The Lost Throne (6 page)

Somehow Payne doubted it. More than two hours had passed since the caller’s last message and he sounded way too spooked to stay in one place for long. But what other options did they have? They had no more leads, and Russia was several thousand miles away.

“Here goes nothing,” Payne said as he dialed the number.

The same foreign ring emerged from the phone—more of a buzzing than an actual ringing. But unlike before, no one answered. It just rang and rang and rang.

“It was worth a shot,” he said as he hung up. “I’ll try again later.”

Jones nodded as he stared at the phone list. Something about it didn’t seem right.

“What’s wrong?” Payne asked.

“I don’t know. I get the feeling we’re missing something.”

“Like what?”

Jones ignored the question as he counted the phone calls. “Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . wait! How many phone calls did you say you missed?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s what I thought. But there are only sixteen on this list.”

Payne picked up his copy of the printout and counted the calls. “You’re right. Sixteen.”

“Check your phone again. Count the missed calls.”

Payne did what he was told. “Seventeen.”

“So we’re missing a call.”

He nodded. “And I know which one. The guy called every half hour except for one instance around nine this morning.” He scrolled through his phone. “Nine-fourteen to be exact.”

Jones double-checked his list. “Bingo! That’s the one.”

“Why wasn’t it listed?”

“I have no idea. Let me check the original file again.” Jones hit a few buttons on his laptop and studied the document. Several seconds passed before he noticed the problem. “For some reason my printer only printed the first page of the phone log. Hold on. Let me print page two. It looks like this call came in from a different country code, so it was listed on a different sheet.”

Both men stared at the printer as it sprang to life.

A moment later it was spitting out a sheet of paper that was nearly blank. One line for the header. One line for the phone call. Then nothing but empty white.

Still, the missing page gave them their biggest break yet.

A phone number that they recognized.

A
ndropoulos hustled from room to room, searching for his boss. He finally spotted Dial in the main courtyard, where he and an elderly monk were leaving the bell tower. Andropoulos stopped in his tracks, not sure if he should approach, until Dial waved him over.

“Nicolas,” Dial said as an introduction, “this is Marcus, my squire.”

The old man nodded but said nothing.

“Where have you been hiding?” Dial wondered.

“Sir,” Andropoulos whispered, “we need to speak.”

“That’s right. I promised you a chance to impress me. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. It’s something else.”

“Such as?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s confidential.”

Dial glanced at Nicolas, half-embarrassed. He had spent the past several minutes trying to convince the monk that he would be kept in the loop on everything, hoping to establish a level of trust that rarely existed between church and state. Now the first thing out of Andropoulos’s mouth was that he had a secret. Talk about shitty timing.

“Don’t worry. I understand,” Nicolas said. “Some things are not meant to be shared.”

“Talk tomorrow?” Dial asked.

The old monk nodded, then hobbled out of sight.

Dial waited until Nicolas was completely out of earshot before he turned his attention to Andropoulos. “This better be good.”

“It is,” the young cop assured him. “Potentially great.”

“How great are we talking?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to show you something and get your opinion.”

“Oh goody. Show-and-tell!” Dial said sarcastically. “Please, lead the way.”

The two of them walked across the monastery toward the small annex that had been built behind the main chapel. It was an unremarkable building with several windows that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Andropoulos opened the narrow door and ducked inside the stuffy room. Originally it had been used for meditation; now it served as a gift shop.

Dial stepped inside and stared at the cheap trinkets on the tables. Suddenly, snippets of his conversation with Nicolas sprang to mind.

The old monk was right. Agia Triada had become a haven for tourists.

“Don’t tell me,” Dial said. “You want me to buy you a T-shirt.”

Andropoulos ignored the comment. He was far too excited about his discovery. “Earlier you said the difference between a good investigator and a bad one was the ability to examine a scene. Well, as far as I know, I’m the first one to notice this.”

Dial glanced around the room, confused. “Notice what?”

Andropoulos pointed toward a chest of drawers that rested along the rear wall. The cabinet was carved out of local wood and stained a dark brown. On top sat a metal box where the monastery kept the money from any gift purchases.

Dial walked over and examined it. He was less than impressed.

“You brought me here for this?”

The Greek shook his head. “Look above you.”

Dial did as he was told. The ceiling was held up by ancient beams that were cracked and splintered. Most had been there for hundreds of years and looked as if they might give way. Suddenly, Dial didn’t feel very safe. In fact, he was about to ask for a hard hat when he noticed something that was out of place. It was a flat piece of glass, roughly the size of a coin.

“Wait. What is that? Is that a camera?”

Andropoulos nodded as he approached the cabinet. “The wire runs on top of the wood and drops down behind the stone. Then it comes out of the wall and goes into this.”

He opened the right-hand drawer, revealing a small video recorder.

Dial stared at the device. “I’ll be damned. The monks have a nanny cam. Seems kind of strange in a place that teaches love and trust.”

“A nanny cam?”

“Sorry. It’s an American term. It means a hidden video camera. Sometimes parents set it up when they aren’t at home to spy on their babysitters.”

“Ah, yes! I have heard of this. We have something similar in Greece.”

“Really? What’s it called?”

“A neighbor.”

Dial laughed. Sometimes old-fashioned methods worked just as well.

“So,” Andropoulos asked, “did I do good?”

“Yes,” Dial admitted, “this was good work on your part. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, the viewing angle won’t give us any video of the killers. Unless, of course, they came in here to pick out a souvenir.”

“Yes, I agree. That camera is no good for our needs. But it made me think. If they put a camera in here, maybe they put a camera out there.”

“Maybe.”

Andropoulos continued. “Then I remembered that many local monasteries keep a tin box in the chapel so people can donate money. Do you have this in America?”

“Some churches do.”

“Well, do you know where the chapel is from here?”

Dial smiled in understanding. “On the other side of this wall.”

“Yes,” said the Greek as he opened the left-hand drawer. Inside was a second video system that was identical to the first. “On the other side of that wall.”

E
ven though Dial used to be one of the top investigators in the world, his current job with Interpol was mostly administrative. He was allowed to make suggestions and give advice to
NCB
agents in the field, but when it came to gathering evidence, that was strictly the duty of local officers, since they were responsible for the chain of custody in local courts.

In reality, Dial knew his involvement with this case was slightly premature. One of Interpol’s bylaws prohibited him from working on any military or religious crimes, which was Interpol’s way of staying politically and philosophically neutral. But as a division chief, he was allowed to use discretion on any homicide with unknown motives, a gray area that he often took advantage of—including a famous case that had involved crucifixions on several continents. That was one of the reasons he had spent so much time talking to Nicolas about the monastic way of life. He needed to determine if this was a crime against the Orthodox faith or something else.

If it was a hate crime, Dial had no choice. He would be forced to step aside.

If not, there was still a major hurdle that he needed to clear if he wanted to stay involved. Dial needed to prove that this case affected multiple member states. Otherwise, it would be considered a domestic issue, and the Greeks could ask him to leave at once.

Strangely, Dial wasn’t the least bit concerned. Experience had taught him to view everything as one piece of the puzzle. And he knew in his gut that something significant was going on, something that transcended religious crimes and crossed foreign borders.

He wasn’t sure about specifics, but he didn’t plan on leaving until he figured it out.

Küsendorf, Switzerland (82 miles southeast of Bern)

C
linging to the southern slopes of the Lepontine Alps, Küsendorf is a village of nearly 2,000 people in Ticino, the southernmost canton (or state) in Switzerland. Known for its scenic views and local brand of Swiss cheese, Küsendorf is the home of the Ulster Archives, the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world.

Built as a temporary haven for Austrian philanthropist Conrad Ulster, the Archives Building eventually became his permanent residence. During the early 1930s, Ulster, an avid collector of rare artifacts, sensed the political instability in his country and realized there was a good chance that his prized library would be seized by the Nazis. To protect himself and his books, he smuggled his collection across the Swiss border in railcars, hidden under thin layers of brown coal, and kept out of public view until after World War II. He died in 1964 but expressed his thanks to the people of Switzerland by donating his estate to his adopted hometown—provided they kept his collection intact and accessible to the world’s best academic minds.

For the past decade, the Archives had been run by his grandson Petr Ulster, who had been forced to rebuild several floors after religious zealots tried to burn the place to the ground. Their goal was to destroy ancient documents that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church.

Thankfully, the attack failed, thwarted by two men whom Petr considered heroes.

Jonathon Payne and David Jones.

U
lster heard the ringing of his private line and lumbered across his office to answer it. He was a round man in his early forties with a thick brown beard that covered his multiple chins. Yet he came across as boylike, because of the twinkle in his eye and his enthusiasm for life.

“Hello,” he said with a faint Swiss accent. “This is Petr.”

“Hello, Petr. This is Jon.”

Ulster broke into a broad smile. “Jonathon! How glorious it is to hear your voice. I’ve been thinking of you all day!”

“You have?”

“Indeed I have! Didn’t you get my message?”

Payne furrowed his brow. “What message?”

“The one I left at your home. Isn’t that why you’re calling?”

“Actually, I’m on the road right now. I’m calling because you called my cell phone.”

Ulster nodded. “Don’t be upset with me, Jonathon, but I gave your number to a colleague of mine. He needs to chat with you right away and hasn’t had much luck. That’s why I called—to help you two connect.”

“Why didn’t you leave a message?”

“Because I already left one at your house. You know how I hate redundancy.”

Payne paused, thinking things through.

Everything that Ulster said fit the facts. He was the one who called at 9:14. He had given Payne’s number to the mystery caller. That meant the –
er
—the syllable that could be heard in the first message—referred to Ulst
er
. Or Pet
r.
Either way, that issue was solved.

However, one thing remained unclear. What did the caller want?

“Jonathon, is something wrong? You don’t seem happy with me.” Ulster leaned back in his leather chair, which groaned under his weight. “Did I overstep my bounds by giving out your number? If so, please forgive me.”

“Petr, it’s fine. I’m not mad. Just worried.”

“Worried? About what?”

“Your colleague. What did he want from me?”

“Your advice.”

“My
advice
? On what?”

Ulster lowered his voice to a whisper. “Smuggling.”

“Smuggling?” Payne asked, surprised. “What do I know about smuggling?”

“Come now, Jonathon. I know all about your former career, sneaking behind enemy lines and strangling men in their sleep. Remember, I saw you in action when you protected the Archives.”

“
Protecting
is much different from
smuggling.
”

“Maybe so, but you were the first person I thought of when the topic was broached.”

Payne said nothing, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

“So,” Ulster asked, “did Richard ever get ahold of you?”

“Richard who?”

“Richard Byrd. The colleague we’re discussing.”

“That depends on your definition. Have I talked to him? No. But he’s called me seventeen times in the last twelve hours.”

Ulster laughed. “Stop exaggerating.”

“I wish I were, but I’m quite serious. Seventeen calls and three messages.”

“Good heavens! I had no idea he would be so intrusive.”

“I don’t think
intrusive
is the right word. More like scared. Byrd is
scared
about something.”

“Scared? Why would he be scared?”

“You tell me. What was he trying to smuggle? Drugs? Weapons?”

“Weapons? Heavens no! I would
never
get involved in something like that.”

“Then what? What are we talking about?”

Ulster paused, detecting tension in Payne’s voice. He sounded more serious now than two years ago when the Archives were under attack. “Jonathon, what aren’t you telling me?”

“No, Petr, what aren’t you telling me? If I’m going to keep your friend alive, I need to know everything—starting at the very beginning.”