The Stone of Archimedes Read Online Free

taking it off the next time they met.
    â—
    Santorini, Greece
    High above the azure ocean in a stark white villa, Petros Caras sat on his balcony overlooking a 350-foot yacht, the blue and white colors matching the Greek flag that flowed in the soft breeze at the stern. It was his new expedition yacht, where he spent most of his time. He only came to his villa for meetings with those who did not deserve to step foot on his yacht, his real home. This villa, although ten thousand square feet of splendor and opulence, was a shell filled with expensive furniture and peopled, more than not, with the Euro-trash and nearly illiterate actors of Hollywood—all of whom seemed to want something from him, and mostly money and financing for their next project. But Petros Caras hated American movies. They meant nothing to him, other than pure investment. And they better deliver or they would never get another Euro from him.
    Caras shifted his gaze from his yacht to the naked woman laying on the lounge chair a few feet from him. What was her name? No idea. She was Czech and that’s all he needed to know. He only had sex with Slavic women, and only those who were real. So those American women with their fake boobs and even more fake disposition, would never find a way to his bed.
    The Czech woman stood up and slipped on her high heels, bringing her lithe body to nearly six feet. She had been a super model in her youth, but was now in her mid-thirties, he couldn’t remember exactly how old. Yet, she was still a striking figure. Gorgeous. She had seen the inside of his yacht on the trip from Italy last week.
    â€œPetros,” she said, her lips in the perfect pout that all models could emulate, “you said you would take me to bed this afternoon. I’m horny.”
    God he loved her accent. She spoke not a word of Greek, only her native Czech, Italian and some English. So to understand each other, they only spoke English.
    â€œI have a meeting in five minutes,” Caras said, shrugging his shoulders.
    â€œI need more than five minutes,” she whined.
    â€œSo do I. Go to the bedroom and wait for me. My meeting will take ten minutes, maybe less.”
    She smiled and started for the double French doors, but then stopped, lowered her sun glasses, and said over her shoulder, “I could be finished by then.”
    â€œWe all have to make choices,” Caras said. “You can wait.”
    She huffed and walked away as if still making her way down a runway in Milan.
    Moments after the woman left, one of the villa staff members escorted in a man wearing a white linen suit, dark hair to his shoulders, and a tan behind three days growth of beard. Normally the man had his hair pulled back in a ponytail.
    Zendo was the fixer for Petros Caras. At one time he had studied at the Greek Orthodox seminary in Athens, a profession that would have never suited the man. He was far too independent and lacked the discipline to follow any higher authority—with the exception of Petros Caras, who paid him quite nicely for his expertise. Zendo turned his military intelligence experience into a long career with the Hellenic Intelligence Service. He would have still been with that organization, but Petros Caras paid better.
    â€œHave a seat, Zendo,” Caras said. Then he waived for his butler to close the door behind him and leave them alone.
    Zendo sat on a chair near the stone wall, over which was a sheer drop of some one hundred feet to sharp rocks. Without thinking, he pulled his hair back and attached a rubber band at the base of his skull, making a perfect ponytail that most women would kill to have.
    â€œHow was Rome?” Caras asked.
    Adjusting his sun glasses and trying not to make direct eye contact with this powerful man, Zendo said, “We lost the woman.”
    â€œI guessed that much,” Caras surmised. “Otherwise you would have simply called for further instructions.” He gazed back to