The Lost Throne (42 page)

“I vote for none of the above. I vote for us.”

“Obviously, we can make our case, quoting the ancient law of Finders-Keepers. But it will be an uphill struggle. A hell of a lot tougher than climbing a mountain in the dark.”

Jones nodded in agreement. “Okay. I’m with you on the whole throne thing. If we find it and it’s salvageable, we leave it for the experts to move. But what about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

“According to legend, the Greeks removed all their treasures from Constantinople before the city was set on fire. So there’s no telling what else we might find up there.”

“I forgot all about that,” Payne teased. “Thankfully, I bought several canvas bags in Helsinki. They’re perfect for carrying supplies on the way up, and gold on the way down.”

C
live slowed his boat and pointed to a thick stretch of forest to the east of Zográfou. “Buried in the trees is Kastamonítou. It’s one of the monasteries I’ve stayed at.”

Dial strained to see it on the wooded hillside. “Is it small?”

“Not at all. There are several buildings and a large
katholikón
. They’re positioned in such a way you can’t see them from the sea. From the shore, it’s roughly a thirty-minute hike.”

“Any treasures of note?”

“The monastery has three miracle-working icons.”

“Which means what?”

“Just as the name implies. They have three different icons that have been responsible for miracles, holy acts that have been verified by the Church.”

Dial smirked at the explanation. “Can any of them predict lottery numbers?”

“If they could, I’m sure you would have heard of the place.”

A few minutes later, they approached Docheiaríou, a tenth-century monastery built along the rocky shoreline. Clive pulled his boat near a stone jetty that extended out into the waters of the Singitic Gulf, so his passengers could get a better view of the boathouse where the monks kept their fishing equipment. Behind it was a small fortress, a mix of ancient buildings and colorful chapels built on top of fortified stone walls.

“Notice the height of the windows,” Clive said as he pointed to their placement seventy feet above the ground. “This monastery was susceptible to attacks because of its position near the water, so they compensated by elevating their architecture into the air.”

“Pretty cool,” Dial admitted. “Not as high as Metéora, but still pretty cool.”

“You’ve been to Metéora?”

Dial nodded but said nothing, not wanting to talk about his investigation.

Clive read between the lines. “So
that’s
why you’re here. The murders at Metéora. I should’ve figured that out sooner, especially knowing the connection between the two places.”

“What connection is that?”

“A monk from Mount Athos actually founded Great Metéoron in the fourteenth century. That was a turbulent time around these parts—with plenty of political upheaval. Several monks followed his lead and moved to central Greece because it was safer. Metéora was better protected than Mount Athos, because the monks could control who entered their monasteries. If they felt threatened, they pulled up their long ladders and no one could get up to them. But here, there was the constant threat of attack.”

“When the monks left, did they take any treasures with them?”

“Definitely,” Clive assured him. “Around here, two of the biggest concerns have always been thieves and fires. Over the years, both have taken their toll on this community, robbing the monks of some of their finest relics. Not so at Metéora. That place was like Fort Knox.”

Dial frowned at Clive’s word choice. “What do you mean,
was
?”

“You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. Over the past several years it’s gone from a working monastery to a tourist attraction. People come and go as they please with no security whatsoever. Heck, they even filmed a James Bond movie up there. Can you imagine the monks trying to protect something of value at Metéora?”

“No, I can’t,” Dial admitted.

Everything Clive said made perfect sense. Centuries ago, Metéora had been the best place to store the most valuable relics from the Church. But that notion had faded about the same time that the doors to Metéora were opened to the general public. At that point, the monks had to find a better place to hide their treasures, and in the Orthodox world, nothing was safer than Mount Athos.

It was a country within a country, a theocracy where the monks controlled the guest list and men with guns were allowed to patrol the borders.

A place that even cops couldn’t visit without permission.

T
he Spartan soldiers had left their village before dawn. When they arrived in Leonidi, a town on the shores of the Aegean, they found the boat waiting for them. It had been left by the foreigner, just as he had promised when they struck their deal several days before.

Apollo would have preferred a warship, much like the vessels that Sparta had used when it was still a maritime power. Somehow that would have been fitting, considering the mission that he was on—trying to protect the legacy of his ancestors. Instead, he would have to make do with a large white yacht. It blended in with all the other pleasure crafts that dotted the sea. Plus, it was big enough to keep his men and weapons below deck, out of sight from prying eyes.

Their journey to Mount Athos took all day. First, he and his men had to navigate through some of the Cyclades Islands—Kythnos, An dros, Tinos, and Kea. Later they passed Alonnisos and Skyros and the rest of the Sporades Islands. The farther north they traveled, the less familiar they were with the blue waters of the Aegean. Still, with the aid of a compass and a simple map, they kept a correct heading and reached their destination before the sun set in the western sky.

At first glance, Mount Athos was much taller than they had expected. The rocky terrain was covered in thick layers of green trees, and footpaths were nonexistent. But the topography worked in their favor. They were used to training in the Taygetos Mountains. They knew how to fight on a slope, how to hide in the brush, and how to use the hills to their advantage. If they were forced to wage battle in an open field, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Guns, bullets, and modern weapons would tear through their flesh before they could even raise their swords.

But here, on the rock-strewn peninsula where Xerxes’ army once marched?

Apollo loved his chances.

D
ial’s tour continued as Clive drove his boat past Xenofóntos, a waterfront monastery that was founded in A.D. 1010. Over the centuries, it had been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times, and this was reflected in the newer architecture of some of the buildings.

“Coming up is one of my favorites,” Clive said as he pushed the throttle forward, doubling the boat’s speed in a heartbeat. “It goes by many names: Agíou Panteleímonos, Saint Panteleimon, and Rosikón. Around here, they simply call it ‘the Russian one.’ ”

Even without an introduction, Dial would have known its country of affiliation. The onion-domed churches and colorful roofs were a dead giveaway. The complex was built like a small Russian town. Buildings of various heights and colors surrounded a courtyard that could not be seen from the water. A century ago, more than 1,400 monks had lived inside. That was no longer possible, not since 1968 when a fire ravaged the guest wing that once housed 1,000 people.

Nowadays the community was much smaller than it had been in previous centuries. Fewer than fifty monks lived there, but since it was the only Russian monastery in Mount Athos, it was one of the most popular to visit—especially for followers of the Russian Orthodox faith.

Three of the Russian monks were working near the shore. Despite the sunny weather, they wore black stovepipe hats and long black cloaks. Their beards were dark and bushy.

Clive slowed his boat. “Not only are their chapels gorgeous, but you haven’t heard chanting until you’ve heard one of their services. The Slavonic Liturgy is like a symphony.”

Dial smiled. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m still hoping I can get you inside.”

“I hope so, too. Speaking of which, how much farther to the main port?”

“I could gun it and get you to Dáfni in two minutes, but the harbor police are stationed there. It might be best if we approach with a modicum of respect.”

D
áfni is a small port town in the center of the Athos Peninsula. From its position on the western coast, boat traffic is monitored and visitors to the Holy Mountain are screened. A maximum of 120 Orthodox Christian visitors are allowed daily. The number of non- Orthodox Christians is capped at 14 per day. A visitor’s permit, known as a Diamoneterion, must be acquired well in advance—unless a special invitation was issued by Karyes, the capital of Mount Athos.

Dial hoped for one of those invitations. But he knew his odds were slim.

After tying his boat to one of the smaller docks, Clive led Dial and Andropoulos toward the front gate. It was made of metal and looked rather flimsy. The man standing beside it did not. He wore the uniform of a customs officer. His muscles bulged against his sleeves. A sidearm hung at his hip like a sheriff from the Old West. His face was intense; his eyes were focused.

“Let me talk to him first,” Clive said as he walked along the quay. “Our goal is to get you past this gate. Once inside, you still have to get through customs and his supervisor.”

“Do they speak English?” Dial wondered.

“Some do, some don’t. I’ll introduce you in Greek, just in case.”

“Marcus is Greek. He can serve as my translator, if that will help.”

“That can’t hurt,” Clive admitted. “Neither can your badge.”

Dial glanced around the port. It was completely empty. Early in the day, when the ferry arrived from Ouranoúpoli, a line of pilgrims stretched out to the dock. By mid-afternoon, the place was devoid of activity. It would stay that way until the ferry came again.

“Hang tight,” Clive said. He patted Dial on the shoulder, and walked over to the customs officer. The two of them had a quiet conversation in Greek. Andropoulos strained to hear their words, but the gentle waves that lapped against the rocky shore prevented that.

A minute later, Clive was waving them over for an introduction. “This is Nick Dial, the director of the Homicide Division at Interpol. And this is Marcus Andropoulos, his assistant.”

The officer nodded from behind the steel fence. “May I have your identification?”

It was phrased as a question, but it came across as an order. The officer wanted to take their badges inside the terminal for further verification. Knowing this, Dial did as requested, handing both of them through a slit in the wire fence.

The officer glanced at them, and then called out in Greek. Soon a second officer emerged from the station house. He looked remarkably similar to the first one. Young, muscular, and rather unhappy. They quickly swapped places, so the original guard could head inside.

Grabbing Dial’s arm, Clive pulled him away for a private conversation.

“Don’t do anything stupid like offering them a bribe,” Clive warned. “That would be viewed as disrespectful. Instead, I would stress that you are here for the monks’ safety. Tell them you’re investigating the murders at Metéora, and you’re trying to stop a repeat performance. That might get their attention.”

“Fortunately, that’s exactly why I’m here.”

“Good. Because lying will get you nowhere.”

Dial glanced over his shoulder. The guard was staring at them. “Any other advice?”

“No advice,” Clive said as he shook his hand. “But I wish you luck.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Dial smiled and gave him his business card. “If I can ever be of service, just give me a call.”

“Trust me, I will. I’d love to hear how this all turns out. I’m a sucker for a good story.”

D
ial and Andropoulos were waved through the front gate, where they were met by the first guard. Without saying a word, he returned their badges, then led them across the compound. In some ways, Dial felt as if he were in Purgatory. He knew where he wanted to go; he just didn’t know if he’d be allowed to get there. It was all up to the holy men who were already inside.

“What now?” Dial asked as they strolled across the tiny courtyard.

Stone buildings served as barriers on the left, on the right, and straight ahead. Trees and flowers dotted the perimeter, making it seem more like a town square than a customs checkpoint, but Dial knew exactly what it was. It was a buffer zone between Mount Athos and the outside world.

“Go in there,” the guard ordered as he pointed to an open door on the left.

Dial nodded and walked in first, followed by Andropoulos. An older officer stood behind a wooden counter. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and bushy eyebrows. He wore the same uniform as the other guards, except he had several more patches on his chest and sleeve.

“Hello,” he said in English. “Are you Director Dial?”

Dial shook the man’s hand. “Please call me Nick. This is Marcus, my assistant.”

“My name is Petros. I am supervisor of border. How can I assist you?”

“We are investigating the massacre at Metéora and would like to enter Mount Athos to continue our investigation. We believe there is a connection between the monasteries.”

Petros sighed. “I was told of deaths at Metéora. It is a tragedy.”

“Eight monks lost their lives that night. I would like to prevent number nine.”

“Are our monks at risk?”

Dial nodded. “Until we catch the men who did this, all monks are at risk. That is why I’m here. To avoid another tragedy.”

Petros studied Dial’s eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a few seconds, he found the answer he was searching for. “If I could, I would let you through at once. But choice is not mine. Without a permit, I must get permission from governor in Karyes.”

“Can you try?”

“Yes, I can try. But . . .”

“But what?”

Petros leaned in closer and whispered. “I am told he is in bad mood today. He woke up early for important meeting, and his colleague never showed.”