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A slender young man, wearing a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt with a scene out of a post-apocalyptic video game emblazoned across his chest, held out his hand and mumbled his name, “Klaus Müller.”
When she shook his hand, he barely gripped hers and let go almost as soon as they touched. She’d had a friend like Klaus growing up in Tel Aviv. Socially awkward, especially with girls, but technically brilliant. She knew how difficult it was for him to extend social niceties. “Schön, Sie kennenzulernen,” she replied with a gentle smile.
A man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a charcoal gray blazer, white button-down shirt and a gray and blue ascot draped loosely around his neck, flashed a too-white smile at her. “Angelo Remes. You might recognize me from the silver screen.” He spoke in his native Greek.
She replied, also in Greek, “Sorry. I don’t.”
His smile twisted. “You’re probably too young to remember my movies.” His smile returned. “Nice to have a woman playing with us today.”
“I hope I don’t bore you.”
“You’re too pretty to bore anyone,” he replied, moving aside for the next player.
A tall man with auburn hair and hazel eyes grinned broadly and held out his hand. “Jon Anders. Do you speak English? Sadly, I’m hopeless with other languages. The best I can do is order beer and ask where I can find the toilet.”
As Jasmine shook his hand, she wondered at this man. She couldn’t quite place his American accent. And most Americans said bathroom, not toilet.
“Where are you from in the Americas?” she asked in English.
He grinned. “Kansas City, Missouri. Have you been to the States?”
She nodded. “I’ve been to New York City a number of times, Los Angeles, Miami and Dallas.”
“You like poker,” he said. “Have you played in Vegas?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, but I’m planning on it—thus, this little practice game here in Athens. Do you play here often?”
Jon shook his head. “This will be my first time at this casino. I was asking about poker when I ran into this guy.” He turned toward the man Jasmine was there to manipulate. “He said it was for players with a big bank account. Lord knows I have the money, thanks to dear ol’ Dad. I asked to be included.” He spread his arms wide. “Now, here I am.”
She cocked an eyebrow rather than respond to American’s exuberance.
Jon grimaced. “But don’t let me do all the talking.” He dragged the man beside him forward. “This guy got me in the door.”
Jasmine recognized the man from the photograph Dmytro had sent through text less than twenty minutes before.
Christos was a handsome man dressed in tailored slacks, a white button-down shirt open at the neck and a wine-red velvet jacket. He stepped forward, a smile lifting the corners of his lips. “Miss Giordano, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in Greek and held out his hand.
Jasmine frowned at the young man and his outstretched arm. “And you are?” she asked with haughty disdain though she knew who he was.
“Christos Demopoulos,” he said.
She raised one eyebrow. “Any relation to Athanasios Demopoulos?”
Christos nodded. “He’s my father.”
“Will he be playing?” she asked.
The younger Demopoulos frowned. “No.”
“A pity,” she said, moving past him without shaking his hand. “I came to play, not talk. Shall we?”
Jasmine took a seat at the center of the poker table opposite the dealer, who was expertly shuffling a deck of cards.
The casino manager waved at the other players. “Gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, we can begin.” He walked around the table to where Jasmine sat, tapping her fingernail against the green felt. The casino manager leaned over Jasmine’s shoulder. “Your assistant wired your buy-in to our cashier. We’re all set to begin. Would you like a drink?”
She continued tapping her finger, assuming the expression of an extremely bored and impatient rich woman. “Dirty martini.”
He nodded, pivoted on his heels and headed for the exit.
