Free The Atlantis Revelation by Thomas Greanias Page B

instantly and make it appear that Yeats had done it. The time of death would be vital for the Greek coroner’s report.
    The car with Yeats stopped ahead. Two police cars were blocking its path. Vadim slowed down and watched as the police made the passenger step out of the limousine for inspection. Only it wasn’t Yeats. It was a slightly younger man—Chris Andros III, the Greek billionaire.
    “What is the meaning of this?” Andros asked.
    “ Signomi, Kyrios Andros. We thought you were somebody else.”
    “Obviously, you’re mistaken. What do you want?”
    “Where are you going?”
    “My jet. I have business in Athens, as you know.”
    “Our apologies,” the police officer said.
    Vadim didn’t bother to watch Andros get back in his sedan; he had already reversed course and was driving back on a small dirt road. In the mirror, he could see Mercedes getting nervous.
    “Where are you taking me?” she said.
    Vadim pulled to a stop and looked over his shoulder at her. She was scared. She should be. “Did you lift Dr. Yeats’s fingerprints like Sir Midas requested?”
    “Yes, off a bottle of wine,” she said, and handed him a white card with Dr. Yeats’s fingerprints trapped on clear tape. “What is Conrad supposed to have done now?”
    “Killed you with this gun,” said Vadim as he leveled his Rook over the seat and shot her twice in the chest.

13
    A t the Corfu airport, the twin turbofan Honeywell engines of Serena’s private Learjet 45 hummed while she ran through the preflight checklist with the pilot and copilot. Both had more hours in the air than she did, and both were former Swiss special forces airmen she trusted with her life, let alone a short fifty-minute hop to Rome. But she hadn’t heard from Conrad yet, and this took her mind off him for the moment.
    “Check the thrust reverters again,” she said when she was finished. “I thought I heard something.”
    She went back into the passenger cabin, sat down in a recliner seat, and glanced outside her window at all the private Gulfstreams lined up to go. The scene was the same in Davos, Sun Valley, San Francisco, and everywhere else she had ever seen the billionaire set meet. Her own Learjet was a hand-me-down from an American patron who had moved on to an even more expensive pair of wings. All the planes on the tarmac this morning resembled a line of luxury cars exiting a parking lot after a sporting event. Only this event—the sixtieth Bilderberg meeting—had barely begun.
    Now it was over.
    Conrad was right: Every European and American master of the universe was scrambling to escape the island before the police and paparazzi could question him or her. The weekend conference was in shambles, along with Sir Roman Midas’s great superyacht, which no doubt was going to fire the imaginations of Bilderberg conspiracy theorists for years.
    The truth, of course, was much simpler: Conrad Yeats.
    Wherever he was.
    The Vertu phone she was clutching in her hand vibrated. It was Marshall Packard, calling from his private jet on the other side of the runway. “You’re losing your grip, girl,” he barked. “Where the hell is Yeats?”
    “I don’t know,” she said, alarmed. “What’s going on?”
    “Turn on the goddamn TV.”
    Serena clicked a small remote to turn on the cabin’s TV. The local Greek channel came up first, but she didn’t have to be fluent in Greek to understand the picture of Mercedes Le Roche—dead at thirty-two. She had been found at a local beach, shot in the chest.
    “Oh, no,” Serena said under her breath. “Conrad.”
    As if on cue, Conrad’s picture showed up. He was the prime suspect in her death. His fingerprints had been found all over the murder weapon—a 9mm Rook.
    “Conrad prefers a Glock,” Serena said quickly. “He didn’t kill Mercedes.”
    “No, he was either killed with her or is about to join her,” Packard said sharply before he hung up.
    Serena looked out her window to see Benito pulling up in