The Lost Throne (9 page)

“
Really?
I didn’t know that.” Dial considered it for a moment. “Did you find the heads?”

“Not yet. But we are looking for them.”

“And you’re sure they were cut off while the monks were alive?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why there was so much blood on the altar.”

“What about the rest of their bodies? Any missing appendages—besides their heads?”

“Some were mangled. But we doubt it was the killers.”

Dial glanced at him. “Birds?”

“Wolves.”

“Great,” Dial muttered. Half the crime scenes in rural areas were ruined by wildlife. “How badly were the bodies mauled?”

“Not too bad. We can still get fingerprints from all the victims.”

“What about their ages? Young, old, somewhere in between?”

“A mixture of all three.”

“Any signs of torture? Burn marks, tape residue, water in their lungs?”

“Sir?” he asked, confused.

Dial paused. “Tell me, why did they cut off their heads?”

“To kill them.”

“I doubt it. They could have done that by throwing their asses off the cliff. Or slicing their throats. Or a hundred different methods. Instead, they took the time to sever their heads. Why would someone do that?”

Andropoulos pondered the question. “Intimidation?”

“For what reason?”

“To get answers.”

Dial nodded. “That would be my guess. Which is why I asked about signs of torture. Different groups prefer different techniques. I was hoping I would recognize their signature.”

“Unfortunately, nothing stands out. Other than the head thing.”

“Which is a pretty good method if you ask me. I mean, if I saw my colleagues beheaded one by one, I’d be tempted to talk. The question is, about what?”

“Sorry. I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t know, either. But it’s something to keep in mind as this case develops.”

Andropoulos pulled out a small tablet and jotted down a few notes in Greek. When he was done, he looked at Dial. “Sir, may I ask you a question? Why would they take the heads with them?”

Dial shrugged. “You tell me. Are there any customs or superstitions I should know about?”

He gave it some thought. “Great Metéoron, the largest of the local monasteries, has a bone room, where they display the heads of the monks who founded it several centuries ago.”

Dial stared at him like he was crazy. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir. Dozens of skulls line their wooden shelves. But I don’t remember why.”

“A roomful of monk skulls? That’s kind of warped, if you ask me. Then again, I’ve never been a big fan of religious symbolism. Most of that shit goes over my head. Pardon the pun.”

Andropoulos smiled. “If you’d like, I can call the monastery and ask if there are any traditions that I am unaware of. Perhaps one of the older monks will know.”

Dial nodded. “Speaking of old monks, I’d like to amend something you told me about the bodies. We know the identity of two victims, not one.”

“Sir?”

“One was the caretaker of Holy Trinity. Another was the abbot of Metéora.”

“The abbot is dead? Who told you so?”

“Nicolas, the monk I introduced you to.”

Andropoulos shook his head. “Sorry, sir. That is incorrect. We have only identified
one
victim. We know nothing about the abbot.”

“As of when?”

“As of right now. I was briefed by the other officer when I gave him the videotapes.”

L
eaving the monastery, Andropoulos led Dial through the dark terrain as they walked to the road in silence. Dial was tired from his trip and sore from all the climbing, but the main reason he kept to himself was his confusion.

How had Nicolas known about the death of the abbot before the police?

It was a question that Dial had wanted to ask before he left the monastery for the night. Unfortunately, by the time he got his facts straight, the light under Nicolas’s door was no longer visible. Reluctant to wake the old man on such a traumatic day, Dial decided it would be best to wait until morning.

Besides, he had other things to worry about—like the evidence on the videotapes.

Dial slid into the passenger seat of the Citroën Xsara, the small hatchback that was used by the Greek police. White with blue stripes and a turbo-diesel engine, it wasn’t a bad car, but it couldn’t compete with the gas-guzzling Crown Victoria that Dial used to drive when he worked in the States. That thing roared when someone punched the gas. The Xsara barely purred. Then again, there was no way anyone could drive a Crown Vic on the mountainous roads of central Greece. Too many hairpin turns. Too many narrow streets. Both of which were on display during their drive to the station house.

Andropoulos sped through the curves at top speed, sometimes drifting off the pavement in order to improve his angle for the turn ahead. Occasionally he drove on the wrong side of the road, which he felt was well within his rights, since he was an officer of the law and knew the hills better than the goat herders who lived on them. And Dial was savvy enough not to complain, knowing full well that most Europeans felt traffic laws were for wimps. Still, Dial thought he was going to die so many times during the trip that he was tempted to update his will.

When they reached Kalampáka twenty minutes later, Dial got out of the police car and realized that he was no longer tired—thanks to the adrenaline that flowed through his body like ten cups of coffee and a case of Red Bull.

“Come,” Andropoulos said as he walked toward the back door. “Let’s go inside.”

The station house was small but modern, much newer than Dial had thought it would be in such an ancient town. Most officers were off duty or examining the crime scene at Metéora, so the duo had the back conference room to themselves—except for the young officer who had been entrusted with the videotapes. His name was Costas, and they found him sitting in front of a television with a remote control in his hand and a grin on his face.

“Any luck?” Andropoulos asked.

“Yes,” Costas said with a thick accent. “Very good!”

“You’ll have to excuse his English. He’s still learning the language.”

Dial shrugged. “He can use Greek if he likes as long as you translate for me.”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No. He must learn to speak properly. It is the only way he’ll get better.”

“Yes! I speak good!”

Dial smiled. “Did you find anything on the tape?”

“Yes! You like. It is good!”

Costas hit Rewind until the
VCR
display matched the first number he had written on his tablet. He double-checked the minutes, then hit Play. “You watch! You like!”

The video was filmed from an elevated angle in the main church. It focused on the poor box and the wooden table that sat at the rear of the chapel. There was no sound. Dial stared at the screen, hoping to spot something of value, but saw nothing. Five seconds passed, then ten. Finally, after seventeen seconds, he saw a single shadow. It crept along the back wall, then lingered in the center of the frame, just long enough for Dial to study it.

“Freeze it!” he ordered.

Costas hit Pause and the shadow froze against the stone wall.

Dial and Andropoulos walked closer to the television. Both men stared at the image until it was seared into their brains. Dial said, “Something looks wrong.”

Andropoulos agreed. He reached forward and touched the screen, tracing his finger along the top of the shadow. “The shape of his head. It is too big.”

“Exactly. Like he’s wearing a hood.”

“Me hit Play,” Costas blurted. “You see more! You like!”

Dial glanced at him and nodded. The young cop was excited about something.

He was anxious to see what it was.

Nearly a minute later, chaos erupted on the screen. Multiple shadows, one blending in with the next, rushed along the back wall like a bloodthirsty horde. Dial stared at the action, trying to count the shadows, trying to make sense of things, but they moved so quickly it was impossible.

“Freeze it,” he said.

But Costas ignored Dial’s order. “Wait! You like!”

Dial focused on the TV, not sure what he was waiting for. When the damn thing appeared, it happened so Suddenly, that he almost missed it.

Caught up in the excitement, Costas yelled, “I freeze!”

Then he hit pause by himself.

Andropoulos stood still, his mouth slightly agape, as if he couldn’t believe their luck.

Dial was just as thrilled but didn’t get lost in the moment. Instead, he calmly pulled out his camera phone and snapped a photo of the screen. He wanted a copy of the image just in case the tape was destroyed or he was removed from the investigation.

“So,” Dial asked, “have you seen one of those before?”

Andropoulos nodded. “In a museum. Not at a crime scene.”

“Anything you can tell me about it?”

“No, sir. History isn’t my strength.”

“Mine either. What about you, Costas?”

Costas smiled at Dial and said, “I freeze!”

“Sorry. He’s confused,” Andropoulos said. He rattled off several questions in Greek, which Costas answered while shaking his head. “He knows nothing.”

Dial moved closer to the screen, focusing on the image. It was a silver sword, approximately three feet in length. The type of weapon that had been used in Ancient Greece. The handle was a different color from the blade—maybe bronze or gold—though it was tough to tell for sure in the dim light of the church. The same thing applied to the man who held it. Only his hand and wrist were visible, but he looked Caucasian or Mediterranean. Definitely not black.

“Can you play it slow?” Dial asked.

“Slow,” Costas echoed as he clicked the remote control.

The image ticked by one frame at a time, yet nothing new revealed itself. Within seconds, the blade swung out of view as the warrior walked away from the camera.

“Is that all?” Dial wondered.

“No!” Costas assured him. “Me hit play. You see more. You like!”

“Go ahead. I want to see why you’re so excited.”

Two minutes later, Dial got his answer—one that was completely surreal.

From the left side of the screen, a muscular man walked into view and stood next to the rear table. On his head he wore a full-size bronze helmet that covered his entire face except for his eyes and mouth. Guarding his nose was a long metal strip that started at his forehead and widened near his nostrils, making his eyes look like two hollow sockets.

The effect was more than menacing.

A bronze breastplate hung from his shoulders, protecting his ribs and chest but not his brawny arms. This gave him freedom of movement, allowing him to swing his sword from side to side or reach the silver dagger he had tucked in his leather sheath. An empty scabbard clung to his back, waiting to be reunited with the weapon he held in front of him like a statue.

A blade that didn’t move. A blade that didn’t tremble.

As though he had been training for this mission his entire life and couldn’t be stopped.

Somehow that was the scariest thing of all.

MacDill
AFB
Tampa, Florida

P
ayne and Jones made the necessary arrangements as they drove to MacDill
AFB
. A cargo flight was leaving within the hour that would fly them to Ramstein Air Base in the German state of Rhineland-Palatinate, where they could catch a plane to any country in Europe.

It was one of the perks of being special advisers to the Pentagon.

From there, they would travel to Kaiserslautern, approximately 10 miles from the base. Known as “K-Town” to American personnel, it was a city of 100,000 people and could provide them with anything they required: weapons, clothes, or a good German lager. They had been there several times over the years and knew the layout of the city. The only question was which of their contacts they wanted to involve in such a hastily planned trip to Russia.

That was one of the things they would discuss during their transatlantic flight.

Another was Allison Taylor.

She was the biggest unknown in a mission that was full of them. They had gleaned some information during their initial conversation with her, but when it came right down to it, they knew very little about her background—other than her supposed connection to Richard Byrd.

Hoping to learn more, Payne called Petr Ulster and asked if Byrd had ever brought his assistant to the Archives. Ulster could remember three different females during the last year. All of them were young. All of them were attractive. But none of them was named Allison.

“You know,” Jones said from the back of the cargo plane, “there’s no telling what we’re getting into, other than it’s dangerous and probably illegal.”

“I know. But I’m a sucker for a crying woman.”

“Yeah. Me too. I just want to kiss their boo-boos and make them feel better.”

Payne laughed. “Define boo-boo.”

“Not a chance,” Jones said with a smile. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this: I’m more concerned than normal.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why? Because I can’t get arrested in Russia. Maybe you can with your big muscles and your white skin, but I can’t. I mean, there’s a drink called a Black Russian, but as far as I know, that’s the only black thing they’ve got. And I want to keep it that way.”

“No problem,” Payne assured him. “If the cops are called, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“I’m serious, Jon. I don’t want to be the black Yuri Gagarin.”

“What in the hell does that mean? You don’t want to be a cosmonaut?”

“No, I don’t want to be a guinea pig. There’s no telling what tests they’ll run on my black ass if I get caught. Not to mention everything else that’s done to a man’s ass in prison.”

Payne laughed, knowing full well that Jones was joking about Russia. In fact, just about the only time race was mentioned by either of them was when they were joking around.

And it had been that way from the very beginning.

They had met a decade earlier when they were handpicked to run the MANIACs. After a rocky start—mostly because Payne attended Annapolis and Jones attended the Air Force Academy—they became good friends. That bond had strengthened over time, a common occurrence when two soldiers watched each other’s back in countries all over the globe. Eventually, it evolved into something stronger than friendship. They became brothers.