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castle was now the luxurious site of important international meetings, offering fishing and hunting in addition to the amenities necessary for conducting high-level business on its thousands of acres.
    In a large conference room four senior executives of Papadaki Private Holdings Limited sat in leather-upholstered chairs around a long oak table. The walls that surrounded them were hung with the deer heads and antlers ubiquitous in such castles, interspersed with tapestries and hunting paintings. On the table were two large silver trays. On one of them several bottles of water, one sparkling, had been placed, along with an ice bucket and tongs, and crystal goblets. The other tray held a silver pot of fresh-brewed coffee, a bowl with sugar, and a creamer.
    The presence of the four executives at the castle was unknown to anyone else within the company. Each of them had scheduled a trip elsewhere, then made a detour to this remote location, so as to meet in complete privacy. All four had been handpicked for their positions by Nikos Papadaki, their deceased leader. He had been a cynical man who trusted no one, but he had left these four individuals in charge.
    Adrian Single sat at the head of the table, facing the three others. Adrian had been Nikos Papadaki’s most trusted and highly valued executive. He was CEO and represented the North and South American holdings of PPHL. His handsome appearance often led opponents to underestimate his steely-minded negotiating abilities.
    On his left sat Yves Carre, in charge of holdings in Africa, Western Europe, and Australia. French by birth, he spoke several languages. Tall, thin, and silver-haired, he was quiet, polite, and capable of great charm. He had an air about him of the continental art dealer or diplomat, but he could be as ruthless in the boardroom as any corporate-takeover shark.
    Seated to Adrian’s right were the two others. Angelo Coveri was now sixty-six years old and white-haired, his once-muscular frame bulked out with fat. He gave the appearance of a pugnacious dog, and he could be when the need arose. He was in charge of operations in Eastern Europe, including Russia and the various countries that had once comprised the former Soviet Union, and Asia.
    Next to Coveri sat the sole woman, Cynthia Rosebury, known universally as Sugar. She was a formidable woman of middle age, who had broken the glass ceiling to become the chief financial officer of PPHL. She dressed fashionably, though not outrageously, forgoing women’s boring business suits for feminine suits and dresses.
    “Now, we’ve got the same problems in Indonesia that we’ve had in Belarus,” Angelo Coveri was saying. “The steel mills are outdated and dangerous.”
    “Yes, Angelo,” Sugar interjected, “but you have to remember that Nikoletta got them for nothing and the sellers are holding all their old debt. Nikos used to do that. It was one of his favorite tricks.”
    “That’s true,” Adrian pointed out, “but Nikos would never have neglected those mills, Sugar. She’s created a dangerous brew of problems that threaten to tarnish the corporation.”
    “What’s worse,” Coveri said, “is this latest venture of hers.”
    “It’s hair-raising,” Adrian exclaimed.
    “Disposing of toxic waste from Western countries by shipping it to Third World nations,” Coveri said, shaking his head. “It’s horrible. These countries can’t afford to weigh the dangers in taking this waste. I’m telling you, it’s going to be a disaster for us.”
    Yves Carre finally spoke up. “You may well be right, Angelo. There’s a militant ecological group called Mother Earth’s Children,” he said. “They’re singling out PPHL as one of their major targets.”
    “But this new venture is highly lucrative,” Sugar pointed out. “It’s making the company a bundle. I think the girl has some of her father in her, and he was a wily old fox if there ever was one.”
    “You may be right, Sugar,” Adrian