there, she didn’t step into the sand immediately. Instead, she looked at the villa to her right. She glanced at her watch again. Any minute now. She waited patiently in her bathing suit, her straw bag in one hand, her hat firmly on her head, hiding her auburn hair. As she stood there, some of the resort’s guests began to filter down to the beach, throwing towels over the plush chaise longues and settling in with books or stacks of magazines.
Liza envied those people. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone on a real vacation or simply sat on a beach and read.
She turned her attention back to the villa. Five minutes later, she saw the French doors open and, as they had every morning for the last five days, the members of the Naponi family began to make their way to the beach. As usual, Angelo Naponi was the last to cross the threshold.
Angelo Naponi was the president of a wealthy family company that owned waste-disposal facilities around the world. Liza and the Trust had no problem with Naponi’s company and the work they did. What they had a problem with was how he spent some of his money. Lately, Naponi had been funding a militant Muslim organization that had its sights on a large-scale bombing in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. Naponi himself was Roman Catholic, and was unsympathetic to the Muslims, but such a bombing would wreak havoc in Vilnius where Naponi had been trying to get a foothold for years. Once such havoc occurred, outside companies, just like Naponi’s, would be called upon to help clear the wreckage.
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