Jake had never spoken directly with Romanos, but his assistant had been cordial and immediately scheduled the appointment when Jake had called. He’d also insisted on sending a car to the airport. It was a midsize BMW sedan, just like thousands of taxis across Europe. The courtesy car prevented Jake from running a surveillance detection route, but he’d just flown in on a private jet from Somalia. A tail was . . . unlikely.

Jake and the driver headed southwest across the Attica peninsula toward the shipping company’s headquarters in the affluent Athens suburb of Glyfada—and drove right past it.

Jake caught the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve been instructed to take you to the residence,” he said.

The highway turned into a two-lane road that wound between the foothills of Mount Hymettus on one side and the seaside cliffs off the Saronic Gulf on the other. They soon reached the coastal enclave of Vouliagmeni, where towering palm trees and manicured parks lined the main boulevard.

The driver turned onto a narrow spit of land and entered the Romanos estate, following a crushed-stone driveway through an orchard of olive trees whose gnarled trunks looked as if they’d been twisted by giants. At the end was a sprawling, modern home with glass walls, metal railings, and a flat roof. Its elevation varied with the terrain, masking its true size.

The driver stopped at the front door and Jake stepped out. The air smelled of pine trees, wild chamomile, and the breeze blowing in off the sea. The contrast with Mogadishu was almost unfathomable.

—

ROMANOS’S ASSISTANT WAS waiting at the door in a light gray suit and a tie.

“It’s good of you to come,” he said. “Mr. Romanos is on the terrace. Please follow me.”

The assistant led Jake through the house, past simple, modern furniture and a few pieces of original art. It was a minimalist style of decorating that suited the home perfectly—anything more elaborate would have been a waste—because nothing could compete with the view. The twenty-three-acre estate had a 270-degree vista of the rocky cliffs and the sea.

A sliding glass wall was open to the terrace. Romanos was alone outside, sitting in a lounge chair wearing a warm jacket with a blanket over his legs. The assistant pointed to a chair next to him.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. He doesn’t get many visitors anymore.”

Jake was about to ask the assistant to elaborate, but he’d already returned to the interior of the house.

Jake introduced himself. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Romanos.”

The silver-haired shipowner nodded behind a pair of dark sunglasses but said nothing.