God knows that was the truth, Wilson thought. Heir to one of America’s largest fortunes, Kelby and his trust fund had been fought over by his mother and grandmother from the time his father died. Court case had followed court case until he’d reached his twenty-first birthday. Then he’d taken control with a cool ruthlessness and intelligence, jettisoned all contact with his mother and grandmother, and set up experts to manage his finances. He’d finished his education and then taken off to become the wanderer he was today. He’d been a SEAL during the Gulf War, later purchased the yacht Trina and started a series of underwater explorations that had brought him a fame he didn’t appreciate and money he didn’t need. Still, he seemed to thrive on the life. For the past eight years he’d lived hard and fast and dealt with some pretty unsavory characters. No, Wilson couldn’t blame him for being both wary and cynical. It didn’t bother him. He was cynical himself, and over the years he’d learned to genuinely like the bastard.
“Has Lontana tried to contact me before?” Kelby asked.
Wilson sorted through the rest of the mail. “That’s the only letter.” He flipped open his daybook. “One call on the twenty-third of June. Wanted you to return his call. Another on June twenty-fifth. Same message. My secretary asked what his business pertained to but he wouldn’t tell her. It didn’t seem urgent enough to try to track you down. Is it?”
“Possibly.” He stood up and walked across the cabin to the window. “He certainly knew how to get my attention.”
“Who is he?”
“A Brazilian oceanographer. He got a lot of press when he discovered that Spanish galleon fifteen years or so ago. His mother was American and his father Brazilian, and he’s something of a throwback to another age. I heard he thought he was some kind of grand adventurer and sailed around looking for lost cities and sunken galleons. He discovered only one galleon, but there’s no doubt he’s very sharp.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“No, I wasn’t really interested. We wouldn’t have much in common. I’m definitely a product of this age. We’re not on the same wavelength.”
Wilson wasn’t so sure. Kelby was no dreamer, but he possessed the aggressive, bold recklessness that typified the buccaneers of this or any other century. “So what does Lontana want with you?” His gaze narrowed on Kelby. “And what do you want with Lontana?”
“I’m not sure what he wants from me.” He stood looking out at the sea, thinking. “But I know what I want from him. The question is, can he give it to me?”
“That’s cryptic.”
“Is it?” He suddenly turned to face Wilson. “Then, by God, we’d better get everything clear and aboveboard, hadn’t we?”
Shock rippled through Wilson as he saw the recklessness and excitement in Kelby’s expression. The aggressive energy he was emitting was almost tangible. “Then I take it you want me to contact Lontana.”
“Oh, yes. In fact, we’re going to go see him.”
“We’re? I have to get back to New York.”
Kelby shook his head. “I may need you.”
“You know I don’t know anything about all this oceanography stuff, Jed. And, dammit, I don’t want to know. I have degrees in law and accounting. I wouldn’t be of any use to you.”
“You never can tell. I may need all the help I can get. A little more sea air will do you good.” He glanced down at the envelope again, and Wilson was once more aware of the undercurrent of excitement that was electrifying Kelby. “But maybe we should give Lontana a little advance warning that he shouldn’t dangle a carrot unless he expects me gobble it with one swallow. Give me his telephone number.”
She was being followed.
It wasn’t paranoia, dammit. She could feel it.
Melis glanced over her shoulder. It was an exercise in futility. She wouldn’t have known who she was looking for on the crowded dock behind her. It could be anyone. A thief, a sailor eager for a lay . . . or someone who was hoping she’d lead him to Phil. Anything was possible.
Now that Marinth was involved.
Lose him.
She darted down the next street, ran one short block, ducked into an alcove, and waited. Making sure you weren’t being paranoid was always the first rule. The second was to know your enemy.
A gray-haired man in khakis and a short-sleeved plaid shirt came around the corner and stopped. He looked like any casual tourist who frequented Athens this time of year. Except that his annoyed attitude didn’t match his appearance. He was definitely irritated as his gaze searched the people streaming down the street.
She was not paranoid. And now she would remember this man, whoever he was.
She darted out of the alcove and took off running. She turned left, cut into an alley, and then turned right at the next street.
She glanced behind her in time to see a glimpse of a plaid shirt. He was no longer trying to blend in with the crowd. He was moving fast and with purpose.
Five minutes later she stopped, breathing hard.
She had lost him. Maybe.
Christ, Phil, what have you gotten us into?
LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published March 1997
Bantam mass market edition published December 1997
Bantam reissue edition / September 2003
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, as are the companies with which they are affiliated. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, or real businesses or organizations, whether a similarity of name or description, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1997 by I. J. Enterprises, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-54266
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Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-89825-5
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Iris Johansen, Long After Midnight
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