious, and blood began to stream from the wound at her temple.

  The angry crowd was cowed by the guard’s brutality, but they didn’t disperse. A few carried Anna Portnova away in search of medical assistance, while the others kept up their chants, determined to get satisfaction of some sort from the company that ruled their lives. When the gates were opened and ambulances were waved inside, many of those waiting on the perimeter tried to sneak in, but they were caught and manhandled as if they were thieves rather than distraught relatives trying only to learn the truth.

  Their pleas turned to a thunderous roar when they discovered that all of the plant’s remaining furnaces were operating as usual. Just as no one was allowed in, no one was permitted to leave.

  In the executive offices, Aleksandr Sokolov, the plant manager, paced the threadbare industrial carpeting in his office, waiting for someone in the London headquarters to pick up the telephone. When a secretary finally answered, Sokolov spoke to her in a rush. His heavily accented English rendered his frantic request virtually incomprehensible.

  “Would you repeat that, sir?” the secretary asked. “I didn’t quite understand you.”

  “This is Aleksandr Sokolov, the plant manager of PPHL in Belarus,” he reiterated, more slowly this time. “We have had an explosion at the steel mill here, and I need to speak to Oliver Burdett immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the secretary said, “but Mr. Burdett is no longer with us.”

  Who is this idiot? Sokolov wondered. And what does she mean? Did Burdett die? Was he fired? He knew enough English to know that the phrase was ambiguous. “What do you mean, ‘he’s no longer with us’?” he asked, losing his patience. “I just spoke to him yesterday or the day before.”

  These Eastern European types! Violet Byatt thought, pursing her lips. They’re all animals! This one was probably soused on vodka.

  “I mean, sir,” she said in a saccharine voice, “that Mr. Burdett is no longer with PPHL. He has been replaced.” She brushed imaginary lint off the front of her pale blue twin set.

  “Replaced?” Sokolov said. “You mean he’s no longer the London manager?”

  “That’s precisely what I mean,” she said.

  “But—but who is his replacement?” Sokolov asked. “We have a dire situation here—a tragic situation—and we nearly have a riot on our hands. I need to speak to a manager at once.”

  “I’ll have to transfer your call,” Violet Byatt replied. “Please hold.” Let someone else deal with the drunken pig, she thought.

  “Who—?” But before Aleksandr Sokolov could ask who the new London manager of PPHL was, Violet Byatt put him on hold.

  Aleksandr Sokolov listened anxiously to the bleep-bleep as she transferred his call. He dabbed the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief, wondering how much longer he could hold down his job under the present conditions. He had repeatedly warned Burdett that something like this would
happen, but the corporation had no interest in his problems at the distant plant in Belarus. They were milking it for every penny they could get out of it, and damn the workers.

  The pristine 265-foot megayacht Nikoletta had dropped anchor offshore the small but beautiful island of Barbados. Although she could have been docked at one of the piers, her owner, Nikoletta Papadaki, had been persuaded by the security detail that it was wiser to ferry guests to and from the yacht by helicopter and in its tenders and speedboats. That way the chance that a party crasher or other such undesirable would gain access to the yacht would be greatly reduced. Because of the guests, security was of paramount importance. Among them were a number of celebrities, several titled Europeans, several of the superrich, and even some of the ordinary rich. The jewelry worn by the women alone ran into the millions of dollars, and on the wrists of the men was a king’s ransom in Patek Philippe, Breguet, and other watches of equally expensive provenance.

  Nikoletta Papadaki had decided to have a prebirthday celebration. In another week she would turn twenty-one and ascend to the leadership of Papadaki Private Holdings Limited, as stipulated in her late father’s will. She would now be the sole proprietress of one of the world’s largest privately held corporations with worldwide interests. Only a partial list of her holdings included shipping, shipbuilding, and oil companies, oil refineries, mines of different kinds, various chemical companies, real estate, vast farming and livestock ranches, logging operations, hotels and resorts, even garment manufacturers and design firms. In short, there was hardly a continent or a business that PPHL didn’t have a considerable finger in.

  The Caribbean, Niki had decided, was the perfect place to celebrate her ascension. It was January, after all, and her host of rich, hedonistic friends, whether European or from the States, would be seeking the sun’s solace during the dreary winter months. The South Americans she knew would think nothing of leaving their enclaves in Brazil or Argentina or their beach homes in Punta del Este to come to Barbados for a party.

  One hundred and fifty of them had gathered, and they had all been ferried to her luxurious yacht, where they had dined on catered caviar, lobster, foie gras, and guinea hen. Now they were dancing the night away or enjoying more clandestine activities behind locked stateroom doors, fueled by the party’s endless supply of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne or substances they’d brought themselves.

  Niki was dancing to the band she’d brought in from Rio de Janeiro to play, to all appearances absorbed in her partner, but she was keeping an eye peeled for the sexiest man around. For later. She knew most of the men, of course, and had enjoyed dalliances with many of them. But being the connoisseur that she was, Niki wanted to make certain that tonight she bedded the most appealing man available.

  “Don’t you love them?” said Giovanni, a handsome, tanned Italian prince who’d come from Milan for the occasion.

  “Who?” she asked, giving him the full attention of her huge dark eyes.

  “The band, Niki,” he said in an exasperated voice. “Have you already had that much champagne?”

  “No,” she said. “In fact, I’m just getting started. Anyway, who cares? The band’s the best, Gianni,” she replied, pressing her ample breasts against him lasciviously.

  “Everything you do is the best,” he replied, putting his hands on her round, firm buttocks.

  Niki laughed raucously. “You’re just horny, Gianni,” she said. “You always are.”

  He smiled. “Who wouldn’t be with you around, Niki?”

  “Ha!” she said, poking his muscular chest with a lacquered fingernail. Gianni would do in a pinch, she thought, a tried-and-true lover. Yet she wanted to experience someone new tonight.

  A hand lightly tapped Niki’s shoulder, and she turned to see who it was. She frowned when she saw one of the yacht’s stewards, a good-looking young blond whose name Niki couldn’t remember. “What do you want?” she asked crossly. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

  “I’m very sorry, madam,” he said, “but you have an important telephone call from London.”

  “Tell whoever it is to call back tomorrow,” she said, refocusing her attention on Gianni.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” the young man persisted, “but the caller says it’s an emergency.”

  Niki emitted a sigh of exasperation and reached for the cell phone he was carrying. “Give me that.”

  Before the young man could hand it to her, Niki snatched it out of his hand. “Hello?” she said, flipping a long tress of pale blond hair away from her eyes. Her manicured nails were varnished in a glittery gold, a touch she’d added to match the gold sequined gown John Galliano at Dior had designed especially for her bash.

  At the other end of the line, Aleksandr Sokolov’s surprise was shown in his voice. “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Who’s this?” Niki fired back. “I was told this was an emergency, so whoever the hell you are, out with it. You’re interrupting a party.”

  “This is Aleksandr Sokolov,” he retorted. “I am the general manager of the PPHL plant in Belarus. I was trying to reach Mr. Oliver Burdett, the London manager of PPHL, and I was transferred to this number from the London office. Mr. Burdett has been replaced, I’m told. But I see that I’ve been connected to the wrong number.”

  “Nyet, Mr. Sokolov,” Niki replied, mimicking his heavy Russian accent, “you’ve got the right number. This is Nikoletta Papadaki, and I’m the new chairman of PPHL worldwide. Now, what the hell do you want? I want to get back to my party.”

  Aleksandr Sokolov was momentarily speechless. “You have replaced Mr. Oliver Burdett?” he carefully inquired.

  “You got it, Alek. Until I find a replacement for him, you answer to me. Now hurry up. Your time’s running out.”

  “We have a crisis here at the Belarus steel mill,” he said. “There has been an explosion. Sixty-two men were killed and many others injured. There are crowds at the gates—”

  “Listen, Alek,” Niki said. “You’re the plant manager, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “I told you that.”

  “Then manage,” Niki snapped. “You’re ruining my party.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Don’t ever bother me with crap like this again.” She flipped the cell phone closed. “Idiot!” she said to no one in particular.

  The steward appeared at her side immediately, his hand out for the cell phone.

  “What’s your name?” Niki asked, although she could clearly see it on the name tag he wore.

  “Helmut, madam,” he replied. “Helmut Schneider.”

  She ruffled his blond hair, then tapped his cheek lightly with the palm of her hand, as if warming up for a firm slap. “Well, Helmut, don’t you ever interrupt me for something like that again or you’re out of here.”

  “Yes, madam,” he said sheepishly. “I was told it was an emer—”

  “Never again!” Niki said.

  He nodded. “Yes, madam. Of course.”

  He began backing away from her, and Niki turned back to Gianni.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Oh . . . business,” she said. “At a damned steel mill in Belarus I bought.”

  “Belarus!” Gianni laughed, putting his arms around her. “How rude of them. The cretins have no manners. Bothering you with business at a time like this.” He nuzzled her neck, his lips brushing against her flesh, and slid his hands over her ass again as they resumed dancing.

  Niki tried to concentrate on the music, but she was too agitated by the interruption. She had to do something about it immediately. “Have you seen Adrian?”

  He nodded to starboard. “He’s over that way. Dancing with his sister.”

  Niki looked in the direction he’d indicated and saw Adrian and Honor dancing at the edge of the crowd. They were laughing about something. “I’ve got to have a talk with him,” she said. “I’ll see you later, Gianni.”

  “Aw, Niki,” he complained,
reaching out to grab her.

  “Later,” she repeated, already weaving her way through the throng of dancers to Adrian Single and his sister, ignoring the well-wishers who tried to engage her in conversation.

  As she neared the pair, she noted how good-looking they were. Adrian, her forty-six-year-old godfather, was tall, dark, and handsome, and he was also suave and sophisticated and possessed of an acute business ability. Although he was much younger than her late father, he’d been his second-in-command and most trusted confidant and knew more about PPHL than anyone else. Honor Hurlstone, his widowed sister, was older than Adrian, but was still a beauty. When they saw Niki approach, they stopped dancing and turned to her with smiles.

  “Are you having—?” Honor began.

  “I need to talk to you,” Niki said, her fiery eyes on Adrian.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, letting go of Honor.

  “I want you to fire the manager at the steel mill in Belarus,” she said.

  “Fire him? But why?”

  “I just got a telephone call from the idiot,” Niki said, arms akimbo.

  “What did he want?” Adrian Single asked, gazing at her with curiosity. His spoiled godchild’s explosive nature alarmed him, and he could see that she appeared to have already had a lot to drink. Not a good sign.

  “Who cares?” Niki retorted. “He’s got a lot of nerve interrupting me during a party.”

  “But, Niki, he must not have known,” Honor said, reaching out to stroke her arm.

  Niki jerked her arm away, and her eyes flashed with fury. “Don’t try to mother me, Honor.”

  Honor Hurlstone folded her hands together, and her features became an expressionless veil, giving away none of the turmoil that she felt. Niki was a complete mystery to her. She had been a virago since birth, and now that she had taken over the reins of her father’s empire, Honor was dreading what effect the added power would have.

  “Niki,” Adrian said, smiling as if her demand were reasonable, “you know as well as I do that the man had no idea he was interrupting your party, and he wouldn’t have called unless there was something extremely important going on. Now, what did he have to say?”