The Lost Throne

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Publishing a book requires a collective effort, so I would like to thank a few of the people who helped The Lost Throne see the light of day.

As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my family. Without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the writer (or the person) that I am today.

Professionally, I want to thank Scott Miller, my remarkable agent. Before we teamed up, I couldn’t find a publisher. Now my books are available in several languages around the world. How you pulled off that miracle, I’ll never know. But keep up the great work! While I’m at it, I want to thank Claire Roberts, my main foreign agent, and everyone else at Trident Media who has helped my career during the past few years. Wow, what a great organization.

Actually, I can say the same thing about the Penguin Group. In particular, I’d like to single out my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, and her amazing assistant, Michelle Vega. Working with them has been wonderful. I’d also like to thank Ivan Held and the publishing and marketing wizards at Putnam. I hope this is the beginning of a long relationship.

Next up is my extraordinary friend Ian Harper. Through the magic of e-mail, he gets to read my work before anyone else, and his suggestions and advice are always invaluable. So if anyone’s looking for a freelance editor, let me know. I’d be happy to put you in touch with him.

Last but not least, a big thanks to all the readers, booksellers, critics, and librarians who have read my books and recommended them to others. At this stage of my career, I need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.

Okay. Now that I’m done expressing my gratitude, it’s time for the good stuff.

Just sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story. . . .

PROLOGUE

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1890

Piazza della Santa Carità

Naples, Italy

The greatest secret of Ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.

Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind-although dozens of those would occur later-but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.

Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.

The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.

Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked more closely, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.

With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.

In time, he regained several.

Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo until it could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicata tonic state who was babbling in his sleep.

His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.

One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.

The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could, and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.

Il trono. Le trône. El trono.

The throne.

This went on almost for several minutes. Language after language from one man’s mouth. Like the devil speaking in tongues. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

No more words. No more clues.

The man would never speak again.

Two days later, after he had been identified, newspapers around the globe reported his death. Yet there was no mention of his strange behavior. Nothing about his ramblings or the throne he kept describing. Instead, reporters focused on the colorful details of his life-his wealth, his accomplishments, his discoveries. All the things that made him famous.

Of course, if they had known the truth about his final days, what he had finally found after years of searching, they would have written a much different story.

One of fire, deception, and ancient gold.

One that wouldn’t have an ending for almost two more centuries.

1

PRESENT DAY

Saturday, May 17

Metéora, Greece

The monk felt the wind on his face as he plummeted to his death, a journey that started with a scream and ended with a thud.

Moments before, he had been standing near the railing of the Moni Agia Triada, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity. It was one of six monasteries perched on natural rock pillars near the Pindus Mountains in central Greece. Known for their breathtaking architecture, the monasteries had been built 2,000 feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.

But on this night, their sanctuary was breached.

The intruders had crossed the valley and climbed the hillside with silent precision. They carried no guns or artillery, preferring the weapons of their ancestors. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs. Daggers in leather sheaths hung from their hips. Bronze helmets covered their entire heads except for their eyes and mouths.

Centuries ago the final leg of their mission would have been far more treacherous, requiring chisels and ropes to scale the rock face. But that was no longer the case-not since 140 steps had been carved into the sandstone, leading to the entrance of Holy Trinity. Its front gate was ten feet high and made of thick wood, yet they breached it easily and slipped inside, spreading through the compound like a deadly plague.

The first to die was the lookout, who, instead of doing his job, had been staring at the twinkling lights of Kalampáka, the small city that rested at the base of the plateau. Sadly, it was the last mistake he ever made. No questions were asked, no quarter was given. One minute he was pondering the meaning of life, the next his life was over.

No bullets. No blades. Just gravity and the rocks below.

One of the monks inside the church heard his scream and tried to warn the others, but before he could, the intruders burst through both doors. Brandishing their swords, they forced all the monks into the center of the room, where the holy men were frisked and their hands were tied.

Seven monks in total. A mixture of young and old.

Just as the intruders had expected.

For the next few minutes, the monks sat in silence on the hard wooden pews. Some of them closed their eyes and prayed to God for divine intervention. Others seemed reconciled to their fate. They had known the risks when they accepted this duty, what their brotherhood had endured and protected for centuries.

They were the keepers of the book. The chosen ones.

And soon they would be forced to die.

With the coldness of an executioner, the leader of the soldiers strode into the church. At first glance he looked like a moving work of art. Muscle stacked upon muscle in statuesque perfection. A gleaming blade in his grasp. Unlike the others who had entered before him, he wore a helmet topped with a plume of red horsehair, a crest that signified his rank.

To the monks, he was the face of death.

Without saying a word, he nodded to his men. They sprang into action, grabbing one of the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure-a symbolic shaving of their heads-so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.

“What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”

The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”

“What book? I know nothing about a book!”

“Then you are no use to me.”

He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk from his head. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then Suddenly, it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Head on the left. Body on the right. Blood everywhere.

The monks gasped at the sight.

“Bring me another,” the leader ordered. “One who wants to live.”

2

SUNDAY, MAY 18

St. Petersburg, Florida

The phone rang in the middle of the night, sometime between last call and breakfast. The time of night reserved for two things: emergencies and wrong numbers.

Jonathon Payne hoped it was the latter.

He rolled over in the hotel bed and reached for the nightstand, knocking something to the floor in his dark room. He had no idea what it was and wasn’t curious enough to find out. Still feeling the effects of his sleeping pill, he knew if he turned on a light he would be awake until dawn. Of that he was certain. He had always been a problem sleeper, an issue that had started long before his career in the military and had only gotten worse after.

Then again, years of combat can do that to a person.

And he had seen more than most.

Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprising the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was participating in personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.

Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.

He just wanted to get some sleep.

“Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.

A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.

“Hello?” he repeated.

But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined it.

Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.

So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.

Several hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.

The bright sunlight warmed his face and the sea breeze filled his lungs as he stared at the tropical waters of Tampa Bay, less than 10 miles from many of the best beaches in America. Where the sand was white and the water was turquoise. Where dolphins frolicked in the surf. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Payne rarely got to see dolphins in his hometown-only when he went to the aquarium or when the Miami Dolphins played the Steelers at Heinz Field.

In many ways, Payne looked like an NFL player. He was 6’ 4”, weighed 240 pounds, and was in remarkable shape for a man in his late thirties. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a world-class smile. His only physical flaws were the bullet holes and scars that decorated his body. Although he didn’t view them as flaws. More like medals of honor, because each one stood for something.

Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people, because the details were classified, but all the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.

The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whit-ted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.

Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment and offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.

Part expert, part legend.

Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where MacDill Air Force Base occupies a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay-8 miles south of downtown Tampa and 9 miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.

They picked the destination, and the military picked up the tab.

“Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”

Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’ 9” and roughly 40 pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.

“I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”

“With you? Not if you’re wearing that.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”

Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Maybe I’m looking to get leid.”

Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Ten minutes later the duo was walking along Bayshore Drive. The temperature was in the mid-seventies with low humidity. Gentle waves lapped against the stone wall that lined the harbor, while palm trees swayed in the breeze. Payne wore a golf shirt and shorts, an outfit considered dressy in Florida, where many people wore T-shirts or no shirts at all.

As they turned onto Second Avenue NE toward the St. Petersburg Pier, Payne and Jones spotted a parked trolley bus called the Looper. It was light blue and filled with tourists who were taking pictures of a tiny brick building with a red-tiled roof. A senior citizen tour guide, wearing a beige Panama hat and speaking with a Southern drawl, explained the building’s significance over the trolley’s intercom system. They stopped to listen to his tale.

“You are looking at the fanciest public restroom in America, affectionately known as Little Saint Mary’s. Built in 1927 by Henry Taylor, it is a scaled-down replica of Saint Mary Our Lady of Grace, the gorgeous church he built on Fourth Street that we’ll be seeing soon. Both buildings are typical of the Romanesque Revival style, featuring several colors of brick, arched windows, and topped with a copper cupola. This one’s approximately twenty feet high and fifty feet wide.”

Cameras clicked as the tour guide continued.

“As the legend goes, the local diocese offered Taylor a large sum of money to build the octagonal church that he finished in 1925. However, for reasons unknown, they chose not to pay him the full amount. Realizing that he couldn’t win a fight with the Church, he opted to get revenge instead. At that time the city was taking bids to build a comfort station, a fancy term for bathroom, somewhere near the waterfront. Taylor made a ridiculously low bid, guaranteeing that he would get the project. From there, he used leftover materials from the church site and built the replica that you see before you, filling it with toilets instead of pews.”

The tour guide smiled. “It was his way of saying that the Catholic Church was full of crap!”

Everyone laughed, including Payne and Jones, as the Looper pulled away from the curb and turned toward the Vinoy. Meanwhile, the duo remained, marveling at the carved stone columns and the elaborate tiled roof of Little Saint Mary’s.

“Remind me to go in there later,” Jones said. “And I mean that literally.”

3

The Columbia Restaurant is the world’s largest Spanish restau rant. Opened in 1905 in Ybor City, a historic district in Tampa where hand-rolled cigars and Cuban mojitos are ubiquitous, the Columbia has fifteen dining rooms and enough seating for 1,700 people. Throw in the kitchens and the wine cellar, and the restaurant occupies 52,000 square feet, filling an entire city block.

Payne and Jones had eaten there on many occasions-it was practically a requirement anytime they visited MacDill AFB-and had been tempted to drive there for brunch. That was before they learned the Columbia had opened a St. Petersburg location within walking distance of their hotel. Built on the fourth floor of the Pier, an inverted five-story pyramid filled with shops at the end of a quarter-mile turnaround, the restaurant had the same menu as the original, while offering 360-degree waterfront views.

The duo took their seats next to a massive window overlooking the bay and the airfield. Within seconds, water was poured and freshly baked Cuban bread was placed on the table. Jones wasted no time, tearing the flaky crust with his hands and stuffing a chunk into his mouth.

Payne laughed at the sight. “Hungry?”

“Famished. I’ve been up since dawn. Damn seagulls woke me up.”

“Seagulls? I’ve seen you sleep through enemy fire.”

Jones shrugged. “Have you ever heard those relaxation tapes where they play New Age music over whales humping and birds singing? Those things freak me out. No way in hell I could fall asleep to that. I’d lie there all night, counting grunts and squeaks. But give me the rumble of a turbine or the gentle patter of gunfire, and I’m out like a light.”

Payne smiled. “You’re one messed-up dude.”

“Me? Look who’s talking! What time did you fall asleep? Or haven’t you yet?”

“Actually, last night wasn’t too bad. It would’ve been perfect if it wasn’t for the damn phone. Woke me up in the middle of the night.”

“Anything important?”

“Who knows? They hung up before I could answer.”

“No caller ID?”

Payne shook his head. “It was the hotel phone. At least I think it was. I was groggy.”

“Did you check your cell?”

“I tried, but I had a slight problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Both pieces of it. “I was hoping you could fix it.”

Jones put down his bread and studied the device. He had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and was a whiz with electronics. “How’d you manage this?”

“I think I knocked it off the nightstand. But I’m not sure. I was sleeping.”

“No big deal. It’s just the battery. Unfortunately, something is jamming the slot.”

“I know. That’s why I brought it to the wizard. I figured you could work your magic.”

Jones grabbed a butter knife and went to work. Five minutes later, it was fixed. He pushed the power button just to be sure, then put it on the table in front of Payne. “Good as new.”

“Thanks! You just saved me a hundred bucks.”

“Not really,” he assured him. “I’m gonna eat more than that, and you’re paying.”

Jones flipped through his menu, searching for some of his favorite dishes: roasted pork loin à la Cubana, sliced eye round of beef stuffed with chorizo, and paella à la Valencia-a mixture of clams, chicken, pork, shrimp, scallops, and rice. Meanwhile, Payne looked for lighter fare, settling on a pressed Cuban sandwich with a cup of Spanish bean soup.

The waiter came over to take their orders, but before they could speak, Payne’s phone started to buzz. All three of them stared as it vibrated wildly, bumping against an empty plate, which made a loud pinging sound. It was so loud that other diners turned and stared.

“Sorry about that,” Payne apologized. Bad cell-phone manners were a pet peeve of his, and he had just violated one of his major commandments. No cell phones in restaurants.

Without looking at the screen, he turned off the power and put it in his pocket.

And that’s where it stayed for the next few hours as precious time ticked away.

Payne gave it no thought until their return trip to the hotel. Hoping to kill time while Jones left a donation inside Little St. Mary’s, Payne turned on his phone and waited for it to get a signal.

Several hungry pelicans sat on a nearby railing, begging for hand-outs from the dozen fishermen who fished off the pier. A young boy felt sorry for the birds and tossed them some bait. Within seconds, five more pelicans swooped out of the sky and landed by their friends. All of them squawking for attention.

Smiling at the scene, Payne glanced at his screen and was surprised by the summary.

Seventeen missed calls. Three voice mails. One text message.

Damn. Something was wrong.

All of his friends knew he was a reluctant cell phone user, only carrying it for emergencies. Therefore getting seventeen calls was a big deal. Especially in one day.

Worried, he clicked through his options until he reached the list of missed calls. He scrolled through the numbers, looking for the source, but the same message appeared over and over.

Restricted.

Seventeen calls, seventeen restricted numbers.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, realizing what that meant. It was probably the government.

They were the masters of the blocked call. Always trying to conceal their identity.

The only question was, who? Payne had done consulting work for the Pentagon and every branch of the armed service, not to mention the FBI, CIA, and NSA. Of course, if those agencies were trying to reach him, they wouldn’t call seventeen times. They’d stalk him quietly and throw him into the back of a white van.

No, if he had to guess, he would have said the Air Force.

Not only was MacDill an Air Force base, it had also paid for his trip to Florida. Maybe the generals wanted to get one more lecture out of him before he returned home.

“What’s up?” Jones asked as he left the restroom. “Did your phone break again?”

“I wish. I had seventeen missed calls. All of them blocked.”

“Fucking government.”

“What about you? Any calls?”

Jones checked his phone. “Nope. Nada.”

“That’s strange.”

“Tell me about it. I’m used to booty calls, day and night.”

He laughed. “I was referring to MacDill, not McLovin.”

“What time did they start?”

Payne scrolled through his screen. “Let’s see. First call was 3:59 A.M. Damn. Maybe my cell phone woke me after all. I could’ve sworn it was the room phone.”

“Any messages?”

He nodded. “Three voice, one text.”

“Start with the text. You can read it now.”

The device looked tiny in his massive hands, yet somehow Payne clicked the appropriate buttons, dancing from screen to screen. The text was tough to read in the Florida sun, forcing him to shield the glare. But in time, he was able to read the message.

It was straightforward and unsigned.

The type of message that no one wants to receive.

This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.

4

The stranger stood on the edge of the cliff and gasped at what he saw. Massive rock pillars sprang out of the earth like giant stone fingers, each of them rising several hundred feet from the valley below. Yet somehow the natural beauty of the scenery paled in comparison with the architectural wonder of Metéora, a site that hovered in the heavens like the throne of God.

He heard footsteps behind him but refused to shift his gaze from the Monastery of the Holy Trinity as the sun slipped behind the Pindus Mountains to the west.

Marcus Andropoulos, the man who approached, spoke with a local accent. “The monks who built this place climbed the rock with their bare hands, then refused to leave until construction was finished. They stayed on top for many months, lifting supplies by rope during the day and sleeping in a cave at night.”

The stranger said nothing, still admiring the view.

Andropoulos stepped closer, tentative. “Eventually, they built retractable wooden ladders that reached the crops they had planted in the fields below. Grapes, corn, potatoes. They even had sheep and cattle.”

The stranger tried to picture the ladders. They must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said the Greek. “My name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

“Nick Dial,” he said over his shoulder.

“You’re an American, no? Are you a tourist?”

Dial shook his head. “What does Metéora mean?”

“It is a local word. It means ‘suspended in air.’ Originally there were twenty-four monasteries on the surrounding peaks. Many were destroyed during World War Two. Now only six remain.”

“How old is this one?”

“Fifteenth-century,” he answered, still trying to figure out who Dial was and why he was there. “Are you with the media?”

Dial laughed. “Definitely not. I can’t stand those guys.”

Andropoulos paused, thinking things through. If Dial wasn’t a journalist, how did he get past all the officers on the main road? “In that case, I think you need to leave.”

“Because I hate the media? That seems kind of harsh.”

“No, because this area is restricted. Didn’t you see the signs?”

Dial turned and stared at the man who was trying to throw him out.

Andropoulos was young and lanky, dressed in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. His hands and wrists hung three inches beyond his sleeves-as though he had recently grown and didn’t have enough money to get a new wardrobe. Or visit a tailor. Or get a haircut. Because his head was covered with dark curly hair that went over his ears and the back of his neck. Like a Greek Afro.

Dial said, “You seem to know a lot about this place. Are you a tour guide or something?”

Andropoulos reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I am definitely something. I am the NCB agent assigned to this case. In fact, I am in charge of the investigation.”

Dial smirked, then refocused his attention on the monastery. In this light its beige walls appeared to be glowing. Almost like amber. It was truly a remarkable sight.

“Please, Nick. Don’t make me tell you again. It’s time to leave.”

But Dial wasn’t ready. He picked up a pebble and tossed it over the edge. It fell for several seconds yet never made a sound, swallowed by the chasm below. He whistled, impressed.

In all his years, he had never worked in such a difficult location.

Simply put, this crime scene was going to be a bitch.

Dial picked up a second pebble, slightly larger than the first, and leaned back to throw it. He hoped to test a theory about the valley. But before he could, the young officer grabbed his arm.

“I wouldn’t throw that if I were you.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because I’m in charge and I said so.”

Dial grinned. This was going to be fun. “And if I were you, I’d let go of my arm.”

“Really? Why is that?”

He yanked his arm free and whipped out his identification. “Because I’m your boss.”

Nick Dial ran the Homicide Division at Interpol, the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told, he was in charge of 186 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents to investigate a case. Instead they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their territory and reported pertinent information to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. From there, facts were entered into a central database that could be accessed via Interpol’s computer network.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or handle a border dispute. Or deal with international media. All the things that Nick Dial hated to do. In his line of work, the only thing that mattered to him was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was the creed he had lived by when he was an investigator.

If he did that, all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Then again, in a brutal case like this, was justice even feasible?

I apologize for my behavior. I should have recognized your name,” Andropoulos said. His face was bright red from embarrassment. “I didn’t expect anyone from France so soon.”

“Well,” Dial said, “I was on the continent, so I thought I’d drop by.”

Although he meant it as a joke, his comment was accurate. Dial had started the day on the other side of Europe, where he had been awakened by news of the massacre. He had taken the first flight from France to Athens, then had flown by helicopter to Metéora, which was in the central district of Thessaly. In reality, he rarely took trips like that on a moment’s notice, but how often were a bunch of monks slaughtered in the middle of the night?

“If you had called,” Andropoulos said, “I would have been ready for you.”

Dial stopped. “What are you saying? You only work hard when your boss is watching?”

His face got redder. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Andropoulos stammered. “I, just, I would have been more ready for your visit.”

Dial tried not to smile. He was just busting the kid’s balls and would continue to do so until he learned more about him. Until then, he would have some fun at the young agent’s expense. “Speaking of my visit, I need somewhere to stay. Somewhere nice. And close. But not too close. I don’t want any dead monks falling on me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll find something for you in Kalampáka. It’s the city over the hill.”

Dial nodded but didn’t say a word.

Andropoulos stared at him, waiting, not sure what to do.

Finally, after several painful seconds, Dial shooed him away. “Go!”

The kid sprinted up the hill like he was being chased by wolves. Only then did Dial start to laugh, remembering how he had been treated by senior officers when he was a rookie cop-how they used to call him Nikki and made him feel like a piece of shit but later admitted that they were just trying to toughen him up. Dial wasn’t nearly as mean as they had been, but he still used some of their tactics. After all, their methods must have worked, because a quarter-century later Dial was the first American to run a division at Interpol.

It was an unbelievable honor from the European agency. But one he completely deserved.

Few investigators had the success that Dial had.

Anticipating the rugged terrain, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was equipped with a special antenna that allowed him to get a signal just about anywhere, which was necessary in his line of work. He needed to be reachable at all times from any country in the world. Not only to make decisions but also to be briefed on the latest details of his case.

After punching in his office number, Dial lifted his phone and rested it on his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. Although he was in his mid-forties, he had a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Five o’clock shadow that arrived before noon. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. The type of guy who could star in an action movie or a Marlboro commercial.

A woman in one hand, a horse in the other, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Except he didn’t smoke, didn’t have time to date, and liked his animals medium-rare.

Other than that, he sure as hell looked the part-thanks to his world-class chin.

“Hello,” said a French voice on the other end of Dial’s phone. “I’m not in right now because my boss is out of town. When he gets back, I’ll get back. And not a moment before. . . .”

Dial smiled at the greeting. Henri Toulon was the assistant director of the Homicide Division and a notorious slacker. A wine-loving Frenchman who practically lived at the office yet spent half of the day avoiding work, Toulon was still an invaluable member of his Interpol team, mostly because he was the smartest person Dial worked with. Toulon had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun-whether it was history, sports, politics, or pop culture. Unfortunately, sometimes he talked for hours just to avoid his other responsibilities.

“Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. I’m still waiting for your background information on Metéora. So give me a call when you wake up from your nap. Oh, and if you’re sleeping in my office, make sure you open a window. Last time I came back, the whole place smelled of booze.”

Dial laughed and hung up the phone.

If that didn’t light a fire under Toulon’s ass, nothing would.

5

Payne read the text message several times, not sure what to make of it. Normally, he would’ve dismissed it as a joke-despite claims to the contrary-but for some reason it didn’t feel like one. Seventeen calls that started in the middle of the night screamed of urgency, not hilarity.

Without saying a word, he handed the phone to Jones and waited for his opinion.

Jones read it once. Then again. Then aloud. “This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.” He paused for a moment, giving it some thought. “What the hell?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Jones clicked a few buttons, hoping to get additional information. “It was sent from a restricted number. Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell if the message came from the same phone as all the calls. It probably did, but we can’t tell for sure. At least not from your phone.”

“Meaning?”

“If I access the phone company’s server, I can locate the number. Even if it’s blocked.”

“Can you do that from Florida?”

Jones nodded. “With a computer and an Internet connection, I can do just about anything.”

“Well, that might not be necessary. I still haven’t listened to my voice mail.”

“Hold on. Before you do I want to check something.” Jones scrolled to a different screen and studied the time of each missed call. He quickly noticed a pattern. “Thirty minutes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whoever it was called you every half hour. First call was 3:59 A.M. Next call was 4:30. Then 5:01. Then 5:29. And so on. All the way until 11:28.”

Payne grabbed the phone and looked at the times. It was true-the calls came approximately thirty minutes apart, except for an extra call at 9:14 A.M. “Who would call that often?”

“Someone desperate.”

Payne glanced at the clock. It was nearly 1:00 p.m. Nothing for the last ninety minutes.

One phrase echoed in his brain.

Life or death.

He prayed that wasn’t the reason the calls had stopped.

They spotted an empty bench near Little St. Mary’s where they could listen to the messages without any distractions. Jones had a pen in one hand and a windshield flier he had grabbed off a parked car in the other, ready to write names, numbers, or anything else he deemed important.

Payne turned on his speakerphone and hit play.

The first message was filled with static.

“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”

Payne hit the save button so they could listen to it over and over. Unfortunately, the quality of the sound didn’t improve during multiple attempts. Still, they learned some basic facts. The caller was a male with no detectable accent. He mentioned Payne by name, which meant it wasn’t a wrong number. And he stressed the urgency of the matter.

Not a lot to go on, but better than nothing.

The second message was recorded an hour later. And during that time, the static had worsened.

“Jon, I . . . early. I apologize . . . but . . . death. Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”

Payne frowned. “Is that my static or his?”

“Definitely his. Since you never answered the call, the message was recorded by the phone company on its server. So all the hissing and the dropped words are from his end.”

“Does that help us pinpoint his location?”

“Probably not,” Jones answered. “He could be calling from a rural area with poor coverage, or he could be in a major city with bad weather. Or he could be using a crappy cell phone. There are simply too many variables.”

Payne shrugged. He had figured as much.

“Play it again,” Jones said, “but concentrate on the second half.”

They listened to the message again. “Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”

Jones smiled. “Call me crazy, but I think he said someone is after us.”

Payne nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right. Of course, that leads us to the next question: Who is he with?”

“No way of knowing. Not from what we’ve heard.”

“So it could be his friend or wife.”

“Or kids.”

Payne frowned. “Great. Now we have to save an entire family.”

“Or maybe, just maybe, he’s alone. For all we know, this guy is delusional.”

Payne shrugged. “Either way, here’s the final message. It was left at 11:28, right after you fixed my phone. It’s the call I ignored at lunch.”

He pushed the button and listened to the caller.

Static was no longer a problem, yet somehow the call sounded distant. Muffled.

“Sorry, I had to switch phones. I’m using a pay phone now. Hopefully no one is listening. I will keep calling as long as I can, but I’m being watched. . . . Damn! Where are you? Your friend assured me that I could trust you. Please. We need your help.”

They listened to it twice more before commenting.

Jones said, “He used the word we, so we’re definitely dealing with more than one person. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if your friend, whoever that is, is part of the we.”

“My guess is no. If my friend were there, he’d be calling me himself.”

“Unless he’s hurt. Or being held captive.”

“Great.”

“Any idea which friend?”

Payne shook his head. “Clueless. No idea at all.”

“Well, what time did-”

“Hold up,” Payne said, interrupting him. He clicked a few buttons on his phone until the first message was ready to play. “I’m not sure but he might’ve mentioned my friend in the first voice mail. It was garbled by static, but I think he did. Just listen.”

Payne hit Play, focusing on the second sentence.

“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”

Jones smiled, filling in the holes. “I was given your number by blank. Something that ends with -er. Like Miller. Or Harper. Know anyone like that who would give out your number?”

“Nothing rings a bell.”

“That’s okay. No pressure. Give it some time. It’ll come to you. It always does.”

Payne nodded halfheartedly. He appreciated Jones’s confidence but realized time was of the essence. It had been ninety minutes since the last call, an eternity in a life-or-death situation.

For all he knew, he was already too late.

6

Nick Dial followed Andropoulos as he trudged down the dirt path from the main road. The hill was steep and the footing treacherous in the dying sunlight, yet Andropoulos navigated it with ease, never losing his balance despite his leather dress shoes.

“What are you?” Dial demanded as he stopped to catch his breath. “Part mountain goat?”

Andropoulos smiled. “I am all Greek. I was born in Kastraki, a small village to the east. I used to play in these hills as a boy. I know them quite well.”

“Is this the only path to Holy Trinity?”

“The only path, yes. The only way, no.”

Dial glanced around. He saw nothing but cliffs. “How else can you get there?”

“The monks have a cable-car system, meant to handle supplies. It is strong enough to carry a man. However, it is controlled from inside the monastery.”

“So it would require an accomplice.”

Andropoulos nodded. “That is why we are on this path. This is how the killers came.”

With that, he started walking again, weaving around boulders and bushes until he arrived at the bottom of the gorge, where he was greeted by a large blue sign. At the top in white letters in both Greek and English, it said: HOLY MONASTERY OF AGIA TRIAS. In gold letters underneath, it warned in four different languages that shorts and short-sleeved shirts were not permitted; neither were women in sleeveless dresses or pantaloons.

Dial read the warning and smiled. He hadn’t seen the word pantaloons in years.

Andropoulos asked, “Are you ready for the tough part? The footing gets worse from here.”

“Are you serious? How could it get worse?”

He turned on a flashlight and shined it forward. “You shall see.”

A steep trail rose before them. It meandered up the hillside past a small grove of Oriental plane trees, the most common tree in the valley, until it stopped at the bottom of a rocky crag, where a series of steps had been carved into the stone. Although he wasn’t afraid of heights, Dial dreaded the next part of their journey-especially at night. One misstep meant a nasty fall.

“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Dial said.

Andropoulos nodded, willing to do just about anything to impress his boss.

The Greek had been an officer for less than two years but hoped to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps something in Athens. Or maybe Interpol Headquarters in France. The truth is he would kill for a job in the Homicide Division, which is why he was wearing his father’s suit instead of his everyday uniform. He wanted to make a good first impression.

“Do you see something?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial shined the light against the surface of the cliff, surprised by what he saw. From a distance he figured the stone fingers were made of volcanic rock-cooled underground, then exposed to sunlight after millions of years of soil erosion-but on closer inspection he realized that wasn’t the case. The natural pillars were hardened sandstone, filled with tiny pebbles of many shapes and colors. The result was a geological mosaic that seemed to breathe and flow with the constant movement of the earth. A living sculpture that stretched toward the sky.

“Let me guess,” Dial said. “This region was once underwater.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Scientists say that Thessaly was a giant lake that emptied into the Aegean Sea when an earthquake split the mountains. However, according to Greek mythology, the flood was caused by Zeus, who hoped to bring fertile farmland to the region.”

Dial smiled at the myth and gazed across the valley one last time, trying to enjoy the landscape for a few more seconds before it was permanently disfigured in his mind. From this point on, he knew his memory of Metéora would forever be tarnished by the things he was about to see.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Andropoulos turned and started the steep climb to the monastery. Dial stayed close behind, using the flashlight to find the footholds that had been carved into the rock several decades before. He also searched for any evidence that might have been missed by the local police.

“There are one hundred forty steps. You can count them if you like.”

“One hundred forty? Is that number significant?”

“Yes,” said the Greek. “That is how many they needed to reach the top.”

“I meant-” Dial shook his head. There was no need to explain. “Go! Keep walking.”

Andropoulos obliged, not saying another word until they reached the entrance, which was cut into the side of the cliff like a natural fissure. The door was ten feet high and made out of solid wood. It had not been damaged during the assault. Neither had the ancient lock, which still worked despite centuries of use. “This is the only way in.”

Dial examined the hinges and frame. No scratches or holes. “Is it locked at night?”

“Always.”

“Whose job is it?”

Andropoulos shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Do me a favor and find out.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” Dial said. “Once we’re inside, I want to be left alone for a while. I always try to view the evidence and the crime scene with fresh eyes. It allows me to form my own conclusions before I hear anyone else’s. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dial stared at him, sizing him up. “You should try it sometime. It’s the best way to separate a good investigator from a bad one.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I was the first one here. So my opinions are my own.”

Dial smiled. He liked the Greek’s confidence. “Glad to hear it, kid. Let’s talk again in twenty minutes. I’ll find out then if you have any brains or I need to get a new tour guide.”

7

If they’d had more time, Payne and Jones would have driven to MacDill AFB to do their dirty work, using one of the computers on the high-speed military network. The encryption level was so high and the speeds were so blazing fast that Jones could have floated around the Internet like a ghost, grabbing whatever data he needed without worrying about being caught. But as things stood, they had to make do with Jones’s laptop and the hotel’s wireless network.

That and the help of a well-connected friend.

As a computer researcher at the Pentagon, Randy Raskin was privy to many of the government’s biggest secrets, a mountain of classified data that was there for the taking if someone knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the right hands at the right time. And he was great at it. Over the years, Payne and Jones had used his services on many occasions, and this had eventually led to a friendship.

Payne offered to give him a call while Jones turned on his computer.

“Leave me alone,” Raskin snapped from his desk in the Pentagon. “I’m busy.”

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Seriously, Jon. You shouldn’t be calling me. Today is the Sabbath. A day of rest.”

Payne smiled. “First of all, you’re Jewish, so don’t pull that crap with me.”

“What are you saying? Jews don’t deserve a day off ?”

“Secondly, I called you at the office. Therefore you’re not actually resting.”

Raskin cursed, realizing he had lost the argument. “Dammit! How come you always win? Tell me the truth: Were you on the debate team in high school?”

“No,” Payne joked, “but I beat them up when they wouldn’t do my homework.”

“I should’ve known. I’m going to make note of that in your personnel file.”

“If you must. But before you do, I was wondering-”

Raskin interrupted him. “If I could do you a favor.”

“Crap! Am I that predictable?”

“Both of you are. Let me guess, D.J. is there, too.”

“You know it.”

“And you’re calling from . . . Florida. Am I right?”

Payne nodded. “How’d you know that?”

The ever-present clicking of Raskin’s keyboard could be heard in the background. “Because I’m tracking your call with Blackbird, our latest GPS satellite. Give me ten more seconds and I can shoot a missile up your ass. Seriously. Right up your ass.”

“Ouch! You’re one scary geek.”

Raskin smiled. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Okay,” Jones said from across the hotel room. He sat in front of his laptop, which was logged on to an encrypted system at his office in Pittsburgh. “I’m ready.”

Payne turned on his speakerphone. “Randy, you’re on with D.J.”

“So,” Raskin asked, “what kind of trouble are you in this time?”

“It’s not us,” Jones explained. “It’s a colleague of ours. And the clock is ticking.”

Raskin nodded in understanding. The joking stopped at once. “What do you need?”

“We need access to restricted phone numbers. Seventeen calls in the last twelve hours. All of them placed to Jon’s cell.”

“The line we’re on now?”

“Affirmative,” Jones answered.

“No sweat. I started tracking it the moment he called. Give me a few seconds to get through his network’s firewall, and I can retrieve everything you need.”

“Can you send it to my laptop?”

“If you’d like. Or I can just read it to you.”

Jones shook his head. “No thanks. I want a hard copy.”

“Not a problem. I’ll send it right now.” Raskin hit Enter, sending the file. “It might take a few minutes to arrive. My system is running slow today. I’m crunching some serious data.”

“In that case,” Payne said, “would you mind answering one question about the calls?”

“Fire away.”

“Where did they come from?”

Raskin glanced at his middle screen. It was flanked by several others, all of them filled with data for other projects. “As far as I can tell, the calls came from three different sources. But the majority of them were placed in one city: Saint Petersburg.”

“Saint Petersburg? We’re in Saint Petersburg.”

Raskin shook his head. “Sorry, dude. Wrong Saint Petersburg. I’m talking about Russia.”

Payne hung up, more confused than before. “Someone’s calling me from Russia? That makes no sense. I haven’t been there in years.”

Jones said nothing as he waited for the file to appear on his screen. When it did, he hit a few keys and the document started to print on his portable printer, which weighed less than three pounds and fit inside his laptop bag.

“Here you go,” he said to Payne as he handed him a copy of the phone logs. Then he printed a second copy for himself, so he could take notes in the margin.

According to the list, fifteen calls had been made to Payne’s phone from one number in Saint Petersburg, Russia. They had started at 3:59 A.M. and had ended at 11:01 A.M. That pattern changed at 11:28 A.M. when the caller switched to a pay phone-a fact confirmed by his final message.

“Any thoughts?” Payne asked.

“A few. Take a look at the last column.”

The phone logs were divided into six columns, five of which were pretty straightforward. The first showed the date of the call. The second showed the time it was placed. The third showed the duration. The fourth showed the caller’s number. And the fifth showed the location.

No problems reading any of those.

But the sixth was a different story. It was more complicated.

At the top of the column, there was a single word: TOW.

No description. No explanation. No help of any kind.

Payne and Jones tried to figure out what it meant by analyzing the column itself, but the data was an enigmatic mix of numbers and letters, separated by a dash. 18-A. 22-F. 4-C. And so on. A few of the combinations appeared more than once, always on successive calls, yet there didn’t seem to be a discernible pattern. At least not at first glance. And for all they knew, the letters might have been translated from the Cyrillic alphabet.

Payne asked, “Is TOW an acronym?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe time of something. Something that starts with a W.”

“Time of waking my ass up.”

“Somehow I doubt it. In fact, now that I think about it, time won’t work at all. It doesn’t correspond with the alphanumeric codes in the last column.”

“The what?”

“The things with the dashes.”

Payne smiled. “Any thoughts on what could?”

Jones shrugged. “It might be some kind of machine code-a basic set of instructions for the phone company’s central processing unit. I’m not sure why it would be listed, though.”

“It wouldn’t be. But I think you’re on the right track. We’re definitely dealing with a code. The only question is what kind. Why don’t you fire up your CPU and run a search? Who knows? Maybe Google can help us out.”

Normally, Jones would have told Payne to wait, insisting that he could figure it out on his own. After all, solving mysteries was a passion of his, which was one of the main reasons that he had opened a private investigations firm in Pittsburgh when he left the MANIACs. But in this case, time was crucial, so he sat in front of his laptop and ran an Internet search for TOW.

Hundreds of possibilities popped up on his screen, none of which seemed likely.

But Jones kept trying, searching page after page, until something clicked. And when it did, he shook his head in frustration, pissed off that he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

It was a look that Payne had seen many times. “Got something?”

Jones nodded. “It’s not an acronym. It’s an abbreviation. It stands for tower.”

“Tower?”

“As in cell phone tower. Each letter and number combo refers to a specific area in the city. If we get a tower map, we can figure out where our mystery caller was each time he called.”

“And how will that help?”

“If necessary,” Jones said, “I can access traffic cameras in each of those grids and look for familiar faces. Who knows? We might get lucky and get a picture of this guy.”

Payne frowned. It sounded like a lot of unnecessary work. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just call the number and talk to him?”

8

Dial crept anonymously around the monastery-never mak ing eye contact, always blending in, never staying in one room for too long. He knew the moment he stopped was the moment someone would approach. And he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

In his mind, there was an appropriate time to discuss a case.

And that time was much later.

Built in 1475, Agia Triada had been remodeled on several occasions but remained true to its post-Byzantine roots. The interior of its church was architecturally ornate, both in design and material, while the artwork was colorful and vibrant. Dial did his best to ignore the religious frescoes that surrounded him, focusing instead on the crimson puddle on the main altar.

This was where the killings had occurred.

More than one person had died here-that much was certain. But he wouldn’t know an actual number until he was briefed on the blood work. From the looks of things, he guessed somewhere between five and ten. They had been killed on the stone slab, then immediately dragged toward the side door. He could tell that from the thickness of the blood trail. These victims, fresh from the slaughter, had continued to bleed as they were moved.

Following the path, he left the chapel and walked toward a four-foot restraining wall. It was made of stone and designed to keep people from falling over the edge. Only in this case it hadn’t done its job. Dial noticed a large patch of dried blood near its base. The red stain streaked up the side and continued to the top, as if the bodies had been picked up and dumped over the side.

Dial turned on his flashlight and leaned over the wall, careful not to touch anything. In the past few minutes a light fog had settled in the valley, obscuring the crime scene below. From this height all he could see were the surrounding peaks that rose above the mist like a lost city in the clouds. Yet somehow that seemed appropriate. The monks had chosen this place for its isolation, a way to avoid the dangers and distractions of the outside world. But in the end, they had neglected to consider a basic tenet of life: Just because you ignore the world doesn’t mean the world will ignore you.

Since half the police force was in the church looking for evidence, Dial decided to roam the outer parts of the monastery, hoping to answer the one issue that plagued him the most.

Why were the monks killed?

Was this a hate crime against the Orthodox faith? A robbery gone bad? Or something more psychotic-perhaps an ex-monk getting revenge against his former brethren?

The truth was he didn’t know and probably wouldn’t until he had a better grasp of the monastic way of life. In his mind, one of the biggest drawbacks of working for a worldwide organization like Interpol was how difficult it was to understand all the ideologies he encountered while traveling the globe. And since Dial had never visited this part of Greece, he knew he had a lot to learn about the local people and their customs.

For him, the quickest way to shed some light on Metéora was to find somebody to talk to. Not another cop, who would be inclined to discuss the case, but someone who could help him understand the culture of the local monasteries. Preferably someone who still lived in one.

With that in mind, Dial stopped looking for clues and started searching for a monk.

Halfway across the complex, he saw a bright light shining under an ancient door. It was made of the same wood as the front gate but was not nearly as tall. Dial knocked on it gently and waited for a response. A few seconds passed before an old man opened it. He had a long gray beard and piercing eyes that sat deep in their sockets. A coarse robe hung off his frail frame like loose skin, as if it were a part of him. It was tied at the waist by a white cord that dangled to his knees.

He stood there, silent, quietly studying Dial while Dial returned the favor.

Two men sizing each other up.

Finally, the old man spoke. His name was Nicolas. “On most days you would be asked to leave.” He reached his pale hand forward and tugged on the cuff of Dial’s short-sleeved shirt. “This is not appropriate for a house of God.”

Dial lowered his eyes in shame. He had read the warning sign in the valley but had ignored it-mostly because he didn’t think anyone was alive to enforce the rules. Now he felt like a total ass. He hadn’t said a word, yet he had already offended the monk. “I can leave if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary. There are more important things to worry about.”

Dial introduced himself, then said, “Actually, I was kind of hoping that you could assist me with some of those things. As a foreigner, I don’t know much about Greek monasteries-as you can tell from my clothes.”

Nicolas considered Dial’s request for several seconds before he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Let us walk. I’d like to show you something.”

Without saying another word, he started the long journey across the complex. His gait was hobbled, a combination of his advanced age and the uneven surface of the stone courtyard, but he was determined to reach his destination without any help. This was most apparent when they reached the spiral staircase to the bell tower. It stood three stories high and was covered with a tiled roof. The monk grasped the handrail with one hand while lifting his robe with the other. Then he pulled himself to the top, one painful step at a time.

“Do you know the story of Agia Triada?” asked the monk as he struggled with the stairs. “The hermits who built this place climbed to the top of the rock with their bare hands but weren’t strong enough to carry supplies. So one might wonder how they accomplished their goal.”

Dial recalled what Andropoulos had said. “Didn’t they lift their equipment with ropes?”

“They did, but how did they get the ropes to the top?”

“On their backs?”

Nicolas stopped walking. “Have you ever lifted two thousand feet of rope? Of course not. It would be far too heavy and cumbersome.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“So what did they do? How did they get the rope to the top?”

Dial was adept at solving mysteries, but even he was stumped by this one. “I have no idea.”

“Not even a guess?”

“Nope. Not even a guess.”

Nicolas reveled in victory. “My brethren used kites.”

“Kites? How did that work?”

“One monk stood at the bottom of the cliff and flew a kite high into the air. When the wind was right, he let it drift toward the top of the rock where another monk grabbed its tail. The long kite string was then tied to the end of a rope, allowing the monks to pull it up the cliff.”

“That’s brilliant,” Dial admitted. “How did they come up with that?”

Nicolas shrugged. “Give a man enough time to think and he can accomplish anything.”

Dial smiled. He liked this guy. He had several more questions that he wanted to ask the monk, but he could see Nicolas was having trouble with the stairs. Out of respect, Dial stopped talking until they reached the top of the bell tower.

“I’ve spent many days up here,” said the monk as he fought to catch his breath. He stared at one of the nearby peaks, ignoring the darkness and the fog that surrounded them. “This tower has the best view of the valley. And I should know. I’ve seen them all.”

“How long have you lived here?”

Nicolas shook his head. “I haven’t lived here for many years. Not since the decision.”

“The decision?”

“Holy Trinity was a working monastery for several centuries. Now it is a haven for tourists, and we are nothing but tour guides. Do you know how many monks live here?”

Dial guessed. “Twenty.”

“One,” said the monk. “And he is now dead.”

“Only one? What about the other victims?”

“What about them?”

“If they weren’t residents, why were they here in the middle of the night?”

Nicolas shrugged. “I have not been told.”

Dial paused for a moment, trying to think things through. He had been under the impression that the killers had broken into the monastery and slaughtered all the monks who lived here. Now he knew that wasn’t the case. With the exception of one monk, all the other monks were late-night visitors. And the reason for their visit had been kept a secret. Suddenly, Dial realized that if he could figure out that reason, then he would be a whole lot closer to catching the killers.

“So,” Dial asked, “who’s in charge of all the monasteries at Metéora?”

“That would be the hegumen, the abbot.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Unfortunately, that is not possible.”

“Why? Is it against the rules?”

Nicolas shook his head.

“In that case, where can I find him?”

“That depends. Where do you take the dead?”

Dial groaned, completely mortified. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

The monk remained silent as he stared into the distance.

“When will a replacement be named?”

“Once we have all the answers. There are still many questions that need to be asked.”

Dial knew the feeling. “In the meantime, who’s in charge of Holy Trinity?”

Nicolas turned toward Dial and pointed to himself. “I am here, so I am in charge. I will tend to this place until a successor is named.”

“As luck should have it, I’m in charge, too.” Dial paused for a moment, thinking. “If you’re interested, maybe we can help each other out. I can answer some of your questions if you can answer some of mine.”

The monk smiled for the first time that night. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

9

Jones had spent several minutes analyzing the phone logs, focusing his attention on the coded sixth column while overlooking the simplest approach of all: dialing the number.

“You know,” Payne joked. “For the smartest guy I know, you’re pretty stupid.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I did! I’ve been calling you stupid for years.”

Jones sneered. “I meant about the phone.”

“Honestly? I got caught up in all your excitement.”

“In other words, you just thought of it yourself.”

Payne shrugged. “Maybe.”

“When you call,” Jones said, trying to shift the focus from himself, “remember to use the international code for Russia. It’s zero, one, one, seven.”

Payne turned on the speakerphone and dialed the number that had placed fifteen of the seventeen calls. There was a slight delay before his call went through, followed by the unfamiliar sound of a foreign ring. Much different from the sound in America. More like a windup phone from yesteryear. It rang once. Then again. Then a third time. Yet no one picked up.

A fourth ring. Then a fifth. Then a sixth.

Finally, after the seventh ring, the ringing stopped and someone answered.

“Da?” said the voice in Russian.

Payne and Jones looked at each other, confused. Not only didn’t they speak much Russian-although they knew that da meant “yes”-they realized this wasn’t the same man who had left three messages for Payne. This voice was younger. More tentative.

“Hello,” Payne said, not sure what to say. “Do you speak English?”

“Nyet.”

Payne grimaced. The guy claimed he couldn’t speak English, yet he knew enough about the language to understand the question. “Are you sure?”

“Da!”

Payne covered the mic on his phone. “I think he’s retarded.”

Jones tried not to laugh. “Let me try.”

“Help yourself.”

He took a deep breath then spoke phonetically, mumbling one of the few phrases he knew. “Govorite li vy po angliyski?”

Payne stared at Jones, surprised. “What the hell did you say?”

Jones signaled for him to shut up, hoping the Russian would respond. When he didn’t, Jones repeated one word. “Angliyski?”

It meant English.

Several seconds passed before another word was spoken. This time it came from a female with a thick accent. “Hello?”

“Hello,” said Jones, surprised by the development. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“Great. That’s great-”

“He find it,” she said, interrupting him.

“Excuse me?”

“He find it,” she repeated. “He not steal it. He find it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The phone. He find phone. My son not steal phone.”

Jones frowned at the news. Someone had ditched the phone. “Where did he find it?”

“How you say, garbage? He find on garbage.”

“Did he see who threw it away?”

The woman talked to her son in Russian. A few seconds later she translated his response. “He see no one. He find phone. Not steal.”

“Thank you,” Jones said, realizing this was a dead end. “Tell him to enjoy the phone. We’ll call back if we have more questions.”

She said nothing and hung up.

Payne asked, “What do you think?”

“I think her kid found the phone.”

“That’s not what I meant. Do you think our guy threw it away? Or did someone else?”

Jones shrugged. “In his third message he mentioned that he had to switch phones, so maybe he threw it away. Maybe he was afraid it was being traced and decided to ditch it. I honestly don’t know. As of now I don’t know enough about this guy to make any assumptions.”

Payne nodded. It was a good point. “Now what? Should we call the pay phone?”

“It’s worth a try. Who knows? Maybe he’s standing next to it, waiting for our call.”

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.

10

Andropoulos 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.”

Even 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.

11

Küsendorf, Switzerland (82 miles southeast of Bern)

Clinging 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.

Ulster 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 Ulster. Or Petr. 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.”

“Alive? Who said anything about dead?”

Payne took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Your friend did. He sent me a text message that said: This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.”

“Are you serious?”

“Couple that with all his calls and you can see why I’m concerned.”

“Oh my Lord, I had no idea. I just thought he needed your advice.”

“Unfortunately,” Payne said, “I think he needs more than that.”

“Jon,” Jones whispered, “put him on speakerphone.”

Payne nodded. “Petr, I’m going to put you on speakerphone so D.J. can listen in.”

“Yes, of course. The more help, the better.”

Payne clicked the button and placed the phone on the desk between him and Jones.

“Hey, Petr,” Jones said. “How are you?”

“I was much better five minutes ago. Now I’m worried for Richard.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. But first we need some background info.”

“Whatever you need, just ask.”

“What do you know about him?”

“His name is Richard Byrd. He’s an American collector from California. He’s visited the Archives a number of times during the past few years, spending most of his time with my Greek collection. In return, he loaned us several ancient coins to examine. Lovely items. Just lovely.”

The goal of the Ulster Archives was to foster the concept of sharing when it came to historical research, something of a rarity in academia, where experts and collectors tend to hoard things for themselves. According to some estimates, only fifteen percent of the world’s most valuable artifacts are displayed in public forums like museums or galleries. The other eighty-five percent are kept in private collections or stored in crates for safekeeping. In order to gain access to the Archives, a scholar had to bring something of value-either new research or an ancient relic-for his peers to study. Otherwise, Ulster wouldn’t let him enter the facility.

Jones frowned. “Wait a second. Did you say Greek?”

“Yes, Greek.”

“Not Russian?”

“Russian? Why would I say Russian?”

Payne answered. “Because that’s where he was calling from.”

“From Russia? He was supposed to be in Greece!”

“Yet he was calling from Saint Petersburg. We have the phone records to prove it.”

Ulster grimaced, growing more confused by the minute. “That doesn’t make any sense. The last time we spoke he said he had found a wonderful addition for my Greek collection and wanted to bring it here immediately. The only problem was getting it through customs, since the Greek government is notorious for protecting its heritage. That’s when he asked me for my advice and I gave him your phone number.”

“When was that?”

“Several days ago. However, earlier today he did leave a message. Thanks to static, it was virtually incomprehensible, but I recognized his voice and heard your name. I couldn’t understand anything else. That’s one of the reasons I gave you a call. To see if you had spoken.”

“And you thought I would help him with smuggling?”

“Jonathon, please keep in mind I’m not talking about stealing or selling items on the black market. I would never support either of those activities. I’m talking about smuggling for academic purposes. Without it, we wouldn’t know half the things we do about Egypt, Greece, or Rome. Without it, we would still view the Mayans, Incas, and Aztecs as savages, not the innovators that they were. Without it, the Ulster Archives never would have existed, because the Nazis would have seized my grandfather’s collection before he smuggled it out of Austria. And if that had happened, I would have been denied the greatest pleasure of my life!”

Ulster paused, trying to calm himself. “I realize smuggling is an ugly word. But in the world of antiquities, it is often a necessary evil to unlock the mysteries of the past.”

12

Winter Palace Saint Petersburg, Russia

The boat was named the Meteor. It was tied to the quay on the Neva River behind the Winter Palace. Stretching along the waterfront, the green-and-white fortress had nearly two thousand windows and looked as if it had been built in France. In fact, much of Saint Petersburg looked French. This was a Western European city that happened to be in Russia.

On any other occasion, Allison Taylor would have enjoyed the scenery. She would have stopped to take pictures of the palace where Cath erine the Great once lived. She would have roamed the halls of the Hermitage Museum, admiring the art of Michelangelo, Monet, Rem brandt, and Van Gogh. She would have sat in the Palace Square, watching the other tourists as they gazed at the Alexander Column in the center of the plaza.

But today, none of those things were possible.

Not if she wanted to live.

As she ran to the station at the end of the platform, her blond hair fluttered in the breeze. She was an attractive woman in her mid-twenties with eyes the color of sapphires. In a city where Nordic models roamed the streets, she definitely fit right in. She was tall and lean and striking.

She was also trembling with fear.

She bought her ticket at the last possible moment to make sure no one was following. She scanned the crowd on the long wharf, searching for anyone who looked suspicious before making her way to the boat. She needed to reach her destination before dark, and this was her best option. No stops. No traffic. No distractions of any kind. She knew her intellect was the key to survival. She had to stay sharp or she’d be dead before dawn.

Taking a deep breath, Allison stepped on board and refused to sit down until the crew pushed away from the shore. She stood there, restless, nervously biting her lip, expecting someone to burst from the crowd and jump aboard the Meteor before she had a chance to jump off. But that didn’t happen. The motor sprang to life, and within seconds she could see water churning behind them as they slowly picked up speed. Only then did she search for a seat.

She found an empty row in the back of the crowded hydrofoil. It gave her a great view of her fellow passengers as they glided down the Neva River through the southwest corner of the city. In forty minutes they would reach the Gulf of Finland, an important arm of the Baltic Sea. It separated Russia from Scandinavia and Allison from her freedom.

At least that’s what she had been told.

Seventeen miles later, the Meteor arrived at the lower park of the Peterhof. Dozens of tourists stood near the water’s edge, patiently waiting for their return trip to Saint Petersburg. Allison eyed them suspiciously before she left the boat and walked across the long pier toward the wooded shore. She was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a white blouse, a simple outfit that would help her blend in with all the people in the park. It would be closing shortly, and when it did, she hoped to disappear into the crowd.

Known as the Russian Versailles for its similarities to the château in France, the Peterhof was a series of palaces, fountains, and gardens that had been built as the summer residence of Peter the Great. Designed in 1714, the most remarkable feature of the sprawling grounds was the central role of water-whether it was the sea that bordered half the complex or the massive canal that bisected it. Allison had seen pictures of the Peterhof when she was in junior high and had marveled at its opulence, but nothing had prepared her for the things she was about to see.

Her first glimpse of the grounds came from the boat platform near the Meteor. She was walking across a concrete bridge when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Paranoid, she glanced in that direction and saw a large pair of geysers spouting water on both sides of the channel that ran from the palace to the edge of the bay. Behind them was another pair of fountains. And another. And another. In fact, there were so many fountains blending in with one another that she was unable to count them from where she was standing.

Of course, none of that mattered when she spotted the Grand Palace. It was painted bright yellow and sat on top of a small hill that appeared to hover above the fountains. From where she was standing, the hill seemed to be moving, as if the ground itself was caving under the weight of the building. Intrigued, she walked closer, taking the path on the right-hand side of the wide canal. A thick wall of pine trees blocked her view of the fountains, but she heard their constant trickling. The sound was soft and reassuring, somehow calming her nerves.

When Allison emerged from the grove, she was surprised by the sight. The section of hill that she thought was swaying was not a hill at all. Instead, it was the Grand Cascade, a series of seven water steps flanking both sides of a large grotto with water flowing from one level to the next. Each of the platforms was decorated by low-relief sculptures, gilded statues, and waterspouts-all of them facing the Samson Fountain that dominated the foreground. The gold statue in the center depicted Samson ripping open the jaws of a lion, symbolizing Russia’s victory over Sweden in the Great Northern War. A geyser from the lion’s mouth shot water sixty-five feet into the air.

Remarkably, none of the Peterhof fountains were operated by mechanical pumps. Peter the Great chose this location for his palace because of several spring-fed reservoirs to the south. In 1721 a canal system was built so water could flow by gravity to large storage pools. When the pressure was released, water rushed through the pipes with so much force that it erupted through the spouts, feeding the dozens of fountains all over the grounds.

Allison watched the flight of the water as it left the lion’s mouth. It sailed high above the balustrade and fell back to its circular basin. The resulting mist, carried by the light breeze that blew in from the bay, drifted toward the spacious patio at the rear of the palace.

And that’s where she spotted him.

He was standing next to a decorative vase perched above the grotto. Just standing there, staring at her, waiting for her arrival. The instant she saw him she wanted to wave, but knew it was too dangerous. No need to attract attention-someone might be watching. Instead, she studied her surroundings, searching all the nearby faces for anyone who looked suspicious.

After several seconds, she breathed a sigh of relief.

As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

The grounds extended in all directions, a labyrinth of sidewalks, gardens, and culs-de-sac. Without a map, she didn’t know which way to go, so she waited for him to decide.

It was a decision that would never happen.

Despite the distance, she saw the gun before the trigger was pulled. It emerged out of nowhere like a magic trick. One moment it wasn’t there, and the next it was.

But the barrel wasn’t pointed at her. It was aimed at the man she was there to meet.

Before Allison could react, his head exploded in a burst of pink mist. The roar of gunfire was muffled by a silencer. The first sound she heard was the loud splash as the man tumbled over the railing and landed in the upper fountain. He was dead before he hit the water.

It took a moment for things to sink in. But once they did, chaos erupted at the Peterhof.

Parents were screaming. Children were crying. Tourists were running everywhere.

And Allison wanted to join them. She wanted to sprint toward the exit and forget everything that had happened-like a bad dream that faded away when she woke up. Yet her legs refused to move. So she sank to her knees and tried to breathe as she stared at the waterfall.

Seconds later, the trickling water turned blood red from the corpse of Richard Byrd.

13

After Ulster’s lecture on smuggling, Payne felt like a total hypocrite. He had always viewed smugglers as modern-day pirates, hardened criminals with rusty boats and no morals. Ruthless men who rarely shaved and reeked of sweat. The real scum of the earth.

Yet according to Ulster’s definition, Payne was a smuggler himself.

Excluding his stint in the military-when he and Jones had frequently shipped men, weapons, and supplies across enemy lines-Payne had been involved in two recent smuggling operations, although he hadn’t viewed himself as a smuggler at the time of the incidents.

The first occurred shortly after he met Ulster. Payne and Jones uncovered a plot to rewrite the history of Jesus Christ, and in the process they recovered several religious artifacts that had no rightful owner. Since they didn’t want the relics locked away in the Vatican basement, they had smuggled them out of Italy and delivered them to the Ulster Archives.

The second had been even more dramatic. Payne and Jones sneaked into the Muslim-only city of Mecca to thwart a terrorist attack and ended up rescuing an American archaeologist who had discovered an Islamic treasure the Saudi government knew nothing about. Worried that the Arabs would claim it for themselves, Payne and Jones had smuggled it out of the Middle East and donated it to Ulster’s facility, where it could be examined by experts in that field.

Ultimately, that’s one of the reasons Payne never viewed himself as a smuggler.

He never stole anything. He never sold the treasures. And most important, he always donated them to academia instead of keeping them for himself.

“You know,” Jones said after their call to Ulster, “we aren’t exactly angels.”

“I never claimed to be.”

Jones smiled. “Yet you want to be perceived that way.”

Payne shrugged. Deep down inside, he knew Jones was right. From the moment in the eighth grade when he lost his parents to a drunk driver, Payne had always craved the approval of others. It was his way of making up for the love and attention he had been denied. His paternal grandfather did a wonderful job of raising him after the accident, yet because of his duties as the founder and CEO of Payne Industries, he simply wasn’t around as often as Payne would have liked.

Instead of sulking or rebelling as teenagers are apt to do, Payne had poured his energy into every talent he had-academics, athletics, martial arts, and eventually the military-hoping his accomplishments would get him the positive attention he needed.

In the end, it made him a better person.

“So,” Jones wondered, “how do you want to handle this?”

“Not much we can do from here. Not until Byrd calls back.”

“And then?”

“Then it depends on him. If he seems legitimate, I say we bail him out. I mean, a friend of Petr’s is a friend of ours. On the other hand, if he seems shady in any way, I say we wish him well but tell him we’re on vacation.”

Jones nodded. “Agreed.”

“In the meantime, why don’t you dig up some background on him.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” He turned his laptop toward Payne and pointed at the screen. “As soon as Petr mentioned his name, I ran an Internet search and came up with a few articles. It seems the two of you have something in common.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You both come from money.”

Payne sat at the hotel desk and studied the image on the screen.

Richard Byrd was a handsome man in his late forties. He had sandy brown hair that was gray at the temples and a deep California tan. In the picture he was standing on the deck of his yacht, the Odyssey, while Catalina Island loomed in the distance. He looked cool, confident, and in total control-the exact opposite of how he had sounded on the phone.

Underneath there was a short biography, detailing his academic and professional careers. He had graduated from Stanford with a degree in history but never worked in that field. Instead, he had taken control of his family’s fortune, which had been amassed during the gold rush of the 1800s, and multiplied it many times over in the banking business. According to this website, he had retired a few years ago to pursue outside interests, although none were listed.

“Let me guess,” Payne said. “His hobbies include traveling, antiques, and Greece.”

“Is it just me, or does he look like a catalogue model?”

Payne smiled and handed the computer back to Jones. “Enough with the fluff. Why don’t you get some dirt on this guy? Anything that might suggest criminal activities. I want to know as much as possible before he calls again.”

As if on cue, Payne’s phone started to ring on the nearby table.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t answer it,” Jones shouted as he scrambled for his laptop bag. He quickly unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a short black cord that he plugged into the back of his computer. “Give me your phone.”

Payne did as he was told and watched Jones attach it to the cord. This would allow them to listen through the laptop’s speakers while recording the call as a digital file.

Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. Three rings, then four.

“Are we good?” Payne asked.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Payne took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hello?”

A loud blast of static filled the room. Jones leaned forward and lowered the volume on his computer. It helped with the sound level but didn’t help with the clarity. Static still filled the line.

“Hello?” Payne repeated.

There was a two-second pause before they heard a response.

“Hello,” said the voice. It was soft and meek and feminine.

Payne glanced at the number. It was restricted, just as before. “Who is this?”

She ignored his question. After another pause, she said, “Is this Jonathon?”

“Yes. This is Jon. Who is this?”

Static filled the line for a few seconds. Followed by a gasp and a sob.

“Are you all right?” Payne asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible.

“Is this Jonathon?” she repeated.

“Yes. This is Jonathon. Who is this?”

A slight delay, then an answer: “This is Allison.”

“Allison who?”

“Taylor.”

Payne looked at Jones, who shrugged. Neither of them knew who she was.

“Allison, where are you calling from?”

A few seconds of static. “Russia. I’m calling from Russia.”

“Are you with Richard?”

She let out a soft wail. No talking, just crying.

“Allison, where’s Richard?”

A slight pause, then a thunderbolt. “Richard’s dead.”

“What?” Payne said, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“They killed him. They killed Richard.”

“Who is they?”

“I don’t know. But they killed him.”

Payne paused, not sure what to ask. “Allison, how did you know Richard?”

Static for a few seconds. “I was helping him.”

“With what?”

“His trip.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“They shot him in the head. He fell in the fountain.”

“Allison, where are you in Russia?”

“Saint Petersburg.”

“Are you an American?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. Then I want you to go to the consulate. There’s an American consulate in Saint Petersburg. If you go there, they’ll protect you.”

She sobbed. “I can’t. Richard said we couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. But he said we couldn’t go there. He said if anything happened to him that I was supposed to call. He bought me a phone just so I could call you. He programmed your number into the phone. It’s the only number I’ve got.”

Payne swore under his breath, not sure what to do. Byrd was dead. Allison was freaking out. And she refused to go to the only safe place he could think of. Back in the day, he used to know several places around the city where operatives could hide in an emergency, but he hadn’t been to any of them in years. So there was no way of knowing if they were still in play.

“Jon,” Jones whispered, “if they killed Byrd, Petr could be in trouble.”

Payne covered the phone. “Explain.”

“Byrd went to the Ulster Archives on several occasions to do research. Who knows what he found there. If these people are thorough, they might go there next.”

Payne nodded in understanding. Suddenly, they had little choice in the matter. They had to get involved to protect their friend.

“Allison,” he said with a firm voice, “listen to me. Everything is going to be fine. Do you believe me when I say that?”

“They killed him,” she said meekly.

“I know that, Allison. It must be tough for you. But let me tell you a secret. Do you know why Richard told you to call me? He knew if you needed my help, I would give it to you. And trust me when I say this, I’m a very helpful guy.”

Static filled the line. Several seconds’ worth.

“Allison? Are you still there?”

Another lengthy pause. Finally, she asked, “How can you help me?”

“It’s pretty simple. I’m coming to get you out.”

14

While Andropoulos sealed the videotapes in evidence bags, Dial strolled into the main chapel and searched for the second camera. He spotted it in the rear of the church, right above the donation box.

Trying not to draw attention to himself, Dial casually leaned against the back wall and glanced upward. The wire was attached to a wooden beam in the same fashion as in the gift shop. Except in this case, the viewing angle was slightly more favorable.

With a little luck, they might actually have footage of the killers.

Ideally, Dial would have viewed the videos right away, but considering their current location, that was an impossibility. Instead, they would have to wait until they drove to the station house in Kalampáka or got to a secondary location like Dial’s hotel. The truth was Dial didn’t care where he watched it, as long as he got to see the recordings as soon as possible.

A few minutes later, Andropoulos walked into the church and approached a uniformed officer who looked even younger than he did. The kid snapped to attention and listened intently as Andropoulos handed him the tapes and gave him a series of orders in Greek. When their conversation ended, the kid hustled through the same door Andropoulos had entered.

Dial smiled, watching all of this from afar. “Marcus!”

He spotted Dial near the back table and walked toward him. “Yes, sir?”

“What was that all about?”

Andropoulos blushed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“That depends. What in the hell did you just do?”

“I thought someone should view the tapes immediately. And since I can’t leave here yet, I asked another officer to look at them.”

“That’s what I thought you did.”

“Did I mess up?”

Dial shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, that’s the most impressive thing you’ve done all night. You just put justice ahead of your own ambition. That’s pretty rare in a case like this.”

Andropoulos breathed a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess up?”

Dial laughed. “Let’s walk outside. I want to discuss the crime scene.”

Dial didn’t speak again until they were outside, far away from the other officers. At this stage of the game, he still wasn’t allowed to investigate the scene-since he lacked proof that multiple member states were involved-and would be forced to leave if he overstepped his bounds. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Turf wars were common in his business, one where egos were easily bruised and jurisdictions were guarded like jealous lovers.

For the time being, the local police were in charge of the monastery. Things would stay that way until the Greek government decided the locals couldn’t handle it-or shouldn’t handle it-and the inspector general for northern Greece showed up with a team of national experts from the Forensic Division and the Special Violent Crime Squad. After that, it was only a matter of time before Dial was thanked for his interest in the case and driven to the airport. Then again, Dial wouldn’t blame the inspector. If Dial were in charge of the case, he wouldn’t want an outsider lurking around, either. Especially someone who wanted to take control of things.

“So,” Dial asked Andropoulos, hoping to bond with his liaison, “where did you learn English? Other than a slight accent, you speak it better than most Americans.”

The Greek beamed with pride. “I learned English when I was very young. My parents owned a small café in Kastraki, and I worked there as a child. Half our customers were tourists who could not speak Greek. If I did not know English, I could not do my job.”

“And where did your parents learn it?”

“From James Bond.”

Dial grimaced. “James Bond?”

“You know, 007.”

“Yeah,” Dial assured him, “I know all about James Bond. I just don’t understand your comment. How did he teach them English?”

“You do not know? They filmed For Your Eyes Only in Metéora. The cast and crew were in Kalampáka and Kastraki for weeks. This was in 1981, before I was born, but Roger Moore ate in my parents’ café on many nights. My mother said he was a very nice man and so good-looking. I am told my father was very jealous, but he said nothing, since Roger Moore has a license to kill.” Andropoulos laughed at his own joke. “I think that is why I joined the police. I wanted to carry a gun so I could impress my father.”

“Hold up,” Dial ordered. He was a James Bond fan but couldn’t think of any scenes that took place in a monastery. “Refresh my memory. What was the plot of that movie?”

“James Bond was searching for a weapon that was stolen by a Greek villain. Holy Trinity was his secret lair, and Bond had to climb up the cliff to kill him.”

Dial nodded. “Okay. Now I remember it. No wonder I had a sense of déjà vu when I first arrived. I had seen Metéora on the big screen.”

“I love American films. I watch them all the time. They help me with my English.”

“What about your French?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No. They do not help me with my French.”

Dial rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Marcus, I know they don’t help you with your French. I’m asking if you know any French.”

“Only a few words. Why do you ask?”

“Because Interpol is located in France. It might be helpful if you spoke the language.”

“What are you saying? You think I might be good for headquarters?”

“Not with that haircut, I don’t. Or with that suit.” Dial tried not to smile or it would ruin his hazing. “What happened? Did you grow a foot since this morning?”

Andropoulos was about to defend himself when Dial cut him off.

“On the other hand, I have been impressed with your work. If you keep this up, I might be willing to pass your name to someone in Lyon. No promises, though.”

“Yes,” he said excitedly, “I understand.”

“Of course, you can help your cause even further if you do well on your assignment. Weren’t you supposed to assess the crime scene?”

“Yes, sir. I studied the layout of the church and all the evidence. If we go back inside, I can explain my theories.”

Dial turned away from the young cop and leaned against the railing, staring at the fog below. Somewhere down there was a second crime scene-one he hadn’t had a chance to visit because of the darkness and the treacherous terrain. “Tell me about the bodies.”

“The bodies?”

“You know, the things that used to be people.”

Andropoulos frowned. “But they weren’t found inside the church.”

“What’s your point?”

“You said you didn’t like to hear about evidence until you’ve seen it for yourself.”

“Tell me, Marcus, are the bodies still down there?”

“Not anymore. We recovered them this afternoon.”

“Then how in the hell am I supposed to see them at the scene?” The question was rhetorical, but Dial let it linger for several seconds, hoping to unnerve Andropoulos. “Once again, if you don’t mind, please tell me about the bodies.”

The young Greek took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Villagers found eight bodies on the rocks below and called us in Kalampáka. Because of their clothes, we think all of them were monks. We are still trying to get names and backgrounds on seven of them. The eighth victim was the caretaker of Holy Trinity. He was the only one we found intact.”

“What do you mean by intact?”

“He was the only one who had a head.”

Dial glanced at Andropoulos to see if he was joking. “As in they fell off when they landed?”

“As in they were cut off before they were dumped.”

“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.”

15

Leaving 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.

16

MacDill AFB Tampa, Florida

Payne 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.

A few years ago, Payne’s grandfather passed away, giving him the controlling interest in the family business. It had grown from a one-man shop near the Ohio River into a multinational corporation called Payne Industries. At the time, Payne hadn’t been ready to leave the service, but out of love and respect for the man who raised him, he retired from the military and moved back home to fulfill his familial duties.

To help with his adjustment to civilian life, Payne convinced Jones to retire and move to Pittsburgh. He sweetened the deal by giving Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and lending him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not? After the death of Grandpa Payne, Jones was the only family that Payne had left.

Not surprisingly, the pace of their life had slowed significantly in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they went out on their own.

And truth be told, even though they hated the circumstances of this particular adventure-namely, the death of Richard Byrd-both of them loved the adrenaline rush of a freelance mission. Not only did it get their juices flowing, it helped them stay sharp in case the government ever needed their talents for a special operation.

Sitting in the belly of the cargo plane, Jones couldn’t plug his computer into a phone line, which meant he wasn’t able to do the research he required. Since they were cruising 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, the odds of getting a wireless connection were pretty damn slim.

One of the most important skills in the Special Forces was the ability to adapt. Whether it was hand-to-hand combat or the planning of a mission, a soldier had to make the best of a bad situation or he wouldn’t survive very long. Knowing how much work needed to be done before they landed in Germany, Jones decided to contact one of the few people he could count on.

“Research,” said his friend as he answered his phone at the Pentagon.

“Hey, Randy. How’s life?”

Raskin groaned. “It would be much easier if you and Jon forgot my number.”

Jones smiled while adjusting his bulky headset. Without it, he couldn’t hear anything in the back of the noisy plane. “Truth be told, I didn’t even dial your number. I simply asked the pilot to patch me through to the smartest guy at the Pentagon, and you answered the phone.”

“The smartest guy at the Pentagon, huh? Talk about faint praise.”

“At least it was a compliment. When Jon calls you, he insults you for ten minutes.”

“That’s a very good point. I’m in counseling because of him.” Raskin laughed at his own joke. “So what do you need from me now? Does your Russian friend need more help?”

“Actually,” Jones said in a serious tone, “we think he’s dead.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. We never met the guy. He was more of a friend of a friend.”

“Even so, I’m sorry for the loss. What can I do to help?”

“At this point we’re looking for confirmation of his death. As you know, he was calling us from Saint Petersburg, but we never talked to him. According to one source, he was shot and killed in some kind of fountain. Can you check to see if anything matches that description?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Richard Byrd. Although he might have been using an alias.”

Raskin went to work on his keyboard, quickly searching the main criminal database in Russia. Insiders called it Kremlin.com because its real name was written in Cyrillic and impossible to pronounce. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“No luck?”

“Just the opposite. I found something that matches your description. White male, mid to late forties, discovered in one of the Peterhof fountains. Single shot to the head.”

“Damn,” Jones muttered. He glanced at Payne and made a slashing motion across his neck. Payne nodded in understanding. “Was he identified?”

“Not according to this. Then again, that could mean a number of things. Maybe they’re holding his identity until they notify his family. Or maybe the killer took his wallet. The truth is I have no way of knowing without calling them myself.”

“Which is something we don’t want you to do. We need to keep a low profile on this.”

“I figured as much.”

“Next question. Can you check on Byrd’s movement during the past few months?”

“Hold on. Different database.” Twenty seconds passed before Raskin spoke again. “No visas listed for Russia, but he visited Greece, Italy, Germany, and several other countries in Europe. I can send you a list if you want.”

“Go ahead. But I won’t have access until we land.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Ramstein.”

“Then what?”

“A rendezvous in Russia.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“I wish.”

“In that case, you should tell Jon how you really feel.”

Jones laughed. “Damn, Randy! For you, that was pretty funny.”

“Thanks. Wait. What did you mean by that?”

“I’ll tell you later. First, I have one more question. I need some background information on an American named Allison Taylor. Middle name and hometown unknown. Current employer is believed to be Richard Byrd. At least until a few hours ago.”

“Hold on. That’s another database.”

Jones figured it would be. “Out of curiosity, how many databases do you have?”

“Let me put it to you this way: I have a database to keep track of my databases.”

Jones whistled, impressed. “Seriously, Randy, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Actually, it’s pretty simple. I’m the smartest guy in the Pentagon, remember?”

“That’s right. I forgot.”

Raskin smiled as he continued to type. A few seconds later, he found the information he was looking for. “Okay, here you go. Allison Renée Taylor . . . Born in California . . . Graduated from Stanford . . . Single . . . Valid driver’s license . . . Hot as hell! Seriously, you should see her photo. She even looks great on her ID.”

“Send it to me. The highest resolution possible.”

“Done.”

“What about employment? Any connection to Byrd?”

“Duh! That’s how I found her so fast. He filed a single document with the IRS. A personal-services contract. Whatever that means.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can find. Then again, I can’t stop staring at her picture. It’s really strange. No matter where I move, it’s like her eyes are following me.”

Jones laughed. “Damn! How much caffeine have you had today?”

“Define today.”

He laughed again. “Another all-nighter?”

“Another all-weeker. You know me, I never leave my desk.”

“That’s one of the reasons we love you: your dedication to your country.”

“That and the fact I do your dirty work for free.”

Jones nodded in agreement. “Yep. That too.”

“Okay, chief, I gotta jet. But send me a postcard from Siberia.”

“Not funny,” Jones said. “Not funny at all.”

17

MONDAY, MAY 19

Kalampáka, Greece

The phone rang at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour before Nick Dial planned to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over in the hotel bed, and checked his caller ID. It was Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division, calling from Interpol Headquarters in France.

If it had been anyone else, Dial would have let it go to voice mail. But since he had been trying to reach Toulon for the better part of a day, he decided to answer the call.

“Hello,” Dial said with sleep in his throat.

Toulon spoke with a French accent. “Bonjour, Mr. Boss-Man. Did I wake you?”

“You know you did.”

“Oui, I know. That is why I called. Just to wake you. My entire day revolves around Nick. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour!”

Dial grinned at the sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re mad about yesterday’s message.”

“Message? You left me a message?” Toulon put a cigarette in his mouth and desperately wanted to light it. “Sorry, I heard no message from you. I was too busy taking a nap and drinking wine in your office. Then I ate some stinky cheese, just to improve the smell.”

“Wow. You’re really pissy today. Do you want to talk later?”

“No,” Toulon said. “I want to talk now. I want to get this over with.”

Dial grimaced, not sure if Toulon was mad at him or not. Then again, it was too early in the morning to actually care. “Did you get my e-mail? I sent it from my phone.”

“One moment. Let me check.”

While Toulon checked his computer, Dial climbed out of bed and walked across the tiled floor of his spacious suite. Somehow Andropoulos had booked him a great room in the Divani Metéora, a luxury hotel in Kalampáka. It was so close to the monastery, he could stare at the towering cliffs from his private balcony.

“Oui. I found it. Give me a moment to read it.”

“Take your time,” Dial said as he wandered into the bathroom.

Toulon spoke again a few minutes later. He was staring at his computer screen, trying to make sense of the two images that Dial had sent to him. “What am I looking at?”

“Pictures of the killers.”

“You are teasing, no? How did you get these?”

“The monks had a nanny cam.”

Toulon spat out his cigarette in disgust. “I hate those damn things! I have been caught with too many nannies.”

Dial laughed, realizing that Toulon wasn’t joking. “Sorry to hear that, Henri. But in this case, we really lucked out. It’s the biggest break we’ve had.”

“This is quite helpful. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I am an expert on Ancient Greece.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re an expert on everything.”

“Oui, this is true. I am quite good.” Toulon ran his fingers over his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He certainly didn’t look the part of an Interpol officer. But his brilliance more than made up for his attitude and attire. “What do you want to know?”

Dial picked up hard copies of the two photos. “Let’s start with the sword.”

Toulon clicked on the first image, then enlarged it until the sword filled the screen. He focused on the details, searching for the nuances that would define the weapon. It didn’t take long for him to reach a conclusion. “This is a xiphos. It was used by a hoplite.”

“A what?”

“A hoplite. An infantryman from Ancient Greece.”

“How can you tell?”

Toulon sneered. “Do not insult me! I can tell with a single look because I am an expert. If a doctor said to you, ‘Nick, you are dying of a brain tumor,’ would you say, ‘How can you tell?’”

“Definitely.”

Toulon paused. “Yes, you are right. I would ask him, too. That is a bad example.”

“Come on, Henri. Stop goofing around.”

“Fine! I will just tell you.” He mumbled a few curse words in French before he continued his lecture. “Look at the style of this sword. It is simple. It is plain. No fancy hilts. No fancy pommels. This is the blade of a soldier. Not an officer.”

Dial scribbled some key phrases on a piece of paper. “Go on.”

“Now look at its length. It is a short sword. Maybe one meter long. It is perfect for close combat. Very sharp. Very strong. The kind they used in the phalanx.”

“The phalanx?”

“The wall of soldiers at the front of an attack. The hoplites.”

Toulon leaned back and put the cigarette in his mouth. He still needed his morning fix. With a cautious eye, he glanced around the office, searching for anyone who outranked him. When he saw no one, he decided to light up. Rules be damned.

Dial said, “I know it’s just a picture, but can you give me a time period?”

“Maybe if I held the blade, but not from this photo.”

“Come on, Henri, take a wild guess. Are we talking Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans?”

Toulon blew smoke into the air. “We are talking Nick Dial in Clueless.”

“Be nice,” Dial warned him, “or I’ll fine you for smoking.”

Toulon coughed, practically swallowing his cigarette in the process. How did Dial know he was smoking? He looked around again. Maybe the sneaky bastard had a nanny cam.

“That is insulting,” Toulon said. “I would do no such thing.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Now answer my question. How old are we talking?”

“The second one. Harry Hamlin.”

Dial smiled. He loved making Toulon think in American terms. It was one of the simple joys in his life. “But this weapon is a replica, right?”

“Tell me, Nick. Do you know when Ancient Greece flourished?”

“Before Christ.”

“Several centuries before Christ. Now look at this picture. Does this sword look that old to you? Of course not. Therefore this sword is a replica.”

“Yet real enough to kill someone.”

“Oui. In that way, it is quite real.”

Dial nodded, thinking back to the blood at the crime scene. For a blade to pass through the bones and tendons of someone’s neck, it had to be remarkably strong. Probably some type of high-grade steel, he figured. Just to be sure, he made a note to ask a local blacksmith.

“Okay. What about the other picture? Anything helpful?”

Still puffing away, Toulon switched images on his screen and zoomed in on the photograph of the warrior. He studied his uniform, focusing on the intricacies of his armor, the shape of his full-size helmet, the way he held his sword. All of it looked authentic.

“Well,” Toulon said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Good news first.”

“If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

“Why do you think that?”

Toulon took a long drag on his cigarette, enjoying the flavor before he blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a cranky French dragon. “Notice the design of his headgear. No patterns. No decorations. No fancy flourishes. This is a helmet, not a work of art. If it had been Corinthian or Trojan or even Athenian, it would have been far more ornate, since those cultures supported the arts. The Spartan culture did not.”

He paused, taking another drag.

“Now look at the cuirass-the bronze armor that protects his chest and back. It is plain, too, except for the ridges of the rib cage and stomach. This is a design used by the Spartans. The muscular contours were meant to scare the enemy. And trust me, they did.”

“Anything else?”

“That is all for now. I’ll look some more once I drink my coffee.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Dial finished his notes and was about to hang up when Toulon cleared his throat quite loudly. “What now?”

“You are forgetting something, no?”

“I said thanks.”

“No. It is not that. You still haven’t heard my bad news.”

“Crap, that’s right. What’s the bad news?”

Toulon smiled, eager to show off his knowledge. “The bad news is identical to the good news. If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

The comment puzzled Dial. “What’s your point?”

“Tell me, Nick, what do you know about the Spartans?”

“Not very much. They came from Sparta and they liked to fight.”

Toulon shook his head. “That is the understatement of the year.”

“How so?”

“How so?” he echoed, as he leaned back in his chair. “Since the dawn of man, there has never been a culture like the Spartans. From the moment of their birth until the time of their death, all Spartans were consumed by one thing: the art of war.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Oui, I can give you thousands.”

“Great. But let’s start with one.”

Toulon took another puff. “Let’s start at birth. When a baby was born, the child’s father took it to a group of elders who decided, right then and there, whether the child was worthy of Sparta. If it was small or weak, it was immediately taken to Mount Taygetus, also known as the place of rejection, where it was thrown off the mountain.”

“They killed their own babies?”

“Oui. They killed their own babies.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That is simply the beginning. When a Spartan boy reached the age of seven, he was enrolled in the agoge. It was like a military boarding school except far more brutal. The boys were stripped, beaten, and underfed, all in the hope of toughening them up. This went on for ten years, until they were ready for the crypteia, a secret initiation where their most promising youths proved their worth. These teenage boys were abandoned in the countryside with simple instructions: kill any Helots they saw and steal anything they needed to survive.”

“What’s a Helot?”

“The Helots were conquered subjects who worked the lands. This allowed the Spartans to focus all their time and energy on war, not farming.”

“And the boys killed them in cold blood?”

“Oui, but only Helots who were up to no good. This, of course, accomplished two things: It taught the boys how to hunt human flesh, and it kept the Helots in line. Simply put, they were too scared to rebel or run away from Sparta.”

Dial grimaced at the brutality. “And you think these guys are Spartans?”

“No, no, no! Do not misunderstand me. I think these men were dressed as Spartans. Whether they are or not, I do not know.”

“But could they be?”

Toulon laughed. “Nick, you must realize that Sparta was conquered centuries ago. Today it is a series of crumbled ruins. Nothing more.”

“I know that, Henri. But look at the facts. Two days ago a group of men attacked a nearly impenetrable fortress and slaughtered everyone inside. Then, for good measure, they threw all the bodies off the mountain-just like the flying babies you mentioned. And even though they were wearing body armor and helmets and carrying swords, there were no witnesses to the crime. That means these guys moved with great stealth.”

Dial paused, trying to calm the emotion in his voice. “I don’t know about you, but doesn’t that sound like the warriors you just described?”

“Oui,” he said. His tone was Suddenly, serious. “It certainly does.”

“So, as crazy as it sounds, let me ask you again. Could these guys be Spartans?”

Toulon puffed on his cigarette one last time, then smashed it into an empty cup until the embers were no more. “If they are, I’d hate to be the man who’s chasing them.”

18

Andropoulos pulled his car to the front entrance of the hotel. Dial was waiting for him, staring at the rocky cliffs that faded into the morning mist. He was wearing jeans and the same boots as the day before but opted for a long-sleeved shirt instead.

No sense breaking the dress code two days in a row.

Thanks to Dial’s comment about his suit, Andropoulos had changed as well. He wanted to placate his boss from Interpol, so he had copied his wardrobe: jeans, dress shirt, and hiking boots.

“Good morning, sir,” Andropoulos said as Dial climbed into the front seat.

Dial nodded, then studied the Greek from head to toe. “No time for a haircut?”

“Sorry, sir. I worked late last night.”

Dial grunted, trying his best not to smile. “Anything to report?”

Andropoulos pulled into traffic. Despite the early hour, the narrow streets were filled with tourists who were hoping to see all the local sites in a single day. “Three of the monks have been identified, including the abbot. The other two were foreigners. One was from Russia, the other from Turkey.”

“Turkey? I thought that was a Muslim country.”

“Ninety-nine percent are Muslims. The other percent is mostly Orthodox.”

Dial considered the information and nodded. Victims from three different countries meant this was an Interpol case. Somehow he had always sensed it would be-otherwise he wouldn’t have flown to Greece on such short notice-but now it was official. That meant he could turn up the intensity of his investigation. He could chase down leads. He could interview witnesses. He could do all the things that he wanted to do without needing permission from the Greek government. Suddenly, his day was looking a whole lot brighter.

Unfortunately, his mood would change less than an hour later.

Andropoulos parked his car on the upper access road to Holy Trinity, right behind several other blue-and-white Citroëns. Dial counted the squad cars and shook his head. For some reason the entire police force was roaming around the cliffs, doing God knows what.

“If I were a criminal,” Dial said, “I would head straight to Kalampáka and rob a bank. It would take thirty minutes for you guys to reach town.”

Andropoulos glanced at the city nestled in the valley. “You are right. I am tempted to call my cousin and let him know.”

“Is he an officer?”

“No, sir. He’s a pickpocket. But he has the potential to be so much more.”

Dial laughed as he followed Andropoulos down the steep hillside. They used the same path as the day before, though it didn’t seem nearly as treacherous to Dial. Perhaps he was getting used to the footing. Or maybe it had to do with the sunlight, which was a drastic improvement over a single flashlight. Whatever the reason, he was able to pay closer attention to the terrain than he had on the previous night.

The first thing Dial noticed was the cable-car system that ran across the gorge to Holy Trinity. He slowed his pace when he saw its thin wires bouncing up and down as if they were caught in a violent storm. Then he spotted the reason why. A single monk, wearing a black cassock and cap, was sitting in a rickety cart as it was being pulled toward the top, more than a thousand feet in the air. Dial stopped to stare at the spectacle, and when he did, he heard the distant squeaking of pulleys and wheels coming from somewhere inside the ancient monastery.

Dial said, “You’d have to pay me a lot of money to ride in that thing.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “I once asked a monk when they replaced the cable. And he said, ‘When the old one breaks.’”

“Strangely, I had a friend in college who had the same policy about condoms.”

“Sir, that’s disgusting.”

Dial laughed at his juvenile joke as he continued down the hillside. He knew he couldn’t make comments like that inside the monastery-at least not within earshot of any monks-so he tried to get them out of his system now. It was more difficult than it sounded. Working in a profession that was filled with so much violence and death, Dial relied on humor to keep him sane. Sometimes it was a racy comment. Other times it was a practical joke. Most of the time, it wasn’t meant to be malicious-like teasing Andropoulos about his hair and clothes. He was just having some fun while trying to solve a case that would probably depress him. Otherwise, he figured, he’d have to drink himself to sleep like half the cops he’d met.

In his mind, humor was a pretty good alternative to alcoholism.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were inside Holy Trinity, reexamining the crime scene. To Dial, everything looked different during daylight hours. The color of the stone was lighter. The construction of the monastery looked older, somehow more fragile. And the distance to the valley below was much greater than he expected. He glanced over the wall and for the first time could actually see the ground. At least ten people were down there, searching for clues or cleaning the rocks or something. Dial couldn’t tell for sure. Not from this far away.

“Hey, Marcus, do me a favor. Get me the names and backgrounds of all the monks they’ve identified. I’d like to have that ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. Where will you be?”

“I’ll be speaking with Nicolas. I need to ask him a few questions.”

Dial strolled toward the bell tower, glancing down the stone corridors and peeking in windows, hoping to spot the old monk meditating or chanting or doing whatever it is that old monks do. Dial had enjoyed talking to him the night before and looked forward to chatting with him again. Perhaps he could shed some light on the different nationalities of the victims and how he knew about the dead abbot before the police did. That, in particular, still bothered him.

Halfway across the complex, Dial approached the door where he had met Nicolas the previous night. Only this time he was able to see the grain of the ancient wood in the bright sunlight. It had the same consistency as the front gate. Not nearly as tall, yet just as thick and strong. The type of door that would put up a good fight against a battering ram.

Dial was about to knock when he noticed a large stain between the handle and the antique keyhole. The smudge was six inches long and the color of rust. If he had been sightseeing or entering an office building, Dial wouldn’t have given it much thought. But in the context of a crime scene, he crouched down for a closer look.

Except in rare circumstances, Interpol never handled forensic evidence-that was the job of the local cops who would eventually prosecute the case-yet Dial had worked enough murders to recognize blood when he saw it. And this stain was blood. No doubt about it. From the look of it, someone had tried to open the door with bloody hands. Whether the person had been successful or not was a different matter altogether. But someone had definitely tried to get inside.

The question was, why?

It wasn’t the only thing that popped into Dial’s mind. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if the stain had been there the night before, when he talked to Nicolas. The only reason Dial had approached the door to begin with was because there was a bright light shining under it-not because he had spotted the blood. Without the light, he would have kept on walking.

“Excuse me,” said a stern voice from behind. “What are you doing?”

Dial, who was crouching near the keyhole, turned to face his inquisitor. He was expecting to find another cop. Instead, it was the monk in the black cassock and cap who had ridden across the gorge in the cable car. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair and a thicket of a beard that practically hid his lips. He was holding a box in his hands.

“I was looking for clues,” Dial said.

“Through the keyhole? Have you no dignity?”

Dial stood up. “Not through it. Next to it. I found some blood by the lock.”

The monk stepped forward for a closer look. Once he saw the bloodstain, his tone changed immediately. “I am sorry for my accusation. As you can probably imagine, I am still trying to grasp what happened here. It has been a shock to us all.”

Dial brushed it aside with a wave of his hand. “No apologies needed. I can only imagine what it looked like.”

The monk nodded in gratitude. “My name is Theodore.”

“Nick Dial. I’m with Interpol.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dial-despite the circumstances. If you have any questions about Metéora, I’d be happy to answer them. I’ll be here for the duration.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m sure Nicolas will enjoy your company.”

“Nicolas? Who is Nicolas?”

Dial smiled. “Old guy, gray beard. I met him here last night.”

“You met him where?”

“Here. Right here.” Dial tapped on the door for emphasis. “He came out of this room.”

Confusion filled Theodore’s face. The type of confusion that couldn’t be faked.

“What? Is something wrong?” Dial asked.

Theodore tried to regain his composure. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dial. I don’t mean to doubt you. If you say you met a man named Nicolas, I believe you. I truly do.” He paused momentarily. “That being said, I can assure you of something else. Whoever you spoke to wasn’t a monk, and he certainly didn’t belong at Holy Trinity.”

19

St. Martin’s Square Kaiserslautern, Germany

The Kaiserslautern Military Community (KMC) is the largest U.S. military community outside the continental United States, bringing in close to a billion dollars annually to the local economy and housing nearly 50,000 members of NATO personnel, mostly from the U.S. This gave the German city, located 80 miles southwest of Frankfurt, a uniquely American flavor.

During their previous trips to Ramstein, Payne and Jones had made several contacts, on and off the base, who could have helped their cause. After discussing it, they came to the conclusion that they should go to their best source for this mission-even though he wouldn’t be cheap.

The man called himself Kaiser because he was the king of K-Town.

At least when it came to getting supplies.

Payne and Jones reached him by phone shortly after their arrival in Germany. He agreed to meet them for breakfast at a small café right down the street from the former Hotel Zum Donnersberg, where Napoleon himself once dined. Neither of them had eaten a full meal since Florida, so they were starving by the time they reached the rendezvous point.

St. Martin’s Square (or the Martinsplatz) was the gateway to the old part of town, the section of the city that survived the Allied bombings in World War II. In the square was the old city hall, which now housed a school of music and several large chestnut trees that shaded the square during the hot summer months. But at this time of year, the weather was perfect for eating outside. There was a light breeze and the temperature was in the upper sixties.

They spotted Kaiser at a sidewalk table, casually sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, the same clothes he always wore. Nothing about his appearance really stood out, which was advantageous in his line of work. He was in his mid-fifties with slicked-back gray hair and bushy eyebrows above his dark eyes. They knew he was American-an ex-supply sergeant who retired from the military when he realized he could make a lot more money on his own-but little else about him.

Just the way Kaiser liked it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, getting up from his chair. He greeted them by name and shook their hands before offering them a seat. “How long has it been?”

Payne and Jones sat across from each other. That way they could keep an eye on traffic in both directions. “A couple of years, I think.”

Jones agreed. “Sounds about right.”

“I thought you guys got out of the game.”

Payne shrugged. “Does anyone leave for good?”

Kaiser smiled. “Not if they have a pulse.”

A waitress stopped by the table and handed them menus. She spoke fluent English with just a hint of a German accent. As soon as she left, Kaiser stared at them, dead serious.

“Since you are old acquaintances of mine, I’m going to help you guys out. Trust me when I tell you this: it’s a huge favor.” He leaned forward as if he were going to share a national secret. Instinctively, Payne and Jones leaned in. “Do not, I repeat, do not leave this café without ordering the sausage. I’m telling you, it’s like heaven on a plate.”

Payne and Jones both laughed, glad that Kaiser was just messing around.

“Are you trying to give us a heart attack?” Jones asked.

“Trust me, if you eat enough of this sausage, you will have a heart attack. But man, oh, man, what a way to go!”

Payne patted him on the shoulder. “Same old Kaiser. Still loving life.”

“Might as well. You only get one.”

They made small talk while glancing at the menus, which were written in English and filled with foods they were familiar with. Soft-boiled eggs, cereal, pancakes with a wide variety of fruit toppings, and a whole page dedicated to breakfast meats, some hot and some cold.

Kaiser said, “Did you know that sausage is so ingrained in the German culture, instead of saying, ‘That’s okay with me,’ they say, ‘Es ist mir Wurst.’ That means, ‘It is sausage to me.’”

Jones smiled. “Wow, I didn’t know that. But if I ever apply for a job at a slaughterhouse, I’ll be sure to mention it. Es ist mir Wurst!”

Kaiser laughed. “Okay, I can take a hint. No more sausage talk at the table. At least not until mine arrives. After that, no promises.”

“In that case,” Payne said, “let’s get our business stuff out of the way-just in case you want to debate the merits of links versus patties.”

“Dammit, Jon, don’t get me started! That’s a sensitive subject around here!”

“I kind of figured it would be.”

Kaiser laughed as he pushed his menu aside. He was ready to talk shop.

“So,” he said, “what do you need on this little trip of yours?”

“Don’t worry,” Jones assured him, “nothing too crazy.”

When it came to missions, Jones was a brilliant strategist. He had received the highest score in the history of the Air Force Academy’s MSAE (Military Strategy Acumen Examination) and had organized hundreds of operations with the MANIACs. He had a way of seeing things several steps ahead, like a chess master. So Payne let him take control of the conversation.

For a trip like this, both of them realized that they had to remain anonymous. Otherwise, the Russian government would follow them wherever they went. That is, if they even let them enter the country. Moscow commonly denied travel visas to foreign soldiers-even those who had retired long ago. And elite soldiers like Payne and Jones were automatically red-flagged.

“First things first. We need papers. Fake names, fake backgrounds. Preferably Canadian. Not only for us but a woman as well.”

“How soon?”

“Yesterday.”

Kaiser nodded. “Get me some photos and I’ll have them by lunch.”

“Next,” Jones said, “we need weapons. Two guns each. Something clean and concealable. We aren’t going through customs, but we’ll be working in public.”

“My armory is your armory. I’ll give you the pick of the litter.”

“We also need a ride.”

“From?”

“Helsinki.”

“To?”

“Saint Pete.”

“Nighttime arrival?”

Jones smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kaiser said. “This time of year, it shouldn’t be a problem. In the winter, it’s a much different story.”

“Why’s that?” Payne wondered.

“Icebergs are a bitch.”

Jones laughed, then continued, “We’ll also need a return trip. One additional passenger. Maybe some cargo. Time and place to be determined.”

“Guesstimate?”

Jones did the math in his head. “No more than twenty-four hours.”

“No problem. The boat can stay put for that long.”

Jones glanced at Payne. “Anything else?”

Payne shook his head. “Not that I can think of. Unless you have a travel advisory. Anything we need to know.”

“Maybe,” Kaiser said. “Just maybe.”

“Meaning?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “How long since you’ve been to Russia?”

Payne answered. “A few years.”

“What about you, D.J.?”

“Never been there. Why?”

“Well, it’s gotten worse for some people. A lot worse.”

“How so?” Jones wondered.

Kaiser grimaced. “I have a black friend who just got back from Moscow. Nice guy, clean-cut, about your age. He was invited by the Russian government to speak at an economic summit. Didn’t matter, though. He got stopped by soldiers every ten feet. He was frisked. He was followed. He was called ‘monkey’ to his face. He swore to me he’d never go back.”

“What about Saint Pete? Is it better than Moscow?” Payne asked.

“Things tend to be more liberal there, but I honestly don’t know. I can’t speak from experience.” Kaiser paused, not sure what else to say. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Jones nodded, appreciative of the information. “Don’t worry, Kaiser. I can handle it. I get the same reaction when I go to a country-western bar.”

“And if things get too bad,” Payne assured him, “we’ll just shoot the bastards.”

20

The words hit Dial like a sucker punch. Their impact was so unexpected, he actually had a physical reaction. His cheeks flushed. His chest tightened. Acid gurgled in his gut.

“What do you mean he wasn’t a monk? Who the hell was he?”

Theodore ignored the profanity. “That is a question I cannot answer, for I do not know.”

Dial took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the thought of being duped by an impostor got his blood boiling. “You’re sure you don’t know him? Old guy. Walks with a limp.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dial-”

“Nick. Call me Nick.”

Theodore nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have lived at Metéora for nearly a decade, but I don’t know the man you describe.”

Dial grimaced as he replayed the previous night in his head. He remembered seeing the light under the door. He’d knocked. Nicolas had answered and closed the door behind him. Then they had walked to the bell tower, where Nicolas had regaled him with stories of the monastic life. At no point had Dial found anything about their conversation suspicious. In fact, he had been thrilled to talk to someone as knowledgeable as Nicolas. So much so, he had thought he was a godsend.

Now he didn’t know what to think.

If Nicolas wasn’t a monk, what was he? And what had he been doing at Metéora?

Could his presence have anything to do with the bloodstain on the door?

That possibility bothered Dial. It was something he needed to find out.

He said, “Please forgive me. Where are my manners? There you are holding a box, and here I am standing in your way. Please let me help.”

Theodore nodded as Dial grabbed the box. It was crammed with books, toiletries, and a few personal items. Sitting on top was a large key ring, filled with the type of keys that a dungeon master might have used in the Middle Ages. They were old and long and made out of brass. Theodore picked up the ring and searched for the correct key. It took several seconds to find it.

Dial filled the silence with small talk. “Sorry about your abbot. When did you hear?”

“This morning during breakfast. All of us were saddened by the news.”

“Us?”

“The brothers of Great Metéoron. It is the largest of the six monasteries. It sits in the hills above Kastraki. Perhaps you saw it on your drive to Holy Trinity.”

Dial shook his head. “With the abbot gone, who selected you to come here?”

“Nobody. I volunteered.”

“That’s awfully noble of you.”

Theodore said nothing, concentrating on the keys instead. He finally found the one he was looking for and put it in the old lock. It turned with a loud click. Pushing the door forward, he stepped inside, then turned on the light. Dial followed him in, hoping to figure out why Nicolas had been in there the night before. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to examine.

The ceiling was supported by dozens of ancient beams, far more than necessary. There were so many planks up there, angled in so many different directions, it looked like a wooden spiderweb. Fascinated by the haphazard design, Dial studied it with two things in mind. First, he hoped to spot another nanny cam somewhere in the rafters-just like the one they had found in the gift shop. But the only wires he saw were for the iron chandelier that lit the windowless room. Second, Dial wanted to figure out why the monks had killed half a forest to hold up such a small ceiling.

There had to be a rational explanation, didn’t there?

Theodore anticipated the question. “No one knows why it was built in that manner.”

“Really? It just seems so odd. Like an abstract painting.”

“We have a library at Great Metéoron. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts, including a history of our monasteries. Not only the six survivors, but the earlier ones as well. I have read these records myself, and no answers were given. It remains a mystery to this day.”

Dial searched the room for other anomalies but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The floor was made of large gray stones that were held together by some kind of mortar. Two small cots sat against the near wall, separated by a nightstand and a lamp. The only other furniture was a rickety table and four wooden chairs under the chandelier. Dial put Theodore’s box on the table and instantly regretted it. A thick cloud of dust floated into the air, making him sneeze.

He nearly made a smart-ass comment about the previous tenant being lax in his cleaning duties, but he bit his tongue when he remembered that the previous monk was now dead.

Looking to change the subject, Dial focused on the only splash of color in the dreary room. An enormous blue tapestry hung across the back wall. It was fringed with golden tassels around the edges and had a large gold cross in the center. It looked like a Christian cross, except it had an extra bar above the horizontal beam and a slanted bar-that looked like a forward slash-underneath it. Dial had seen the same symbol inside the church.

“Is this your cross?” Dial asked. He had learned a lot about crosses when he worked his crucifixion case a few years back, so he was interested in the subject.

“Yes. The Crux Orthodoxa. The Eastern Orthodox cross. It is the cross of my faith.”

“What do the beams represent?”

Theodore pointed toward the tapestry. “The top beam represents the sign that hung above Christ. It said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’”

“And the slanted beam at the bottom? Is that a footrest?”

“Some scholars believe so, but many of my faith disagree. To us, it represents the two thieves who were crucified next to Christ. The criminal on the left was repentant and accepted Christ as his savior, so his side points toward Heaven. The thief on the right rejected Him, so his side points toward Hell.”

“Really?” As someone who dealt with people of all religions and beliefs, Dial was surprised he didn’t know that. “I learn something new every day.”

“I’m glad I could enlighten you,” Theodore said. “If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them. Otherwise, I’d like to make myself available to the other officers.”

“Please, help them out. They need it more than I do.”

Dial glanced around the room again. But this time he had a strange feeling that he was overlooking something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he sensed it was something important. “If it’s okay with you, can I stay in here and look around some more? We already missed the blood on the door. I’d hate to think we missed something inside.”

Theodore frowned as he considered the request.

Hoping to charm him, Dial put his hand on one of the rickety chairs. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t steal the furniture.”

The monk cracked a smile, then scurried out of the room.

21

Dial had been in the room for less than two minutes when Andropoulos knocked on the door.

D “Sir?” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course you can come in. This isn’t my apartment. It’s a crime scene.”

Andropoulos blushed and stepped inside. He was carrying a folder filled with information about the victims. “I have the background that you asked for.”

But Dial ignored him, focusing on the nightstand instead. It sat between the two cots and was the only furniture in the monk’s room where something could be stored. He opened the drawer, hoping to find something important, but it was empty. Just like the rest of the room.

“Speaking of crime scenes,” Dial said as he glanced back at the young cop, “who’s in charge of the perimeter?”

“The perimeter?”

“You know, the imaginary line that encircles a crime scene. Who’s in charge of it?”

“We are, sir.”

“Who’s we? Because I know I’m not in charge of it.”

“Us, sir. The local police department.”

Dial nodded. He had known the answer. He just wanted Andropoulos to take ownership of the problem. “And what’s your policy for letting people into the crime scene?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, do you let anyone enter the crime scene?”

“Of course not, sir. Only authorized personnel.”

“Authorized personnel.” Dial practically spat when he said it. “Does that include cops?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about reporters?”

“No, sir.”

“What about monks?”

Andropoulos paused. “I’m not sure about that one.”

Dial smirked. “I don’t blame you. That’s a tough one. I mean, they’re men of God, so we can trust them, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Dial shook his head in disappointment. “Earlier to day, we saw a monk entering the crime scene, didn’t we? Up in the cable car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’m guessing he didn’t sneak in. Not while wearing a cassock and carrying a box.”

“No, sir.”

“So someone let him through.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

Dial softened the tone in his voice. He was angry at Nicolas’s presence at the crime scene but didn’t want to blame the young cop for something that wasn’t his fault. “Not you personally, but someone on your team screwed up big-time. Remember the old monk I introduced to you last night? I just found out he didn’t belong here. In fact, he might not be a monk at all.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“The monk from the cable car. Then again, maybe he’s not a monk, either.”

“You mean Theodore? He’s definitely a monk. I’ve met him before.”

“But not Nicolas?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. He didn’t look familiar to me.”

“Great,” Dial mumbled to himself. “Next time speak up a little sooner.”

“I will, sir. In the meantime, what should I do to fix this?”

Dial stared at the kid. He had just lectured him over something he didn’t do, yet Andropoulos had taken it like a man. He hadn’t gotten defensive. He hadn’t passed the buck. He simply wanted to know how he could make things right. It was the perfect reaction to the situation.

Dial said, “Get word to the perimeter about Nicolas. Find out who let him in and why. Also find out what time he left and if anyone gave him a ride. I know when I came through last night, they recorded my name and ID badge into a log. Maybe they did the same thing with him. If so, get someone to verify the information ASAP.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Andropoulos said.

“No. Get someone else. You have better things to do with your time.”

“Sir?”

“Do me a favor and look at the door.”

“Which door?”

Dial pointed. “The one you just walked past.”

Andropoulos did what he was told. It didn’t take him long to spot the stain near the handle. “Is this blood?”

“It sure looks like it. And as far as I can tell, it hasn’t been processed.”

“You’re right, sir. It hasn’t. I’ll get forensics in here at once.”

Dial nodded and turned back to examine the interior of the room. Combine the bloodstain on the door with Nicolas’s presence inside, and Dial knew he was missing something.

But what was it? What was being overlooked?

“Marcus, before you leave, I’d like your opinion.”

“On what, sir?”

“If you were a criminal, why would you come into this room?”

“Is this a test?”

“No, it’s not a fucking test. I’m asking for your help. Is there something in here that would interest you?”

Andropoulos tried not to smile as he walked back into the room. Hoping to impress his boss, he scanned everything, focusing on the intricate wooden ceiling for several seconds before he moved on to the nightstand and the two cots that rested against the wall. Eventually, he stopped near the table and chairs in the center of the room. “May I look in the box, sir?”

“Not the box. Ignore the box. I carried it in myself.”

Andropoulos considered Dial’s statement, then said, “Did you carry anything out?”

“No, I didn’t,” Dial said, “but that’s a pretty good question. When you talk to your people, find out if Nicolas was carrying anything when he left the grounds.”

“This is about Nicolas?”

Dial nodded. “He was in here when I met him, but I can’t figure out why. This place has nothing in it.”

“Maybe he was hiding in here, waiting for people to leave.”

“I considered that. But that doesn’t explain why he chatted with me for twenty minutes. If you were hiding, would you answer a knock on the door? Or at the very least, wouldn’t you make up some kind of excuse so you didn’t have to talk to me?” Dial shook his head as he continued to reflect on the previous night. “Strangely, the more I think about it, the more I get the sense that he took me up to the bell tower because he wanted to get me away from here. There was something about the way he stepped outside and quickly closed the door behind him that bothers me. It was-I don’t know-like he didn’t want me to see the interior of the room.”

Andropoulos glanced around the room again. “Could someone else have been in here?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the blood? Was it here last night?”

Dial shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It was too dark to see.”

“But you think it was, right?”

Dial furrowed his brow. “When did you start asking the questions?”

Andropoulos stammered. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to-”

Dial cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. Go on.”

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re assuming the blood is from the killers, right? They opened the door to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and when they did, they left the bloodstain near the handle.”

“Or,” Dial suggested, “they came in here looking for something. Not someone.”

“Like what?”

Dial growled softly. “That’s the same damn thing I asked you five minutes ago. I hope you realize the goal is to answer my question, not rephrase it.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t see anything in here.”

“Me neither,” said Dial as he moved to the back of the room. The two cots were old and rusty. The nightstand and lamp were secondhand. So were the table and chairs. The only thing worth taking was the tapestry of the Orthodox cross. “What do you think this is worth?”

The young Greek walked toward Dial. “I don’t know. It depends how old it is. I’d say several hundred euros. Maybe more.”

“That much, huh?” Dial moved closer to examine the golden tassels on the edges of the tapestry. “Does Holy Trinity have any other artwork?”

“Some frescoes have been painted on the walls.”

“I mean removable artwork. Statues, pottery, precious metals.”

“No, sir. Not that I can remember.”

“Me neither,” Dial said as he ran his fingers across the heavy fabric. It was much thicker than he had expected. Much more durable, too. The type of thing that could last for centuries. “And the frescoes are in areas of worship, right? The chapel and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why is this in here? It’s locked away in their private quarters for no one else to see.”

“I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out? I could ask someone.”

Dial shook his head as he leaned closer to the tapestry.

It had taken a while, but he had finally found the answer he was searching for.

22

To create fake documents for Payne and Jones, Kaiser hired a world-class forger who lived in K-Town and specialized in visas and passports. Not only was he an expert on ink, paper, and handwriting, he also had a unique perspective on the industry, since he used to be a border guard at the Berlin Wall. So he understood the risks of a border crossing-what guards looked for, what they questioned, and so on-and guaranteed his creations would pass scrutiny.

For a trip to Russia, he recommended a single-entry tourist visa. Simple, straightforward, and rarely challenged. Especially if it was issued to a Canadian citizen. In the world of espionage, Canada was viewed as the Switzerland of the West. In other words, harmless. Payne and Jones knew this, which is why they had requested Canadian paperwork. Many countries around the world hated the United States. But few people-except jealous hockey fans-hated Canada.

When it came to border crossings, Payne and Jones were veterans. They had sneaked into so many countries when they were in the MANIACs that they weren’t the least bit stressed over their trip. Of course they realized their return trip would be a lot more difficult, since they’d be escorting Allison Taylor, a wild card if there ever was one. From the sound of her voice on the phone, they were tempted to buy some horse tranquilizers, just to keep her calm.

To help with their cover, they stopped at a department store to buy some clothes. The designs and fabrics in Europe were much different from those in North America. That was one of the main reasons Americans stood out when they were traveling overseas. Language was number one. Knowledge (manners, laws, decorum, etc.) was number two. Clothes were number three. Years of experience had taught Payne and Jones how to deal with the first two issues. They knew a shopping spree could rectify the third.

Payne was looking at shirts when his cell phone started to ring. The display screen read Restricted. Thoughts of Saint Petersburg quickly entered his head.

“Allison?” Payne said.

“Sorry, pal. Guess again.”

The voice belonged to Randy Raskin, calling from the Pentagon.

“Wait a second! You’re calling me? That might be a first.”

“It’s been a whole day since you asked for a favor. I figured you were sick or something.”

Payne smiled. “Nope. Just been traveling. Seeing some sights. Rescuing some damsels. You know, normal stuff.”

“I figured as much, which is the reason for my call. Do you have computer access?”

“We will for another hour. After that, no.”

“I’m sending a link to D.J. Tell him to follow Panther protocols. He’ll know what to do.”

“Okay,” said Payne as he grabbed the clothes he needed. “Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. If you have any trouble, let me know.”

Payne hung up and casually walked toward Jones, who was looking at pants on the other side of the store. “It’s time to roll.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got mail.”

There was an Internet café less than a block away. Jones grabbed a computer in the back corner while Payne paid for an hour. He always used cash when on a mission. Never credit cards.

To view Raskin’s message, Jones followed the Panther protocol, a simple procedure Raskin had designed for accessing data in a public place. Jones logged on to his office system in Pittsburgh, which was highly encrypted, and ran a program, called Panther, that blocked all monitoring software on the public terminal. It was an effective way to erase all trails to the Pentagon, and it prevented any files from being saved in a temporary folder on a public network.

Once Jones was confident the computer was clean, he opened the e-mail:

hey guys,

i think you’ll like this-or maybe not. he doesn’t seem like

a nice person. make sure you cover your tracks. i don’t want

him coming after me. he’s scary.

r.r.

A few minutes later, they understood what Raskin was talking about when they viewed the file he had attached to the message. Sometime during the night, he had hacked into a Russian surveillance company and downloaded the security video of Richard Byrd’s murder. Actually, it was more than a murder. It was a cold-blooded execution, perpetrated by an assassin in a highly public venue. The type of wet work that was taught by the CIA, MI6, and other security agencies around the globe-including the old KGB.

At least that was the opinion of Payne and Jones.

The black-and-white footage was filmed from an elevated angle on the back porch of the Peterhof. It was a wide-angle shot, focusing on the banister above the main grotto, right where Richard Byrd was standing. Although the video was grainy, Payne and Jones were mesmerized by what they saw. The killer walked with precision. Never wasting energy or stopping to contemplate his next move. He approached Byrd, raised his gun, and fired. No hesitation. Never breaking stride. Totally professional. Then he tossed his weapon over the railing. It hit the water at the exact moment his victim tumbled into the fountain.

The timing was so perfect, the body and the gun made a single splash.

Payne and Jones replayed the video several times, looking for flaws in the killer’s technique. There were none. He never looked at the camera. He never ran or panicked. He never did anything to give away his identity. Even during the chaos that followed.

Payne watched the execution one more time. “What do you think? Ex-Agency?”

“Maybe. Or Russian mob. No one we want to tangle with-if we can help it.”

“Famous last words.”

Jones smirked. “I hope not.”

Payne tapped the computer screen. “Do me a favor and keep it running for a bit. Allison said she witnessed the shooting. Maybe we can see her in the aftermath.”

“Good idea.”

They stared at the footage, focusing on the people in the background. Someone on the patio must have seen the body and screamed, because all of a sudden everyone started running. Everyone, that is, except for one female with long blond hair. As chaos erupted around her, she fell to her knees in front of the giant waterfall and wailed with grief. It was a sorrowful scene, one that tugged at their heartstrings and reaffirmed their decision to help her out.

She looked so lost and confused and scared.

No wonder she had been so emotional on the phone.

“Keep it going,” Payne said. “I want to see what she’s made of.”

Surprisingly, she cried for less than a minute. After that, she wiped her eyes, brushed the dirt off her knees, then walked away from the camera until she was no longer visible.

One minute she was a crying mess, the next she was calm enough to escape.

Jones stopped the video. “Impressive. She’s tougher than I thought.”

Payne nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, so is the shooter.”

23

The blue tapestry hung from the ceiling to the floor, covering most of the back wall in the monk’s chamber. Dial had orig inally thought it was there to add a splash of color to an otherwise dreary room. Then he noticed a color that didn’t belong. The color was red. It was smeared on a few of the golden tassels near the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry-as if someone with bloody hands had grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall.