Maier was getting drunk. That seemed to be the best strategy in Kep. He needed a break. The case needed air. The Russian on the mountain had made him suspicious. Something didn’t fit the program. Maier wasn’t even sure whether the man was really Russian or gay. It could all be an elaborate act. Despite his doubts, or perhaps because of them, he liked Mikhail.
Back on the beach, his fifth Vodka orange done with, he’d asked Les to show him to a hammock. Now he hung in an alcohol bubble between two posts under a straw shade on the flat roof of the Last Filling Station and listened to the surf. The crab boats slowly moved up and down the coast. He could hear them putter back and forth, but he was too lazy to lift his head and look out across the sea. The surf made him sleepy. Soon the mosquit
