The Phoenix

by Sidney Sheldon

  Athena sat up in her four-poster bed, leaning back against two cloud-soft goose-down pillows, and turned up the volume on her TV remote. The converted water mill Peter had rented for her recuperation in rural Burgundy was about as remote as one could get in France, but he’d made sure Athena had access to the British news as well as CNN.

  ‘And here we have the first glimpse of the suspect as he attends the initial hearing, in a case that has once again reopened the bitter debate about asylum seekers all across Europe,’ the BBC reporter was saying in his clipped, public school accent.

  Athena watched as Mahmoud Salim, looking enormous and dark and menacing, if a little confused, emerged from a German police van in handcuffs. She’d allowed two days, enough time for Salim to reach Berlin, before alerting the German authorities to his true identity, as well as to his involvement in the brutal slaying of ‘respected businessman’ Makis Alexiadis on Mykonos, a murder still dominating the Greek news more than a week later.

  Part of her felt sorry for Salim. His grief had blinded him and made him pathetically trusting. Even now, according to Dierk Kimmel, the German lawyer Athena had hired to ‘defend’ him, Mood still believed that she was on his side. That together they’d been part of an underground resistance determined to destroy Makis Alexiadis and put an end to the evil trade in migrants for ever.

  ‘He keeps asking when you’re coming to see him,’ said Dierk. ‘I’m not sure he’s entirely mentally well.’

  Are any of us? wondered Athena. Her qualms over having exploited the grief-addled Salim were tempered by the fact that she knew Mood would be perfectly indifferent to spending the remaining years of his life in a German jail, or a Greek one for that matter, if the new president’s extradition request were honored. Salim might be confused, but he wasn’t suffering. He was beyond suffering. Like me. And he had certainly done the world, as well as Athena, a service, by murdering that treacherous snake Makis Alexiadis. May he rot in hell.

  ‘Now, what’s all this?’

  Mary, the fearsomely efficient English nurse that Peter Hambrecht had hired to tend to Athena while she recovered from her extensive facial surgeries, bustled into the room and looked disapprovingly at the television.

  ‘I’ll take that, if you don’t mind, madam.’ She held out her chubby hand for the remote, which Athena meekly handed over. ‘You still have thirty more minutes of rest time before your stretches. Rest means rest.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I needed a distraction.’

  ‘Tsk,’ said Mary dismissively. ‘Stuff and nonsense. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’

  Athena liked Mary with her starched uniforms and her pocket watch and the military precision with which she performed all her duties. Every morning, at seven o’clock sharp, the curtains were drawn back and Athena was helped to wash and perform her limited toilette before breakfast in bed at 7.30. ‘None of this French nonsense. Bacon, eggs and fried bread. You need to build up your strength.’ There were scheduled times for rest, for movement, for pain medication, for everything. Athena found the routine comforting, a reminder of life in the convent. At times she still missed the rhythmic peace of the Sacred Heart. But at other times she felt the thrill of being out, of being free and back in the driver’s seat of Spyros’s empire. My empire now.

  She’d outsmarted Makis, just as she’d outsmarted so many enemies before him. But with her would-be rival gone, it was more important than ever for her to take back the reins of the business herself. There was so much to do.

  ‘I suppose you won’t get back to sleep now,’ Mary grumbled, helping Athena to sit up while she re-plumped her pillows. ‘Shall we take a look at how things are healing, then?’

  Athena nodded, a sick feeling of apprehension mingled with excitement churning in the pit of her stomach. This morning, for the first time since leaving the Paris clinic, Mary would remove her bandages completely. Athena would be able to see her ‘new’ face, the image that would represent her new identity, for the rest of her life. She’d re-invented herself before, of course. Risen like a phoenix from the ashes of her childhood, her son’s death, the helicopter crash that had so nearly killed her … But not like this. Today she would be reborn an entirely different person, utterly unrecognizable as the Athena of old. Today, Athena Petridis would truly and finally die, and a new woman, a stronger, wiser, invincible woman, would emerge to take her place. If all went well …

  Propping a mirror at the foot of the bed, the nurse began to unwind the dressings encircling Athena’s forehead, nose, mouth and chin. She worked slowly and methodically, her fingers deft and light, like an archaeologist unwrapping a fragile Egyptian mummy. As she got close to the skin she slowed even further, watching her patient’s reactions carefully for signs of pain or discomfort.

  ‘If anything pulls or stings, tell me at once,’ she instructed a mute Athena.

  Nothing did. Instead, Athena stared in wonder as, little by little, a woman’s face appeared in reflection. First came the smooth, wide forehead. Then the long, slender nose – so different to how it was before! The skin on this new woman’s cheeks was taut and had a slightly waxen look, but that too was unrecognizable from the burned, melted ruin that had gone before; nothing short of a miracle. Finally, the lower face emerged, still bruised and with markedly fuller lips and a more pronounced chin, possibly the result of some sort of implant to replace lost tissue. Taken together, despite the residual swelling and some small scars along the hairline and under the jaw, it was the face of a moderately attractive, middle-aged woman.

  Athena’s eyes welled up with tears.

  It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And she had Peter to thank for it. Darling Peter. He was the only really true friend Athena had ever had in this world. Spyros had loved her, in his own way, and he had saved her when she needed saving, after Apollo died. But like all the other, lesser men in Athena’s life – Dimitri Mantzaris, Larry Gaster, Antonio Lovato, Spyros had wanted something in return for his love. To possess her. To own her. To suck her dry from the inside out until there was nothing left. No heart, no soul, no identity of her own.

  Peter had never wanted her like that. Only Peter had ever loved her unconditionally. Although, of course, there was so much Peter didn’t know, so much he would never understand about her life since she left him, no matter how Athena tried to explain it. Peter Hambrecht didn’t know her dark side.

  Spyros knew it. He knew it and understood it and nurtured it, like a precious plant, a rare flower. But Spyros was gone now. She was on her own.

  ‘Hmmm. Yes. That all looks good to me,’ Mary clucked approvingly as her fingers moved from scar to scar, her critical eye assessing the degree of healing. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Incredible,’ the woman in the mirror answered, her voice choked with emotion. ‘Like I could take over the world.’

  Mary laughed. This friend of Mr Hambrecht’s was a funny one. All meek and mild one minute, and then coming out with things like that the next. Take over the world, indeed.

  ‘Let’s see if you can manage a proper shower first,’ said the nurse, carrying away the used bandages and scrubbing her hands with carbolic soap up to the elbows in the bathroom sink. ‘And then I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’

  Later, her face freshly dressed with smaller bandages and her newly washed hair combed up into a tidy bun, Athena won Mary’s permission to get dressed and take a ‘gentle’ stroll in the grounds. ‘Nothing strenuous – I mean it. Don’t make me ring Mr Hambrecht and tell him you’re refusing to rest, because if I do he’ll have both our guts for garters. Back in bed by six sharp.’

  Athena promised solemnly. She would miss Mary, and this place, and of course Peter. He hadn’t wanted to deceive Antonio and set up the whole London clinic arrangement as a decoy, while secretly making alternate arrangements with a top plastic surgeon in Paris. ‘Is all this subterfuge really necessary?’ he’d asked Athena in one of their last phone calls, while at the same time booking the Mil
l House and dutifully arranging a small private plane to fly her into Le Touquet. ‘I know you’re lying low from the police, but must you really double-cross your friends as well?’

  ‘Until I’m safe, yes,’ Athena told him.

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Soon,’ she promised him.

  ‘And when you’re “safe”, I can see you? Face to face?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘You promised, Athena,’ he reminded her. ‘That was your part of the deal. I miss him too, you know,’ he added, in the face of her silence. ‘But do you think our son would have wanted his death to keep us apart for ever? I don’t want to lose you again. I can’t …’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Athena. Then, not wanting her last words to him to be a lie, she added. ‘I love you, Peter.’

  Strolling down past the old mill wheel, still and silent now, to the shallow, rushing brook that snaked along the floor of the valley, Athena drank in the joy of the moment. The warm sun on her back, the heady scent of earth and grass and new life rising up from the ground, the softly lowing calves on the hillside, calling to their mothers. This place was beautiful. Life was beautiful. Her face was beautiful.

  But there was much to be done. First, she must leave here and return to where she could reestablish her old networks. After that, she would secure her hold on the coveted migrant routes by doing what Makis had been too short-sighted to do: by running their people-smuggling like any other Petridis business. That meant focusing on quality, from top to bottom. Better boats, better conditions, a safer passage for more ‘high-end’ stock. No more half-starved children being shipped to pimps in Eastern Europe. That was simply bad business. They needed fewer, more discerning clients, willing to pay a premium for high-quality, reliable shipments of healthy adult workers. Forget the sex trade. The big profits were in illegal slave labor, and the biggest and best buyers in that market were independent farmers and factory owners, struggling to compete with their larger, multinational rivals.

  That’s who we should be targeting. It’s so obvious!

  Adrenaline coursed through her body as she visualized the challenges to come. Rebuilding Spyros’s empire. Creating something meaningful, something lasting of her own. Her life had already been an incredible journey, a story no one could have scripted or even imagined. But she wasn’t done yet.

  She was alive and free, and Makis Alexiadis was dead.

  It was time for the final chapters to begin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Three men and one woman sat in an uneasy circle in the grand living room of Nathan Maslow’s Nantucket beach house. Number 2 Lincoln Circle was a sprawling, gray-shingled estate with a long shell drive, stately grounds and picture-perfect views across the Nantucket Sound. It was a fittingly impressive vacation home for billionaire investor Maslow and his wife, Jane, and the living room was the perfect space for parties with its floor-to-ceiling windows, spacious high ceilings and endlessly comfortable couches.

  Today’s gathering, however, was not a social event. It was an urgently convened business meeting, and the mood was grim.

  ‘Twenty-six years of work, Mark. Twenty-six years of waiting, of biding our time. And it was all for nothing.’

  Nathan Maslow glowered at Mark Redmayne accusingly. As The Group’s single largest financial donor, Nathan felt entitled to an explanation as to how, exactly, Ella Praeger had been allowed to simply ‘disappear’.

  ‘It’s not for nothing,’ Redmayne countered, his jaw rigid with tension. He resented Nathan Maslow’s assumption of superiority, especially coming from a man who dressed like a buffoon in ‘Nantucket red’ shorts, docksiders, and a polo shirt covered in lobster motifs. ‘I’m as frustrated as you are, Nathan, but we’ll find her.’

  ‘Will we? I don’t see how, when she can tune in to every communication we make, every attempt to track her down.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true …’ Redmayne ventured, but Nathan wasn’t done yet.

  ‘The fact is she should never have been on active operations in the first place!’ he snapped. ‘Her entire value is as a reconnaissance tool. To gather intelligence.’

  ‘With respect,’ Professor Dixon interjected from his seat by the door, ‘the way Ella’s abilities function mean that she has to be in relatively close proximity to any target signal in order to intercept it. We were working on increasing her range, but unfortunately we ran out of time. She was always going to have to accompany an agent on ops.’

  ‘Not this agent,’ Nathan growled, simmering with bottled anger like an over-boiled kettle. ‘Everybody knows Gabriel’s the biggest womanizer in your entire organization. Right, Katherine?’

  Katherine MacAvoy blushed vermilion. How on earth had Nathan Maslow got wind of her affair with Gabriel? It was almost a decade ago and almost nobody knew. She glanced suspiciously at Mark Redmayne. The bastard must have let something slip on the golf course! ‘That’s certainly his reputation,’ she answered cautiously.

  ‘That’s what’s happened here, isn’t it?’ said Nathan. ‘She’s fallen for him and now he’s calling the shots. They’re together somewhere, and they’re going to try to go after Athena Petridis with no backup, and Ella’s going to get herself killed!’

  Mark Redmayne stood up and walked over to the window, his hand thrust deep in the pockets. He longed to be able to turn around and deliver a stinging comeback, to put Nathan Maslow in his place. But the fact was, his biggest donor had just neatly articulated his own fears in a nutshell.

  ‘Look,’ he said brusquely. ‘I won’t sugar-coat it. Ella’s disappearance is a blow.’

  ‘You think so?’ Maslow sneered.

  ‘And yes, she could be at risk,’ Mark went on, ignoring him. ‘But I am confident that the situation is salvageable. We will find her, and Gabriel. In the meantime, let’s try to focus on the positives. Makis Alexiadis is dead, which is good in itself, and even better in that it means Athena is going to have to start making moves, reaching out to allies and so forth. She can no longer stay invisible, not completely.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Maslow grunted. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘When we find and kill Athena, Ella will have no reason to stay on in Europe.’

  ‘Sure she will,’ said Nathan. ‘She’ll have lover-boy.’

  ‘No,’ Mark Redmayne contradicted him bluntly. ‘She’s there to avenge her mother’s death. That’s her primary motivation. Whatever she feels for Gabriel will evaporate once Athena’s been liquidated and the adrenaline rush of the mission is gone. Ella will return to the States. Then we can work on undoing whatever damage Gabriel may have done.’

  ‘I agree,’ Professor Dix said quietly. ‘The file we gave her on Rachel Praeger’s murder was compelling. Ella’s doing this for her mother’s sake – not for ours, or Gabriel’s, or anyone else’s.’

  ‘I agree too,’ said Katherine. ‘And, even if we’re wrong, he will tire of her once Athena’s dead,’ she added, knowingly. ‘His big sexual motivator is danger, the thrill of the chase. After that’s gone, so is he.’

  Nathan Maslow withdrew into angry silence. Mark Redmayne continued to stare out to sea, his gaze fixed on a lone sailboat, barely visible on the shimmering horizon.

  He hadn’t said anything to Nathan Maslow, or the others, as he didn’t want to raise anyone’s expectations. But just a few hours ago he’d gotten word of a possible new location for Athena. Admittedly the address he’d been given seemed wildly improbable. Not even Athena Petridis would be that bold, not when she knew The Group would be looking for her.

  On the other hand, it was good intelligence from a trusted source. And it was Athena who’d brazenly sent the message alerting the world to her return, with the brand on the little boy’s foot. She wanted us to know she was alive. That we failed twelve years ago. She wanted us to hunt her. Like Gabriel, it seemed, on some level Athena Petridis must get off on the thrill of the chase.

  Well, now the chase was on.

  All Mark Redmayne had to d
o was find her before Ella did.

  Ella called Gabriel from her London hotel room.

  ‘Why are you calling me?’ His voice sounded more amused than annoyed. ‘I thought we agreed no voice calls unless it’s an emergency.’

  ‘I forgot. What are you doing on Saturday night?’

  ‘No fixed plans,’ Gabriel drawled. ‘Are you asking me on a date?’

  ‘Peter Hambrecht’s conducting in Oxford. An intimate chamber-music concert at Magdalen College,’ said Ella, ignoring the innuendo. ‘I’m going to see what I can pick up.’

  Gabriel sighed. ‘He’s no longer in contact with her, Ella. You know that. You’ve been tuning into his devices for weeks.’

  ‘I think Oxford will be different.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m going.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. We should go back to other known contacts. A Japanese professor, Noriko Adachi, was found dead in London. She lost her son to the Petridis’s drug empire years ago and had been in England asking questions about Athena before she went … Ella? Are you there?’

  A single, long beep answered the question.

  Peter Hambrecht gave a few light twitches of his baton as he guided the musicians effortlessly through the last bars of Handel’s Messiah. It was glorious to be back in Oxford, and specifically in Magdalen chapel, a baroque masterpiece that was surely the most fitting setting possible for one of Peter’s very favorite pieces of music. The ancient stone walls, the faint, lingering smell of incense and candle wax, mingled with women’s perfume, and the joy of doing the one thing he knew he could do perfectly and effortlessly – conducting an orchestra – all helped ease the pain. The terrible pain of Athena.

  ‘You bring it on yourself you know, my love,’ Paolo, Peter’s bookseller boyfriend of almost a year, told him reprovingly last night, right before Peter took his chauffeured car to Oxford. ‘I don’t know this woman at all, but I do know you can’t save her.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ Peter challenged.