Douay nodded. The castle was the Frenchman’s, and though Thorakis had inherited his wealth, he knew that Douay was a self-made man. Wealthy though the Greek was, it was he who had come begging, and Douay who would decide the shipping magnate’s fate.

“What do you think of it?” Douay inquired, as the other man took his first sip of the chilled Riesling.

“It’s dry,” Thorakis observed, “and crisp. Which is to say perfect for a day such as this.” The fifty-two-year-old business tycoon had black hair streaked with gray, and a tight, “sculptured” face. Though he had been something of an amateur athlete in his younger days, the Greek had put on some extra pounds over the last few years—weight that a baggy black shirt was unable to conceal. Khaki pants and a pair of Gucci loafers, sans socks, completed the look.

Douay, by contrast, was ten years younger, rapier thin, and in excellent shape. With the exception of a thin black leather belt and the black sandals on his feet, the Frenchman was dressed entirely in white.

“I’m glad you like it,” he replied. “It comes from the Moselle valley, rather than the Rhine. It’s the slaty soil that makes the difference.”

Thorakis had no idea what that meant, nor did he care, but didn’t say so as he sought a way to open the conversation that both men knew was coming.

“Some years are better than others,” the Greek observed thoughtfully. “For wine and for shipping.”

“Yes,” Douay agreed soberly. “Who could have predicted that one of your tankers would run aground off Portugal, that a cruise liner would be lost to pirates, and that your CFO would be arrested? All in less than a year? It defies imagination! Come. Lunch is ready and we will have plenty of opportunity to talk about wine, women, and shipping.”

A linen-covered table had been set in the shade provided by a large canopy made out of blue and white striped canvas. The canopy rustled gently as a breeze blew down the Rhine and caressed the castle’s stone walls.