The Lost Throne (25 page)

“Marcus,” Dial said, as he started to stand, “are you ready to go?”

Andropoulos glanced at him, temporarily confused. “We’re leaving?”

“The library, yes. The grounds, no. This monastery is filled with potential witnesses. Let’s go pester some.”

Andropoulos nodded in understanding. He knew what Dial was doing and was anxious to play along. “Should I call the station? I can get some reinforcements.”

“Let’s start with five. Make sure they bring dinner. We might be here awhile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

In unison, the two of them headed toward the door. They made it halfway across the room before Theodore cleared his throat. Dial tried not to grin as he stopped in his tracks.

“Yes?” Dial said over his shoulder.

“Sometimes, more can be learned by what is missing than what is found.”

He refused to turn around. “Meaning?”

“Please have a seat,” the monk implored. “There is something I must show you.”

Andropoulos glanced at Dial, who nodded his approval. The two of them returned to their chairs while Theodore fetched a book from the back corner of the room, where some of the shelves were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of monks posing on the grounds. None of them smiling. Just standing there as if it were torture. Dial knew that feeling. A similar photo used to hang on his parents’ wall. It documented the day he graduated from college. It was a proud moment for his family, so he willingly stood there and let them take picture after picture to commemorate the occasion. But he sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it.

“Who are they?” Dial asked, pointing at the photographs. As far as he could see, it was the only section of the room that had any personal items.

Theodore replied as he carried a single book back to the desk. “They are monks who lived at Metéora. All have since moved on.”

“Moved on as in transferred, or moved on as in dead?”

“A little of both.”

“Why are the pictures kept in that corner section?”

“It’s where our historical records are stored. The photographs are part of our history.”

Dial nodded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Theodore said nothing.

“So,” Dial continued, “what did you want us to see? Or
not
see, as the case may be?”

“The history of Holy Trinity,” said the monk as he carefully opened the book.

Its cover was hard ornamental leather, dark brown in color. An Orthodox cross had been embossed on the front. It stood a quarter-inch higher than the rest of the leather. Tiny brass studs had been inserted into all four corners of the front and back, which lifted the book off flat surfaces, protecting it from dust or spills. The spine was etched with rustic gold, the same color as the outer edge of the pages. They glistened under the light of the chandelier.

“Over the centuries,” he said as he turned the pages, “my brethren have documented every significant moment at Holy Trinity. This includes all new construction. Whenever the monastery expanded, so did this book.”

“And you’ve done this for every monastery?”

Theodore nodded. “We chronicle the past to enrich the future.”

“That’s very noble of you. But unless I’m missing something, your brethren weren’t very thorough. If they had been, they would’ve noticed the tunnel that I found.”

“It isn’t you who is missing something. It is this volume.” Theodore turned it toward Dial and Andropoulos so they could see it better. “Pages have been taken.”

Dial stood up. “How do you know?”

The monk ran his gloved finger down the center crease of the book. A section had been removed, obvious from the torn fragments that still remained. “I do not know who and I do not know when, but someone
butchered
this book as they butchered my brothers.”

Dial glanced at the monk and saw fire in his eyes. They were like two burning embers. Considering the lack of emotions that most of his brethren had shown, it was a surprising display of passion. Still, something about it seemed strange. Unless Dial was mistaken, the rage had surfaced over the mutilation of the book, not the execution of the monks. Which was eerily similar to Joseph’s reaction earlier in the day. He had practically spat venom when Dial cursed inside the
katholikón,
plus he had been emotional over the painting on the ceiling. However, he had barely blinked an eye over the death of the abbot or the caretaker of Holy Trinity—two men he knew.

Dial wasn’t sure why, but something was seriously wrong with their priorities.

Andropoulos asked, “Is this the only book that has been vandalized?”

The monk shrugged, visibly upset. “It is too early to tell. I will know more later.”

Dial nodded as he walked over to the corner where the historical records were kept. He wasn’t concerned about the books on the other shelves—the ones about grammar, alchemy, and religion. His main concern was the history of Metéora. If Holy Trinity had a secret tunnel, maybe the other monasteries did as well. Or something similar. “Did you check any of these?”

“They were the first ones I inspected.”

“And?”

“I found nothing wrong.”

Dial looked through the iron bars that protected this section. The bars were solid and the locks were unharmed. There was an open slot on the third shelf from the top. It was where
Holy Trinity
had been pulled by Theodore. All the surrounding titles were written in Greek, which prevented Dial from reading them. But he noticed all of them had been bound in the same ornamental leather as
Holy Trinity
. He counted twenty-three volumes. Twenty-four, if he included the one on the desk. That was the original number of monasteries at Metéora.

That meant none of the other journals had been stolen.

Frustrated, Dial looked at the other shelves, hoping to find anything that might help his case. His eyes were immediately drawn to one black-and-white photograph. It featured seven monks standing on the balcony of Holy Trinity. The distant valley could be seen behind them, although much of it was blocked by the tall caps that they wore. Focusing on their faces, Dial tried to imagine what they looked like behind their beards. Remarkably, all of the monks looked
different,
a diverse mix of facial features that could best be explained by geography.

Dial had traveled enough in his lifetime to recognize ethnic features in certain people. Whether it was the shape of their eyes, the slant of their brow, or the curve of their mouth, he was often able to guess where people were from. And
these
men were not from the same country. They looked too dissimilar to be from the same regional gene pool.

“Theodore,” Dial said, pointing, “may I see this photograph?”

The monk nodded and walked toward the corner shelf. With his key, he undid the latch and reached inside the case. The picture was displayed in a polished brass frame. He grabbed it and showed it to Dial. “That was taken decades ago. I would guess forty years or so.”

Dial did the math in his head and came up with a date. “Who were they?”

“I am not sure. That picture is older than I.”

Dial grunted. “I wish I could say the same.”

“I know I can,” Andropoulos said from his chair.

Dial sneered at the young cop. “I might be old, but at least I’m on my feet and working.”

Andropoulos got the hint and decided to search the library for clues.

Dial returned his attention to the picture. The moment he did, his eyes locked on the young monk in the middle of the back row. A wave of recognition swept over him. It was so strong that a gasp emerged from his lips. “Holy shit.”

Theodore frowned at the profanity.

“Sorry,” Dial said as he pointed at the picture. “But I
know
that man.”

Andropoulos heard the comment from across the room. “You know
who
?”

Dial tapped on the picture’s glass. “He’s several years younger, but I’d recognize him anywhere. That’s Nicolas, the old monk from Holy Trinity.”

“You’re sure of this?” asked Theodore.

“I’m positive.”

Theodore considered this information as he walked toward the desk. With the picture in his gloved hands, he carefully removed the bottom of the brass frame and pulled the photograph out. He flipped it over and laid it flat on the desk. Dial and Andropoulos leaned forward as the monk silently translated the caption on the back. It was written in light pencil.

“You are right,” the monk said. “His name is Nicolas. He once lived at Holy Trinity.”

“And the others? Who are they?”

“I can tell you their names, but they mean nothing to me. That is, except one.”

Dial raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Theodore flipped the photograph over and pointed to the tall man on the far left. Other than Nicolas, he was the youngest man in the picture. All the other monks ranged in age from thirty to seventy. “This was our abbot. The one who was killed.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. He had met the abbot a few times.

“And neither of you recognize anyone else in the photo?” Dial asked.

Both men shook their heads. The other monks were from a different generation.

“Is there anyone—maybe an older monk in the monastery—who might know them?”

“Probably not,” Theodore admitted. “Ours is a younger community. After a certain age, most of our older members move on to Mount Athos to continue their spiritual growth.”

“Mount Athos?” Dial asked, unfamiliar with the name.

Theodore nodded. “Catholic priests have the Vatican.
We
have Mount Athos.”

W
hile in the MANIACs, Jones had been forced to make life-or-death decisions on nearly every mission. Communication could rarely be counted on in the desolate outposts where they operated, so his men had relied on him to read Payne’s mind anytime their unit was separated.

It was a skill that had saved them from friendly fire on more than one occasion.

Their strange psychic ability continued in their everyday lives. Payne and Jones spent so much time together that they could read each other like identical twins—twins who happened to look nothing alike. Whether it was reaching for the phone just before the other called or finishing each other’s sentences, they knew what the other was thinking most of the time. And in this situation, Jones had no doubt that Payne wanted him to search Byrd’s room.

So that’s what he set out to do. As quickly as possible.

Unlike Allison’s single room facing the inner courtyard, Byrd’s was a large suite on an upper floor that overlooked St. Isaac’s Square. Jones knew elevators were dangerous places, often equipped with video cameras and full of witnesses who had nothing better to do than stare at one another, so he opted to take the stairs instead. He climbed the steps two at a time, hoping to reach Byrd’s window before anything bad happened between Payne and the soldiers.

In a worst-case scenario, Jones was willing to fire a few shots into the air just to make the Russians reevaluate their priorities. What’s more important: a man and woman sightseeing in the plaza or someone firing shots in a nearby hotel? Not only would the soldiers come running, but Payne and Allison could escape in the resulting chaos.

The hallway was deserted when Jones reached Byrd’s suite. The “do not disturb” sign, written in Russian, still hung from the doorknob. Wasting no time, Jones pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Less than thirty seconds later he was slipping into the room.

“Hello,” he called softly. “Is anyone in here? The door was wide open.”

He waited for a response. Hearing nothing, he closed and locked the door, put on the security chain, and then set Allison’s book bag and computer on the parquet floor.

Allison had briefed him on the basic layout of the corner suite, so he had a pretty good idea where everything was. With gun in hand, he crept from room to room, making sure that he was alone, before he went to the bank of windows in the main sitting area. The white curtains were drawn, filling the suite with diffused light. He parted them and carefully peeked outside. He had a glorious view of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, its gilded dome glistening high above the city below, but was unable to see the monument to Nicholas I.

“Shit!” he swore as he hurried toward the next room. He passed through a set of French doors, hoping he would have a different angle from the bedroom, but quickly realized that it shared the same outer wall as the sitting room. “Shit, shit, shit!”

His last hope was the bathroom. It was on the far side of the bedroom, away from the massive cathedral. He knew it had a small frosted window—he’d noticed it when he checked the bathroom for trouble—but wasn’t sure what direction it faced. Heart pounding, he undid the lock and threw the window open. Glancing outside, he realized it was angled perfectly, overlooking the equestrian monument that towered above the square. And in front of it, he saw Payne, Allison, and three uniformed soldiers. None of whom looked happy.

G
rizzly snatched Payne’s papers then studied them intently, searching for anything that might be missing or incorrect. Meanwhile, the other two soldiers ogled Allison as though she were dancing on stage at a local strip club. They whispered obscene remarks to each other, describing what they would like to do with her if they ever got her alone. One even made a slurping sound. Neither Payne nor Allison could understand Russian, but they had a pretty good idea what the soldiers were saying and who they were talking about.

And it sure as hell wasn’t Payne.

Remarkably, he managed to keep his cool. If the same situation had presented itself in an anonymous tavern, Payne would have fought the soldiers and anyone who tried to intervene. And the odds were pretty good that Payne would have won. His fighting skills were that extraordinary. But as things stood, he had nothing to gain by being aggressive. The last thing he wanted to do was bring any attention to himself, so he casually put his arm around Allison’s waist and pulled her close. It was his way of marking his territory.

“You no look Canada,” Grizzly declared without lifting his gaze from Payne’s paperwork. His accent was thick and slurred. His face was scarred. “You look Poland.”