The Lost Throne

So that’s where Kozlov started-back at the Hermitage.

Armed with a gun, an old NCB badge, and a photograph of Byrd, Kozlov planned to visit every hotel on Nevsky Prospekt. He was going to flash his badge at every front desk and ask about the man in the picture. Now that Byrd was dead, he wasn’t nearly as worried about keeping things quiet. He was more concerned about finding information as quickly as possible.

And he would start at the hotel that was next to the museum.

The same hotel that David Jones was leaving.

41

Spárti, Greece (location of Ancient Sparta)

George Pappas was looking forward to this day. Even though he had been an NCB agent for twenty-one years, this was the first time he had ever been given an assignment from Interpol Headquarters. Not only that, but his orders came straight from the top. Nick Dial, the head of the Homicide Division, needed help with a multiple homicide at Metéora. He believed the killers might be from the mountain towns near Spárti, because of video evidence at the scene.

Normally, Pappas, a small-town cop, spent most of his time dealing with the tourists who flooded Greece during the summer months. He worked full-time for the local municipality, which was the administrative capital of Laconia, but also received a stipend for his NCB duties, which were usually limited to entering crime statistics into Interpol’s criminal database.

But today was a different story. After all this time, he was being asked to do real police work for Interpol as opposed to really boring police work.

And he couldn’t wait to get started.

Accompanying Pappas on the drive into the mountains were two younger officers, Stefan Manos and Thomas Constantinou. Manos was a ten-year veteran of the Spárti police force and was quite familiar with the people of the region. Meanwhile, Constantinou was the exact opposite. He had finished his police training in Athens less than a month ago and had never visited Laconia before being hired by Spárti. This was Constantinou’s first trip into the Taygetos Mountains, which made him an easy target for some teasing.

“Thomas,” Pappas said as he drove the four-wheel-drive truck up the winding road. “Make sure you stay close to us once we get into the village.”

“Why is that?” Constantinou asked from the cramped backseat.

Pappas looked at Manos in the passenger seat. “You didn’t tell him?”

Manos shook his head. “You invited the kid. I figured you would tell him.”

“Tell me what?”

Pappas glanced at him in his rearview mirror. “About your haircut.”

Constantinou rubbed his scalp, which he kept closely shaved. “What about it?”

“Everyone in the village has hair like yours. Men, women, kids. Even their goats.”

Manos laughed at the comment. He knew all about the Spartans and their haircuts.

“I don’t get it,” Constantinou said. “What’s so funny?”

“You mean you really don’t know?” Pappas asked. “I can’t believe no one told you. How are you going to succeed in Spárti if you don’t know anything about the locals and their customs? They should have told you this for your personal safety before they shipped you here.”

“Told me what?” he demanded.

Pappas tried not to smile, milking this for all it was worth. “Back in ancient times, Spartan men were required to get married at the age of twenty. This was after living with nothing but boys and the older men who mentored them for thirteen lonely years. The boys spent their days wrestling and training and bathing until they knew one another’s bodies like their own. In fact, they knew one another so well that the only people they were truly comfortable with were the other men in their squad. If you get what I’m saying.”

Constantinou nodded. “What does that have to do with my hair?”

“Relax. I’m getting to that.”

Manos clenched his tongue between his teeth, trying to keep from laughing.

“Spartans were never into fancy ceremonies, so their weddings consisted of a man choosing his wife and abducting her, sometimes quite violently. Now, don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t rape. This was just the way it was done in their culture. Spartans were bred to be aggressive, and that trait revealed itself on the battlefield and in the bedroom.”

Constantinou shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not sure where this story was going.

“After the wife was abducted, it was time for their wedding night. The man would drag his bride into a private section of the barracks, where he would take out his knife. Then, in a ritual that some locals still perform today, the man would shave her head like he was shearing a sheep. I mean, he’d get right down to her skin and just carve away until she was completely bald.”

“He cut off all her hair? What for?”

“Be patient,” Pappas ordered. “You’ll find out shortly.”

Manos kept fighting his laughter. He had heard this story, which was completely true, several times before. But there was something about the way that Pappas told it that kept it funny-especially when his audience was a wide-eyed rookie who wasn’t familiar with the Spartans.

“Anyway, here was the problem. Spartan men lived with nothing but males for the majority of their lives. They were told to love one another and protect one another because someday on the battlefield they would have to count on one another. Unfortunately, that ideology was so deeply embedded into their brains that they weren’t able to get physically aroused unless the person they were screwing actually looked like a man. Hence, the shaving of the wife’s head.”

“Are you serious?” Constantinou asked.

“Completely serious. When we get back to town, look it up if you don’t believe me.”

Manos nodded in agreement. “He’s serious. These guys are scary.”

“But it didn’t end there,” Pappas assured the rookie. “For the Spartans, the goal of sex wasn’t enjoyment; it was procreation. That meant no foreplay or romance of any kind. Late at night, a Spartan male would wait until all the other men were sleeping-because he didn’t want to disturb their rest-and sneak out of his barracks. His wife, realizing that her husband had little time to get aroused before he had to return, made sure her head was shaven at all times. In addition, to help set the mood she slept in men’s clothes, which we like to call Spartan lingerie. The combination of the darkness, the shaved head, and the men’s clothing made her husband feel like he was back with the boys, cuddling for warmth along the Eurotas River.”

“That’s disgusting,” Constantinou complained. “Why would you tell me that?”

Pappas glanced at him in the mirror. “How old are you, Thomas?”

“I’m twenty-two. Why?”

Manos shook his head with concern. “You’re twenty-two and you have a shaved head. Where we’re going, that’s a mighty attractive combination.”

Pappas nodded in agreement. “Like I said, make sure you stay close to us in the village. Otherwise, you might get dragged into the woods for your honeymoon.”

The first village they visited had no name. That was uncommon in Greece, where most people took pride in their community and bragged about it every chance they got. But these villagers were different. Like their Spartan ancestors, who refused to mint coins because it would only encourage interaction with outsiders, the citizens of this town wanted to be left alone.

Which, of course, was the reason that Pappas stopped here first. He was familiar with these people and their violent ways. In fact, from the moment he fielded the call from Interpol, Pappas had this place in mind. He figured, if there were killers lurking in the Taygetos Mountains, the odds were pretty good that they were going to be in the village that he called Little Sparta.

“I’ve been here before, so let me do all the talking,” said Pappas as he climbed out of the truck. “Stay close and keep your eyes open. These people do not like strangers.”

Manos and Constantinou nodded in silence.

The village was relatively small, no more than sixty homes spread against the rocky face of the mountain. But what it lacked in numbers, it more than made up in intensity.

The first time Pappas had visited the village, more than fifteen years earlier, he had stopped by the school and had caught a quick glimpse of their training methods. He had been amazed by the children’s level of discipline. The boys, even the youngest ones, didn’t fidget or goof around. They stood board-straight, like they were in the military, and did whatever they were told. Pappas figured that type of control was only achieved through severe physical punishment, but since he was there on a different matter and no complaints had been filed, he wasn’t allowed to investigate the school further.

Still, the sight of those preteen warriors disturbed him to the core.

He always wondered what type of men they would grow up to be.

Unfortunately, he and his partners were about to find out.

42

Allison’s book bag hung from Jones’s left shoulder. Her computer dangled from his right. And he carried a large gym bag stuffed with Byrd’s most important belongings. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to haul them very far. He was scheduled to meet Payne and Allison in St. Isaac’s Square.

Jones eyed the hallway in both directions before he stepped outside the suite. One of the advantages of staying on the top floor of a luxury hotel was a scarcity of neighbors. Wealthy people loved their peace and quiet. Then again, so did burglars. Obviously, Jones didn’t view himself as a thief-he was simply collecting things for Byrd’s assistant-yet he knew the authorities wouldn’t see his actions in the same light. So when Jones heard the elevator doors open at the opposite end of the corridor, he wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

Keeping his cool, he turned toward the stairs and refused to look back even though he could hear footsteps. His goal was to reach the street while being noticed by the fewest number of people possible, and turning around would only increase his chances of being identified.

With his free hand, he opened the door to the stairwell and started his journey down.

For the first few floors, things were going well. He was alone on the stairs and making good time. He assumed his next trouble spot would be the lobby. Desk clerks tended to be nosy. A team of doormen and bellhops would be posted by the entrance, offering to help him with his bags. And hotel guests would be milling around, waiting for friends and family.

Once he survived that gauntlet, he figured he’d be home free.

But it wasn’t to be.

Jones realized there was trouble when he heard the door above him open. It was the exact same door he had passed through a moment before on a floor that had few visitors. Either someone had exited a suite a split second after Jones had left the hallway and had also decided to walk down several flights of steps, or the person from the elevator was still behind him.

In his gut, Jones knew it was the latter.

Payne detected a problem the instant he saw Jones leave the hotel. Instead of turning toward the plaza as he was supposed to, Jones headed toward Nevsky Prospekt in the opposite direction.

“Shit,” Payne mumbled to himself, never taking his eyes off the exit.

“What’s wrong?” Allison asked.

“Time to go.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, Payne would have sent her to safety in the Hermitage Museum or one of the nearby buildings, but considering Grizzly’s warning about unfriendly soldiers in the area and the fact that Jones had altered their plans based on something he had seen inside the hotel, Payne couldn’t abandon her. He couldn’t take the chance that she would be accosted, arrested, or spotted by a hidden foe. That forced him to take her along while he figured out what to do.

Meanwhile, Jones kept moving forward, never running or doing anything that would call attention to himself. That told Payne a lot about the situation. Jones’s life wasn’t in immediate danger. If it had been, he would have signaled Payne to enter the fray or dropped the bags he was carrying and started shooting. But Jones’s methodical pace and calm demeanor meant he was being followed. Or at least he thought he was.

It was up to Payne to figure out if that was true.

And if so, by whom?

Allison walked beside him as Payne crossed the street toward the hotel. The entire time he studied the exit, watching everyone who left the building. An elderly couple appeared first, then a woman in a dress, then a bellhop. None of them turned toward Jones, so they weren’t the shadow that Payne was searching for.

The fourth person to exit was a man in his late forties. He had a buzz cut, a gray suit, and a stiff posture that was common in the military. The instant he hit the sidewalk he stopped, casually scanning Nevsky Prospekt in both directions before he found his mark. Turning east, the man continued his pursuit of Jones, tracking him from a healthy distance.

Payne smiled at the scene. Now he could track his target as well.

Kozlov had reached Byrd’s floor at the perfect moment, just in time to see the black man leaving the room. If Kozlov had arrived a minute sooner, he would have bumped into him inside Byrd’s suite, but what good would that have done? Kozlov would have been forced to kill the intruder on the spot, gather whatever was being taken from the suite, and then slip away before the police arrived.

On the other hand, if he had shown up a minute later, the black man would have been long gone, Kozlov would have found nothing inside, and his employer would have been pissed.

No, Kozlov was thrilled with the way things had worked out. He could shadow the intruder wherever he went, hoping to generate more leads to follow. With a little luck, Kozlov could recover Byrd’s things, figure out why Byrd had come to Saint Petersburg to begin with, and catch the morning train to Moscow so he could start working on his next contract.

Two days earlier, bumping into Byrd had been the result of horrible timing.

But this was just the opposite. This couldn’t have worked out better.

At least that’s what Kozlov believed.

Payne eyed the Russian the way a cheetah eyes a gazelle. He wasn’t ready to spring on him just yet. That would come later. For now Payne was more interested in studying his opponent, deciding if he was alone or part of a dangerous herd.

“What’s going on?” Allison demanded.

“D.J. is being followed.”

“How do you know?”

Payne didn’t have time to hold her hand or explain things. He could always fill her in later when they were safe. For now, he had to concentrate on his surroundings. He couldn’t miss anything or it could cost them their lives. “Just trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do, but-”

“Listen,” he ordered. “If I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No delay.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding her head.

Payne kept looking straight ahead. “If something happens to me or I tell you to run, go to the American consulate. Don’t go to the hotel. Go directly to the consulate. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it will come to that, but I need to know you’ll be safe.”

“I promise. I’ll go to the consulate.”

Payne continued to watch Kozlov. He was a block behind Jones but was definitely following him. “The man I’m tailing is in a gray suit. I mention that for one reason. Not because I want you to stare at him, but because I want you to know he’s trouble.”

Allison spotted Kozlov a block ahead and nodded.

“Is that the man who killed Richard?” Payne asked.

“I can’t tell. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Come on,” he said as he grabbed her elbow. “We’re crossing the street.”

“Why?”

“What did I tell you about questions?”

Allison blushed but didn’t say a word. Filled with adrenaline, she had forgotten her agreement from a moment before. All this was so new to her. It was one of the reasons she had kept spouting random facts about the city: she didn’t know how to handle the excitement. So she burned her nervous energy by babbling.

At the intersection, several pedestrians waited for the light to change. Payne and Allison stood among them, hoping to blend in with the crowd. A few seconds passed before the entire group made their way across Nevsky Prospekt. Cars and buses filled every lane. It was mid-afternoon, but traffic was starting to build. Once they reached the far side, they turned right. They were now walking on the northern side of the street, the same side they had used on their journey from the Palace Hotel. The side they were most familiar with.

“Keep watching,” Payne said as they passed a small war monument that he had seen before. “D.J. will cross the street soon. It will help me spot other shadows.”

Sure enough, Jones did as Payne predicted. He walked across Nevsky Prospekt in the middle of a block, dodging cars as he did. This simple act, crossing the street with no one else around, forced Kozlov to react. He didn’t have time to wait or think. He had to cross immediately or risk losing Jones in an alley, a building, or a taxi heading in the opposite direction.

Payne studied the avenue, checking to see if Kozlov was the only one who followed.

And as far as Payne could tell, Kozlov was acting alone.

While crossing the busy avenue, Jones spotted the man in the gray suit. He didn’t have a chance to look for Payne and Allison, but he knew they were back there, too.

Probably a block behind.

In situations like this, that was a safe distance. Close enough to keep an eye on his shadow but far enough to be inconspicuous. Normally, a man of Payne’s size would have a tough time blending in. Yet that wasn’t the case with Allison on his arm. She was the perfect cover. The two of them would look like a happy couple, strolling through the high-rent district.

And that gave Jones an edge that he planned on using.

Knowing virtually nothing about his opponent-who he was, who he worked for, what he wanted-left Jones with few options. Especially if this was the same man who had killed Byrd. Jones had seen video of him in action and realized he was highly trained. That meant there was little chance Jones was going to lose him, not while carrying three bags he couldn’t afford to drop. Not in a city he wasn’t familiar with. Not without the help of a friend.

A friend with the skills of Jonathon Payne.

43

The Church on Spilled Blood, a breathtaking Russian cathedral built on the spot where Tsar Alexander II was mortally wounded by revolutionaries in 1881, sits off of Nevsky Prospekt beside the Griboyedov Canal. The church’s onion domes and ornate façade look beautifully out of place in Saint Petersburg. Contrary to the European look of the city’s architecture, it resembles St. Basil’s Cathedral, the famous church that overlooks Red Square in Moscow.

As a tourist boat chugged up the waterway toward the colorful landmark, Jones crossed the canal on foot, hoping his blood wouldn’t be spilled next to the tsar’s.

For the time being, he felt optimistic that his shadow was working alone. Back at the Astoria Hotel, Jones had heard a single set of footsteps in the stairwell, and only one man had followed him across Nevsky Prospekt. Still, in this age of technology, Jones knew reinforcements were just a phone call away.

And phone calls were something Jones wanted to prevent.

While prepping for this mission, he had studied a map of the local terrain. He had memorized street names, bridges, and multiple escape routes. He had learned as much as he could as fast as he could, just in case something bad happened along the way. Something like this. Thankfully, his knowledge of the city gave him several choices. Instead of being trapped like a rat in a maze, he knew exactly where he wanted to go and what he hoped to accomplish when he got there.

In this situation, there was one obvious solution: the Saint Petersburg Metro.

A white sign with a blue letter “M” marked the entrance to the Nevsky Prospekt/Gostiny Dvor stations. Jones had never been inside, but he understood the basic layout of the system. Four lines, all assigned different colors, extended throughout the sprawling city and its suburbs. The blue Moskovsko-Petrogradskaya Line ran north and south. The green Nevsko-Vasileostrovskaya Line ran east and west. Both lines could be accessed from this central location, which happened to be the busiest terminal in the city.

To Jones, the large crowds were a bonus. If he timed things right, he might be able to slip away in the chaos underground. He was also thrilled that he could leave the city in any direction. That made it tougher for his opponent to anticipate where he was headed next.

In his mind, however, the best asset of the Metro system was the natural geology of the city. Because of potential flooding from all the rivers and canals in Saint Petersburg, the Metro is the deepest subway system in the world, buried under a thick layer of bedrock that prevents cell phone reception of any kind.

And no phone calls meant no reinforcements.

Kozlov smiled at the development. He had used the Metro several times in the past week, so he was familiar with all four lines, where they went, and which stations would be crowded.

His immediate goal was to follow the black man wherever he went, hoping to generate as many leads as possible. But at some point, Kozlov knew, he would be forced to grab the bags that the black man carried-just in case they were filled with information about Byrd.

And when Kozlov made his move, the black man would have to die.

Jones slipped inside the station and studied the flow of people in front of him. A row of turnstiles prevented passengers from entering the subway without a card or token. In the corner of the lobby, he saw three small booths manned by women cashiers. Jones hopped into the shortest line while digging through his pockets for local currency. A moment later, he placed a fifty-ruble note on the counter and signaled for one subway token.

She mumbled something in Russian, then gave him a bronze coin and a handful of change.

His ticket to freedom cost him less than an American quarter.

Jones hustled toward the turnstile, put the token in the slot, and pushed through the revolving bar. An arched hallway funneled all the passengers toward a long bank of escalators. Jones thought nothing of it until he reached the top step and had a chance to look down. The escalator was so long he couldn’t see the bottom, as though it were going all the way to Hell.

The person behind him pushed him gently, urging him in Russian to keep moving.

Jones nodded, stepped forward, and started his descent to the tunnels below.

Suddenly, he found himself trapped for the next several hundred feet. He couldn’t run or hide or change directions. His options were blocked by a waterfall of people, all of them inching forward at the same pace. Frustrated, Jones looked at his watch, wondering how long this journey was going to take. When the woman in front of him pulled out a novel, he groaned.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said to himself.

But there was nothing he could do about it.

He was stuck until he reached the bottom.

Earlier in the week, Kozlov had purchased a Metro card worth several subway trips. So there were no lines or delays for him. He walked through the turnstiles, barely breaking his stride.

This helped him close the gap.

Up ahead, he spotted the black man carrying the three bags. At no point did his target turn around and look for someone behind him.

The guy was either crafty or clueless, Kozlov didn’t know which.

But he would find out when they reached the labyrinth below.

The trip took forever. At least it seemed that way to Jones.

Finally, the people in front of him gathered their things and stepped off the escalator. One by one, they scattered in both directions toward the different tracks.

The vaulted ceiling arched above him, lit by recessed lighting. The floor was made of polished stone. No trash or graffiti stained the terminal. The place was spotless. Jones stared at the sign on the wall in front of him. It was written in Russian. No translations of any kind.

“Damn,” he muttered.

This was going to be tougher than he thought.

Glancing to his left, he saw a neon sign with green Cyrillic text. To his right, one was written in blue. He couldn’t read any of the words, but he knew the blue trains went north and south. He remembered that fact by thinking of the map he had studied earlier in the day. In his mind, the north arrow pointed up toward the blue sky above.

And north was the direction that he was supposed to go.

Wasting no time, he hustled to his right and looked for another sign. The vaulted corridor stretched for a hundred feet before it branched again. This time both of his choices were written in blue. One was going north; the other was going south. He stood there in the intersection, calculating his options, as people streamed past him in both directions. The sound of screeching brakes echoed in his ears, followed by a whoosh of air and the heat of a surging train.

Or maybe that was Kozlov breathing down his neck.

44

The leader of the Spartans was named Apollo. His name was derived from the ancient Laconian word apollymi, which meant “to destroy.” And that was how he viewed himself, as a destroyer. His entire life had been dedicated to the art of war. How to attack. How to defend. How to conquer. The lifestyle had been beaten into him when he was a boy, and now that he was in charge, he returned the favor to the next generation-just as his mentor had done for him.

That was how his village had survived. They followed the code of their ancestors.

When the police officers arrived, Apollo was waiting for them. He had watched their slow approach up the treacherous mountain road. It gave him more than enough time to tell the village to be on full alert. In this part of Greece, the local authorities rarely stopped by, and when they did, it was usually for a very specific reason. The last time was a month ago. The cops had been looking for two missing tourists who had gone camping in the Taygetos Mountains and hadn’t returned when they were supposed to. A couple of questions were asked, a flyer with their pictures was shown around, and the police departed soon after.

The whole process had taken less than fifteen minutes.

Apollo hoped for the same efficiency on their current visit.

“Hello,” George Pappas said in Greek. He knew the villagers preferred Laconian, their native tongue, but he wasn’t able to speak it. Neither could Manos or Constantinou.

Apollo wore sandals on his feet and a simple white tunic that hung to mid-thigh. He nodded at them but said nothing. He let his muscular physique and the coldness of his glare do his talking. One look from him stopped most men in their tracks.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Pappas said as he flashed his badge. “We were hoping you could help us with one of our cases.”

Apollo shrugged, refusing to say a word. Instead, he stared with unblinking eyes.

Somehow Pappas found the courage to return his stare. Not only did he have the backing of two armed officers, he was here on official Interpol business. That gave him the confidence he needed to stand up to this guy-even though he scared the hell out of Pappas.

“Stefan,” he said to Manos, “hand me the picture.”

Manos took a step forward, gave Pappas the surveillance photo from Metéora, and then took a quick step back. Meanwhile, Constantinou kept his hand on his gun and his head on a swivel.

Pappas studied the helmeted man in the photo and compared him with Apollo. No way were they the same person. Apollo was at least fifty pounds heavier with a much larger physique. Hell, his arms were nearly as thick as Pappas’s legs.

Side by side, Pappas and Apollo looked as if they belonged to two different species.

“We’re looking for the man in this picture. I’d appreciate if you could take a look.”

Apollo grabbed the photo, expecting it to be another missing tourist. Instead, the suspect in the photo was one of the soldiers that had accompanied him to Metéora.

This was not good. And very unexpected.

Apollo didn’t show surprise-he was too disciplined for that-but his mind started racing. How did the police have a photo from the monastery? What other evidence did they possess? Normally, he didn’t give much thought to the outside world, but on the eve of such an important mission, he knew he couldn’t afford any type of police interference.

He had to stop their inquiry before the cops had a chance to return to Spárti.

“Yes,” he said in fluent Greek. “I know the man. He is a troublemaker in our village. What has he done now?”

The response surprised Pappas. He was expecting to be stonewalled at every turn.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Our investigation is still pending.”

Apollo nodded in understanding. “How can I help you?”

“Can you show us where he lives?”

“I can do better than that. I can bring him to you.”

Before Pappas could argue, Apollo called out to a few of his men who were lingering in the background, watching the proceedings unfold. When he spoke, his orders were in rapid Laconian. The language sounded similar to Greek, but there were enough differences that Pappas and the other officers weren’t sure what was being said, which made them uneasy.

Pappas immediately asked, “What did you say to them?”

“I said go get the troublemaker and bring him here.”

Pappas frowned. He knew more had been said. “Does the troublemaker have a name?”

“Of course. But you will need to ask him yourself. The code of my village prevents me from revealing his name. We have a code of silence.”

“What about your name? Are you allowed to tell me that?”

He nodded. “My name is Apollo. And yours?”

“George.”

“George,” he said with a smirk. “Such a simple name. One without significance.”

Pappas shrugged off the insult. “We can’t all be named after gods.”

Apollo nodded. Most people didn’t deserve to be named after gods, as he had been.

“Tell me, George, what’s the worst pain you have ever felt in your life?”

“Excuse me?”

“Before you arrived, my friends and I were discussing the worst pain we have ever felt. I was wondering what your answer might be.”

Pappas glanced back at Manos and Constantinou, who were keeping a close eye on the perimeter. Because of the rocky terrain and the nearby trees, it was impossible to tell if anyone was out there. Just to be safe, the two officers unsnapped the straps that held their guns in their holsters. But not Pappas. He was being closely watched by Apollo, and he didn’t want to do anything that might be interpreted as aggressive behavior.

“That’s an awfully strange question. One that might be misconstrued as a threat.”

“A threat? That was not a threat,” he said with a laugh. “But this is a threat.” He moved one step closer. “We have you severely outnumbered. Lay down your weapons or you will have a new answer to my question about pain.”

The color instantly drained from Pappas’s face. There was no way he was going to surrender his weapon-especially since the odds were currently three against one. Still, there was something about Apollo’s words that resonated with truth. Pappas knew it wasn’t a bluff. He realized the man standing across from him was fully capable of making good on his threat.

Pappas said, “If I pull my gun, you’ll be the first to die.”

Apollo glared at him and gave him a one-word retort: “If.”

Before Pappas could react, Apollo slipped a small knife from the folds of his tunic and lunged forward. With a wicked slash, he sliced through the veins and tendons of Pappas’s right forearm, rendering his gun hand obsolete. Blood gushed from the open wound, spurting high into the air and splashing onto the dusty ground.

It reminded Apollo of the eight monks he had killed at Metéora.

Manos and Constantinou were stunned by the quick attack. They reached for their guns a second too late, as two Spartans crept up from behind. Each soldier carried a sword, and each sword hit its mark. The blade that struck Manos was raked across his back. The resulting wound started at his left scapula and ended at his right hip. Every muscle in between was severed, as were some of his ribs. He slumped to the dirt, gurgling, while his lungs filled with fluid.

Death was imminent.

But Constantinou wasn’t as lucky. The Spartan’s sword struck him flush above the elbow. A moment later, most of his arm fell to the ground beside him while he screamed out in agony. His fingers twitched for a few extra seconds like a spider that had been poisoned and was slowly waiting to die. He stared at it, disbelieving, unwilling to accept that his hand was no longer a part of him. As he stared, blood poured from the chunk of meat that hung below his shoulder.

“Bind his wound,” Apollo ordered. Then he pointed to Pappas. “Same with his.”

The Spartans disarmed the cops and tended to their wounds, making sure they didn’t die. At least not yet. Opportunities like this were rare, and Apollo wanted to take full advantage-just as he had done with the missing tourists he had found camping near the village.

The best way to teach the boys was to give them a taste of blood.

They would butcher the cops, piece by piece, until everyone had a turn.

Like a lion teaching his young.

45

Jones lingered near the train platform, purposely standing still while he pretended to be confused. He turned around, pondered the blue sign above him, and then grimaced in frustration.

It was a beautiful job of acting, one that accomplished several things.

First of all, it stopped Kozlov in his tracks. There was no way the Russian was going to walk toward the blue line if Jones was still pondering the green. There was too great a risk of being spotted in the narrow hallway that connected the two platforms, or of being recognized later if Kozlov was forced to turn around and follow Jones back toward the other trains.

Secondly, it allowed Jones to glance down the corridor to see if Kozlov was still there. And he was. But the Russian played it smoothly, strolling over to a vending machine where he bought a copy of the local newspaper. Then he leaned against the wall and pretended to read the headlines while dozens of people poured off the escalators in front of him.

Finally, and most important, Jones’s acting bought him the extra time that he needed. The truth was that Jones did not want to take the train that had just pulled into the station. It had arrived too soon. For his plan to work, he needed to miss this train and catch the next one, which would be arriving in roughly five minutes.

That was the only way that everything would be in place.

So Jones kept acting like a tourist. He scratched his head in confusion, asked a few people if they spoke English, and listened to the train as it pulled out behind him. Once it was gone, he slipped into the blue station, where he waited to spring his trap.

As far as Kozlov was concerned, there was no reason to hurry. He knew Jones couldn’t go very far. This wasn’t like the subway system in New York City, where vagrants were able to sneak into the tunnels for warmth or drugs. The local Metro had been built during the Cold War and had been designed to double as a bomb shelter capable of saving thousands of lives.

With that in mind, Saint Petersburg took its security very seriously. Heavy blast doors protected the exits. Tunnels were monitored via closed-circuit television. Photography was banned throughout the subway-in order to prevent advanced surveillance for terrorist attacks. And uniformed officers roamed the corridors, searching for trouble.

So he wasn’t the least bit worried about Jones slipping away.

Furthermore, Kozlov guessed that every camera in the tunnel was currently focused on Jones. Not because he was black, but because he was carrying three bags and fidgeting like a criminal. In fact, Kozlov was surprised that Jones hadn’t been stopped or questioned already.

Because in Moscow, he probably would have been arrested.

This wasn’t the first time that Jones had used this maneuver in a subway. From his experience, he knew the key was in the execution. If he timed things perfectly, he would walk away free. No doubt about it. Plus, his shadow wouldn’t even know what hit him.

He glanced at his watch as he strolled along the concrete platform, passing several thick pillars that supported the roof above him. While waiting for the train, Jones made sure that he could be seen at all times. This wasn’t about hiding. This was about timing.

Kozlov strolled into the terminal as the train roared into the station. The loud squeal of brakes reminded him of the tortured screams of some of his previous victims.

Men, women, children-he didn’t care as long as the money was right.

Several commuters stood behind a black line on the floor, waiting for the train to come to a complete stop. Kozlov eyed them suspiciously, searching for the man he was tracking. Then he saw him. Jones was waiting near the back of the pack, about halfway down the platform. A look of confusion filled his face, as if he was still unsure if this was the train that he wanted.

This made Kozlov leery. Maybe Jones wasn’t going to board the blue line after all.

The mechanical doors sprang open, and a few passengers stepped out. All of them walked in an orderly fashion along the edge of the platform, staying clear of the waiting commuters. It was Russian discipline at its finest, remnants of the Soviet days, when citizens had been forced to stand in lines for just about everything. Once the passengers had cleared the area, all the commuters entered the train en masse.

Everyone except two people.

Jones and Kozlov.

Both of them stood there, trying to decide what to do.

Suddenly, Kozlov had no choice. He had to enter the train. That didn’t mean he had to stay on it, but he had to leave the platform or else Jones would spot him-if he hadn’t already.

Cursing to himself, Kozlov stepped aboard. He didn’t sit down as all the other passengers did. Instead, he lingered inside the doorway, watching Jones out of the corner of his eye, trying to see what he was going to do before the train pulled away. If Jones entered the train, Kozlov would take a seat and try to blend in with all the other commuters who filled the car; if not, Kozlov would have to jump off the train-even if it blew his cover.

Of course, Jones knew this. He knew he was forcing Kozlov’s hand, which is exactly what he wanted to do. He had lured Kozlov onto the train. Now he had to keep him there.

And the way he would do it was ingenious.

Jones stepped across the black line on the floor and tentatively approached the train, as if he were still making a decision. The bags he carried were starting to get heavy. They weighed him down and limited his mobility. The doors were about to close, so he climbed aboard.

One car ahead, Kozlov grinned with satisfaction. He had been watching Jones through the window and felt a huge sense of relief when he got on the train. If Jones had remained on the platform, there was no doubt in Kozlov’s mind that he would have been spotted. Now, he didn’t have to worry about that until he was ready to make his move. He could follow Jones to the northern suburbs, steal his three bags, and silence him forever.

But Jones wasn’t about to let that happen. He waited inside the doors until a recorded voice blared over the train’s speaker system. The announcement was in Russian, but Jones knew what it meant: the train was getting ready to leave the station. He had heard the exact same announcement five minutes earlier while he was waiting for the previous train to depart.

The message came first, followed by the closing doors, and then the train pulled away.

The announcement was the sign he had been waiting for.

Jones took a giant step backward onto the platform. His stride was long enough that he left the train in one quick motion. At the exact same moment, a loud voice could be heard from the corridor that led back to the escalators. Someone was yelling in English.

“Wait! Hold the train!” the voice demanded.

Suddenly, Kozlov didn’t know what to do. He had watched Jones slip off of the train, but the shouting made him think, if only for a second, that the police were coming after the man he was following. And that momentary delay cost him. Once it dawned on him that it wasn’t the cops, he tried stepping off the train. But before he could set one foot on the platform, he spotted a giant blur heading straight for him. A tall, muscular man sprinted full-speed toward the door that Kozlov was exiting.

“Watch out!” the man screamed as he dipped his shoulder and bar reled into Kozlov, knocking him backward with the force of a small car. Kozlov slammed into the back wall, clanging his head against a metal support before he slumped to the floor.

Meanwhile, Payne towered above him, trying not to smile.

Leaning forward, he looked into Kozlov’s dazed eyes. “Man, I am so sorry! I was trying to catch the train. Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

The doors closed behind him with a clang, followed by the roar of the engine as they pulled away from the station. Payne glanced over his shoulder and spotted his best friend on the platform. Allison was back there, too, waiting for Jones to escort her to safety.

“Seriously,” Payne continued, “I feel like such an idiot. First I went over to the green line, then I ran back to the blue-”

Kozlov blinked a few times, trying to shake out the cobwebs.

“Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear any of this.” Payne grabbed the Russian by his suit and tried to help him up. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

Kozlov cursed loudly at Payne and tried to push him away, but he wasn’t strong enough to budge him very far. It was like trying to shove an oak tree.

The surrounding passengers stared with amusement.

Stuff like this rarely happened on the Metro.

Payne shook his head in mock disgust. He had no idea what the Russian had said to him but knew it wasn’t pleasant. “Fine! I can take a hint. You don’t want my help. But you didn’t have to be rude about it. What did I ever do to you?”

46

Despite being free of his shadow, Jones knew there was more work to be done. He and Allison were still several blocks away from their suite at the Palace Hotel, and there was always a chance that Kozlov wasn’t working alone. Jones also realized they had to steer clear of all the cops and soldiers who might want to chat with the black man and the gorgeous blonde.

Other than that, they were home free.

“Take this,” Jones whispered as he handed Allison her computer. “It will look better if we’re both carrying bags.”

She slung the thick strap over her shoulder. “Where to now?”

“Back to the hotel. You need to look through Byrd’s things.”

“What about Jon?” she asked, concerned.

“Don’t worry about Jon. He can take care of himself. My job is to worry about you.”

They turned down the central corridor, which was getting more and more crowded. Rush hour would be starting soon, and when it did, the Metro would be packed with people.

Moving through the crowds, Jones kept his head on a swivel, watching everyone around him. He searched for faces that looked the least bit familiar and stares that lasted a little too long. As they walked, he noticed several security cameras along the ceiling. He had seen the same thing in the lobby and near the train platform. But so far, no one had pestered him about his race. It was a pleasant surprise. He was expecting to be hassled everywhere he went.

Maybe Russia wasn’t so racist after all.

When they reached the escalators, Allison stepped on first, followed by Jones. For the next few minutes, he would have a chance to question her.

“When we were outside, did Jon point out my shadow?”

She nodded. “Back near the square.”

“Did the guy make any phone calls or talk to anyone on the street?”

“Not that I could see. He never stopped moving.”

“Good.”

Jones glanced over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers. The person behind him was listening to loud music through headphones. Farther back there was an older couple who didn’t look as if they could hear each other, let alone Jones.

“What did the soldiers want?”

She blushed slightly. “I think they wanted me.”

“You? What did they want with you?”

Her face turned even brighter.

“Ohhhhh!” he said in understanding. “They wanted you. I know exactly how you feel. Women constantly treat me like a piece of meat. It’s disgusting.”

She smiled at his claim. “It must get pretty hard for you.”

“See! That’s exactly what I mean. Raunchy comments like that.”

“Wait!” she blurted, realizing her double entendre. “I meant tough for you. Not hard.”

Jones laughed at her discomfort. “Relax, I’m just teasing. I knew what you meant. I just wanted to see how red I could make your face. It’s kind of fun. Like coloring without a crayon.”

She shrugged in resignation. “Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always been that way. Even as a little girl they used to tease me. I have fair skin, so the red comes shining through.”

Jones pointed to his face. “I have the exact same problem.”

She smiled, amazed that Jones was so relaxed despite his narrow escape.

His confidence gave her confidence.

“Back to my shadow for a moment. Did he look familiar to you?”

“Jon asked me the same thing.”

“And?”

“I honestly don’t know. He was too far away to see.”

“Not to worry. If he killed Richard, we’ll find out shortly.”

“We will?”

Jones nodded. “Of course we will. Jon is very good at his job.”

“What do you mean? Jon is talking to him?”

“Talking? I guess you could call it that.”

A look of discomfort crossed her face. One that Jones instantly recognized. He had seen it many times before when civilians listened to stories about life in the military. They freaked out over tales of brutality, not able to understand that violence was often done to ensure peace.

“Listen,” he said, “if we had simply wanted to lose my shadow, we would have handled things differently. But the truth is that we have to question him. The sooner, the better.”

“I don’t get it. Why do you have to talk to him?”

Jones groaned. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to stay calm?”

“To hell with calm. I want the truth.”

“Simply put, we’re doing it for your safety.”

“My safety?”

“Think about it. The guy knew where Richard was staying. How long would it take him to figure out that Richard paid for two rooms, not one? Hell, he probably knows already.”

“But I thought you cleaned my room?”

“I did. But I didn’t have a chance to erase the video surveillance from the lobby. For all we know, he bribed a security guard and has your picture in his pocket right now.”

She gulped at the thought.

“Hey, you wanted the truth.”

“I know I did, but . . .”

“Listen,” Jones said, trying to reassure her. “I swear to you, Jon is great at what he does. He’ll have a pleasant conversation with the guy and find out what he knows. After that, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Concrete whizzed by as the train roared through the tunnels underneath Saint Petersburg. Every few minutes a recorded voice would make an announcement in Russian, and the train would slow to a stop. People would get on and people would get off, but Payne never moved. He kept staring out the window at the concrete, refusing to make eye contact with any of his fellow passengers-including the assassin at the other end of the car.

The initial plan was for Payne to block Kozlov’s path, trapping him on the train while Jones slipped away. That was how they had done the maneuver in the past, and it had always worked. But the more Payne thought about it on the long ride down the escalator, the more he realized that his current objective was different from the previous times. This wasn’t about escape. This was about leveling the playing field with an experienced professional.

That’s when Payne decided to run the bastard over.

Not only did it leave Kozlov dazed, it also left him defenseless.

When Payne was five years old, his grandfather bought him a deck of cards and showed him some simple tricks. Payne was so amazed that he became hooked for life. Over the years his grandfather encouraged him to read books about famous magicians. By the time Payne was a teenager, he had mastered the art of prestidigitation. He could pull coins out of thin air, make small objects disappear, and dazzle his toughest critics-including Jones.

One of Payne’s best skills was his ability to pick pockets.

He was smoother than a hungry Gypsy.

If he bumped into someone, he could steal just about anything he wanted. A watch. A ring. Or a set of keys. And the victim would be none the wiser.

That’s why Payne decided to get rough with Kozlov. He had to distract him for as long as possible while he took everything he could. His wallet, his badge, even his gun.

And the best part of all?

Kozlov didn’t realize that anything was missing.

The Chernaya Rechka River flows through the northwest corner of Saint Petersburg. It is a minor tributary of the Bolshaya Neva, which is the largest armlet of the historic Neva.

In the grand scheme of things, the Chernaya Rechka isn’t much of a river. It is 3 miles long and less than 80 feet across at its widest point. The water is cold and murky and only a few feet deep. Some Russians consider it a stream. Others view it as a nuisance. Nothing more than a barrier that they have to cross when driving into the city.

A watery pain in the ass.

To alleviate bridge traffic and to encourage northern expansion, the city built the Chernaya Rechka station near the banks of the waterway. The goal was to lure industry to the area by providing an efficient mass transit system for potential employees. Unfortunately, while the city waited for companies to build new factories, the Metro station was less popular than the river it was named after. After all, it was in the middle of nowhere.

That’s why it was perfect for Kozlov’s home base. He wanted to be seen as little as possible, yet he needed quick and easy access to the city. So when he first came into town, he booked a room at a cheap hotel near the station and had used the Metro ever since.

And it had worked out fine until the incident at Nevsky Prospekt.

His ears were still ringing from the collision.

The doors sprang open at Chernaya Rechka, and Kozlov stepped off the train. The last ten minutes had been filled with major disappointment. The black man had slipped out of his grasp and so had the things he had taken from Byrd’s room. Kozlov hated to think what might have been lost. For all he knew, it might have solved the mystery behind Byrd’s trip to Saint Petersburg and allowed him to head back to Moscow to collect his hefty paycheck.

Instead, he was stuck here for a few more days. If not longer.

The thought of it did not make him happy.

For the time being, all he wanted to do was go to his room and pour himself a tall glass of vodka. Perhaps that would dull the throbbing in his head. Then, once his senses returned, he would go back to the Astoria Hotel and check both of Byrd’s rooms for any scraps that might have been left behind. He would also slip some rubles to the hotel staff and find out all he could about the black man who had eluded him on the train.

Maybe he was working for Byrd.

Maybe he could provide some answers, if he could only be found.

Kozlov pondered these things as he walked across the deserted platform, temporarily unaware that Payne was lurking behind him, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

But the Russian would find out soon enough.

47

When Dial and Andropoulos left the library at Great Metéoron, they decided to explore the grounds. Neither man said much as they strolled among the pink and white flowers and the manicured shrubs that lined the walkways. For them, it was a time of reflection, not discovery-a chance to ponder all the information they had learned before they returned to Kalampáka.

Many things stood out from their meeting with Theodore, including the missing pages in the history of Holy Trinity and the way the monk had fumed about it. But nothing mattered more than the black-and-white photograph of Nicolas. His connection to the abbot, which had lasted more than forty years, struck a chord with Dial.

Somehow he knew their relationship was vital to his case.

Finding a picturesque spot, Dial sat on a wooden bench that faced the valley below. His view was unobstructed except for a thin railing made out of crisscrossed logs. Andropoulos sat next to him, unwilling to speak until spoken to. He hadn’t known Dial for very long, yet he understood the dynamics of their relationship. Sometimes Dial just wanted to think.

A few minutes passed before Dial asked, “Have you ever been to Mount Athos?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. Not many outsiders have. Visitors must have special permission from the Orthodox Church.”

“Why is that?”

“The Church likes its privacy.”

Ironically, Theodore was the one who had brought up Mount Athos, saying it was where older monks went to continue their spiritual growth. Then he had instantly regretted mentioning it. When Dial had tried to get more information about the place, Theodore had been reluctant to answer, claiming he had never been there, so he didn’t want to speak out of turn. Dial hadn’t pressed the issue, not wanting to sour their relationship after a very helpful conversation. Yet Theodore’s reluctance piqued Dial’s curiosity, as did the possibility that Nicolas might be recognized there.

“Is Mount Athos far from here?” Dial wondered.

“A few hundred kilometers. It sits to the east, surrounded by the Aegean.”

“It’s an island?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “It is a mountain on the tip of a peninsula. Greeks call it the Holy Mountain. It stretches from the water to the sky above.”

Dial tried to visualize it. Other than Hawaii and a few other islands that were formed by volcanic explosions, he had never seen a mountain surrounded by water. “It sounds scenic.”

Andropoulos nodded. “It is quite beautiful. I have seen many pictures.”

“Would you like to take some yourself?”

“Sir?” he asked, confused.

Dial glanced at the young officer. “I get the feeling that we’ve learned all that we’re going to learn around here. That leaves us with two choices. We can go back inside and help Theodore look through his old books, or we can go to Mount Athos and interview some old monks.”

“Just so you know, the drive would take all day.”

“No, it won’t. I have access to a helicopter. If we left now, we could reach Mount Athos by mid-afternoon. That is, if you’re interested in going.”

“Yes, sir! I would like that very much.”

Dial grimaced at his enthusiasm. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t a date. I need an interpreter just in case the monks don’t speak English.”

“And some won’t,” Andropoulos assured him. “But . . .”

“What?”

“As I mentioned, visitors aren’t admitted without clearance. How will we get in?”

“Please!” Dial sneered. He was insulted by the question. “I’m in charge of the Homicide Division at Interpol. My credentials can get us anywhere.”

Henri Toulon burst out laughing when he heard Dial’s request. “You must be joking! I can’t get you access to Mount Athos.”

“Why not?” Dial growled into his cell phone. He stood up from the bench and walked away from Andropoulos so the young cop couldn’t hear. “This is for my investigation.”

“They will not care. They do not recognize our authority.”

“Why the hell not? Greece is one of our member states!”

Toulon nodded, sitting at his desk. “True, but Mount Athos is not a part of Greece.”

Dial paused, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Its official name is the Holy Community of the Holy Mountain. It is a self-governed state and has been for more than a thousand years. As my boss, you should know this.”

Dial wasn’t in the mood for insults. He wanted clarification. “What are you saying? It’s a separate country, like Vatican City?”

“Technically, no. Mount Athos is a part of Greece, but Greece doesn’t govern it. It is controlled by the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople.”

“Which is what?”

“A church council located in Istanbul.”

Dial shook his head, trying to absorb the information. “Mount Athos is run from Turkey? That doesn’t make any sense. That’s like Mecca being run from Rome.”

Toulon smiled at the metaphor. “That is a good line. May I use it?”

“Use whatever you want. But first, tell me what you’re talking about!”

Dial was fully aware of the political tension between Greece and Turkey. It had existed long before Greece declared its independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1821 and had been fueled over the years by several wars. There were many reasons for their disagreements, but Dial knew the fundamental difference between the two countries was religion. In simple terms, most Greeks were Christians and most Turks were Muslims. Which is why Dial found it so hard to believe that Mount Athos was run from Istanbul, a city with more than two thousand mosques.

Toulon asked, “Are you familiar with Constantine the Great?”

“Of course I am. He was Emperor of Rome.”

“Constantine was more than just an emperor. He was the emperor when it comes to Christianity. In the fourth century, he made the controversial decision to shift the capital city of the Christian world from Rome to Byzantium, a small city that was unstained by Roman politics and much closer to the lands of the East. Over a period of ten years, he expanded his city in hopes of expanding his empire. He built streets, sewers, aqueducts, and more. Then he decorated it with the finest treasures from Greece and Rome. In some cases, he actually disassembled temples, column by column, and reassembled them in Byzantium. Nothing was too good for Nova Roma, or New Rome, which officially became the capital in 330 A.D.”

“Great,” Dial said sarcastically. “You only have seventeen hundred years to go.”

Toulon smiled. “Eventually, the city became known as Constantinople, in honor of the emperor. It stayed that way until the last century, when the Turks officially named it Istanbul.”

“And that helps me how?”

“It explains why Mount Athos is run from Turkey. At one time, the entire Christian world was ruled from Constantinople. So it makes sense that the Ecumenical Patriarchate, an organization that is several hundred years old and provides spiritual leadership to the Greek Orthodox Church, would exist in that city-despite the presence of Islam.”

Dial nodded in understanding. Sometimes Toulon took longer to make a point than Dial would have liked, but the Frenchman always got there eventually.

“Okay,” Dial said, as he thought things through. “Turkey is a member country, too. So pick up the phone, call the Patriarchate, and ask them for a permit. I need to get to Mount Athos.”

Toulon shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Nick. The Patriarchate provides spiritual guidance to Mount Athos, helping them with religious decisions. Meanwhile, the Holy Mountain is governed on a day-to-day basis by a different body, known as Holy Administration. It is made up of representatives of the twenty ruling monasteries and an elected governor.”

Dial growled in frustration. He didn’t care about the details. He just wanted an answer. “Let me make this simple. Who is in charge of permits?”

“It is a joint decision. Every application is reviewed and thoroughly debated. This isn’t a rubber-stamp procedure. The committee evaluates a candidate’s worth and grants access only to those who qualify. From what I hear, they are very strict.”

“So what are you saying? I don’t qualify?”

“I am not sure. I will have to review their entry requirements. However, even if you qualify, these decisions are made weeks in advance. Permits must be granted. Sponsors must be found. It is all very complicated. There is no way I can accomplish this in an hour.”

“Fine! I’ll give you two hours. But I’ll need twice as many permits. One for me and one for my translator. His name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

Toulon cursed in French. He had worked with Dial long enough to know that he was serious. “You are asking for a miracle.”

“Come on, Henri. You’re always bragging about how intelligent you are. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll come up with something.”

“Oui, it is true. I am very smart.”

“I know you are. So do me a favor and use all that brainpower to help me out. Get me access to Mount Athos and I’ll give you a long weekend off.”

Toulon paused. “In that case, I will see what I can do.”

48

The blow to his head had left Kozlov dazed. It dulled his ability to think. To focus. To perceive the world around him. And that left him in a dangerous place, one where he was no longer the hunter. Suddenly, he was the target, trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.

Ironically, he had made his living in places like this, luring his victims to the nether regions of Moscow where he killed them in isolation. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, he would finish a job in public, but he preferred the solitude of the woods, where his victims could beg and plead as loudly as they wanted before he silenced them forever. He loved that feeling of absolute power, the ability to turn someone off like a light switch.

The rush was better than sex or anything else he had ever felt.

It made him feel like God.

Kozlov walked across the Metro parking lot and turned down a wooded path that led to his hotel. It was the same route he had taken several times during the past week, a scenic trail that ran along the banks of the Chernaya Rechka. Strolling along the water’s edge, he rubbed the back of his skull and felt the large lump that had started to form. It was tender to the touch, yet the pain was welcomed. It was like a whiff of smelling salts, helping him regain his faculties.

It helped him sense trouble before it struck.

The first time he heard the sound he assumed it was an animal. Maybe a rabbit or a fox looking for a meal. He turned slowly around and glanced at the path behind him, but saw nothing. So he kept moving forward, anxious to get to his room and his bottle of vodka.

The next time he heard the noise, it was much closer. Maybe thirty feet to his right. He stopped abruptly and scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sound. A quiet snap could have been dismissed as a furry creature scampering through the underbrush. But this noise was louder, heavier. Like a bear. Or a wolf prowling for meat.

Instinctively, Kozlov reached for his shoulder holster.

To his surprise, it was empty.

“Looking for this?” Payne asked from the middle of the path.

Kozlov whipped his head around and spotted the man from the train. Somehow he was standing in front of him, holding the gun that should have been in Kozlov’s holster.

Payne smiled. “I found it on the Metro. I think it belongs to you.”

Kozlov studied the weapon but said nothing. It was definitely his.

Next, Payne pulled out Kozlov’s wallet and his badge. “When you fall down, you need to be more careful with your stuff. Otherwise it could end up in the wrong hands.”

A surge of adrenaline cleared the remaining haze from Kozlov’s brain. Suddenly, the events at Nevsky Prospekt started to make sense. The man with his gun was working with the black man. They had worked together to guarantee the black man’s escape from the train. Kozlov had no idea who they were or how they were connected to Byrd, but it was obvious they were professionals.

Their level of precision required years of fieldwork.

“By the way,” Payne said as he tossed Kozlov’s pistol into the river. He was much more comfortable with his own gun, so he pulled it from his belt and aimed it at the Russian. “I know you can understand me. I glanced through your wallet and saw some business cards that were written in English. No way you would have kept those if you didn’t speak my language.”

Kozlov remained silent. Not willing to confirm or deny anything. At least not yet.

Payne continued as he walked forward. “How’s that bump on your head? I’m guessing it’s a mild concussion. Probably the reason you didn’t notice that your gun was missing. A healthy hit man would’ve noticed that sort of thing.”

“What is hit man? I am businessman.”

“A businessman who killed Richard Byrd.” Payne had no idea if Kozlov was actually the killer, but he hoped to trick him into admitting his guilt. “I saw surveillance footage of you from the Peterhof. I have to admit, I was impressed by your skills. That was a textbook shooting-except for the getting-caught-on-video part. You really should have smiled more.”

“I know nothing about shooting. I am businessman.”

Payne added more details to strengthen his claim. “I particularly liked the way you tossed your gun into the fountain at the exact same moment the body hit the water. It takes a lot of balls to shoot someone in the head and then drop your weapon. Huge fucking balls.”

Kozlov beamed with pride. “You have killed before, yes?”

Payne shrugged as he moved closer. “What do you think?”

“I think you are like me. A man with taste for blood.”

“I am nothing like you. For one, I’m not dumb enough to say I’m a businessman when I’m carrying a gun and a fake shield.” Payne recognized the FSB emblem on the badge but assumed it was fake. No way this guy was on active duty. Not without a partner or a radio. “Where I’m from, we call your organization KGB Lite. It’s the KGB minus all that Soviet bullshit.”

Kozlov smiled. It made him look like a rat. “Who is we? CIA?”

“Not a chance. I’m just a tourist.”

“And I am businessman.”

Payne narrowed their distance to ten feet, hoping to read the Russian’s eyes. “In some ways, you are a businessman. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that you got paid a lot of money to kill Byrd. My only regret is that you killed him before I had a chance to chat with him.”

Kozlov considered Payne’s statement. “He was known to you.”

“Of course I knew him. That asshole robbed me blind.” Payne was lying, trying to get extra information from Kozlov. “Same thing with the other investors. He stole millions of dollars from us and hid the money somewhere in Russia. Now, thanks to you, it’s probably lost forever.”

“You say millions?”

“Damn! How hard did I crack your head? Yes, Boris, or whatever your name is. I said millions. Many, many millions. And we don’t know if it’s here, in Moscow, or Siberia.”

Payne glanced over his shoulder, making sure that they were still alone. As far as he could see, the only things moving were the swaying trees and the flowing river.

“Is that why Byrd was killed? Revenge for money?”

“Why are you asking me? You killed the asshole.”

Deep down inside, Kozlov knew only one of them was going to survive this conversation. He knew he had to do something to lure Payne closer. It was the only way he stood a chance, the only way he could use the weapon that Payne hadn’t stolen. In the meantime, if he had to tell Payne the truth about a few things so he would drop his guard, then so be it.

One of them would soon be dead. So what did it really matter?

Kozlov said, “I was told nothing. Find Byrd, kill Byrd. I not know why.”

Payne nodded. “You were paid to kill him and nothing else.”

“Yes, nothing else.”

“If that’s the case,” Payne said as he aimed his weapon, “why did you follow my friend? If your job was to kill Byrd, why are you still hanging around?”

Kozlov grimaced. He preferred being on the other side of the gun. “I was paid to follow Byrd. To learn why he was here. I went to room to learn.”

“Two days after you killed him? No way you waited that long to search his room. You should have jumped on it at once-before the real cops arrived.”

“He use fake name. I find room only today. That is why I follow friend. I see him leave. I see him carry bags. I follow him to learn of Byrd.”

Payne nodded. Everything the Russian said fit the facts of the case. Byrd had been using a fake name. Kozlov did spot Jones when he was leaving Byrd’s suite. And he had followed Jones to see where he was going. All of that made perfect sense.

Unfortunately, there were still some facts that Payne didn’t know, like who had hired the Russian and what was the real reason that Byrd had been killed. But Payne figured those answers would be tougher to acquire. They would require a little more finesse.

“So,” Payne said as he stepped closer, “how much were you paid?”

“Nothing. I have not been paid.”

“Not even a deposit? That sounds like bad business to me. I mean, you’ve already killed Byrd, yet you haven’t made a cent? That’s pretty damn foolish.”

“You no worry about me. Money will be paid when job is done.”

“Tell me, what happens to your money if you never finish the job?”

Kozlov sneered at him. “Are you threatening me?”

“Threatening you?” Payne laughed as he lowered his gun to his side. “I was thinking about hiring you. A man of your skills might come in handy during my search.”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve got millions of dollars missing-money I won’t be able to find without some help. I know Byrd stashed it somewhere, but I need a Russian to help me track a few leads. Someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”

Kozlov stared at Payne, considering his words. “How much you pay me?”

“I was thinking a flat percentage. Let’s say, one percent.”

“One percent? I no work for one.”

“I’m talking millions of dollars here. If we find ten, you’d make a hundred grand. I know damn well you didn’t make that much to kill Byrd.”

“And if we find one million, I make ten thousand. I worth more than that.”

“Touché. Maybe you are a businessman after all.”

Kozlov nodded. He doubted that Payne was telling the truth about any of this, but on the off chance that he was serious, Kozlov wanted to hear as many details as possible-if for no other reason than to lure his opponent even closer.

Right now they were seven feet apart. A few more feet and Kozlov could strike.

Payne continued. “I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. One percent with a guaranteed minimum of twenty-five thousand. That way, no matter what, you’ll be paid for your time.”

“Minimum of twenty-five? For helping you with search? This is tempting.”

“I thought it would be. Of course for that kind of cash, I need some up-front information. Right here, right now. No bullshit.”

“What information you need?”

“Who hired you to kill Byrd?”

Kozlov smirked. “This is big question.”

“This is big money.”

He nodded. “This is true. How I know you will pay me?”

“The same way I’ll know if you’re telling the truth. Just trust your instincts.”

Kozlov considered this. “In Russia, there is better way. Look man in eye as shake his hand. This is more valuable than promise. This is contract.”

“Fine,” Payne said, only happy to oblige. He moved his gun into his left hand while staring at the Russian. “Let’s shake on it.”

Kozlov nodded and took a tentative step forward.

Payne followed his lead and did the same.

The two of them were four feet apart, just out of each other’s grasp.

As Kozlov stretched his right hand forward, he inched his left hand toward his belt. Made out of black leather, it was held in place by an elaborate silver buckle. Though it looked decorative, the buckle was actually the handle of a sharp dagger. The blade itself was tucked into the leather like a sheath. One simple flick of his wrist, and the weapon would be free of its constraints.

Payne kept his finger on the trigger even though his gun was pointed toward the ground. He reached his right arm toward Kozlov and grabbed his hand with a firm grip. The two men shook, while staring into each other’s eyes. Neither man trusted the other.

Kozlov moved first, extracting his blade with speed and precision. One moment it was in his belt, the next he was thrusting it under Payne’s arm toward his gut.

But Payne had anticipated the maneuver. Using all his strength, he pulled Kozlov’s right hand down and outside, which turned the Russian at a forty-five-degree angle and prevented his knife from striking. Suddenly, Kozlov found himself off-balance and facing away from his opponent. Thinking quickly, he swung his blade behind him, hoping to catch Payne in the ribs or his exposed left shoulder. Instead, the Russian felt his right knee explode as Payne used all his weight to drive his knee into the side of Kozlov’s leg.

The popping sound was so loud that both men could hear it.

Kozlov dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a writhing wave of agony. The pain was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, including the time he was shot.

Cartilage, tendons, and kneecap-all destroyed with a pinpoint strike.

Kozlov wanted to scream, but before a sound could leave his lips, it was stifled by the taste of metal in his mouth. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on the gun that would soon end his life. It rested in the hands of the man he had just tried to stab.

Suddenly, Payne was in complete control.

And he would milk it for everything it was worth.

“You know,” he said as he knelt on Kozlov’s chest, making it tough for the Russian to breathe. “Back when I was in the Special Forces, I developed a nasty reputation. Among all the other officers, I was known as a closer. Does that translate into Russian?”

Kozlov tried to nod his head. The gun in his mouth made it difficult.

Payne glared at him. “I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I have the ability to read people. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a gift that I can use in so many ways. In situations like this, I love looking into the enemy’s eyes and figuring out what scares him more than anything else in the world. Then I take that information and I use it against him.”

While Payne was training for the MANIACs, he had learned that one of the most effective ways to get information from a prisoner wasn’t through torture but rather the insinuation of torture-the act of planting a psychological seed in someone’s head and then waiting for panic to set in. If it was done correctly, some people would literally piss their pants long before they were touched.

“So far, I’ve disarmed you, given you a concussion, and shattered your knee without using any weapons. Imagine what I can do to you when I start getting serious.”

Payne leaned to his left and grabbed Kozlov’s dagger off the ground. It was razor sharp. “Wow. This is a really nice knife. And I should know. I’m great with a blade. Hell, you should see me in the kitchen. I’m like one of those gourmet chefs. Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop! I’m particularly good with cuts of meat. Give me a chicken and I can debone that cock in two seconds.” Payne tapped the knife on Kozlov’s groin. “Does cock translate into Russian?”

Kozlov’s eyes got even wider-so wide his eyebrows looked like they might pop off.

“Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. A few minutes ago, I asked you a simple question that you promised you would answer. Instead, you tried to stab me. That made me pretty mad. That’s why my gun is in your mouth and your knife is in my hand.”

Payne glanced around. They were still alone. He could take as long as he wanted.

“Since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you another chance. I’m going to ask you the same question again. If you lie to me, I’m going to get really angry. And if that happens, you’ll find out why my platoon mates were scared of me.”

Payne inched the gun from Kozlov’s mouth. Before he pulled it the whole way out, he rattled it back and forth against the Russian’s teeth. It sounded like he was shaking dice.

“Okay, Boris. Answer my fucking question. Who hired you to kill Richard Byrd?”

49

Most operatives would have been spooked by the events on Nevsky Prospekt. They would have assumed that their cover was blown and a new hideout needed to be found. But not David Jones. Even though he had been followed from the Astoria Hotel, he was confident that they were now clean. He kept a watchful eye on the street as he and Allison made their way back to their suite. They took a circuitous route, one that allowed Jones to search for shadows. They walked a few blocks, took a cab, and then walked some more. After thirty minutes, they entered the Palace Hotel through a back entrance, staying clear of the lobby and the main bank of elevators.

The back stairs led them to their room. Jones went in first and looked around. Everything was how they had left it. He waved Allison inside and brought the bags in from the hallway. After carrying them for more than an hour, he never wanted to see them again. Yet Jones knew if they had any hope of solving the mystery of Byrd’s murder, the answers would be found in his belongings.

“Where do you want these?” Jones asked.

“By the table,” she replied from across the room.

Jones dropped the bags and noticed her standing near the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. . . . It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. What is it?”

“Sorry,” she said as she stared at Richard’s bag. “I feel kind of strange going through his papers. He was so protective of his stuff. It makes me feel like a vulture.”

Jones leaned against the edge of the table. “Allison, come over here and sit down. We need to discuss a few things.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Just come and sit down.”

She nodded and did what she was told.

“Listen,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ve known you less than a day, so I won’t even pretend to know what you’re thinking or feeling. Everyone handles death and fear in different ways. Your way is different from my way and so on. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“That being said, you need to get something through your head. And the sooner you do, the better it will be for all of us.”

“Okay,” she said tentatively. “What is it?”

“Richard Byrd was a selfish prick.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was an asshole.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Why? Because you’re showing the guy way too much respect. He treated you like shit. He refused to tell you what he was searching for, and he put your life in danger. That sounds like an asshole to me.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

Jones unzipped Byrd’s bag and pulled out the stack of fake IDs and credit cards that he recovered from Byrd’s safe. He scattered them on the table for effect. “Go ahead. Take a look. What did he have? Five fake names? Ten? And those are just the ones I found. Who knows how many he has back in California. I’m telling you, the guy was bad news.”

As she glanced through the items, disappointment filled her face. She was aware of one fake identity-the one he had used to enter Russia. All the others were a surprise. “Why did he have so many?”

Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”

She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.

Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault. He dragged you into this mess. He put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”

Allison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.

“Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote his appointments. Maybe we can figure out what he’s been up to.”

“Good idea,” said Jones as he passed her the journal.

It was bound in black leather. Byrd’s initials were embossed in fancy script on the front cover. A gold ribbon, glued to the binding of the book, marked the current week. Allison flipped to that page and studied the schedule for Sunday, May 18-the day that Byrd was killed.

“One entry,” she said. “There’s a man’s name and a phone number. Nothing else.”

“What’s the name?”

She tried to read Byrd’s handwriting. It was barely legible. “Ivan Borodin.”

“Ring any bells?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

“Local number?”

She nodded. “Should we call it?”

“Not yet. First, look back a day or two. See if anything else stands out.”

Allison flipped back a page. “That’s strange. The same name and number. Only it’s been scratched out.”

Jones walked behind her for a better view. “Go back one more page.”

The same name appeared, also crossed off. “Ivan Borodin.”

“You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”

“Positive. Richard never told me anything.”

“Flip back some more. Find the first time Ivan is mentioned.”

Allison turned the pages slowly, trying to decipher Byrd’s scribbles. Some of his entries made sense, particularly the appointments that involved her in some way-a lunch meeting, a trip to the library, and so on. But most of his notes were nonsense. They were either written in code or simply illegible. “As far as I can tell, Ivan’s name first appeared on the eighth. There’s even a star written next to it.”

“The eighth? I thought you were in Germany on the eighth?”

She nodded. “We were. We flew to Russia on the tenth.”

Jones considered this information. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. See if this makes sense. He calls Ivan on the eighth. They talk about whatever and set up a meeting in Saint Petersburg. The only problem is that Richard can’t get into Russia without a fake visa. So he takes a day or two to get the phony paperwork and arrange a flight. Bing, bang, boom. Next thing you know, your plans to Greece get canceled because he needs to meet with Ivan.”

She smiled. “Bing, bang, boom?”

“What? You’ve never heard that expression?”

“Of course I have. I simply prefer, ‘yada yada yada.’ It’s classier.”

“Oh my goodness! You made a joke. I can’t wait to tell Jon.”

Allison blushed slightly. “Just so you know, I do have a personality.”

“I know you do. I’m just glad to see you finally using it.”

“Ouch.”

“Anyway,” Jones said, feeling guilty about teasing her, “if my theory is correct, that means Ivan has something that Richard needed. Any ideas on what it was?”

She shook her head. “No clue. But the answer might be among his paperwork.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” He wrote Ivan’s number down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Why don’t you start looking through this stuff? Meanwhile, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with.”

Jones walked into the guest bedroom and partially closed the door. He didn’t want to disturb her or leave her unattended. For the time being, she was his responsibility. Using the cell phone that Payne had bought for him, Jones dialed a number that he knew by heart. A few seconds passed before the phone started ringing at the Pentagon.

Randy Raskin answered. “Research.”

Jones glanced at his watch. It was still early in America. “Damn! Do you ever sleep?”

“There’s no need. That’s why God invented caffeine.”

“Good point.”

“By the way, I have to commend you on your trickiness.”

“My trickiness? What are you talking about?”

“You called me from a different number. You’re lucky, too. If I had known it was you, I probably wouldn’t have answered.”

Jones smiled. He peered into the other room, just to make sure Allison wasn’t listening. “And if you hadn’t picked up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about your future girlfriend.”

“My future girlfriend?” It took a moment for the comment to register, but when it finally did, Raskin’s voice went up an octave. “Hold up! You mean that blonde from California? You actually found her?”

“Not only that, she wants you to do her a favor.”

Drool practically dripped from Raskin’s mouth. He and his computer lived a lonely life in the Pentagon basement. “Anything she wants. And I mean anything. With a touch of a button, I can name a battleship after her.”

“Ahhhhhh! How romantic! What a sweet and totally inappropriate gesture.”

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Thankfully, her idea of a favor is a little smaller than that. She needs information on a man named Ivan Borodin. I have a phone number, if that will help.”

“Of course it will help.”

Jones read it to him. “I’m pretty sure it’s in Saint Petersburg.”

Raskin waited for the details to flash on his screen. “You are correct. Ivan Sergei Borodin lives in Saint Petersburg on some street I can’t pronounce. I can spell it for you, though.”

Jones wrote down the address. “Anything else?”

“From what I can tell, the dude is pretty old. He’s eighty-eight.”

“Eighty-eight? That can’t be right. Does he have a son of something?”

“Hold on. Different database.” The sound of typing filled the line until Raskin spoke again. “Nope. No kids listed. His wife is deceased. His brother is deceased. His sisters are deceased. Surprisingly, his parents are still alive.”

“What!”

“Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were listening.”

Jones smiled. “What about employment history?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s retired.”

“From where?”

“Hold on. . . .”

“I know. Different database.”

“Okay,” Raskin said. “Last known employer was the State Hermitage Museum. I can get you the address if you need it.”

“No, thanks. I’m familiar with the place. Do you know what position he held?”

“I sure do. Until eight years ago, Ivan Borodin was the director of the museum.”

50

While Dial made the arrangements for their trip to Mount Athos, Andropoulos drove him to his hotel in Kalampáka. It took nearly thirty minutes from Great Metéoron.

“We have some time to kill before the helicopter arrives,” Dial said when they reached the hotel parking lot. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.”

Dial led the way to his hotel room. A “do not disturb” sign hung from the knob. He unlocked the door and walked inside. A large bulletin board was sitting on a table, leaning against the far wall. The board was covered with handwritten notes on index cards and several photographs from the crime scene.

Andropoulos stared at it with a mixture of confusion and wonder. “Sir, what is all of this?”

“It’s my way of organizing a case.” Dial had assembled it the night before while trying to digest his authentic Greek dinner. His project was finished long before his indigestion had disappeared. “Some people prefer computers. But not me. I’m old-school when it comes to investigations. I like seeing everything in front of me all at once. I like having the freedom to shift things around as the pieces fall into place. It helps me see the big picture.”

Andropoulos pointed at the board. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

Dial nodded. “If you’re going to be my translator at Mount Athos, I need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“In that case, you’d better walk me through everything.”

Dial started with the index card at the top of the board. On it he had written the numbers one through seven, followed by the names of the monks who had been identified by the police. “So far we know about four monks, not including the one who kept his head. Each of them is from a different country, right?”

“That is correct. Russia, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Greece.”

“Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? That monks from four different countries were having a secret meeting in the middle of the night in a place as isolated as Metéora.”

“Very strange.”

“I have a feeling it’s going to get even stranger. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you that the remaining three monks are from different countries as well.”

“Countries with ties to the Orthodox Church.”

Dial smiled. “Exactly.”

“Yet you don’t think this meeting was about religion.”

“My gut tells me no. And after talking to my colleague at Interpol, I’m even more confident than before.”

“Why is that, sir?”

Dial pointed to a small map that was thumbtacked to the bottom of his board. It showed the geography of Greece and several surrounding countries. “Originally, I had assumed that the seat of the Greek Orthodox Church would be in Greece. Nope, stupid me. It turns out the Ecumenical Patriarchate is located in Istanbul.”

“The Patriarchate is in Turkey? I thought it was in Athens.”

“That’s what I assumed, too. But it’s not.”

Andropoulos stared at the map. “And why is that important?”

“If this diverse group of monks was having an official meeting about church doctrine, where would it be held?”

“In Istanbul.”

“And if they were having an unofficial meeting, where would they go?”

“Probably Athens.”

Dial nodded. “Makes sense to me. Major airport. Centrally located. A very solid choice.”

“But they chose here instead.”

“Exactly. Which makes no sense at all. Why arrange a meeting in the middle of the night on top of a mountain unless you had a specific reason to do it?”

“Such as?”

Dial tapped Andropoulos on his chest. “See, that’s a question right there that needs to be answered. Once we figure that out, all of this other stuff will start to fall into place.”

Andropoulos nodded as he returned his attention to the bulletin board. Underneath the index card with the names of the dead monks, Dial had tacked two additional cards. One said Nicolas; the other said Spartans. “What do those mean?”

“Tell me, Marcus, what does Nicolas have in common with the Spartans?”

He gave it some thought. “Both of them are Greek.”

Dial grimaced. “And so are you, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know. I just-”

“Come on, Marcus, use your head. Don’t waste your time on superficial bullshit. Focus on what’s important. Why would I place those two cards right next to each other?”

“Because they’re connected.”

“Right. And how are they connected?”

Andropoulos stared at the cards, struggling to find the link.

“Look at the card above. How do the dead monks connect to Nicolas and the Spartans?”

“Well,” he said, trying to talk his way through the process, “we don’t think that Nicolas is a Spartan, so we can rule that out.”

“Go on.”

“Actually, we aren’t quite sure who Nicolas is. Or why he was there.”

“But . . .”

“But . . . somehow he knew.”

Dial smiled. “Knew what?”

“Nicolas knew about the meeting. Somehow he knew when and where the meeting was being held. Just like the Spartans. They knew about the meeting, too.”

“Not only that,” Dial added, “Nicolas knew about the abbot’s death before we did. That means he knew the time, the place, and the guest list. That’s an awfully large chunk of information for someone to possess.”

“Which is why we’re going to Mount Athos. To look for Nicolas.”

Dial nodded. “Admittedly, the odds are pretty slim that we’ll find the guy. Mount Athos is large, and Nicolas probably looks like half the monks there. Still, I think it’s worth our time and effort. Especially after I saw that old photo of him at Holy Trinity. That cinched the trip for me.”

“Why, sir? Why is that picture so important?”

“Let me show you,” Dial said as he removed the photograph from a plastic sleeve designed to protect it. Theodore, the monk from the library, had been kind enough to lend it to them for their investigation. “Look at the people in this picture. What do they have in common?”

“Most of them are dead.”

“And how do you know that?”

“The picture was taken four decades ago, and the monks were already old back then.”

“Define old,” Dial ordered. “And you’d better watch your word choice.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply-”

Dial pointed to the oldest monk in the photo. “How old do you think he was?”

“I don’t know. Maybe seventy.”

“And what about this guy here?”

“Early sixties.”

“And this one?”

“Fifties.”

“Noticing a pattern?”

Andropoulos nodded. “Their ages are staggered.”

“Exactly. Seven monks, each of them born several years apart. Kind of interesting, huh?”

“In what way, sir?”

Dial sighed. He thought his point was rather obvious. “Take a look at the bulletin board.”

“Okay.”

He pointed to a single photo. Seven heads were stacked in a pyramid in the secret passageway underneath Holy Trinity. “Ignore the blood and the brutality. Focus on the faces. What can you tell me about these monks?”

Andropoulos stared at the image, trying to figure out the answer that Dial was looking for. Several seconds passed before it came to him. “The monks were different ages.”

“Exactly! Seven monks with staggered ages. Where have we seen that before?”

“In the other picture.”

“Not only that, but the abbot was in each one. He was a young monk in the old photo and the old monk in the new photo. Somehow I doubt that’s a coincidence.”

“I don’t get it, sir. Why would they stagger the ages?”

“Only one reason I can think of: succession.”

“Succession?”

Dial nodded. “The monks were trying to keep something alive, whether it was a secret or a tradition or whatever. The way I figure it is this. When one of the monks died, they brought a new one into the fold. That guaranteed a new generation to keep things going. Hell, they might have gone so far as to choose seven monks from different countries just to make sure that a natural disaster didn’t wipe them all out at once. That would explain the wide variety of faces in the photos. A new monk from a different place to keep something alive.”

“I’m confused, sir. What kind of something are you talking about?”

He tapped Andropoulos on his chest again. “That goes back to my earlier question. What were these monks discussing in an isolated monastery in the middle of the night?”

“Do you have any theories?”

“Of course I do. I always have theories. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“But you’re keeping them to yourself.”

“For the time being, yes. I don’t want to taint your opinions until I’m a little more certain.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about you? Do you have any theories?”

Andropoulos smiled. “Actually, sir, I might.”

“Let me guess. You’re going to keep them to yourself so you don’t taint me.”

“No, sir. I’d be happy to share it with you if you’re willing to listen.”

“I’m all ears. What’s your theory about?”

“I think I just figured out why they were meeting at Holy Trinity, not Athens or Istanbul.”

“Go on.”

“It never dawned on me until you said the word, but maybe the reason they were meeting locally was tradition. After all, the photograph from forty years ago was also taken here. Maybe they met here every year. Maybe it was a part of their ritual.”

Dial stroked his chin in thought. “You know what, Marcus? That’s a pretty good theory. It makes more sense than anything I’ve come up with.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it.”

Dial walked closer to the bulletin board, staring at all the pictures and index cards. As he did, he ran different scenarios through his mind, trying to decide if he needed to shift anything around. Sometimes that was how it worked with Dial. One thing fell into place, followed by another and another until all his questions were Suddenly, answered.

“What are you thinking about, sir?”

“The reason. What was the reason they started meeting at Holy Trinity?”

“That I don’t know.”

“I’m glad,” Dial teased. “It will give me a chance to earn my big paycheck.”

Andropoulos smiled and was about to say something else until he noticed the faraway look in Dial’s eye. He was no longer paying attention to the young cop. Instead, he was focused on the bulletin board, crunching all the data in his head, trying to figure out the answer to the question that he had just asked. Why were they meeting at Holy Trinity?

A few minutes passed before Dial spoke again. When he did, he spoke with clarity.

“The tunnel. This whole thing is about the goddamn tunnel.”

“The tunnel?”

“More specifically, what used to be in the tunnel.”

To make his point, Dial tapped on a photo of the stone altar that they had found underneath Holy Trinity. “Look at the craftsmanship of that thing. That altar used to hold something important. I’m not sure what, but it was important. Same with all those empty shelves we found. Something important used to be down there.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m assuming that’s why the Spartans took the time to leave the heads on the altar. They wanted somebody to know that they had found their secret tunnel and weren’t going to stop killing people until they found what they were looking for.”

“Wanted who to know?”

“Maybe Nicolas. Maybe they wanted him to know for some reason. Maybe that’s why he showed up, to see the message for himself.”

Andropoulos glanced at the bulletin board, focusing on the card that said Nicolas. As he did, a question popped into his head. “Sir, if your theory is correct about succession, why wasn’t Nicolas killed? I mean, shouldn’t he have been here for the meeting? He was in that picture from forty years ago, the one with the abbot.”

“I was wondering when you were going to mention that. That question has been plaguing me, too. Maybe death wasn’t the end of a monk’s term. Maybe there was an age limit. Maybe that’s the reason he wasn’t there when the rest of the monks were killed. Being old might have saved his life.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Nicolas did something to get thrown out of the group.”

Dial nodded. “Trust me. That thought had crossed my mind, too.”

51

Jones was excited about the news. He walked into the other room to share it with Allison, who was going through Byrd’s papers. “I found Ivan Borodin. He lives here in Saint Petersburg.”

“That’s great. Now all we have to do is figure out who he is.”

“I found that out, too. He used to be the director of the State Hermitage Museum.”

“Wow,” she said as she considered what that meant. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Richard never liked wasting time with peons. He always went straight to the top.”

“Maybe so, but Borodin retired eight years ago. Why talk to him now?”

“Remember what I told you last night? The Hermitage launched its Schliemann exhibit in 1998. That means Borodin was the man who brought it here. Imagine what information he has! He would know, better than anyone, what items aren’t on display.”

Jones nodded. “Petr Ulster once told me that eighty-five percent of all artifacts are never shown to the general public. That’s a lot of stuff that Richard might have been interested in.”

“I’ll keep looking through his notes. Maybe I can figure out what he wanted to see.”

“Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use your computer. I want to get some background information on Borodin. The more we know about him, the better.”

“Help yourself. It’s fully charged.”

Jones grabbed the laptop bag and carried it to the writing desk near the guest bedroom. He was about to turn on the computer when he felt his cell phone vibrate. “Hello?”

It was Payne, calling from the back entrance to the hotel. “I’m on my way up.”

“Already?”

“Do me a favor. Run interference for me. I need to take a shower.”

“No problem.”

Jones knew not to ask any questions. Payne would talk about his confrontation with Kozlov when he was ready. Depending on what had happened, it might be five minutes or an hour. In the meantime he didn’t want to be bothered. Not by Jones or anyone else.

This was standard protocol for Payne. He needed time to decompress.

“Hey, Allison,” Jones said as he hung up his phone. “I need to let Jon in. Just to be safe, hang out in the bedroom for a few minutes.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Of course it is. I’m just being cautious.”

She nodded, too occupied with Byrd’s journal to challenge Jones’s request. Taking the book with her, she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

A short time later, Payne entered the suite. His clothes were dirty and slightly damp-as though he had been working all day in the hot sun. His eyes were intense and focused. He patted Jones on the shoulder as he walked toward the guest wing. His gesture was a simple one, but it let Jones know that everything had been taken care of and he was all right.

Then, without saying a single word, Payne closed and locked the guest room door.

The sound of running water soon filled the hallway.

Forty minutes later, Payne emerged a new man. He had showered and changed his clothes. A smile was on his face, and his stomach was growling. He strolled into the kitchen looking for something to eat, finding nothing but a bowl of fruit left over from breakfast. He grabbed an apple and walked toward the dining room table, where Jones and Allison were working.

“What have we learned?” Payne wondered.

Jones answered. “We went through Byrd’s planner and one name stood out: Ivan Borodin, the former director of the Hermitage Museum. We don’t know what they were discussing, but we assume it was Schliemann. Ivan was in charge of the Schliemann exhibit before he retired.”

Payne pondered the information. “Is that why Byrd came to town, to meet with Ivan?”

“That would be my guess, but we don’t know for sure. It fits the time line, though.”

“What do we know about him?”

“We have his home phone and address. Oh, and the guy is eighty-eight years old.”

“Damn. How long ago did he retire?”

“Only eight years.”

“He retired at eighty? That explains why Byrd wanted to talk to him. He must know the location of the fountain of youth.”

Jones smiled. “You might be onto something. I searched the Internet and came up with several articles about his career. Ivan devoted most of his life to the Hermitage. He worked there for over sixty years, starting out as a tour guide and working his way up through the ranks. You rarely see that type of dedication anymore.”

“Sixty years in one place? That’s plenty of time to learn a lot of secrets.”

“We were thinking the same thing.”

“How many times did they meet?”

Allison entered the conversation. “We don’t know. Ivan’s name and number appeared several times in Richard’s planner, but he never mentioned his name to me.”

“We have his number, right? Why don’t we give him a call?”

Jones nodded. “We planned on it. I was just waiting to get your approval.”

On the surface, it seemed like a straightforward comment. But Payne knew otherwise. He had worked with Jones long enough to know he wasn’t requesting permission to make a phone call. He was asking Payne if he wanted to continue their investigation. As things stood, Byrd’s killer had been taken care of and Allison was temporarily safe. One quick call to Jarkko and the thirsty Finn would have them drinking Kafka in international waters in less than an hour.

For the time being, that option didn’t interest Payne. Not until they solved the mystery of Byrd’s death. What was Byrd looking for that was so important?

Payne needed to know before he was willing to leave Russia.

“Make the call,” Payne said, “but have Allison do the talking.”

“What?” she stammered. “Why me?”

“Because you were Byrd’s assistant. Maybe he didn’t tell you about Ivan, but he might have told Ivan about you. Besides, your voice is slightly less threatening than ours.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Allison,” he said, not in the mood to argue, “you’re making the call.”

Before she did, Payne and Jones coached her on what to say, anticipating the questions about Richard that were sure to come. If possible, they wanted to meet with Ivan immediately. With the Russian’s advanced age, they figured he probably wouldn’t have a hectic social calendar. In fact, he might even welcome some company. The goal, though, was to meet with him face-to-face, whether that was at his home or at the museum. And the sooner the better.

Allison turned on the speakerphone so Payne and Jones could listen in. Ringing filled their suite until Ivan answered.

“Da?” he said.

“Hello? Is this Ivan Borodin?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Allison. I’m Richard’s assistant.”

“Richard Byrd?”

Allison exhaled. She was glad that Byrd had used his real name, not one of his fake identities. That would make things so much easier. “Yes, sir. I’m his assistant.”

“I was expecting him on Sunday. He never showed up.”

“I’m sorry, sir. He was called away on business. He asked me to apologize.”

“I see.” Ivan’s voice was weak, as one might expect from an eighty-eight-year-old. It was also tinged with a Russian accent, which made it difficult to read his emotions over the phone. “I assumed he was no longer interested in the coat.”

Allison whispered to Payne and Jones. “The coat?”

They shrugged. They had no idea what Ivan was talking about.

Jones whispered back. “Say you’re interested.”

“No, sir. We’re still interested. Could I stop by today?”

Ivan paused, longer than he should have to answer such a simple question. Eventually, he cleared his throat and replied. “Tomorrow would be better. Is ten o’clock too early?”

Allison grinned. “Ten o’clock is perfect. Should I come to you?”

“Yes. That would be best. I don’t move around like I used to.”

Jones took the phone from Allison and shook her hand. “Well played, my lady.”

“Wow,” she remarked. “That was kind of fun. Who can I call now?”

Payne glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon. No way would they be ready to leave before their deadline. He needed to call Jarkko to make new arrangements.

“Nice job,” he said to Allison. “But now comes the hard part. You have to figure out what Ivan was talking about. What is ‘the coat’ that he referred to?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. And I knew more about Schliemann than Richard ever did.”

“Maybe it has nothing to do with Schliemann,” Jones suggested.

She shrugged. “Maybe so. But now that I know what to look for, I should be able to find something in Richard’s notes. At least I hope I can.”

“I’ll help you search. Four eyes are better than two.”

Payne nodded at Jones. “I have to make some calls. As soon as I’m done, I’ll help as well. In the meantime, why don’t you guys order some dinner? It’s going to be a long night.”

52

Jarkko was more than happy to stay an extra night in Saint Peters burg. He was getting paid to drink on his boat, an activity that he normally did for free.

Once the arrangements had been made, Payne asked Jones to join him in the guest room. They still needed to discuss the information learned from Kozlov. It was a conversation they didn’t want to have in front of Allison. For the time being, she was focused on Byrd’s documents, and consumed with Ivan Borodin and his mysterious coat.

Distracting her with death and violence would be counterproductive.

Jones entered and closed the door behind him. Two chairs and a small table filled the right corner of the room. He grabbed one of the chairs and turned it backward, allowing him to prop his arms in front of him. Meanwhile, Payne sat on the foot of the bed.

“Who was he?” Jones asked.

“His name was Alexei Kozlov. He was ex-FSB.” Payne handed him Kozlov’s badge. It was gold with Cyrillic lettering. “He assured me it was fake.”

Jones recognized the emblem. “It damn well better be or we need to leave now. We don’t want to tangle with the FSB.”

“Don’t worry. I’m confident he was telling the truth.”

Jones nodded. He trusted Payne’s judgment. “What else did you learn?”

“He killed Byrd. Never got paid, though. Kozlov worked through an intermediary with the Russian Mafia. They gave him a phone number to call. He talked to the man who hired him but never knew his name. He was told to find Byrd, figure out what he was doing, and then kill him before he left town.”

“Anything else?”

“His boss spoke with a Mediterranean accent. Couldn’t tell if it was Greek, Turkish, or Italian. But definitely Mediterranean.”

Jones fiddled with the badge. “This sure looks real to me.”

“At one time, it probably was. But killing pays better than government work.”

“It always does.” He handed it back to Payne. “Should we be worried about the Mafia?”

Payne shook his head. “He wasn’t in the Mafia. This was a contract job, plain and simple.”

“Which means Allison is safe.”

“She is from Kozlov. I can guarantee that.”

No explanation was necessary. He knew what Payne meant.

“Changing subjects,” Jones said. “Any theories on Byrd?”

“Not yet. I’ve been kind of busy. What about you?”

“I found a stack of phony passports and foreign currency. Either Byrd was on the run, or he was expecting to be.”

“Then why come to Russia? And why bring Allison with him?”

“Those are two good questions, especially since he didn’t take her to Italy.”

“Hell,” Payne said, “he didn’t even tell her he went to Italy. If she hadn’t seen the airport tags on his suitcase, she wouldn’t have known.”

“Exactly. So why bring her to Saint Petersburg and not take her to Naples?”

“Only one reason to do that. He needed her here for something.”

Jones nodded. He was thinking the exact same thing. “If I had to guess, this has to do with Schliemann. According to her, she knew a lot more about Schliemann than Byrd ever did. That has to be the reason he brought her here. To help him with Schliemann.”

Guys!” Allison called from the dining room. “I might have found something important!”

Payne and Jones left the guest room and joined her at the table. A small journal, yellowed with age, was open in front of her. Next to it sat a modern-day legal tablet. It was filled with crisp white pages and several columns of information. The words were written in blue ink.

Jones studied the top page. “Someone’s been busy.”

“Not me,” she assured him. “This is Richard’s notebook. I found it in his files.”

“And what is that?” Payne asked, pointing at the journal.

“That is the reason I’m so excited. I think I know why Richard went to Italy.”

Payne and Jones glanced at each other, amused. They had just been discussing that topic in the other room. Intrigued, Jones slid out of his chair and moved behind her. He wanted a better view of the book, which looked more than a century old.

Allison continued. “Remember what I told you last night? When Richard returned from Naples, he asked me all kinds of questions about Pompeii and Herculaneum, the two cities that were destroyed by the eruption from Mount Vesuvius. Schliemann had toured that area prior to his death, and I assumed that Richard went there to figure out what he had been looking for.”

“A fair assumption,” Jones remarked.

“Well, I was wrong. That might have been a smoke screen. I’m pretty sure Richard went to Naples to buy this.” She tapped the journal for emphasis. “Do you know what this is?”

“If we did,” Payne said, “we wouldn’t be staring at you.”

“It’s a transcript of Heinrich Schliemann’s final words, recorded by one of the police officers who found him unconscious on the street. I think Richard bought it in Naples.”

Jones leaned closer to inspect the journal. “How could it be a transcript? If he was unconscious, how did he talk?”

“According to this journal, Schliemann was taken to the police station while they tried to establish his identity. At one point, despite being incoherent, he started talking in his sleep.”

“Were you aware of that?”

“Not at all. But rumors have circulated for years about Schliemann’s final days, including his quest to find the largest treasure of all time. Most academics assumed it was part of the hype that he had created during his lifetime. I mean, this was a man who funded the construction of his own mausoleum and paid for the inscription to read, ‘To the Hero Schliemann.’ ”

Jones laughed. “The guy wasn’t modest.”

“No, he wasn’t. That much is certain. But little else is. When it comes to Schliemann’s life, there is always a fuzzy line between fact and fiction.”

“Tell us more about the journal,” Payne said.

“At first glance, I thought it was written by an idiot. Every other word is badly misspelled or abbreviated. I could tell that right away, and I don’t even speak Italian.” She picked up the legal tablet and showed it to Payne. The top page was divided into several different categories. “Then I found this. Richard had gone through the journal and translated everything into English.”

“What’s with the columns?” Payne asked.

“Each column represents a different language.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember, Schliemann wasn’t an Italian. He was a German who had lived all over the world. A man who could speak twenty-two languages. From what I can tell, he used several of those languages on his deathbed. The officer did the best he could to write the words phonetically. It was the only way he could keep track of what was being said.”

She ran her finger down the first column. The word ENGLISH was written at the top. Next were columns for GERMAN, GREEK, RUSSIAN, ITALIAN, and FRENCH. Then she flipped the page. Six more columns appeared. They were labeled SPANISH, PORTUGUESE, DUTCH, and so on. Some of the columns were filled with words; others were nearly empty.

“Richard went through the journal and placed words in corresponding columns. Then he translated each of those words and tried to figure out what Schliemann was saying.”

“And?” Jones asked, excited by the possibilities.

“Unfortunately, Richard came up with gibberish.”

“Damn!”

She glanced back at Jones, who was looking over her shoulder. She was thrilled that he cared enough to curse. “Don’t worry. There’s still hope. I have plenty of information to work with. Give me some time and I might be able to figure it out.”

“Or maybe not. I’ve seen a few people die. They didn’t always make sense at the end. In fact, some of them were pretty damn delusional.”

“Well,” she said, trying not to think about it, “I’ll do my best.”

Payne asked, “At first glance, does anything stand out?”

She nodded. “One word is repeated over and over in many different languages. Il trono. Le trône. El trono. And so forth.”

“I’m hoping el trono means ‘the coat.’ ”

She smiled. “Actually, it means ‘the throne.’ But Richard does mention ‘the coat’ on the final page of his translation.”

She pointed to the words that filled the bottom of the last page. They had been written in big capital letters, and then the message had been circled. A giant star was drawn to the left of the note, stressing how important it was. It read: THE COAT = THE KEY

53

As the black helicopter touched down in an open field on the outskirts of Kalampáka, dirt and dust swirled into the air like a cyclone. Andropoulos, who had never ridden in a chopper before, watched with childlike wonder from inside his car. His vehicle rattled from the whooshing of the powerful blades until the pilot flipped a switch and stopped the turbines.

“This is going to be awesome!” Andropoulos gushed. “Thanks for bringing me along.”

Dial rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm. For him, air travel had lost its luster a long time ago. “You aren’t onboard yet. Keep it up, and I’ll hire the pilot to be my translator.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize. Make yourself useful. Grab our bags from the trunk.”

Andropoulos scurried off to complete his task while Dial cracked a smile. No matter how helpful the young Greek was-and so far he had exceeded Dial’s expectations-Dial planned on busting the kid’s balls every chance he got. He was a veteran member of the law enforcement community, and it was his God-given right and duty to toughen the youngster up.

Plus, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

Dial was about to step out of the car when his phone started to vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was Henri Toulon from Interpol. “Hola, Henri.”

“Spanish?” he growled. “I tell you not to speak French, so you speak Spanish?”

“What can I say? I’m an equal-opportunity linguist.”

“Oui. You mangle all languages the same amount.”

Dial smirked. “From the insolent tone of your voice, I’m assuming you have good news about my permits to Mount Athos. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so rude.”

“I have good news. I also have bad news. Which would you like first?”

“Not this shit again,” he muttered, remembering that Toulon had played the same game when telling him about the Spartans. “Just tell me all the news, Henri.”

“Now who is rude? People say we French are rude, but no one ever talks about Americans. And you know why we do not mention you? Because your country has the most bombs. If that was not so, people would say Americans are rude rather than the French!”

Toulon was obviously frustrated about something, so Dial responded in a calm voice.

“What’s wrong, Henri? What’s the bad news?”

“I have let you down.”

“How so?”

“I try and I try but you cannot visit Mount Athos today.”

Dial groaned. They were ready to take off. “Why not?”

“Because the monks are very strict. And you are arriving late.”

He glanced at his watch. It was mid-afternoon in Greece. “Late? I’ll be there by dinner.”

“Which is too late for them. The monks live regimented lives. They work together. They pray together. They eat together. Your arrival will interrupt that schedule. After a certain time each day, the guards will not allow anyone to enter Mount Athos-even those with permits. As I say, they are very strict.”

“Fine. What’s the good news?”

“I have arranged two meetings for you. One is with the governor of Mount Athos. He was appointed by the Hellenic Ministry of Foreign Affairs and is in charge of the civil administration of the Holy Mountain. For requests like yours, he is the man who must sign off on your visit. He has the authority to grant you emergency admission, if he feels it is warranted. So when you speak to him, you must be convincing.”

“Don’t worry, I will be.” Dial jotted a few notes. “Where will I meet him?”

“In Ouranoúpoli, a small village just across the border from Mount Athos.”

“Great. What about the second meeting?”

“There are twenty monasteries on the mountain. Each of them has a guest-master, a monk who is in charge of guided tours, showing relics, and more. He is the main contact person at each site. Visitors must check in with him before they enter his monastery.”

“But I don’t know which monasteries I need to visit.”

“This is why you will meet with the supervisor of all guest-masters-if the governor grants you access to their community. The supervisor has an office at Karyes. It is the largest settlement on Mount Athos. It is where all administrative matters are handled.”

Toulon gave him further details, including times and directions.

“Thanks, Henri. I appreciate it.”

“So you are not mad at me?”

Dial shook his head. “Why should I be mad?”

“Because you asked me to get you access today, and I have failed.”

“Hey, it was a tough task-especially considering their rigid schedules.”

Toulon paused. “Does this mean you will give me a long weekend off like you promised?”

Dial laughed. “I don’t know about that. The big prize was incentive for a miracle. And you didn’t produce a miracle. You produced a couple of meetings.”

“Oui. This is true. I have been to your meetings. They are not miraculous.”

“Speaking of miracles, what’s the latest on that officer from Spárti?”

“George Pappas.”

“Right. Did he have any luck on his search for Spartans?”

Toulon fiddled with his ponytail. “I do not know. I have spent all my time talking to the officials at Mount Athos. I have not had time to talk to George.”

“Well, now that you’re done with the monks, I’d appreciate it if you could give him a call. The more information I have before I meet with the governor, the better.”

“I will call him now. Would you like him to call you directly?”

“Only if he has something major to report. Otherwise, just call me back and leave a voice mail. I doubt I’ll hear my phone in the chopper.”

“You are leaving now?”

Dial nodded. “I don’t have much of a choice. I commandeered the chopper from the Greek police, and they need it back as soon as possible. I’ll just have the pilot drop us off at Ouranoúpoli. That way I’ll be ready for my morning meeting. The last thing I want to do is be late for the governor.”

“Oui, that would be bad.”

“Besides, this will give me a chance to see the Holy Mountain today. I’ll have the pilot do a few flyovers, just so I can get a feel for the place.”

54

Payne read the words aloud. “The coat equals the key. What does that mean?”

Allison shrugged. “I have no idea, since I don’t know what the coat is. I could have asked Ivan on the phone, but I figured that would’ve appeared suspicious.”

Jones nodded in agreement as he returned to his chair. “Any theories?”

“It might be referring to a coat of arms. Many cities in Europe, both new and ancient, use decorative shields as a symbol. Perhaps the coat is pointing toward a specific location.”

“Look in the French column on the tablet,” Jones suggested. “Coat of arms is the translation of a French term, cote d’armes. It might be listed there.”

Payne stared at him like he was speaking French. Which, in fact, he had been. “How in the hell do you know that?”

Jones shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Payne wanted to tease him, but Allison interrupted him before he could.

“Sorry. There’s no coat mentioned in French.”

“What about Schliemann’s family?”

“What about them?” she asked.

Jones explained. “Many important families in Europe have their own coat of arms. That sounds like something Schliemann might’ve had done to boost his stature.”

“Hmmm, I never thought of that. I don’t remember seeing one during my research, but I can look through my notes. I have some pictures of Iliou Melathron. Maybe I’ll spot one there.”

Payne grimaced in confusion. “What is Iliou Mel-?”

“Melathron. It is Schliemann’s former residence in Athens. The term translates to the Palace of Ilium, which was the name of the Roman city built on top of the site of Troy. Schliemann’s mansion was so extravagant it was purchased by the Hellenic Ministry of Culture for the Athens Numismatic Museum. It now houses over six hundred thousand coins.”

“That’s a lot of change,” Jones said.

Allison smiled. “We were going to visit it when we went to Greece. It’s near the Acropolis.”

Payne recognized the look in her eye. She was about to go off on a wild tangent, probably talking about the Parthenon or some other site that she hoped to see. Payne knew if they were going to get out of Russia before he died of old age, he had to keep her rambling to a minimum.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said to Allison. “Even if Schliemann had a coat of arms, what does it really matter? I mean, I doubt it was a family secret. That would have gone against his motivation to get a coat of arms to begin with. So what good would it do us?”

Allison sighed. “You make a good point.”

“For the time being, I think it would be best if you kept working on the journal. See if you can figure out why Richard rushed to Naples to buy it and then spent so much time translating it. Obviously, he thought it was important.”

She nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Richard didn’t like wasting time. He must have been looking for something in particular. I’m not sure what, but something.”

“What about a throne?” Jones suggested. “Schliemann mentioned it several times in several different languages. He must have done that for a reason-even if he was delusional at the time. According to Richard’s notes, the coat is supposed to be the key. But Schliemann didn’t mention a coat. He mentioned a throne, over and over again.”

She corrected him. “Not a throne. The throne. Like a very specific throne. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound familiar to me. I’ve been studying Schliemann for two years, and I don’t remember him searching for any thrones.”

Jones glanced at Payne. He was sitting quietly, listening to their discussion like an outsider. “Hey, Jon, while we’re looking through Richard’s stuff, why don’t you run an Internet search for ancient thrones? Maybe you can find something related to Schliemann.”

Payne stood up from the table. “I can do that. Where’s her computer?”

“On the writing desk in the corner.”

Normally, computer searches would have fallen into Jones’s area of expertise. He wasn’t as skilled as Randy Raskin-then again, nobody was-but Jones had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and spent half his free time designing and building computers in his garage. He simply loved tinkering with electronics. Making things faster and more powerful.

Payne, on the other hand, used his computer for simple tasks, like checking e-mail and sports scores. Other than that, his knowledge was pretty limited. In some ways that embarrassed him-especially since his company, Payne Industries, had its own high-tech division-but when it came right down to it, Payne didn’t like being stuck behind a desk, typing on a keyboard.

In fact, he hated it.

But, in the context of this particular mission, Payne knew that his computer skills were far more advanced than his knowledge of ancient history. And Jones realized it, too, which was the reason he asked Payne to use the Internet to get some background material.

Payne couldn’t read multiple languages, interpret historical data, or discuss the most important moments in Heinrich Schliemann’s life.

But he was fully capable of running a search for ancient thrones.

He could handle that like a champ.

Payne took his job seriously, even though it didn’t seem quite as important as the work going on behind him. But in missions like this, he knew a breakthrough could occur at any time.

He remembered a similar situation at the Ulster Archives when he and Jones had been asked to help some colleagues look for information about the crucifixion of Christ. Payne had been relegated to menial tasks while Jones dug through a series of ancient texts. Yet it was Payne who had made the most important observation, one that led to a major archaeological discovery.

To this day, he still teased Jones about it every chance he got.

Viewing this opportunity in the same light, Payne went to his favorite search engine and typed “ancient thrones.” A split second later, he had several hundred thousand links to choose from. He scrolled through the most popular choices and ignored anything that seemed unlikely-relics from Asia, Africa, and Western Europe. Instead, he focused on the areas that could be linked to Heinrich Schliemann, particularly Italy, Russia, and Greece.

Payne changed his search query to “ancient thrones + italy” and scanned the results. One article stood out. A Roman throne had been recently discovered in Herculaneum. Payne clicked on the link and read the entire story.

“How big of a discovery am I looking for?”

“Why?” Jones asked from the table.

“Back in December, experts found a wood-and-ivory throne in Herculaneum. It was discovered in the house of Julius Caesar’s father-in-law. According to this, it’s the first original throne from the Roman era ever to be recovered.”

Allison spoke up. “I remember reading about that. Academically speaking, it was a wonderful discovery. But that’s not the type of item that Richard would have been interested in. Think much bigger. Something that would’ve put him on the cover of Time.”

“Like a huge treasure?”

“Exactly.”

“Also,” Jones cracked, “you probably shouldn’t look for things that have already been discovered.”

“That is a very good point.”

Payne tweaked his search criteria for Italy a few different ways and found nothing of interest. So he decided to move on to the next region on his list.

He typed “ancient thrones + russia” and scanned the results.

At first glance, Saint Petersburg seemed to have more thrones per square mile than any other place on earth. The Winter Palace, which was part of the Hermitage Museum that Ivan Borodin once worked for, had multiple thrones-including the Great Throne Room, where the emperor and empress used to receive their guests. There was also a different throne at the Peterhof and a few more in locations near Nevsky Prospekt that Payne had seen during the past day.

But they weren’t looking for thrones that were on display.

They were searching for thrones that hadn’t been found.

55

Payne moved the computer into the kitchen so he could eat dinner and search for ancient thrones at the same time. Halfway through a three-course meal that consisted of cabbage salad, meat soup, and broiled fish, Payne shifted his focus to Greece.

Despite his limited knowledge of Heinrich Schliemann, Payne knew the German had spent most of his time looking for Greek treasures. This was reinforced by a simple Internet search. Whether Payne was reading about a new exhibit in Athens or an ancient site in the Peloponnese, Schliemann’s name always seemed to get mentioned. Some of the articles praised him; others despised him. Yet there was no denying he’d had a major impact on modern-day archaeology.

With too many articles to choose from, Payne changed the parameters of his search. Instead of looking through long sections of text, he clicked the image-only option on his search program. A few seconds later, his screen was flooded with pictures of Ancient Greece.

“Much better,” he said to himself.

He carefully scrolled through the images, looking for anything that resembled a throne. He paid more attention to paintings and sketches than he did to photographs. His rationale was simple. If an artifact had been photographed, it had already been discovered. Unfortunately, most of the artwork he saw depicted scenes from Greek mythology and the gods of Mount Olympus. He recognized many of their names in the captions-Apollo, Poseidon, Athena, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Zeus-but assumed these ancient deities would play no role in his current search.

His opinion changed a few minutes later.

Ironically, it wasn’t a colorful painting that caught his eye, rather a photograph of an antique coin that made him think of America. Minted by Elis, an ancient district on the western coast of Greece, it depicted the profile of a bearded man who looked strangely similar to the image of Abraham Lincoln on the American penny. Payne admired the precise details of the face-the swirls of his beard, the curve of his cheekbone, and the shadows near his nose-and wondered if the U.S. Treasury had based their design on this two-thousand-year-old coin.

His curiosity piqued, Payne clicked on the link and was redirected to another website. The moment the page opened, his eyes widened in surprise. Two images filled the screen. The same picture as before, plus a different one showing the back of the coin. In it, the bearded man was now seated on an elaborate throne. He clutched a scepter in his left hand and held a winged female in his right. She was roughly one-sixth of his size.

Underneath the photograph, the caption read:

Statue of Zeus at Olympia

Seven Wonders of the Ancient World

Payne moved his cursor over the text and realized there was another link, one that would take him to a detailed description of the statue. Suddenly, the coin didn’t matter. Only the statue did.

With the click of a button, details filled the screen.

The Statue of Zeus was made by Phidias, a famous Greek sculptor whose art adorned the Parthenon, in 432 B.C. The chryselephantine statue-it was made of wood and overlaid with gold and ivory-had been housed in a massive stone temple at Olympia, the site of the original Olympic Games. Though Zeus was seated, the statue stood forty feet tall and filled the width of the great hall in which it was placed. His robe, sandals, and scepter were made of gold. An olive crown was sculpted on his head. The throne itself was made of cedarwood and ornamented with ivory, gold, and precious stones. To put its original value into perspective, a first-century historian had compared its worth to three hundred warships.

As a graduate of the Naval Academy, Payne was staggered by that amount. He knew how important warships had been to ancient cultures and realized that if a single statue cost that much to build, then its modern-day value would be immeasurable. Simply put, it was the type of discovery that would have put Heinrich Schliemann or Richard Byrd on the front page of every newspaper around the globe. After all, it was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Unfortunately, Payne had no idea what had become of it.

Had it been lost or destroyed? Or was it still standing in Greece?

As far as he knew, the Great Pyramid of Giza was the only ancient wonder that still existed, but Payne wasn’t one hundred percent sure about that. To find out, he skipped ahead in the article. He spotted a section labeled “The Fate of Zeus” and began reading the report. A minute later, there was no doubt in his mind that he needed to tell Jones and Allison, who were still sorting through Byrd’s notes about the throne.

Payne carried the laptop toward them. “Are you familiar with the Statue of Zeus?”

“The one at Olympia?” Allison asked. “What about it?”

“Zeus is sitting on a large throne covered with gold, ivory, and precious jewels. From top to bottom, the whole statue was forty feet tall.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “it was destroyed fifteen hundred years ago when the Temple of Zeus collapsed.”

Payne shook his head. “Not according to this. Some scholars believe it was carried off to Constantinople, where it was housed in a new temple. Supposedly it was part of the Roman emperor’s plan to beautify his new city with the finest relics of Greece and Rome.”

Jones crinkled his forehead. “Really?”

“But it doesn’t end there. Some experts believe the statue was moved once again, prior to the great fires that engulfed the city in the sixth century A.D. In fact, many of the most valuable relics were thought to have been removed before the fires were set by rioters.”

Jones pointed at the computer. “Let me see that.”

He quickly scanned the article, which was featured on a reputable website, then leaned back in thought. Allison took the opportunity to grab the computer and read the story as well. When she was done, she had the same reaction as Jones. She sat back and said nothing.

Silence filled the suite. For an entire minute, nobody spoke.

Payne stared at them and grinned. He knew what they were thinking.

Heinrich Schliemann had found the Statue of Zeus, and he died before he could recover it.

Jones was the first one to speak. He glanced at Allison and said, “Let the record show that I told Jon to search the Internet. I expect to be given full credit in your thesis.”

She laughed. “Screw my thesis. If we find this statue, I can buy a college and give myself a doctorate.”

Payne smiled at both comments. “So what do you think? Could this have been the throne that Schliemann was talking about?”

“Yes,” she said, turning serious. “I mean, if anyone had inside information about a treasure in Turkey, it would have been Heinrich Schliemann. After all, he discovered the city of Troy on Turkish soil, so he would have heard rumors about any artifacts near Constantinople. In fact, he and his wife spent a lot of time in that city.”

“But if he knew about the statue, why didn’t he get it?”

“Why? Because there’s a big difference between knowing about a treasure and actually acquiring it. According to his journals, Schliemann took nearly a decade to locate Troy even though he used Homer’s epic poems like a road map. Now imagine trying to find something that was moved from place to place over fifteen hundred years ago. That search would take a very long time. Especially with the interference he was bound to face.”

Jones asked, “What type of interference?”

“Even though the citizens of Turkey loved him, the Turkish government did not. As I mentioned last night, he smuggled Priam’s Treasure out of their country, which upset all the officials who had given him permission to dig. Over time, he eventually smoothed things over, and they let him back into Turkey to do further excavations at Troy. Only this time, they assigned a guard to follow him. In fact, every time he went to Turkey from that point forward, he was followed around the clock.”

Jones nodded in understanding. “Which would have prevented him from searching for the throne. He might have known where it was located, but he wasn’t able to recover it.”

“Exactly. And Schliemann wasn’t the trusting type, so there’s no way he would have asked someone to do it for him. He had screwed over too many people in his life to trust anyone.”

“Speaking of trust,” Payne said, “can we believe anything that Schliemann said? So far, you’ve painted a pretty negative picture of the guy. Despite his genius, he was a known charlatan, a con man of the highest degree. Isn’t it possible that he was making all of this up? Perhaps this was a big joke to him. A final cry for attention before he passed away.”

Allison considered his comment. The thought had crossed her mind, too.

“Normally, I’d agree with you. I’d say this had the makings of a wild-goose chase. But the more I read Richard’s notebook, the more confident I became that Schliemann wasn’t conscious when he talked about the throne. At least that’s what the police officer claimed in his journal. And if that’s the case, the odds of Schliemann lying were pretty slim. He was an amazing man and all, but I don’t think he was capable of making stuff up while he was in a coma.”

Payne smiled. “You’re probably right.”

Allison smiled as well. Then slowly but surely her expression turned into a frown, as if the weight of the world was Suddenly, on her shoulders.

“What is it?” Payne wondered.

She took a moment to answer. “We aren’t the only ones who think Schliemann found the throne. Obviously, Richard believed it as well.”

Payne corrected her. “Make that two people. Richard and the person who had him killed.”

56

WEDNESDAY, MAY 21

Saint Petersburg, Russia

The process took a lot longer than they had hoped. In fact, it chewed up half the night.

Allison read the police officer’s journal aloud, sounding out the words phonetically, while Jones used a translation program from the Internet to determine what language was being spoken. Then, after a healthy debate, the two of them decided what Schliemann had said.

It wasn’t an exact science, and it was made even tougher by the evolution of language that had occurred during the past century. But by the time they reached the end of the journal, they were satisfied with the results. Although the translated passages couldn’t be read smoothly-the officer had skipped far too many words for them to reconstruct complete sentences-enough clues had been uncovered to assure them that they were on the right track.

While this was going on, Payne left the Palace Hotel to work on another project. He realized he wouldn’t be much help during the translation process. If anything, another voice would have slowed them down. Besides, his skills were much more useful on the streets of Saint Petersburg. Their meeting with Ivan Borodin was scheduled for ten o’clock, and he wanted to survey the residence to make sure they weren’t walking into a trap.

At first glance, everything appeared fine, but he would check again in the morning.

When Payne returned to the suite, he felt a palpable buzz in the air, as if Jones and Allison had important news and they couldn’t wait to share it. For some reason it made him think of his dad-the moment when his father would come home from work and a five-year-old Payne would run into his arms and tell him about all the things that had happened that day. Now the roles were reversed. Payne walked through the door and was greeted by a burst of enthusiasm.

“Get over here,” Jones said excitedly. “We just finished the translations.”

They were still sitting in the same chairs as before. Most of Byrd’s documents were now on the floor. The only things that remained on the table were the officer’s journal, Byrd’s legal tablet, the computer, and the notebook filled with their work. The top page was divided into three columns, and those columns were filled with words in different-colored ink. Payne wasn’t sure where they’d got the colored pens from, but he assumed they belonged to Allison. She seemed like the type of person who would carry office supplies in her purse.

Jones handed him their notebook. “We translated the entire journal.”

“The entire thing?”

He nodded. “Tell me what jumps out at you.”

“The dumb-ass grin on your face. I’m guessing you’re pleased with the results.”

“Just look at the damn notebook.”

Payne smiled. “Okay, I’ll look at the damn notebook.”

He scanned the blue list first, and many terms stood out. THRONE appeared several times, as did STATUE, ZEUS, OLYMPIA, and GOLD. All of them seemed to support their theory: Schliemann had been talking about the lost throne right before his death.

Next, Payne moved on to the middle column. It was written in red ink. The words weren’t used as frequently as those in the first list, yet CONSTANTINOPLE, FIRE, TREASURES, BOOK, and CAVE were repeated. How they were connected, he wasn’t sure.

The third list, written in green, was much shorter than the others. But it was the list that caught his eye: COAT was written at the top, then LOCATION, then KEY.

“Tell me more about the green,” Payne said as he took a seat.

Allison obliged. “Richard said the coat equals the key. Now we have linguistic proof of that. Schliemann mentioned coat and key on two different occasions.”

“In what context?”

“Unfortunately, context is rather difficult. The policeman did his best to record what Schliemann was saying, but he struggled a bit. Sometimes we couldn’t read his shorthand. Other times he mangled the words. Occasionally he drew long blank lines in his journal to indicate that something was being said that he couldn’t comprehend at all.”

“And the different colors?”

Jones answered. “That was our attempt to give the words some kind of framework. After a while, we noticed that Schliemann clustered the same words together over and over again. We weren’t able to reconstruct long passages-there were too many missing words-but we lumped certain words together. By doing so, we felt it added meaning.”

“And what did Schliemann mean by coat and key?”

“Both times he said coat and key, he also mentioned location. So we know those words are connected. Our best guess is still a coat of arms. We’re hoping it will point to a city or a specific family, thus revealing the location of the treasure. Or at the very least, another clue.”

Payne studied the lists some more. “I only see two cities mentioned. And no names.”

“Actually, we had some problems with proper nouns. Most translation programs have a limited number of words in their vocabularies. Common words like key and coat were easy to translate, because they are words that tourists might use. But names and locations were much harder for us. We lucked out on Olympia and Constantinople. The cop must have been familiar with them, because he actually wrote them in his journal.”

“Speaking of Constantinople, how do the red words connect together?”

He handed the notebook to Allison to refresh her memory. But she didn’t need to look at it. She had spent so much time with the words she knew them all by heart.

“Three words-Constantinople, treasures, and fire-support the original story. Treasures were supposedly removed from the city before fires were set by rioters.”

“What about the other red words?”

“Schliemann mentioned them with the others, occasionally changing his word order. As for what he meant, we’re still unsure. At this point, any theory would be conjecture.”

“Actually,” Jones admitted, “most of this is conjecture. I mean, we translated a century-old conversation, which had been spoken in more than a dozen languages and was then transcribed in Italian. The odds are pretty good we messed some stuff up.”

Allison agreed. “He’s right. Errors are a distinct possibility. But that being said, if we were unsure about a word, we didn’t put it in one of our columns.” She slowly turned the pages and showed Payne everything that they had attempted to translate. There were far more words in their scrap heap than in their actual lists. “We’re pretty confident in what we showed you.”

Payne nodded his approval. He considered it a minor miracle that they had been able to do all this work in a single night. It would have taken him a month, if he could have done it at all. “One question, though. Why didn’t Richard have coat or key in any of his columns?”

“You know,” Jones said, “that bothered us, too. He wrote the coat equals the key at the bottom of a page, but we couldn’t find those two words anywhere in his translations.”

“Any theories on why not?”

Jones nodded. “One. And you’re not going to like it.”

Payne leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”

“We think maybe, just maybe, that Richard used his legal pad as his scratch pad. You know, to work things out before he transferred them to a different page. Kind of like we did.”

“Sounds practical to me. So where’s his main page?”

“We think there’s a chance that he had it on him when he was killed.”

Payne groaned. “Why do you say that?”

Jones glanced at Allison. “Go on. Tell him.”

“Because Richard often carried a folded piece of paper in his shirt pocket. Depending on the color of his shirt, you could see it in there.”

“But you never read it?”

She shook her head. “Nope. I never read it, so it could have been anything.”

“Still,” Payne said, “we have to assume the worst.”

“Which is?”

Jones answered the question. “All the work we just did is currently in the hands of the Russian police, and they’re trying to figure out what it all means.”

“But that’s not all,” Payne stressed. “On the day that Richard was killed, he was scheduled to meet with Ivan Borodin. If Ivan’s phone number was on that paper, there’s a good chance the cops have called him and asked him about Richard’s death. And if that happened, there’s a damn good chance that Ivan called the cops and told them about us.”

57

Ouranoúpoli, Greece (4 miles west of Mount Athos)

Nick Dial’s eyes sprang open in the darkness. He blinked a few times, trying to regain his bearings, before he realized where he was and what was happening. His cell phone was ringing on the nearby nightstand. Outside his window, the sun had not made an appearance. The only light in the hotel room was coming from the phone’s tiny screen.

Dial tried to read the name on his caller ID, but drowsiness prevented it.

“Hello?” he answered groggily.

“Nick, it’s Henri.”

There was no teasing or joking. Toulon’s voice was solemn.

Dial sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was early in Greece but even earlier at Interpol Headquarters in France. “What’s wrong?”

“The Spárti police just called. George Pappas and two other officers never returned from their fact-finding trip in the Taygetos Mountains. No one’s heard from them since they left yesterday afternoon.”

A few seconds passed before the information sank in. “What do we know?”

“Pappas is well respected in Spárti. He’s not a drinker or a hothead. He has a wife and family. He’s not the type of guy who would go on a bender and disappear for a few days. Plus, there were two other officers with him. One’s a ten-year vet, the other a rookie. What are the odds that they all ran off together?”

Dial considered other variables, not ready to jump to any conclusions. “Any theories?”

“Car problems are a possibility. Many of the villages are remote, and cell phone coverage is shaky at best. There is always a chance that they are stranded.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“A few hours I could understand. Twelve hours seems unlikely. Three officers should have been able to flag someone down in that time.”

“What about a car wreck? Some of the roads near Metéora were pretty treacherous.”

“That’s another possibility. But not a pleasant one.”

Dial nodded as he pictured three cops bleeding at the bottom of a ravine. “Yet somehow I sense that’s better than foul play.”

“Oui. This is true.”

“What do the cops in Spárti think?”

“They are hoping for stranded. They are preparing for something worse.”

“Meaning?”

Toulon explained. “The reason Pappas took two officers with him is because of the reputation of some of the local villagers. A few of them are known for their brutality, which is why Pappas suspected them in the first place.”

“What are the cops planning?”

“They are forming a search party, a mixture of police and soldiers from a nearby army base. At first light, they are going into the mountains. I am told they will be fully armed.”

“Are you serious?”

“They want to be prepared, just in case.”

Dial swung his feet off the bed and onto the stone floor. It was cold and unforgiving, like the regret surging through his head. He was the one who had ordered Pappas to investigate the Spartans. If something had happened to him, the feelings of guilt would stick with Dial for a very long time.

“Keep me posted, Henri. I want to know as soon as you know something.”

“Not a problem, Nick.”

“One more thing. Please stress to the cops that Pappas was looking for the men responsible for the Metéora massacre. If they locate any suspects, it would be helpful if they brought them in alive.”

Unfortunately, the police would not find anything of value in Little Sparta.

Shortly after the young Spartans had finished killing Pappas, Manos, and Constantinou, Apollo ordered them to dispose of all the bodies on the other side of the valley, far away from any roads or trails. He knew the wolves that roamed the hills at night would feast on the dead cops long before a search party was assembled in Spárti.

Meanwhile, Apollo and his men handled the evidence in the village. The blood puddles were covered with dirt and rocks. The murder weapons-more than fifteen in total-were cleaned and sharpened. And Pappas’s vehicle was used to transport several Spartans to Leonidi, a small town on the Aegean Sea, where they would launch the final phase of their mission.

If everything went as planned, the Spartans would return home in a few days and continue living the way they had lived for more than two millennia.

If not, they would die protecting their most treasured possession.

The legacy of their ancestors.

The Spartans’ mission had started several weeks earlier when a foreigner arrived at their village. Unlike the police, who only caused problems, this man wanted to solve one.

Apollo wasn’t the trusting type, especially when it came to outsiders. After all, it was a traitorous Greek who had helped Xerxes and the invading Persian army to defeat the Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae. But this foreigner seemed different. Although he spoke with a funny accent, he knew more about the history of the Spartans than any of the village elders. Plus he had in his possession the type of historical evidence that was tough for Apollo to ignore-an ancient document that was written long before any of the villagers were born.

If his parchment was correct, a Greek holy man by the name of Cydonius had spent his life compiling the true history of Ancient Greece. Written in the second century B.C., the book used information from some of the best-known Athenian historians and orators-Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Plato, and Aristotle-and combined it with data from lesser-known historians from the other city-states. This helped to eliminate the pro-Athenian bias that has always slanted the modern view of Ancient Greece. By utilizing writers with different backgrounds, Cydonius was able to paint a more accurate picture of the events of that time.

And according to the foreigner, the Spartans were portrayed in a negative light.

They weren’t described as heroes. They were depicted as dim witted barbarians.

Even their legendary stand at the Battle of Thermopylae was called into question.

Obviously, the existence of such a book infuriated Apollo. His life and that of the village were based on a core of Spartan values in the same way some cultures are based on religion. Therefore, in his mind, anything that threatened his beliefs needed to be found and destroyed before it could do irreparable damage to the memory of his ancestors and his way of life.

Thankfully, the foreigner had inside knowledge about the men who protected the book and several other relics from Ancient Greece. They were called the Brotherhood, and they met once a year at a secret location. Desperate to find these men, Apollo was willing to cut a deal. He would help the foreigner, and in return, he would be allowed to burn the book before it was made public.

It was a win-win situation for both parties involved.

As promised, the foreigner pointed the Spartans in the right direction. They stormed the gates of Holy Trinity and killed the members of the Brotherhood, one by one, until one of the monks finally cracked. Not only did the monk reveal the location of the secret tunnel that used to house the book but he also described where it had been moved several years before. It was now kept in the same place as all the other treasures that the Brotherhood had sworn to protect.

To thank the monk for his helpful information, he was beheaded like all the others. Then their heads were stacked on the stone altar that used to hold the book. It was Apollo’s way of taunting his opponents, just as his ancestors had done in ancient times.

Now that the Spartans knew where the book was kept, they were coming for it.

And they dared anyone to get in their way.

58

Payne barely slept that night. His mind was far too busy to get any rest. By the time morning came, he had made a decision that affected them all. They would keep their meeting with Ivan Borodin, but they would push it forward one hour. That way, if Ivan had tipped off the police, they could slip away before the cops showed up.

Payne had already scouted Ivan’s house. He was familiar with the surrounding streets. He knew the dead ends and the blind spots. He knew where the police would lie in wait, if they were waiting at all. It was a quiet neighborhood on the southern side of the city. The houses were small but well kept. Yards were virtually nonexistent. If the cavalry came charging in, they would know about it-especially if someone stayed outside and kept watch.

That someone would be David Jones. He would remain in their car, which Payne rented at the crack of dawn using his fake passport, and monitor things from down the street. At the first sign of trouble, Jones would call Payne’s cell phone. He, in turn, would grab Allison, and they would slip out of the back of the house while Jones pulled around the corner to pick them up.

It wasn’t a perfect plan. There were many variables that they couldn’t control. Yet Payne decided it was worth the risk. They had come this far. One more meeting wouldn’t kill them.

At least, he hoped not.

Payne and Allison got out of the car and walked half a block to Ivan’s house. Payne had a gun tucked in the back of his belt and carried a book bag filled with the cash from Richard’s safe. He had no idea what price had been negotiated by Richard, and Allison had failed to ask during her phone call with Ivan. If the item cost more than Payne was carrying, they were shit out of luck, because Payne wasn’t willing to have a second meeting. This would be a one-shot deal.

“If it’s okay with you,” Payne said, “I’d like to do most of the talking.”

Allison nodded her approval. “I think that would be best.”

“We want to leave as soon as possible, so no long stories. Promise me: no long stories.”

“I promise.”

The nineteenth-century house was one story tall and made out of wood-it did not have aluminum siding, as they were used to seeing in America, but actual strips of wood. No paint covered the surface. Only a light sealant protected the planks, letting the natural color shine through.

A stone path led them to the decorative front door. The top half was made of stained glass. Payne put his face against it and tried to see inside. The interior was spacious yet plain. As far as he could tell, the front room was devoid of people except for an old man who was sitting in a green chair. Payne watched him for a moment, then knocked on the door.

Several seconds passed before the old man answered it.

“Da?” he said, with a confused look on his face.

“Mr. Borodin?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Jon. And this is Allison. We phoned you about Richard Byrd.”

Ivan nodded and shifted his focus to Allison. He stared at her for a moment and then offered her a smile. “You are more beautiful than Richard said. Please, come in.”

The comment caught her off guard. So much so that her cheeks turned pink as she entered the house. She wasn’t used to compliments from Byrd. And she certainly hadn’t expected to hear any from an eighty-eight-year-old Russian. But it was a nice surprise, one that put her at ease in an otherwise tense situation.

“You are early,” Ivan said to Payne. “One hour early.”

“We’re sorry about that. Our schedule got pushed forward because of an unforeseen event. We hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Disturbing me? What could you disturb?” He trudged back toward his living room. It was sparsely decorated with a couch, a coffee table, and a small bookcase. An oxygen tank and a plastic mask sat next to his favorite green chair. “I am a sick old man who rarely leaves his home. There is nothing for you to disturb but death.”

He laughed loudly and immediately started coughing: deep, phlegm-filled coughs. As he sank into his chair, he grabbed the mask and placed it over his nose and mouth. After a few deep breaths, he signaled for Payne and Allison to sit on the couch across from him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

Ivan shrugged as he lowered the mask. “Life is no fun when a man cannot laugh.”

Neither Payne nor Allison said a word. They just waited for him to continue.

“So,” Ivan said as he stared at them. “This event that changed your schedule, does it involve shooting at Peterhof ?”

Payne instinctively tensed in his seat. Standing quickly, he reached behind him and put his hand on his gun while he scanned the room for danger.

“Let’s go,” he said to Allison.

“Relax,” Ivan said in a soothing tone. “You have nothing to fear. I am only one who knows you are here. Please, sit down.”

Payne stared at Ivan, trying to gauge his honesty. Ivan returned his stare. Never blinking or looking away, he wanted to assure Payne that he was telling the truth.

“You must remember,” Ivan explained, “I grew up in a Russia where we feared police. KGB would knock on door in middle of night and people would not return. Entire families would disappear in blink of eye. Events like these are not forgotten. Or forgiven.”

Payne remained standing, still not satisfied. “When did the police call?”

“Yesterday morning. Questions were asked, but I did not answer.”

“What type of questions?”

“If you sit, I will tell you, and not a moment before.”

Admiring the old man’s spunk, Payne did as requested. But he sat on the edge of the couch, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.

“Is he always this tense?” Ivan asked Allison.

She smiled at Payne. “From the moment we met.”

“Perhaps,” Ivan said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “you should help him relax.”

Allison blushed at the innuendo while Ivan laughed and coughed. After a few short puffs from his oxygen mask, his breathing was back to normal and the smile had returned to his face. He rarely had any visitors and planned on enjoying this conversation for as long as possible.

“Where was I?” Ivan asked.

Payne answered. “The police.”

“Ah, yes. They asked me about Ellis Cooper, a name I did not know. They said he was killed at Peterhof, and my number was found in pocket. They wanted to know why.”

“And what did you say?”

“What could I say? I did not know Ellis Cooper.”

Payne realized Ellis Cooper was probably the name on the fake passport that Byrd had been carrying at the time of his death. Payne wondered what else Byrd might have been carrying.

“When did you realize it was Richard?”

“When police ask about Henry Shoemann. Do you know name?”

Payne grimaced. “No, I don’t. Who is he?”

“Man whose name was written on same paper as my number.”

“Henry Shoemann?” Payne said to Allison. “Do you know a Henry Shoemann?”

She shook her head. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Could they have meant Heinrich Schliemann?”

Payne glanced at Ivan and noticed a smile on his lips. A big, broad smile.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Payne. Byrd fell into the fountain at the Peterhof. By the time the cops had fished him out, the piece of paper in his pocket was waterlogged and the ink had run together. The police had tried to decipher the words on the list and had come up with Henry Shoemann instead of Heinrich Schliemann. In addition, they probably had trouble reading the digits of the phone number, which explained why it had taken them two days to call Ivan.

Payne asked, “How many people did they call before you?”

Ivan smiled some more. “I am guessing fifty.”

The answer pleased Payne. He simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with the police. He wanted to complete their transaction and get to Jarkko’s boat as soon as possible.

“So,” Payne said, “I was wondering-”

Ivan interrupted him. “If you do not mind, now I would like to speak to Allison.”

Payne glanced at her. The look in his eye said make this quick. “Of course.”

The Russian swung his gaze to her pretty face. He stared at her for a moment before he spoke. “I was told you are fan of Heinrich Schliemann.”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“I am as well. I am one of few people old enough to have met his wife, Sophia.”

Her eyes widened in awe. “You met his wife?”

“Yes. My father was professor who believed in showing me as much of world as possible when I was little boy. That included long trip to Athens before air travel was popular. He showed me ruins and explained their importance. I am not sure if he planned it or it simply happened, but Sophia was speaking at one of the museums. She shook my hand and pinched my cheeks and I was smitten for life. I knew then and there that I wanted to work in museum.”

“Wow,” she said, virtually speechless. “That is amazing.”

“Over the years, I had chance to speak to his children as well.”

“Andromache and Agamemnon.”

Ivan smiled at the mere mention of their names. Schliemann was so fascinated with Homer that he had named his children after characters in the Iliad. “It is true. You are fan.”

She nodded again. “Schliemann’s the topic of my dissertation.”

“So I was told.”

Allison paused, unable to let the moment pass. She knew Payne didn’t want her to prolong the conversation, but she had to find out what Ivan meant. “Richard talked about me?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Stunned. Richard barely talked to me. I find it hard to believe that he talked about me.”

Ivan smiled. “Sometimes a man does not know how to handle the unfamiliar.”

“Meaning?”

“You were first woman he viewed as colleague and not conquest.”

Allison blinked a few times, trying to hold back her emotions. It was one of the nicest things that anyone had ever said about her. Strangely, it made her view Byrd in a whole different light.

“Had you known him long?” she wondered.

“Sadly, I never met Richard.”

“You never met him?”

Ivan shook his head. “All our conversations were by phone.”

“But in his planner, he had several appointments scheduled with you.”

“And I broke them all. Some days my health will not allow visitors.”

Payne reentered the conversation. “Every appointment but Sunday’s.”

Ivan nodded. “That is correct. When he not show, I thought he was tired of me and no longer interested in coat.”

“No,” Allison assured him. “I’m still interested in the coat. We’re still interested.”

“I’m glad you are. I held on to it for as long as I could, but medical bills are mounting and money is needed. At some point, sentimentality needs to be pushed aside for reality.”

Ivan rocked forward in his chair until he had enough momentum to stand up. He trudged slowly toward the front door, where a wooden rack had been mounted to the wall. A hat hung from the left hook and an umbrella from the right. In the middle was a black garment bag that looked nearly as old as Ivan. He lifted it by the hanger that protruded through the top and carried it toward the couch. As he did, he brushed off every speck of dust that he saw.

“Do you know story behind coat?” Ivan asked.

Payne and Allison shook their heads, stunned that the coat was actually a coat.

“Heinrich Schliemann was man with quirks that could not be explained. They helped define nature of his genius. Normal men who do normal things lead normal lives. But not Heinrich. He liked things in certain way and did not care what people thought.”

Ivan handed the garment bag to Allison and then inched back toward his chair.

“In final months of Heinrich’s life, he wore coat everywhere he went. It did not matter if weather was hot or cold, that coat never left him. His friends and family asked him why, and he told them it was lucky coat. They were familiar with his ways, so they thought nothing of it. He kept his coat and they kept quiet. This way both parties were happy.”

Ivan sat in his seat and sighed. He thought about things for a moment before he spoke again. “That coat stayed with him until end. He was wrapped in it on day he died in Naples.”

“He died in this coat?” she asked, amazed. “How did you get it?”

“It was given to me by Heinrich’s family. It was token of appreciation for all hard work I did at Hermitage Museum. I fought Russian government for many years to display Priam’s Treasure. That coat was their way of saying thank you. I have cherished it ever since.”

“And I’ll cherish it as well,” she assured him, feeling guilty for taking it.

“I know you will, Allison. Like me, you are true Schliemann fan.”

“About the money,” Payne said as he walked forward with the book bag. He unzipped it and showed its contents to Ivan. It was stuffed with all the cash from Byrd’s safe. “Is this enough?”

Ivan’s eyes grew wide. “More than enough.”

“I’m glad,” Payne said. “Take it all. Richard would have wanted you to have it.”

59

While Payne called Jones to make sure the street was clear, Allison said good-bye to Ivan. She promised to be in touch in the near future, hoping to hear as many stories about Schliemann as Ivan was willing to tell. He assured her that it was a conversation worth living for.

Payne walked outside first, followed by Allison. She carried the garment bag with both hands, clutching it against her chest as if it was the most valuable treasure in the world.

“You know,” she said, “that was a really nice thing to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The money. You gave him all the money.”

“It wasn’t my money. It was Richard’s money.”

“Still,” she assured him, “it was very sweet.”

He shrugged and said nothing. The old guy had reminded Payne of his grandfather. Full of wit and wisdom until his body finally gave out. Maybe the money would help Ivan live a little bit longer. Or at the very least, a little more comfortably.

When they reached the car, Payne sat in the front seat and Allison climbed into the back. She hung the garment bag from a hook above the window, trying not to wrinkle its contents.

“What’s that?” Jones asked as they pulled away from the curb.

“The coat,” Payne answered.

“The coat? You mean the coat was a coat?”

“Trust me, I had the same reaction.”

Payne turned around and looked at Allison. “I thought you said that Richard wasn’t the sentimental type, that he only cared about the treasures.”

“He did,” she assured him.

“Then why did he risk his life to buy a coat?”

“I don’t know. I’m just as dumbfounded as you.”

Payne turned back around and stared out the front windshield. Buildings were blurred as Jones navigated through the traffic like a lifelong resident. It was amazing how quickly he could adapt.

“Where to now?” she wondered.

“To the hotel,” Payne replied.

“And then what?”

“Then we go to the boat. It’s time to leave Russia.”

Jarkko was waiting when they arrived at the dock. He waved to them from the boat until he saw Payne and Jones weren’t alone. One look at Allison and he came running.

“I am Jarkko,” he said proudly. “I am captain of ship. Come, we must drink!”

He grabbed her by the hand and half-dragged her to the boat. Meanwhile, Payne and Jones were left carrying the luggage, which they didn’t mind at all. It was worth the laugh.

“Maybe we should have warned her about Jarkko,” Jones said.

“Why? This is much more fun.”

Their trip got under way without incident. No police interference or trouble of any kind. Before they got too far from shore, Payne called the car rental office and told them the location of their car, claiming it wouldn’t start. Jones had made sure of that by disconnecting the battery-which also made it tougher to steal, since he had to leave the keys on the front seat.

Once they were in international waters, they turned their attention to Allison. She was sitting in the back of the boat, staring at the Gulf of Finland. Jones sat next to her on a hard metal bench and asked her how she was doing. She shrugged and didn’t say much.

“What’s wrong?” Payne asked as he leaned against the rail of the boat.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

She paused before answering. “Richard.”

“What about him?”

“Ivan said some things that make me wonder if I misjudged him. I mean, on the day that he was killed, he was waiting for me at the Peterhof. He didn’t have to do that. He knew someone was following him, yet he chose to stick around for me. If he had just hopped on a boat and left Saint Petersburg, he probably would have survived.”

“Maybe,” Payne admitted. “But the odds are pretty good that they would have found him eventually-whether it was in Russia or somewhere else.”

She shrugged again, not quite ready to accept reality. “Well, what about the coat?”

“What about it?”

“This whole time I thought Richard only cared about a treasure. Now I find out he had a soft spot for Schliemann, too.”

Jones spoke up. “Actually, I’m not quite sure about that. Jon told me about your conversation with Ivan, and I think something else might be going on here.”

She looked at him, confused. “Like what?”

“Richard wrote, the coat equals the key. But when we did our translations, three words-coat, key, and location-were always linked together. We assumed it was a coat of arms that would reveal the location, or something like that, right?”

“Right.”

“What if the key was actually a key? Just like the coat was a coat.”

She scrunched her face. “I don’t follow.”

Payne explained. “Ivan said that Schliemann never took off his coat. He kept it with him at all times. What if there was a reason for that? What if he kept something in his coat that he never wanted to leave his possession?”

Her eyes widened. “Like a key!”

Jones smiled. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Payne said, “We know it’s a long shot, but we’ve got some time to kill.”

“I’ll get the coat,” she said excitedly. She went and got the garment bag from the waterproof bin where Jarkko kept his valuables and brought it back to Payne and Jones. “I haven’t even opened it yet. I didn’t want to expose it to the sea air.”

“If you’d rather not,” Payne teased.

“No, that’s quite all right. The coat’s lasted this long. A little moisture won’t hurt it.”

She unzipped the bag and carefully removed the overcoat, which was black and single-breasted. The material was soft and solidly stitched, as a rich man’s coat should be. She reached into the side pockets and found nothing. The same with the interior pockets. Either Schliemann was carrying nothing at the time of his death, or the items were removed long ago.

“It was worth a shot,” she said, frustrated.

“That’s it? You’re giving up?” Jones grabbed the coat from her. “Please do me a favor and never take a job with airport security. That was the worst search I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Jones removed the coat’s hanger and handed it to her. “Hold this while I look.”

Right away he noticed that Schliemann was a small man. He figured that out when he placed his hand inside one of the sleeves and nearly got stuck. He repeated his search on the other side and then patted down the sleeves just to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. After that, he looked underneath the collar. It was a great place to hide items because it was rarely searched.

Next he turned his attention to the lining of the coat. It was black with faint gray pinstripes. He ran his fingers along the seams, searching for any bulges. This process continued for several seconds until he felt something. It wasn’t solid like a key; it was flat. He moved it back and forth and felt it crinkle.

“Allison,” he said glumly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Let me guess. The coat’s empty?”

“Actually, I think I found something. And if I did, I’m never going to let you forget it.”

60

Nick Dial glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 A.M. in Ouranoúpoli, Greece. He had been standing in front of the rendezvous point-a fourteenth-century Byzantine tower that had been built as a sentry post next to the Aegean Sea-for more than thirty minutes, but the governor of Mount Athos hadn’t yet shown up for their appointment.

On most occasions, Dial would have left a long time ago. He didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to tardiness. But in this situation he realized that the governor held all the cards. If he wanted immediate access to Mount Athos, he needed special permission from the governor, so Dial had little choice in the matter. He had to wait as long as necessary.

“Marcus,” Dial said for the third time in the last half hour, “please check again.”

Andropoulos nodded and started his circular journey around the enclosed courtyard, just in case the governor was waiting on the other side. The building was made out of tan stones and topped with a red-tiled roof. The windows on the lower floors were nothing more than tiny slits, far too narrow for pirates or thieves to have slipped through. Nowadays the lone watchman was the skull of a former resident, which peered at the sea from its perch on a wooden balcony.

Dial followed the skull’s lead and stared at the gentle waves as they kissed the sandy beach. The weather was in the low seventies with hardly a cloud in the sky. If not for the urgency of his meeting, he would have felt as though he were on vacation. Other than the occasional fishing boat that dotted the horizon, there wasn’t a lot of activity in this sleepy village.

Except for the man who was strolling along the shore.

Dial spotted him walking barefoot in the surf. He was older than Dial, but possessed the casual stride of someone who had nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. His skin was tan, his silver hair was unkempt, and his light-blue shirt was unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. A pair of sandals dangled from his left hand. Occasionally they brushed against his cream-colored shorts, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Hello,” he called while waving at Dial.

“Hello to you, too.”

The man smiled and walked closer. “American?”

Dial nodded. “What about yourself ?”

“Me too. My name is Clive.”

“Hi, Clive. I’m Nick.”

The two of them shook hands.

“So what brings you to Ouranoúpoli? We don’t get many American tourists.”

“We?” Dial asked. “You live here?”

“I live all over the world. But this time of year, I like Greece.”

“Must be nice. Going wherever the wind takes you.”

“I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty great.” Clive grinned. “How about you?”

“I’m here on business.”

Clive glanced around the empty shore. “Business? Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question for the last thirty minutes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was supposed to meet someone here at eleven o’clock. But I’m still waiting.”

“Is he a local? Maybe I know him.”

“Not too local. He’s from Mount Athos.”

Clive smiled. “Ahh, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why he isn’t here. You missed him by several hours.”

Dial arched an eyebrow. “Several hours? What are you talking about?”

“Mount Athos doesn’t use Greek time. They use Byzantine time.”

“They use what?”

Clive laughed. Dial wasn’t the first tourist to ask him that question in a similar tone.

“The monks on Mount Athos set their clocks according to the position of the sun. Midnight is at sunset, and so on. This time of year, they’re roughly three and a half hours ahead of us. Every few days they readjust their clocks to compensate for the setting sun.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

He laughed again. “It’s not so bad when you’re inside. You get used to it pretty quick.”

“You’ve been inside?” Dial asked, surprised.

“That’s how I discovered Ouranoúpoli. I visited Mount Athos and liked it so much that I swing by every few years.”

“They let you do that?”

Clive nodded. “If your paperwork is in order.”

“Really? You don’t have to be a monk?”

“Not at all. In fact, you’d be surprised how many celebrities visit Mount Athos.”

“Such as?”

“Prince Charles from England. He spends a lot of time at Vatopedi, a monastery that resembles an Italian Renaissance village on the north-eastern part of the peninsula. It has many famous relics, including remnants of the True Cross.”

Dial rubbed his chin in thought. “You seem to know a lot about the place.”

“Not as much as the guest-masters, but more than most. Sometimes when I’m lonely, I give boat tours. It’s a great way to meet people. Especially women.”

Dial laughed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I don’t mean picking them up. I mean meeting them. They aren’t permitted on shore, so I take them around the peninsula and show them all the monasteries.”

“Hold up. Women aren’t allowed on Mount Athos?”

Clive shook his head. “No women at all. Not even female animals.”

“Damn. That’s kind of strict.”

“Considering who owns the place, it’s also pretty ironic.”

“What do you mean? Who owns the place?”

“According to legend, the Virgin Mary was sailing to Cyprus to visit Lazarus when her ship was blown off course. They dropped anchor close to the present-day monastery of Iviron, and Mary was instantly taken by the beauty of the mountain and asked her Son to make it her own. A voice from above said, ‘This is your garden, a haven for those who wish to be saved.’ Or words to that effect. From that day forward, no women have been allowed on Mount Athos.”

Dial smiled. “This is Mary’s garden, and women aren’t allowed to visit. That’s priceless.”

“Like I said, it’s pretty ironic.”

Dial was about to ask Clive another question when Andropoulos came into view. He had circled the tower and was now walking toward them from the opposite direction.

“Sorry, sir. No sign of the governor.”

Clive glanced at Dial. “Your meeting was with the governor of Mount Athos?”

“It was. But apparently I missed him-by several hours.”

“Either that, or you’re thirteen days early.”

Dial looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“The monks also use the old Julian calendar instead of the Grego rian calendar. So they’re thirteen days behind the rest of us.”

Dial shook his head. “Someone in town said a trip to Mount Athos was like going back in time. I guess they meant that literally.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Clive assured him. “Although in recent years there have been improvements to many of the monasteries. Some of them even have electricity.”

Andropoulos laughed. Metéora had recently gone through similar renovations, moving them out of the nineteenth and into the early twentieth century. Still a century behind, but much better than it used to be.

Clive extended his hand. “Hi, my name is Clive.”

“Sorry,” Dial said as Andropoulos shook Clive’s hand. “This is my assistant, Marcus.”

“Your assistant? What kind of business are you in?”

Dial answered. “I work for Interpol. He works for me.”

“Interpol? How fascinating! And you’re here to meet with the governor? Is there something dangerous going on that I should know about?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to get access to Mount Athos for a routine investigation.”

Clive groaned. “Well, you’re in trouble now. I’ve met the governor on a few occasions, and he isn’t exactly a cordial fellow. My guess is that you’ve made an enemy for life.”

“Great. Just great.”

“Of course, there are other ways to get to the peninsula.”

“Such as?”

“Me.”

“You?” Dial asked.

Clive nodded. “I have no influence with the guards, but if I pull up to the main dock and you flash your badge, you might be able to talk your way onto the property.” He paused. “You do have a badge, don’t you?”