The Lost Throne

Both Dial and Andropoulos flashed their credentials.

He smiled and continued. “At the very least, the guards have a special phone that connects with the administrative offices in Karyes. Anytime there’s a problem with a visitor’s permit, the guards contact their bosses for clarification. So even if they don’t let you through, perhaps you can speak to someone who can help you with your investigation.”

61

Both Payne and Allison stared at Jones, trying to determine if he was serious. They realized he was when he made them feel the object for themselves.

Allison went first. She noticed the same crinkling as Jones. “It feels like paper.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a grin.

Payne rolled his eyes as he took his turn. “I’m kind of hoping you’re wrong. Otherwise you’re going to be a bigger pain in the ass than normal.”

“I don’t know about bigger. But I’ll definitely be richer.”

Payne smiled. “Don’t buy a mansion just yet. We have to see what it is first.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Allison wondered.

Jones made a cutting motion with his two fingers. “Snip, snip.”

“Wait. You’re going to cut the coat?”

He nodded. “You’re damn right I’m going to cut the coat. But just the lining. It’s not like I’m going to take off a whole sleeve.”

“Come on, guys. There has to be a better way.”

Jones turned toward Jarkko, who was steering the boat at the front. “Hey, Jarkko! Do you have any X-ray gear on here?”

Jarkko stared at him. “You mean X-rated movies?”

“Not X-rated,” he shouted. “X-ray.”

“X-ray? What is that? Is that more sexy than X-rated?”

“Forget it. Don’t worry about it.”

Jarkko threw his arms up in frustration. “How will Jarkko learn if you not explain!”

“Sorry,” Jones apologized to Allison. “No X-rays on board. We’re gonna have to cut it.”

She sighed. “Fine! Cut the lining. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course I’ll be careful. I don’t want to cut the paper.”

“I meant with the coat!”

Jones glanced at Payne and grinned. “Man, I love revving her up. It’s so easy.”

Payne smiled as he patted Jones on the arm. “Before you start, let me tell Jarkko to stop the engine. The smoother the ride, the better.”

“Good idea.”

Jarkko cut the motor and the boat slowed to an easy crawl. Because of a lack of storms in the area, the winds were calmer than normal and so were the waves. Allison spread the garment bag across the bench, and Jones laid the coat on top. Their goal was to do as little damage as possible, whether that was from grime or the tip of his knife.

The first cut was along the edge of the seam. A tiny ripping sound was heard, followed by a loud groan from Allison. Jones made her turn around before he continued. The process was easier than he had expected. After getting through the first layer of lining, he noticed a small compartment had been stitched into the coat.

Jones stuck his fingers inside and felt an object. “There’s something in here.”

“What is it?” she wondered.

“I don’t know. I can’t get it out. My hands are too big.”

“Here,” she said. “Let me try. Or you might rip it.”

After they switched spots, she stuck her slender fingers inside the secret pocket. With more wiggle room than Jones, she was able to finesse the object out, carefully sliding it through the gap in the lining until she held it in her hands.

It was an old piece of paper, folded and yellowed with age.

“What does it say?” Jones asked.

“I don’t know,” she said excitedly. “Someone move the coat.”

At this point Payne was tempted to chuck it overboard; he was much more concerned with the paper than the coat. Instead, he carefully hung it on its original hanger while Allison laid the document on top of the garment bag. Then, using the tip of her fingernail, she carefully unfolded it, trying not to smudge the writing.

“It feels so brittle. I don’t want to turn it too quickly or it might tear.”

Jones glanced over her shoulder. “I swear to God, if Ivan dry-cleaned this coat, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

“It’s not that,” she assured him as she kept unfolding the paper. “It’s in pretty good shape for its age. I just don’t want to take any chances.”

Finally, after several seconds, the document was fully revealed. She held it flat with the tips of her fingers, making sure that a gust of wind didn’t blow it overboard. Despite its age, the document was still legible, penned by a steady hand. It was written in Greek, a language that none of them could speak, yet all of them knew what they were staring at.

“Holy shit,” Jones mumbled. “It’s a fucking map.”

The comment made Allison grin. “The correct term is treasure map, but-”

“Jon,” Jones blurted, “it’s a fucking treasure map.”

Payne laughed at his friend’s joy. “I see that, but what does it say?”

“I don’t know! I can’t read Greek, but I recognize the most important letter of all.”

Payne glanced down at the map. A mountain was drawn in the middle of a large landmass that was surrounded by water. Bays and inlets were labeled with Greek words, as were various trails up the mountain. Payne stared at the words, trying to figure out what letter Jones had been referring to, but he had no idea. “Which letter is most important?”

Jones plopped his finger on the map about halfway up the mountain.

A single location had been labeled with the Greek letter chi.

A letter that looks exactly like a capital X.

“Chi marks the spot!”

After their initial burst of enthusiasm, they realized they had no idea where this mountain was located-or if it still existed. Just because it was labeled in Greek didn’t mean that it was in Greece. Schliemann had traveled all over the globe, so it could’ve been anywhere. And since they were floating in the middle of the Gulf of Finland, they weren’t able to access the Internet on Allison’s computer. Research would have to wait until they reached the mainland.

They debated a variety of things for the next ten minutes. Allison and Jones did most of the talking, since they were most familiar with Greek history. Payne was ready to make a point when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. It was Jarkko. He was curious about their argument.

“Sorry to disturb. But can you not fight while boat is moving?”

Payne nodded. “You’re absolutely right. We’re wasting valuable time.”

“What is that?” he asked as he pointed to the map in Allison’s hand. “You are going to Greece and not invite Jarkko?”

Jones glanced at him, surprised. “Wait. You know this place?”

“Of course! Remember, Jarkko keeps yacht in Greece. Jarkko knows entire Aegean.”

“Hold up. You actually know where this is?”

“What, you no understand Jarkko? Jarkko knows this place. Jarkko hates this place.”

Jones asked, “You hate it?”

“Of course Jarkko hates. No women. No drink. No fun. Just monks and guns.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

Jarkko looked at Payne. “Is Jarkko slurring? It is too early to slur. Maybe Jon should drive?”

Payne signaled Jones to shut up. Then he asked a question of his own. “What’s the name of the mountain?”

“That is Mount Athos. It is home to Orthodox monks. Holy land to Greeks.”

“Have you been there?”

“One day Jarkko run out of supplies. Jarkko tried to dock near mountain but guards with guns would not allow. Land is holy. Permission must be granted by fat monk in charge.”

Payne turned his attention to Allison. “Have you ever heard of this place?”

She nodded. “I’ve heard of it. But I don’t know much about it. It’s in northern Greece, far away from Athens. As far as I know, it’s filled with monasteries and nothing else.”

“How far from Constantinople?”

She gave it some thought. “Not far at all. Why?”

“Close enough to move a statue to?”

“It’s much closer than Olympia. So the answer is definitely yes.”

Payne looked at Jones. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? I think there has to be a reason that armed guards are protecting a bunch of monks in the middle of nowhere.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Jarkko raised his hand. “May Jarkko ask question?”

“Go on,” Payne answered.

“Will you need guide to Mount Athos?”

Payne smiled. “Why? Are you offering?”

“Yes, if you are paying. Are you paying?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’d be paying.”

“Then Jarkko is offering! When you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

Jarkko grinned. “We can leave soon. But first, we must drink!”

62

Before boarding Clive’s boat, Dial called Henri Toulon at Interpol for an update on the Spartan situation and also to let him know about his missed meeting with the governor.

“Nick,” Toulon said, “I was just about to call you. We have some news on George Pappas. His truck was found in Leonidi, approximately fifty kilometers away from Spárti.”

“His truck was found? Was he inside?”

“No. It was abandoned next to a wooden pier.”

Dial grimaced. “What’s a pier doing in the middle of the mountains?”

“No, no, no. Leonidi is not in the mountains. It is a small fishing village. His truck was found next to the sea.”

Dial pictured a map of Greece in his head. The Taygetos Mountains were west of Spárti, located in the middle of the Peloponnese. Meanwhile, the Aegean Sea was to the east, completely in the opposite direction. “Why in the world was he over there?”

Toulon answered. “We do not know that he was.”

“Wait. You think his truck was stolen?”

“Oui. It is a possibility.”

“If that’s the case, where are Pappas and his men?”

“We are not sure. Right now, the police in Leonidi are searching for witnesses. They found his truck, so they might be able to find someone who saw the driver.”

Dial nodded. “That’s a start. What else is being done to find him?”

“The Spárti Police went to the village that Pappas was planning to visit first. And they found something strange.”

“What do you mean by strange?”

“No adults. No kids. No clues of any kind. The entire village was empty.”

“Empty? How can the village be empty?”

“I do not know. But no one was there.”

“Shit,” Dial cursed. “The villagers cleared out because they didn’t want to be questioned. Something bad happened up there, and they knew the police would be stopping by.”

Toulon nodded. “Oui. That makes sense.”

“Does Spárti have access to hounds?”

“I do not know.”

“If they do, have them start there. Maybe they’ll pick up a scent. At the very least, maybe they’ll find the villagers hiding in the mountains. That might be just as helpful.”

Toulon made a note. “I will suggest it at once.”

“Before you do, I wanted to give you an update on my meeting with the governor.”

“That is right. How did that go?”

“It didn’t. Turns out Mount Athos is on Byzantine time.”

“You did not know that?”

“Of course I didn’t know that. How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

Toulon shrugged. “The same way I knew that. By being smart.”

Dial growled, no longer in the mood for humor. “Henri, I don’t get mad very often, but I’m pissed off. We have eight dead monks and three missing cops, and you’re being sarcastic with me? That shit needs to stop now!”

Toulon said nothing in his defense.

“Because of your negligence,” Dial seethed, “I missed my best opportunity to get inside Mount Athos and find an important witness. Do you understand that?”

“Oui. I understand.”

“Good! Now I want you to fix it.”

“How?”

“I am taking a private boat to Mount Athos. Once I’m there, I’m going to try to talk my way past the guards. It would help if they knew that I was coming.”

Toulon asked, “What would you like me to say?”

“I want you to call the governor’s office and explain that you screwed up the time of my meeting. Tell them that I take full responsibility for the error, and I will be stopping by the main dock in a few hours to apologize in person.”

“No problem, Nick. Consider it done.”

Dial didn’t know much about boats, since he had lived most of his life far away from the water. But it didn’t take an expert to realize that Clive’s boat was built for speed. It was forty feet long, painted white with red racing stripes, and looked sleeker than a missile. When Andropoulos saw it for the first time, the grin on his face was remarkably similar to the one he had before his helicopter ride from Kalampáka.

And it got even wider when they hit the open sea.

Every once in a while, Clive would crank the throttle just to prove what he was packing, and when he did, Dial and Andropoulos were thrown back in their waterproof seats. But most of the time, Clive kept his speed steady, rarely venturing more than one hundred feet from shore so he could talk about all the monasteries that they passed on their way to the main dock on Athos.

“This whole region is part of the Halkidiki Peninsula,” Clive explained. “What’s strange about it is that the peninsula has three peninsulas of its own. They’re called Kassandra, Sithonia, and Athos. They stick out into the Aegean like Poseidon’s trident.”

He pointed toward his left as their boat headed south. “Athos is the easternmost peninsula of the three. It’s six miles wide and thirty-five miles long. Ouranoúpoli sits on the northern end of it, serving as a boundary to the rest of civilization. Just past the village, you officially enter the republic of the Holy Mountain.”

“Is there an actual wall?” Dial wondered.

“No, there isn’t. But according to Byzantine law, roads that can be traveled on by wheels are not permitted between Mount Athos and the outside world. And the few footpaths that exist between the two are frequently patrolled by armed guards.”

Dial listened with fascination. Prior to a few days ago, he had never heard of Mount Athos. And the reason for that was quite simple: he’d never had any reason to investigate the place. Yet in his mind, that wasn’t a valid excuse for his ignorance. Mount Athos was a part of Greece, so he should have known about the Holy Mountain and all its quirks.

If he had been more knowledgeable, things would have gone a lot smoother.

“So, Nick, tell me a little more about you. What’s your job at Interpol?”

“I’m the director of the Homicide Division.”

Clive whistled, impressed. “That’s a fancy title. Does that mean you’re the big cheese?”

Dial nodded. “That’s what it means.”

“What are you doing way out here? Shouldn’t you be at Interpol Headquarters, bossing people around?”

“You would think so. I mean, that’s what the heads of the other divisions are forced to do. But I’m kind of fortunate in that regard. The Homicide Division is only a few years old, and I was the person brought in to set up its internal structure. Since my experience is in fieldwork, I made damn sure that I was allowed to leave my office or I wouldn’t have taken the job. I don’t get to float around as much as I’d like. Paperwork and meetings guarantee that. But anytime an interesting case comes along, I hit the road and see where it takes me.”

Clive smiled. “And if there aren’t any roads, you take to the sea instead.”

“Exactly.”

Several minutes later, Clive slowed his boat as they approached the first monastery that was visible from the water. Starting on the northern end of the peninsula, a massive hill ran down the center of Athos like a rocky spine. Covered in a thick blanket of trees, it gradually rose higher and higher until it reached the peak of Mount Athos, which towered over the southern tip of the peninsula nearly 6,700 feet above the Aegean Sea.

From his current location, Dial could see the outline of its snowcapped peak, yet his focus was on Zográfou, a monastery founded in A.D. 971 that was nestled in the vegetation. Unlike other parts of Greece, this stretch of land was rarely cleared by human hands.

“Zográfou is unlike any other monastery on Athos. All its monks are Bulgarian, and all its services are performed in their native tongue.” Clive pointed at the monastery’s tower, which was in the center of the multibuilding complex. “That’s where they keep their most-prized possessions, including Codex One.”

“Which is what?” Dial wondered.

“The first official history book of Bulgaria. It was written by a monk named Paisios and stored here for safekeeping. You’d be surprised how many manuscripts and treasures were guarded by monasteries over the centuries. In that tower alone, there are more than ten thousand codices, written in Greek and Slavic languages. Rumor says that they have even more than that, but we’ll never know. Outsiders are never given full access to any of the local libraries, which is a shame. I’m a huge fan of libraries.”

Dial stared at the stone tower with its red-tiled roof. As he did, thoughts of the hidden tunnel at Holy Trinity floated through his head. In many ways, Metéora was better protected than the monasteries at Mount Athos, yet because of their position on the top of natural stone pillars, the monks were limited by geology. Secret vaults had to be dug into the hard rock and accessed from above. But here on Athos, it was different. The peninsula was 35 miles long and 6 miles wide, meaning there were plenty of places to hide their most valuable relics.

Dial asked, “How many of these monasteries have you been in?”

“I wish I could say all of them, but so far I’ve only been in twelve of the twenty.”

“Any treasures stand out?”

Clive whistled. “Now, that’s a tough question. That’s like asking someone to pick out their favorite painting at the Vatican. I mean, there are way too many treasures to name.”

“The monasteries are that nice?”

“Yes, they are. Keep in mind that Mount Athos has always attracted the best artists and craftsmen from the Orthodox world. The monasteries offered food, shelter, privacy, and protection, and the artists repaid them by creating religious masterpieces in many different forms: mosaics, manuscripts, carvings, jewelry, and so on. Why do you think there are so many armed guards roaming the hills? These treasures are priceless.”

“And are all the treasures religious in nature?”

“Not all of them. Why? Do you have something in mind?”

Dial nodded. “Anything that involves Greek soldiers.”

Clive gave it some thought. “I remember seeing swords in a few of the monasteries. Even some old guns that were taken from invading pirates.”

“Not weapons,” he clarified. “I meant artwork. Like stone altars or carved doors.”

“To be honest, nothing jumps out at me. That’s not to say that they don’t exist-because I saw some altars and doors that dazzled me. I’m talking really intricate pieces that must have taken several months to complete. But all of them had religious themes.”

Dial glanced at Andropoulos, who was listening to the conversation but remained quiet. They briefly made eye contact, and when they did, Dial nodded his head toward Clive. It was Dial’s way of encouraging the young cop to ask some questions.

Andropoulos cleared his throat. “What about books on warfare?”

“Warfare?” Clive took a moment to consider the word. “Well, as I mentioned, Zográfou has the first history book ever written about Bulgaria. I’m sure some of its sections are devoted to soldiers and war and that type of thing. As for other monasteries, I would guess that they have the same sort of books. Particularly Greek history.”

“Why’s that?” Dial wondered.

“Because seventeen of the monasteries are Greek. The other three are Russian, Serbian, and Bulgarian.”

Dial smiled at this. Of the seven monks beheaded at Holy Trinity, one was Russian, one was Bulgarian, and one was Greek. The fourth monk was from Turkey, which was where the Ecumenical Patriarchate was located. That meant all of the major nationalities on Mount Athos had been represented at that late-night meeting.

He wasn’t sure if that was a coincidence or not.

But he was going to keep it in mind as his journey continued.

63

If Payne and Jones had been traveling by themselves, they would have called Randy Raskin for two seats on a military flight to Izmir Air Base. Located on the western coast of Turkey, it wasn’t far from Limnos, the Greek island where Jarkko kept his yacht.

Unfortunately for them, the U.S. military frowned upon hard-drinking Finns and blondes with fake passports sneaking into a foreign country in the back of one of its planes. Therefore, the four of them were forced to find a different mode of transportation to the Aegean.

Surprisingly, it was Jarkko who came up with the solution. He was friends with a pilot in Helsinki-the same pilot who always took him south for the winter-who was more than happy to fly them to Greece for a reasonable price. And since Limnos had its own airport, they would actually get there faster than they would flying to Athens on a jet and shuttling north to the island.

Plus, a small airport with private hangars made sneaking past customs a lot easier.

Before leaving Finland, Payne bought plenty of supplies at the Kauppatori Market, everything from food to warm clothes. He had never been to Mount Athos, but he was quite familiar with the effects of altitude on air temperature. Especially at night. A brutal mission in the rugged terrain of Afghanistan had taught him that. And since the cover of darkness would aid their journey up the Holy Mountain, he made damn sure they were ready for it.

Meanwhile, Jones used Allison’s computer to download as much information about Athos as possible. He wanted to plot their mission during their long flight to Greece, so they could hit the ground running. Normally, he would have preferred a day or two to survey the topography and scout the patrol patterns on the southern tip of the peninsula. But after thinking it over, he realized that this was a race against a nameless opponent. The man who had hired Alexei Kozlov to kill Richard Byrd was seeking the same treasure they were.

One day could make all the difference between fortune and failure.

Hey, Jon,” Jones said from the back of the small jet. Jarkko was sitting in the cockpit, trading dirty jokes with the pilot, while Allison caught a nap in the front row.

“What?” Payne asked from across the aisle.

“Let’s assume that this treasure is real, that Schliemann actually found the Statue of Zeus, and it’s somehow hidden inside the mountain.”

“Okay.”

“How are we going to get it out?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, the damn thing is forty feet tall and covered with gold. I doubt we can carry it.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been eating a lot of sausage. And sausage means protein.”

Jones smirked. “I’m serious. There’s no way we can remove it by ourselves.”

“You’re assuming that it’s still in one piece. Remember, it was carried from Olympia to Constantinople and back to Greece. And when it disappeared from Constantinople, no one saw it leave. Either that was one hell of a magic trick, or they cut the throne into pieces before the trip.”

“Good point.”

“Besides, even if we find it, I don’t think we should move it. After all, it’s one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. We would be crucified if we damaged it any further.”

Jones rubbed his eyes in frustration. “What are you saying? You want to leave it there?”

Payne nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. If we find it-and that’s a giant if-we should stake our claim and call the Ulster Archives for advice. Petr has much more experience with this type of stuff than we do. Hell, I can’t even begin to imagine the border dispute that would erupt over this. Does the treasure belong to Greece? Turkey? Or the monks of Mount Athos?”

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

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

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

“What other stuff?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Any treasures of note?”

“The monastery has three miracle-working icons.”

“Which means what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve been to Metéora?”

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

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

“What connection is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I can’t,” Dial admitted.

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

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

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

64

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

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

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

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

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

Apollo loved his chances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they speak English?” Dial wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good. Because lying will get you nowhere.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are our monks at risk?”

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

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

“Can you try?”

“Yes, I can try. But . . .”

“But what?”

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

65

Dial and Andropoulos sat in the customs office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.

Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.

When Petros returned, he broke the news to Dial. “I am sorry, Nick. There is nothing more I can do. Not until morning.”

Dial took it in stride. “Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best.”

“I did, and so did your colleague. He called the governor twice while I was there.”

Dial was pleased by the thought of Toulon groveling.

“If you like, you can spend night in Dáfni.”

“Where? In here?”

Petros laughed. “Not in this office, across courtyard. We have small hotel, market, and restaurant. You are not the first traveler who has been denied entry.”

“I don’t know,” Dial said as he considered his alternatives. “What are the odds that the governor will let me through tomorrow morning?”

“I am not sure. It depends on his mood. But if he says no, I have other options.”

“Such as?”

“Each monastery has one abbot. If he extends a personal invitation, you may enter grounds with special permit. Twenty monasteries mean twenty chances.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Most people do not. It is customs secret.”

“But if I can’t come in, how can I plead my case?”

“You cannot. But I can,” Petros said. “And most abbots are nicer than the governor.”

As the plane touched down in Limnos, Payne stared at the Venetian castle that was perched above the island’s main harbor. Built in the thirteenth century, its gray stone walls contrasted sharply with the red-tiled roofs that lined the sandy beaches.

Jarkko beamed with pride. “Is beautiful, no?”

Payne nodded. “Very. I’ve never been to this part of Greece before.”

“My yacht is in marina. We will be there soon.”

“How far are we from Mount Athos?”

“You shall see shortly.”

Payne wasn’t sure what Jarkko meant until they stepped out of the plane. Even though they were more than 50 miles away from the mountain, Payne could see the snowcapped peak in the distance. It towered over the Aegean as Mount Fuji towered above Japan.

Jarkko patted him on the back. “I hope you bring coat!”

The Spartans lingered a few miles offshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they eased their boat into the southwest corner of the peninsula and dropped anchor.

One by one, they jumped into the waist-deep water and made their way to the shore. Ten of them in total, all of them dressed in battle gear. Breastplates and greaves protected their bodies and shins, and helmets protected their heads. They carried shields on one arm. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs, and daggers hung from their hips. One Spartan looked different-it was Apollo, the leader of the group, who had a plume of red horsehair topping his helmet, which signified his rank.

He would set the pace. He would give the orders.

He would tell them when to kill.

And soon, their swords would be bathed in blood.

Dial paced back and forth like a caged tiger. When he looked out the window of his cramped hotel room in Dáfni, he could see the grounds of Mount Athos. He was literally a foot away from being inside. But because of his job title, he couldn’t risk breaking the glass or breaking the rules.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself as he replayed the day’s events in his head.

Three cops were missing, and so were all the Spartans.

The governor was being a total prick, and time was ticking away.

Dial wondered how things could get any worse. Then the phone rang.

“Nick,” Toulon said in a soft voice, “the police in Spárti brought in some dogs, and they found a lot of blood.”

“Where?”

“Near the entrance to the Spartan village and in a fighting pit near their school.”

“They have a fighting pit?”

“Oui. The blood was buried under a layer of stones and dirt. That is why they did not see it. When they dug underneath, they found blood, hair, skin, and teeth.”

“Shit.”

“Whoever was in there was hacked into pieces.”

Dial’s voice hardened as his anger boiled inside. “Any bodies?”

“No.”

“What about villagers?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything else?”

“I am sorry about before,” Toulon assured him. “I tried calling the governor several times, but I had no luck getting through. I can try again tomorrow, if you would like.”

“No, Henri, I’ll handle customs myself.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Stay in touch with Spárti. If you learn anything, I want to know at once.”

A gíou Pávlou, or Saint Paul’s, is the southernmost monastery on Mount Athos. Inside its walls, many treasures are protected, including fragments of the True Cross and some of the gifts brought to Jesus by the Magi. Outside its community, it owns two sketes-small villages of hermitic monks who prefer to live in seclusion away from the larger monastery. Both of them, Néa Skiti and Skiti Agías Annas, are located on the southwest corner of the peninsula and are connected to Saint Paul’s by a simple path through the dense forest.

At this time of night, the two monks did not expect to see anyone on the way to their skete. Hauling supplies on the back of a mule, they heard a rustling in the trees and paused to find the source of the sound. The lead monk lifted his lantern and was stunned by the sight. A man, dressed in full armor and carrying a sword, stepped through a thicket of bushes. A second later, another soldier emerged behind them, blocking any avenue of retreat.

The monks and the mule were now trapped.

“Hello,” said a voice from the trees. The two monks turned toward their right as Apollo stepped onto the dirt path. The red plume on the top of his helmet glowed in the lantern light. “We are seeking the next ridge. Is there a road?”

Both monks shook their heads.

“I thought not.” Apollo paused as he glanced at the dark peak that hovered above him. Its silhouette could barely be seen in the pale moonlight. “Kill them.”

In unison, the two soldiers lifted their swords and slashed the monks’ throats. Both holy men made gurgling sounds as they fell to their knees, drenched in a fountain of blood. The crash of their lanterns spooked the mule, which started kicking and braying.

The commotion was stopped a moment later when the Spartans struck again.

This time silencing the defenseless animal.

66

When Payne and Jones landed on the southeastern tip of the peninsula, they knew nothing about the Spartans. Otherwise, they would have approached their mission differently. For starters, they would have kept Allison on the yacht, far away from the violence that was about to erupt on Mount Athos. But since they weren’t expecting any bloodshed, they let her join the group.

After all, she was the expert on ancient treasures.

“I feel kind of guilty,” she said as they trudged up the narrow beach toward the first hill. “Women aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Feel free to wait with Jarkko,” Payne said from the front position.

“No way. This is the chance of a lifetime. Besides, I’m just following Schliemann’s lead.”

“How so?”

“He dressed up as a Bedouin tribesman and snuck into the forbidden city of Mecca. Do you know the courage it took to do that?”

Jones smirked from behind her. “I’m not impressed.”

“You’re not impressed? It’s a Muslim-only city. They would have killed him if they caught him.”

“Been there, done that.”

Allison wanted to ask Jones, who had sneaked into Mecca for a mission, what he meant by his comment, but Payne ordered them to shut up. They were heading into the first line of trees, and he wanted to move in silence-especially at the lower altitudes, where they were more likely to run into guards.

According to Jarkko’s map, Megístis Lávras, the largest and oldest monastery on Mount Athos, sat a few miles to the northeast of their landing point. A large Romanian skete called Prodromos was even closer, maybe a mile away. The two communities were connected by a narrow footpath that continued across the southern tip of the peninsula and eventually joined a bigger trail along the western shore. Until they crossed that road, there would be no talking.

Payne led the way, shining a tiny flashlight along the hillside so he could maneuver between the rocks and trees. Allison and Jones had flashlights as well, but they used them sparingly.

All of them were dressed in a similar manner. Long dark pants, sturdy shoes, and dark short-sleeved shirts. Large packs hung from their backs. Eventually, once they reached the higher elevations and the temperature dropped, they would add layers of clothes. Until then, it was important not to sweat too much or they would get dehydrated during their journey.

Mount Athos was 6,670 feet tall. If Schliemann’s treasure map was correct, they were searching for a cave roughly halfway up the mountain. By the time they finished their trek, the weather would be much colder, and they would be exhausted.

The guard wasn’t allowed to smoke on duty, yet he did so every night. He would walk along the trail, listening to the waves as they crashed against the rocks below, and think about his life. In some ways, he was like the hermitic monks who lived in the nearby skete. He loved the peace and quiet of the southern end of the peninsula, where nothing ever happened.

He had walked the trail so many times he knew the route by heart. Up ahead there was a slight dip in the path followed by a gradual climb. Nothing too steep or his lungs wouldn’t be able to handle it. That was one of the drawbacks of his pack-a-day habit. Stench was another. If he wasn’t careful, he would reek of smoke when he returned at the end of his shift.

That’s why he liked smoking here. He had plenty of time to air out before he got back to Dáfni.

With a cigarette pressed between his lips, he pulled his lighter from his uniform pocket and flicked it with his thumb. A quick flash followed by a steady flame lit up his immediate surroundings. He slowly brought it toward his face when he realized something was wrong. Although it hadn’t rained in days, the path and the nearby trees glistened in the firelight.

“What in the world?” he mumbled in Greek.

Intrigued, he moved a few steps closer and extended his lighter in front of him.

Then, and only then, did he see the headless mule.

The lights were out in his hotel room, but Dial was wide awake.

He lay on his bed, furious, incensed over his investigation. He had wasted an entire day, and for what? To be jerked around by the community that he was trying to protect. In his line of work, he dealt with political bullshit all the time, but normally it involved two different countries fighting over evidence or the right to prosecute a case.

But this? This was something new.

Hell, it was so new he didn’t know how to work around it.

Dial’s seething continued until he heard a knock on his door. Actually, it was more than a knock. It was more like an urgent pounding.

“Open up,” said the voice in the hall. “It’s Petros.”

Dial flipped on the light and opened the door. Petros was in civilian clothes. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were filled with passion.

“What’s wrong?” Dial wondered.

“Tell me about your case,” Petros demanded as he barged into the room.

“My case? You know about my case. I’m investigating the deaths at Metéora.”

“Yes, I know. But tell me how they died.”

Earlier Dial had skipped the gruesome details, preferring not to show his cards until he was admitted to Mount Athos. Now that plan no longer seemed possible.

“One monk was thrown over the cliff. The other seven were beheaded.”

“Beheaded? By who?”

Dial stared at him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Men dressed as Spartans.”

“Spartans?”

“Armor, shields, swords. The whole ensemble.”

“You are serious?”

Dial nodded. “Do you think I would’ve stayed the night if I was joking?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not only that,” he growled, “I got word today that they killed three cops. At least we think they did, because we still haven’t found them.”

Petros pondered this information for several seconds before he spoke. “Get your assistant and come with me. We are going to the mountain.”

Dial paused, surprised. “Wait. You’re letting us go inside?”

“Yes. I am granting you emergency access.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Two monks have been killed with swords. And we just found their bodies.”

Dial and Andropoulos pinned visitor badges to their shirts and followed Petros through the gate. A four-wheel-drive vehicle resembling a large golf cart was waiting for them. Dial sat up front next to Petros. Andropoulos climbed in the backseat, which faced the rear.

“What do you know?” Dial asked.

“Not much,” Petros explained as he drove. “I was sleeping at the barracks when I got the news. Two monks and a mule were slaughtered near Néa Skiti.”

“They killed a mule?”

“Cut its head clean off.”

“Who found it?”

“One of our guards.”

Dial considered the information as their cart bumped up and down along the narrow path. The vehicle had one working headlight, which barely lit the way-especially at the speed they were traveling. By the time they saw something, they were already running it over.

“How far is it?”

“Far. It’s near the southwest corner of the peninsula.”

“What else is down there?”

“Two small sketes and a beach.”

“Any treasures?”

Petros shook his head. “The sketes are small communities of hermitic monks. They live away from the monasteries to get away from all the riches.”

“And the closest monastery?”

“Agíou Pávlou. It’s a few miles from the sketes.”

“Have the monks been warned?”

Petros nodded. “We are doing that right now. Unfortunately, Mount Athos is large and our numbers are small. Especially at night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of the guards live elsewhere. At the end of their shift, they go home. I am one of the few employees who sleep here.”

“Hold up. How many guards are we talking?”

Petros shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty.”

“Twenty?” Dial blurted. “You have twenty guards for the entire peninsula? You have that many monasteries!”

“This is true, but-”

“Stop the cart!” Dial ordered. “Stop the cart right now!”

Petros slammed on the brakes. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“We need guns.”

“Guns?” he stammered. “I can’t give you guns. It is not allowed.”

“Fine. Then turn around and take us back to Dáfni.”

“But-”

“But what?” Dial growled. “These guys have killed ten monks, three cops, and a fucking mule. If you want our help, you need to give us guns. Otherwise, I’m going back to bed.”

67

To announce prayer and mealtimes on Mount Athos, a monk strikes a simandro, a carved wooden plank that echoes throughout the grounds of his monastery. In the event of an emergency, it can also be used as a warning device. One monk sounds the alarm, pounding on it rhythmically until a monk at the neighboring monastery follows his lead. In a matter of minutes, the sound sweeps around the peninsula like war drums on a battlefield.

Bringing up the rear, Jones was the first from his group to hear it. He called ahead to Payne and Allison, who stopped on the wooded hillside to listen.

“Is that because of us?” Allison wondered.

Payne shook his head. “No way. If they spotted us, they would have stopped us.”

“Maybe they saw Jarkko.”

“Doing what?” Jones teased. “Peeing off the side of his yacht? Right now he’s anchored a mile offshore.”

“It’s not us and it’s not Jarkko,” Payne assured them. “Something else is going on.”

Jones listened as the pounding continued. “Do we have company?”

Payne nodded as he took the pack from his shoulders. He reached inside and pulled out his gun. “Someone hired Kozlov to kill Richard. We hoped he’d surface sometime.”

“And he was spotted?” Allison asked.

“Maybe,” Payne said. “Or maybe he hired reinforcements to find the treasure.”

A pollo heard the sound and knew exactly what it meant. He had grown up in the Taygetos Mountains where simandros were common. A few seconds of clanging told the workers in the fields what time it was. But a few minutes of pounding was an alarm.

Now that the element of surprise was gone, it was time for phase two.

In Ancient Sparta, hoplites fought together in a phalanx. They stood side by side, their shields locked together to protect one another, while a second row of soldiers thrust their spears over the front wall of shields. The Spartans were so adept at this technique that they could conquer vastly larger forces while suffering minimal losses.

Unfortunately, that style of warfare would not help them here.

They weren’t looking for a fight. They were looking for the book.

And they wanted to find it as quickly as possible.

In Apollo’s mind, the best way to accomplish that goal was to split up. Ten soldiers marching together could be spotted from the air. But ten men spread across the mountain would be hard to stop-especially if they were strategically placed to intercept anyone in pursuit.

The monks had stopped their pounding by the time Dial arrived at the crime scene. A duty holster carried his gun and extra ammo. Andropoulos and Petros were armed as well.

The guard who found the bodies reeked of tobacco. He had smoked half a pack while waiting for his boss to arrive. A few guards worked in the background, searching the nearby woods for clues and other victims. But the smoking guard stayed on the path, still frazzled from his gruesome discovery. Petros spoke to him in Greek while Dial walked the scene.

“Marcus,” Dial said to Andropoulos, “these guys came ashore for a reason. We need to figure out what they’re looking for.”

“How can I help?”

“Go and talk to the guards. Ask them if there’s anything over here besides the sketes.”

“Yes, sir,” he said as he ran off.

Meanwhile, Dial took a moment to study the trail. Normally, he would have focused on the blood and the bodies, trying to figure out what had happened. But that wasn’t necessary in this case. He knew enough about the Spartans to recognize their handiwork, so his immediate goal was capture, not conviction. He wanted to stop his opponents before they could strike again.

Shining his flashlight along the edge of the path, Dial searched for footprints and found several in the loose soil. As far as he could tell, all of them were heading north-away from the water below toward the mountain above. That meant they weren’t marching along the path toward one of the monasteries. Instead, they had been crossing the path when they came across the monks.

“Did you find something?” Petros wondered.

Dial countered the question with one of his own. “How far are we from the beach?”

“Just over half a mile. Why?”

“Did anyone check for boats?”

“Harbor patrol was called. They will tell us if they find something.”

“If they do, tell them to lock it down. We don’t want these guys escaping.”

“I will tell them.” Petros pulled out his radio and walked away.

“Sir,” Andropoulos called from behind. “The guards assured me there is nothing over here but some caves. Centuries ago, hermits lived in them for months at a time, but that practice stopped when the sketes were built.”

“Where are the caves located?”

“All over the place. The mountain is full of them.”

“And they’ve been here for centuries?”

“They’re caves, sir. They’ve been around since the dinosaurs.”

Jarkko sat on his yacht more than a mile away from the shore. Even from way out there, he had heard the monks pounding on their simandros. The sound rolled across the water like thunder.

Curious about all the commotion, he decided to move closer.

At this time of night, he had the biggest boat in the Singitic Gulf. Sixty-five feet long, accommodations for six, and a master bath complete with a small hot tub. If he got too close to Mount Athos, the harbor patrol would notice him for sure. Normally, he wouldn’t care. He would have a drink in one hand, and he would flip them off with the other.

But tonight, he couldn’t afford the extra attention.

His goal was to get close enough to assist his friends in case they needed help, but far enough away that he looked like a fisherman trolling for fish.

To complete his façade, he got out a rod and reel, lit a cigar, and put up his feet.

Staring at Mount Athos, Dial asked, “Are the monks safe?”

“All of the monasteries are fortified,” Petros explained. “Sturdy gates, heavy doors, elevated architecture. They should be fine.”

“What about the guards? What are they doing?”

“Protecting the monasteries.”

Dial grimaced. “Twenty guards are protecting twenty monasteries? No, wait. Make that sixteen guards because some of your men are over here. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but that seems like an inefficient use of manpower.”

“That is not my job. I am in charge of customs. I am not in charge of the guards.”

“Who is?”

Petros explained that the leader of the guards was currently on vacation. And the acting leader of the guards was in Karyes, trying to coordinate his men from the capital city.

“Do you have any pull with him?” Dial asked.

Petros nodded. “I hope so. I helped him get hired.”

Dial smiled. That would make things easier. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds here, but I have a lot of experience with manhunts. Since the monks are safe, our main goal is to find the assailants as quickly as possible.”

“Yes. That would be best.”

Dial pointed to several footprints near the trail. “The Spartans killed the monks and then continued up the mountain. I don’t know where they’re headed, but our best chance to find them is with as many guards as possible.”

Petros nodded in agreement. “I will make the suggestion.”

Dial shined his flashlight on the nearby trees. Many of the branches had been disturbed. Some had been cut with swords. From the physical evidence, he guessed roughly a dozen Spartans had made the journey north.

“One more thing,” Dial added. “Make sure they’re armed as well.”

68

The Spartans moved swiftly and silently in pairs. Some of them continued up the mountain, searching for the ancient book. Others sprinted across the slope, striving to kill the guards before their search gained momentum. Without modern weapons, the Spartans realized they had to choose their battles carefully. They couldn’t wage war in an open field, so they positioned themselves for a sneak attack, using the rocks and branches as camouflage.

The first confrontation was remarkably one-sided. Two young guards, who were used to patrolling the eastern side of the peninsula, trudged up the mountain, their flashlights leading their way. The Spartans saw the beams from their position in the trees a full minute before the guards were underneath them. In unison, they leapt on top of the guards, using their weight and gravity to drive their blades through the guards’ shoulders all the way to their hearts. Blood sprayed in all directions, coating the Spartans’ hands and faces. And both of them loved it.

In their world, the only thing that quenched their thirst was the blood of the enemy.

And since they rarely got to taste it, they planned to drink all night.

The next pair of Spartans weren’t as lucky. They had been asked to defend the southeastern slope of Mount Athos. Since their boat had landed on the southwest corner of the peninsula, they had been forced to run across the breadth of the mountain in order to get into position.

Shortly after getting there, they spotted a single beam of light. Despite the rocks and fallen tree branches that clogged the slope, it moved up the gradient at a steady rate. The Spartans grinned in anticipation. One of them took his position in the trees above. The other ducked down behind a large boulder that was partially embedded into the turf.

Their ambush would begin a minute later.

Fifty yards away, Payne was oblivious to their presence. There was no way for him to know the Spartans were waiting for him. They hadn’t scaled the hill that Payne was climbing, so no footprints marred the ground. And the Spartans had moved without light, their years of training preparing them for moments like this, when they were asked to hunt in darkness.

In fact, if not for a lucky break, Payne probably would have been filleted by one of the Spartans’ blades before he even knew what hit him. But the best-trained soldiers are able to take advantage of opportunities, letting them live another day. Many heroes could recall the land mine that didn’t go off when they stepped on it, or the dropped canteen that caused them to bend over just as the bullet whizzed overhead.

In this case, it was the simple crack of a branch as the Spartan shifted his weight that alerted Payne to the danger in the trees. He glanced up just as the Spartan leapt, his sword held above him ready to strike. In one fluid motion, Payne fell backward onto his pack and extended his arms forward. With two rapid pulls of his trigger, he sent two rounds into the night. The first caught the Spartan just below his trachea. It ripped through the cartilage of his neck and tore through the center of his spine before it dug itself into a nearby branch.

Bullet number two struck the man six inches higher and slightly to the left, missing the metal flap of his helmet by a fraction of an inch. His cheekbone exploded from the impact, as did the back of his skull. By the time he landed on Payne, the Spartan was already dead. His blade clanged harmlessly to the ground, followed by Allison’s screams of terror.

Jones saw the attack from his position in the rear. He charged forward, more concerned about Payne than Allison’s screaming, just as the second assault began. When Payne fired his gun, he had dropped his light, which gave the hidden Spartan a window of opportunity. Using the darkness as his ally, he crept out from behind the boulder and inched down the hill.

“What the hell was that?” Payne demanded as Jones pulled the dead Spartan off him. Blood covered the front of Payne’s clothes as he struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Jones flipped the body onto its back and stared at half a face. The rest was either torn asunder from Payne’s bullet or covered by the metal helmet.

“Seriously,” Payne repeated. “What the hell was that?”

Jones was about to answer when he noticed the second Spartan. “Behind you!”

Payne, who was sitting on the ground and facing downhill, arched his body backward as he lifted his gun over his head. At the same time, Jones pointed his gun at the creeping shadow. Bullets sprang from both weapons as the Spartan charged forward. The first shot pinged off his shield, but his luck stopped there. From his position on the ground, Payne fired low, splintering the Spartan’s legs with multiple shots. Meanwhile, Jones aimed high, squeezing his trigger in rapid succession until he hit brain.

Pink mist could not be seen in the darkness. But it was there.

The Spartan fell forward and rolled, the slope of the hill and his momentum carrying him forward like a human avalanche. Eventually, he skidded to a bloody stop at Allison’s feet.

Her screams echoed through the night as Payne and Jones scrambled into position.

“Shut up!” Payne ordered as he slipped off his pack.

He helped her understand his orders by clamping his hand over her mouth and pulling her back into the trees. Then he forced her to crouch near the ground.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “Do you understand me? Stay here!”

She nodded her head.

“I’ll be back,” he said as he ran up the hillside, searching for more Spartans.

Jones had started his search a moment before, occasionally clicking his flashlight on to hunt for footprints. As far as he could tell, only two men had been lying in wait. And they were now dead. Payne came to the same conclusion a few minutes later.

They reconvened near the bodies, hoping to learn more about their enemy. They stared at the armor with amazement. The helmets, shields, greaves, and swords. Both Payne and Jones were experts on the history of war. At the military academies, they had studied ancient warfare and particularly loved reading about the Spartans. Still, in their wildest dreams, they had never imagined they would come across hoplites on the battlefield.

It didn’t make any sense-even in an archaic place like Mount Athos.

“What do you think?” Payne asked as he picked up a sword.

Jones laughed. “What do I think? I think Jarkko dropped us off in Ancient Greece. I don’t know what he paid for his yacht, but it was worth every penny.”

“D.J., I’m serious.”

“I am, too. If we hurry, maybe we can help them build the Parthenon.”

Payne grinned and turned his attention to Allison. She was standing next to him, staring at the blade he held in his hands, even though she had been told to stay behind. “Are you okay?”

She nodded but said nothing. Prior to her trip to Russia, she had never seen anyone killed before. Now everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death.

It would take a while for things to sink in.

“Come on,” Payne said as he tossed the sword to the ground. “We have to get moving. It’s just a matter of time before the guards investigate the gunshots.”

Dial heard the gunfire from his position on the mountain. It had come in disciplined bursts. Two shots, a long pause, and then a rapid cluster. Whoever was firing was a seasoned pro.

And they were shooting at something on the southeastern side of Mount Athos.

“Son of a bitch,” Dial growled, realizing that his search party was on the southwestern side of the mountain-the same side where the dead monks had been found. “Who’s over there?”

“Let me find out,” Petros said as he turned up his radio and started asking questions in Greek. A few minutes passed before he had an answer. “It is not the guards.”

“Shit!” Dial blurted. “That means one of two things. Either the Spartans are carrying guns, or there’s another party on the mountain. And if I had to guess, I’d go with number two.”

“Why is that?” Andropoulos asked.

“Because if the Spartans have guns, who are they firing at? I mean, we’re over here.”

“That is true.”

“It also means there might be more Spartans over there. Because that other party is firing at someone, and it’s certainly not us.”

Dial paused, rubbing his chin in thought. As he did, Petros and Andropoulos stared at him, waiting for his next set of instructions. None of the guards had as much experience in hostile situations as Dial. For the time being, everyone was willing to follow his lead.

“Petros, we’re at a serious disadvantage here. Multiple groups of armed men are climbing your mountain and we don’t know why. We don’t know where they’re headed, and we’re clueless about their numbers. The only thing we know for sure is that they’re willing to kill.”

“What should we do?”

“Honestly? We shouldn’t do anything. We should recall the guards and wait for reinforcements.”

“We should wait? They killed two monks, and we should wait?”

Dial nodded. “Here’s the problem. In combat, elevated positions have an advantage. We’re several minutes behind them in our climb. That means there’s no way we can overtake them without going through them. If we had superior firepower or twice as many men, I’d be tempted to take those odds. But as it stands, our pursuit would be suicide.”

Petros asked, “What if I could change the odds? What if we could get in front of them?”

“How? Do you have a helicopter I don’t know about?”

He shook his head. “No, but I have an idea that just might work.”

69

Driving as fast as he could, Petros explained his plan to Dial and Andropoulos. “There is an old goat path up the western side of the mountain. It starts near Agíou Pávlou and crosses toward the southern face. If we hurry, we might be able to beat the soldiers to that point.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Dial demanded. “We could have set up shop on the mountain and pinned the Spartans in.”

Their cart hit a dip in the road. They all bounced roughly in their seats as Petros struggled to maintain control. He temporarily eased off the accelerator until he had righted things.

“It is not that simple. The path is too narrow for this cart to fit.”

“Then how would we get up there?”

“Motorcycles.”

Dial stared at him in disbelief. “The monks have motorcycles?”

“Last year,” Petros said, “two men came to Athos on a trip across Greece. They brought their motorcycles over on the ferry and parked them outside our walls. The men were supposed to stay for three days. Once inside, they fell in love with the monastic life. One of the abbots gave them permission to stay longer, and they haven’t left since.”

“And their bikes?”

“We moved them into storage.”

“But there’s two of them, right?”

“Yes, only two.”

“But there’s three of us.”

Petros nodded. “Someone will have to ride double.”

“I am very experienced,” Andropoulos said from the backseat. “I have owned a motorcycle for many years, so I can drive one up the path.”

“What about you?” Petros asked Dial as their bumpy ride continued.

Dial groaned in frustration. He hadn’t driven a bike in decades. And even then, he had never taken one off pavement. Throw in the darkness factor, and Dial realized he had no choice.

He would have to rely on Andropoulos.

Payne stared at a photocopy of the treasure map that they had made in Limnos, and then glanced at the rock face above him. It was fifteen feet high and angled back toward them. There was no way they could climb it without the proper equipment.

“What now?” Jones asked as he shined his light on the ridge.

“We have to go around it.”

“Which way?”

“If we go east,” Payne said, “we’re moving closer to the largest monastery on the peninsula. There’s no telling how many guards will be over there.”

“What about west?”

“There are several monasteries and sketes, but they’re a lot farther away.”

“What do you think, Allison?”

She blinked, surprised that they were asking her opinion. “Let’s go west.”

Payne nodded his approval. “You heard the lady. West it is.”

Petros accelerated on the dual-sport bike, which was street legal but had off-road capability, and rocketed up the goat trail. Andropoulos and Dial were next, only they took things much slower. Their headlight lit the way as they crept past the weeds and trees that lined the narrow path.

“Are you all right?” Andropoulos shouted over his shoulder.

Dial ignored the question. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“It can go much faster.”

“Then quit talking and start driving.”

Andropoulos grinned. “Yes, sir!”

In a flash, their speed tripled, and Dial found himself holding on for dear life. The young cop proved his skill by accelerating and turning like an expert. Despite the extra weight, they found themselves catching up to Petros less than a minute later.

They rode like this for nearly 3 miles, cutting across the western face while gradually climbing higher. Dial did calculations in his head and tried to figure out how high they had to go in order to guarantee that they would be ahead of the Spartans. Unfortunately, it was an equation he couldn’t solve without knowing all the variables.

When did the Spartans arrive on the peninsula? How fast were they moving? Were they headed straight up the mountain, or did they start to angle toward the east or west?

Actually, Dial wasn’t even sure when the Spartans would stop marching. Maybe they were heading to a cave that was only a thousand feet from the shore. If that was so, they might have overshot the Spartans by several hundred feet.

A few seconds later, Dial found out that wasn’t the case.

The two Spartans heard the roar of the engines long before they saw the headlights approach. They quickly repositioned themselves along the footpath, preparing for a sneak attack. One crouched behind a boulder to the south of the trail. The other remained standing, hidden by a thick grove of trees. On the battlefield, Spartans would never relinquish their shields-it was considered the ultimate sin, because it left other soldiers in the phalanx unprotected. But here, where mobility was more important than defense, it was the right thing to do.

Both Spartans clutched their swords with two hands, ready to strike.

Petros led the charge over the crest of the hill. He was fifty feet ahead of Dial and Andropoulos, barely within range of their headlight, when the Spartan in the trees launched his assault.

As Petros sped through the night, the Spartan stepped forward and swung his weapon with all his strength. Years of discipline and training went into that swing, and it showed when his blade made contact. One moment Petros’s head was attached to his neck; the next it was spinning through the air as the rest of his body shot forward on the motorcycle. Somehow the bike stayed upright for several feet before it tilted off the path and crashed into a tree, tossing the headless corpse into the air like a scarecrow in a dust storm.

Dial saw none of this from his position on the back of the second bike. But Andropoulos saw it all. The sword, the head, and the Spartan who blocked their path. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Petros, the young Greek went into a controlled slide-hitting the brake and shifting his weight in order to minimize the impact of his fall. His front wheel went sideways, and so did he. Dial fell first, tumbling off the back of the bike and skidding to a painful stop on the upslope of the mountain. Andropoulos was dragged twenty feet farther, tumbling along the rock-strewn turf until his momentum slowly died.

When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.

Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.

Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.

He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.

Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.

And all Dial could do was watch.

70

As the blade started forward, Dial heard the two most beautiful sounds of his entire life. A gunshot rang out from the tree line, followed by a soft gasp from the Spartan’s mouth.

His cocky laughter from a moment before had been replaced by his dying breath.

Blood gushed from the hole in the warrior’s neck as he slumped to the ground. As he did, he tried to use his last ounce of strength to kill one more opponent. With wide eyes, Dial watched the sword on its downward flight as it headed straight for his face. But before it made contact, multiple shots burst from the night, knocking the Spartan off-balance. His blade struck the ground with so much force that it remained upright a lot longer than he did.

The sword stood at attention like a flag planted on foreign soil.

Dial turned his head and stared at it. He gulped as he did.

Four inches to the left, and he would have been dead.

“Are you all right?” called a voice from the trees.

“Yes,” Dial said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine.”

“Show me your hands.”

“What?”

“Show me your fucking hands!”

“Okay.” From his prone position, Dial lifted his arms slowly. “I’m unarmed.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I was riding with my partner.”

“Your partner?”

“I’m a cop. . . . Is my partner all right?”

The shooter in the trees crept closer, trying to see the face of the cop he had just saved. “Your partner is fine. What are you doing here?”

“I’m working on a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“A homicide. . . . The men with swords killed several monks.”

Silence filled the air for several seconds. Dial glanced toward the tree line, from where the shooter had last spoken, but saw nothing. A moment later, Dial heard footsteps behind him.

Somehow the shooter had traveled twenty feet without making a sound.

“Damn,” Dial said to himself. “What are you doing back there?”

“I’m picking up your gun.”

“Oh.”

Dial listened closely, worried that the man was going to put a bullet in the back of his head. Some criminals got a special thrill from that, using a cop’s weapon against him. Then again, if he had wanted Dial to die, why had he just saved his life?

“Can you sit up?” asked the shooter.

“Yes.”

“Then lock your hands behind your head and sit up slowly.”

Dial did as he was told, sitting up despite the pain that emerged in his ribs and back. With all the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten he had just been in a bike wreck.

Meanwhile, the shooter waited until Dial was in an upright position. Now, for the first time, he would be able to see the cop’s face in the beam of the headlight. Moving quietly, he walked around to the front and stared at the man whose life he had just saved.

And he was stunned by the sight.

Payne couldn’t believe his eyes. “Nick?”

Dial flinched at the mention of his name. With one hand, he shielded the bright headlight of the motorcycle and focused on the man in front of him. He was just as shocked as Payne. “Jon?”

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

Dial slumped to the ground in utter relief. “Holy shit, you gave me a heart attack. I thought you were going to kill me.”

“Kill you? I just saved you.”

“I know,” he said, laughing to himself. “But it’s been a strange night.”

Dial had met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars amp; Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they had kept in touch ever since-occasionally bumping into each other in the strang est places. Once at an airport in Italy. Another time at a bookstore in London. But this, by far, took the prize for their most auspicious meeting ever.

Payne helped his friend to his feet and was greeted with a friendly hug.

“Nice shooting,” Dial said as he patted Payne on the back.

Payne smiled. “Glad I could help.”

Jones watched the embrace from afar. “Guys? This is the Holy Mountain, not Brokeback Mountain.”

Dial laughed at the comment. “I should’ve known. Where there’s Payne, there’s Jones.”

Jones stepped forward and shook his hand. “Nick fuckin’ Dial. I knew I recognized that big-ass chin of yours. What in the hell are you doing here?”

Dial grinned. “Jon asked me the same damn thing.”

“And I’m still waiting for an answer,” Payne reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it in a moment. First, how are Marcus and Petros?”

Jones grimaced. “Which is which?”

“Marcus is the kid.”

Jones answered. “The kid’s fine. The other one, not so much.”

Dial, who hadn’t seen Petros’s death, needed to have things explained. Andropoulos filled him in the best he could, including how Jones had saved his life by shooting the other attacker.

“Speaking of which,” Payne wondered, “who are those guys?”

Jones added, “So far, we’ve killed four of them.”

“Only four?” asked Dial, who was quite familiar with their Special Forces backgrounds. “I’m guessing there are a lot more than that.”

He took a few minutes to describe the Spartans, the murdered monks, and the missing cops. He didn’t have time to go into all the specifics of the case, but he told them enough so they would understand what was going on. “We still aren’t sure what the Spartans are looking for. But whatever it is, it must be big. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have risked this type of exposure.”

Jones glanced at Payne but said nothing.

And Dial happened to notice. “What?”

Payne grimaced. “Nick, let’s take a walk.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

The two moved away from Andropoulos, so the young Greek couldn’t hear what was about to be said. And Jones made sure of it by keeping an eye on him. Over the years, Payne and Dial had shared confidential information to help each other with various missions and assignments. And this was one of those times when they needed to speak in private, for both of their sakes.

“What’s up?” Dial asked.

“I want to tell you why we’re here. But only if it’s off-the-record.”

Dial stared at him, wondering where this was going. “Fine.”

“I think I know what the Spartans are looking for. It’s probably the same thing we’re looking for.”

“Which is?”

Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the treasure map. “A colleague of mine recently called me from Russia and asked for my help. By the time I responded, it was too late. Someone had killed him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Payne shrugged it off. “D.J. and I poked around a little bit and figured out why he was murdered. He was looking for this.”

Dial took the map from Payne and studied it in the beam of the headlight. He instantly recognized the geography of Mount Athos. “Is this a treasure map?”

Payne nodded. “The man who killed my colleague was a hit man who used to work for the FSB. When I questioned him, he said he’d been hired by someone with a Mediterranean accent. We assumed he might be Greek, but we don’t know that for sure.”

“Why Greek?”

“Because the treasure is Greek. That is, if it even exists.”

Payne gave him a quick summary of the story of Richard Byrd, Heinrich Schliemann, and the possible existence of the lost throne. In addition, he filled him in on all the other treasures that could have been removed from Constantinople before the fire, everything from gold relics to ancient manuscripts.

“I think you’re right,” Dial said. “Our two matters are probably related.”

“I know. So what are we going to do about it?”

Dial gave the question some thought. “As far as I’m concerned, Interpol is here for one reason only: to catch the men who killed the monks. Everything else is a nonissue to me.”

Payne nodded in appreciation. “Glad to hear it.”

“And,” Dial said as he pointed at the map, “since my suspects seem to be heading toward this location, it might be nice if we could tag along with you.”

“That’s fine with me. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless the kid is going to be a problem.”

“You mean Marcus? He won’t be a problem at all. D.J. just saved his life. I really doubt he’s going to ask to see your visitor’s pass.”

Payne smiled. “Good. Because there’s one other thing I’ve been keeping from you. And it’s kind of hard to explain. . . .”

71

Payne asked Allison to step out of the shadows where she had been ordered to wait.

Dial stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t expecting Payne’s big surprise to be a female. “You brought a woman to Mount Athos? The Virgin Mary is going to be pissed.”

Payne ignored the comment. “Nick, this is Allison. She was with Richard Byrd when he was killed in Russia. She goes wherever I go until this thing is done.”

Dial nodded in understanding. “Nice to meet you, Allison.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “You too.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay,” Payne said, cutting them off. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, we’d better get moving. The longer we stand around, the more time we waste.”

Jones walked toward Dial and handed him a radio. “I got this from Petros. You should update the guards and tell them to stay below this ridgeline. We’ll leave the headlights on as a beacon.”

“Wait,” Dial said, “isn’t that counterproductive? Obviously, the Spartans have made it this far. It stands to reason that they’re ahead of us.”

“Some probably are,” Jones explained. “But so far, we’ve killed four soldiers who seemed pretty intent on stopping us from climbing this mountain. My guess is there are more Spartans down there, lying in wait. Let the guards worry about those guys. We can take care of the rest.”

The Spartan scout listened from the nearby trees, and then ran off to warn Apollo.

If they stopped this group of five, who were only a few minutes behind, they would have all the time they needed to locate the book. But that task would be tougher than it sounded, because these soldiers seemed to be far more competent than the other guards. The two largest men had already killed four hoplites in the last hour. Normally, it was the Spartans who showed such efficiency in battle, not their opponents.

Of course, if there was one thing the Spartans enjoyed, it was a worthy adversary.

Payne led the way, followed by Dial, Allison, Andropoulos, and Jones. They trudged single file up the steep terrain, with enough space between them to lessen the effects of a sneak attack. If a Spartan leapt out of a tree, he would only be able to attack one person in Payne’s group before someone got off a gunshot. At least that was Payne’s rationale. The truth was that in all of his years of soldiering he had never faced an opponent who preferred ancient weaponry to guns.

It forced him to view things from a whole new perspective.

Twenty minutes after leaving the motorcycles, the group came across a narrow chasm in the center of a long ridge. Payne and Jones shined their flashlights along the steep rock face, searching for an easier way around it, while the other three members of their party caught their breath. The temperature had started to drop, and the minor injuries that Dial and Andropoulos had suffered in their bike crash had started to take their toll. Their breathing had become labored, not only because of the thinning air but because their ribs had been bruised in the fall.

None of the three spoke as they took turns gulping bottled water.

Meanwhile, Jones caught up to Payne along the ridge. “What do you think?”

“We either go through here or walk a half-mile out of the way.”

Jones nodded. “We have to be careful. A smart soldier would use this to his advantage.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

The two of them walked back and joined the others. Jones explained to them what needed to be done. “This is a classic choke point. We need to pass through it as quickly as possible. Jon will go first, followed by Nick, and so on. Once you climb through, be on full alert.”

While the others got ready, Payne pulled Allison aside.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she answered. “Tired, but fine.”

“Well, you’re doing great. Just keep it up.”

She smiled in appreciation.

“Do you understand what we need you to do here?”

“Climb through and be ready to move.”

“Simple enough, huh?”

“I think I can handle it.”

“For the next few minutes, can you do me a small favor?”

She nodded. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

Payne pulled out the gun they had taken from Petros. “Can you carry this for me?”

She stared at the weapon with disdain in her eyes.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you’re not comfortable with guns. Up until now I haven’t given you one because I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at mine. But here’s the problem. For the next few minutes, our numbers will be cut in half. If we’re going to be attacked, this is where they’re going to do it. Tactically speaking, I need to do whatever I can to strengthen our odds. That means I need everyone to be armed.”

“Well,” she said, “since you put it like that, how can a gal resist?”

Apollo knew he was outnumbered. His scout had warned him of that. But the beauty of his plan-which was similar to King Leonidas’s tactic to hold off thousands of Persians in the Battle of Thermopylae-was that he wouldn’t have to fight all his opponents at once. He would wait until their numbers were divided, then he would attack.

Instead of five against three, he would fight them three against three.

Then he would pick off the others when they rushed into the fray.

The gap in the stone face was about three feet wide. During rain-storms, water gushed through the chasm like a waterfall. Over the years, it had smoothed the rock and made it slick. Traction was difficult to find. The angle of the hillside wasn’t particularly steep, so ropes and anchors weren’t needed. Still, in order to climb the fifteen feet to the next ridge, they needed to concentrate.

For a large man, Payne was unbelievably nimble. Most Special Forces officers were small and wiry, soldiers who could run forever and hide in the blink of an eye, yet somehow Payne was able to keep up with them. In fact, he did more than that; he surpassed his peers by matching their agility and endurance and adding a brute strength that none of them possessed.

It was one of the reasons he had been asked to lead the MANIACs.

They were a special group, and Payne was the best of the best.

Using his hands and feet to climb, he scurried up the rock with ease. He dropped his pack on the ridge, and then scanned the nearby trees. With gun raised, he stared into the darkness, listening for the crack of a branch or anything else that seemed out of place.

But the area seemed deserted.

“Let’s go,” he said to his friends, who were waiting down below.

Dial was up second. He grimaced in pain as he used his arms to assist with the climb. Though his ribs were tender to the touch, they weren’t broken and weren’t going to stop him. Ten seconds later, he was crouching next to his friend on top of the ridge.

“Next,” he said to Allison.

She nodded and tucked the gun into her belt, nervous about the task at hand. Unlike the men, who had all been trained in one service academy or another, she had no experience with climbing-unless she counted gym class in junior high. She was in good shape from her frequent jogs around the Stanford campus, but this was something new to her.

Rock climbing in the dark simply wasn’t offered at her local health club.

While Dial stood guard, Payne kept his focus on Allison. In his hands, he held a thick tree limb that he had found nearby on the ground. If she struggled during her ascent, she could grab hold of it, and he could pull her up. “Don’t stop. Just keep moving forward.”

She followed his instructions, churning one leg after the other, using her hands to steady herself against the side of the chasm, never pausing to think. Her foot slipped once on the slick surface, but she maintained her balance with her arms and made it to the top without help.

“That was fun,” she said with a smile.

“I’m glad,” Payne said. “Now stand over there so Marcus can take his turn.”

Allison nodded and shuffled off to the side.

A moment later, the Spartans started their attack.

72

Allison saw the Spartan before anyone else. He burst from the trees, twenty feet away from her. His shield was in one hand, his sword in the other. Since her gun was still tucked in her belt, she did the only thing she could think of. She screamed as loudly as she could.

Payne whirled in her direction and spotted the Spartan who was sprinting at them. Unable to pull his gun in time, Payne stepped in front of Allison and lowered his shoulder, hoping to duck under the Spartan’s shield. A moment before impact, Payne arched his back as if he was going to tackle him. But instead of wrapping his arms, he thrust his shoulders upward, slamming the tree branch that he still held into his opponent’s legs. The force, coupled with the Spartan’s momentum, launched the soldier high into the air and over the edge of the ridge.

Jones, who had heard Allison’s scream, was on full alert when the Spartan took flight. Like a superhero out of control, the Spartan crashed into a nearby tree and landed roughly on the ground as his helmet bounced down the hill.

But Jones showed no sympathy for him.

He stood over him and ended his life with a bullet between the eyes.

Meanwhile, on the ridge above, the other two Spartans charged into battle. Both of them had learned from the hoplite’s mistake, so they approached quickly yet under control. Shields in front of them, swords ready to strike, prepared to fight to the death.

Ready for a challenge, Apollo went after Payne. During the past few minutes, he had watched Payne and knew he was their leader. They were roughly the same size and build, and both of them moved with dexterity. The main difference was in their training.

Apollo had learned his skills from the greatest warrior culture of all time.

His opponent had not.

In Apollo’s mind, the outcome was all but decided.

Before Payne could recover from the previous assault, Apollo was upon him. Using his shield as a battering ram, he launched himself into Payne, knocking him onto his back. Payne skidded to a halt a few feet short of the chasm. A second later, Apollo was above him, swinging his sword as hard as he could. Somehow, through it all, Payne had held on to the tree limb. It was sturdy and knotted with age. He lifted it above his chest just in time to stop the path of the blade.

A mighty thump echoed through the night as the wood splintered from the force.

The unexpected block left the Spartan off balance. His weight was leaning forward, and his stride was too wide. Payne spotted the flaw and quickly took advantage. With a sweep of his feet, he knocked Apollo to the ground and rolled on top of him. The limb that had once been whole was now in two pieces. Payne dropped one and used the other like a crazed drummer. Time after time, he pounded on his opponent’s head and face, trying to beat him to death.

But the Spartan’s helmet held firm.

Though he was dazed, years of training told Apollo what to do. With all his strength, he used his hips to thrust upward, bucking Payne into the air. The maneuver worked better than he could have imagined. The slope of the hill coupled with the edge of the ridge cost Payne his advantage. One moment he was pummeling the Spartan, the next he was tumbling down the chasm, losing chunks of skin as he bounced between the narrow rocks.

With a loud thud, Payne hit the ground below.

Andropoulos reached down to help him, but his hand was pushed away.

Payne simply said, “That son of a bitch!”

Then, riding a burst of rage, he scurried back up the chasm.

Ready for round two.

Dial had his own battle to worry about. He had turned toward Allison when she screamed, which had allowed the other Spartan to slip in behind him.

Sword raised high, the Spartan was set to strike when Dial heard the clanging of armor. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees as the Spartan’s blade whizzed overhead. Momentum carried the warrior forward, but he remained balanced and under control. Planting his front foot and turning, he put himself into position to swing again.

Dial lifted his gun and got off a single shot that was deflected by the Spartan’s shield. A moment later he used his shield as a weapon, slamming it against the side of Dial’s head.

Stunned by the blow, Dial slumped to the ground.

Blood oozed from a gash on his cheek as he tried to regain his senses.

But the Spartan wouldn’t allow it. Even in the darkness, he recognized the dazed look in his opponent’s eyes. He knew it was time to finish him off.

With that in mind, the Spartan lifted his sword and prepared to strike.

After knocking Payne down the chasm, Apollo grinned in triumph. His opponent had been a worthy adversary, but like all the others before him, he had been vanquished.

Rising to his feet, Apollo searched the ridge for his next victim.

Only one person was not engaged in battle.

The woman.

The thought of fighting her disgusted him. His ancestors never had to deal with women on the battlefield, since they were all forced to stay at home. In his mind, they were good for only one thing: breeding. That had always been the Spartans’ stance on women. Mothers were loved. Wives were tolerated. And girls were a wasted opportunity to have had a son.

Still, in this day and age of modern weaponry, he knew women could be dangerous. They could pull a trigger just as easily as a man. Therefore, she couldn’t be overlooked.

She would be treated like all the others.

She would have to be killed at once.

Dial was dazed from the blow to his head, but somehow his instincts took over.

As the Spartan raised his sword, Dial raised his gun and fired two quick shots, just over the top of the shield. The first bullet hit the Spartan in his collarbone, shattering it with a sickening snap. The next one struck him right in the mouth. Teeth cracked like crushed ice and embedded themselves in the lining of his throat as the bullet tore through the back of his neck.

This wasn’t the movies, so the Spartan didn’t fly ten feet backward and die quietly.

Instead, he slumped forward on top of Dial, pinning him to the ground. The whole time the Spartan was spitting and gurgling and trying to breathe, and Dial was trapped underneath.

For the next twelve seconds, he listened to the man choking on his own blood until Dial was able to squirm away. Once he did, he fired his weapon again and ended the Spartan’s life.

Allison watched in horror as Payne tumbled down the chasm. A moment earlier, he had stepped in front of her and saved her from the muscular Spartan.

Now he was gone, she was alone, and Apollo was closing in.

Things did not look promising.

The last time she had fired a gun was at a summer carnival. And it hadn’t even been a real gun. It had been an air rifle in one of those stupid games where the goal was to win a prize.

Other than that, she had no experience with weapons.

She just didn’t like them. In fact, she hated the damn things.

But in this situation, she realized her gun was her new best friend.

Grabbing it from her belt, she pointed it at Apollo, who crouched low in the darkness. He held his shield in front of him, giving her nothing to aim at. All she could see was the tip of his sword and the red plume of horsehair that stood above his helmet.

Still, she knew she shouldn’t wait for him to get any closer.

So Allison pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, and when it did, it jerked wildly in her hand. The bullet sailed high and wide, nowhere near her target-a common mistake for an amateur.

Undaunted, she squeezed the trigger a second time but with a similar result.

She wasn’t even close.

Apollo smirked at her incompetence and raised his sword behind him.

With a mighty swing, he used the broadside of his blade to knock the weapon from her hand. Metal hit metal with a loud clang, and the gun bounced harmlessly to the ground.

“Stupid whore,” he growled in Laconian.

Then he lifted his sword again.

Payne scurried up the chasm like a wild animal. Blood dripping, muscles straining, fueled by pure adrenaline. His friends were in danger, and that was unacceptable.

At the top of the ridge, he glanced to his right and realized Dial was safe.

Spinning quickly, he searched for Allison and saw Apollo primed to strike. The Spartan leader was positioned perfectly. His shield protected everything from his knees to his nose. His helmet covered his head, and his greaves guarded his shins. The only gaps in his armor were the slits for his eyes and the sandals on his feet.

For Payne, it was a simple decision. He took the easiest shot available.

Aiming low, he fired three times at Apollo’s feet. The first round missed in the darkness, but the second and third shots hit their targets. The muscular Spartan refused to scream as he fell to the ground in agony. When he did, his shield dipped ever so slightly, and Payne took full advantage.

He steadied his weapon and squeezed the trigger with one thought in mind.

This Spartan needed to die.

73

After the battle, Payne and Jones looked at the map and determined the cave was less than thirty minutes away. That is, if the map was accurate. The truth was they weren’t sure how Schliemann knew about the treasure’s location. That hadn’t been revealed during their research. Still, they knew that Richard Byrd and the person who’d had him killed believed in the treasure. Apparently so did the Spartans-although all of them had died before they could be interrogated.

The group continued on in silence, some of them nursing their wounds. Dial held a cloth against his right cheek, which had been gashed by a Spartan shield. His ribs and back throbbed as well, but he never complained. Neither did Payne, who had a wide assortment of cuts and bruises from his tumble off the ridge. But as things stood, he’d fared a lot better than the men he had defeated.

As they climbed higher, Payne noticed a distinct change in the scenery. Trees were far less frequent, and flowers were virtually nonexistent. The same with grass and weeds. In a matter of hours, they had gone from the lush surroundings of the Aegean to a stark landscape reminiscent of the moon. Everywhere he looked he saw rocks and craters and few signs of life.

No wonder the Greeks chose this spot to hide a treasure.

There was no reason to come up here, except to get away from the world.

“Jon,” Allison called from behind.

Payne stopped and turned around. She was pointing at a spot to the east.

“Is that a cave?” she asked.

Payne shined his flashlight in that direction. From where he was, he couldn’t be sure. But it certainly looked like one. “Wait here. I’ll go check.”

“Hold on,” Jones said from the rear of the group. “I’m coming with you.”

Payne smirked and waited for Jones. “How’d I know you’d want to come?”

“If you think I’m going to let you discover this alone, you’re crazy.”

“Wait,” Allison said. “I’m coming, too.”

Payne lowered his head in defeat. “Fine! Everyone can come. The more the merrier.”

Dial smiled and patted Payne on his shoulder. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I was beginning to feel left out.”

Andropoulos nodded his head. “Me too.”

Payne laughed at their enthusiasm. No one had talked in several minutes, now everyone was begging to be included. Then again, he could hardly blame them.

He was also excited about the possibilities.

“Hey, Marcus,” Payne said. “You’re Greek, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What type of animals might live up here?”

“Wolves.”

Payne nodded. “That’s what I thought. Everyone stay alert.”

The group moved in unison, each of them searching the surrounding rocks for any sign of trouble. Above them to their left, they could see the towering peaks of Mount Athos in the pale moonlight. To their right was the steep slope that they had just conquered. Payne tried to imagine a forty-foot statue being hauled up the mountainside by the Ancient Greeks. It seemed unlikely. Then again, modern-day historians still don’t know how the Egyptians moved the massive stones that were used to build the Pyramids. So anything was possible.

Well, almost anything.

Because the closer Payne got to the cave, the more confident he became that the lost throne was not inside. It couldn’t be. At least not in one piece. Simple geometry assured him of that.

The mouth of the cave was roughly five feet wide and six feet tall. To get through the narrow opening, Payne had to duck down so he wouldn’t hit his head on the jagged rock above. Before entering, he shined his light into the interior and saw nothing but darkness.

No walls. No ceiling. Nothing but empty space.

It gave him hope that the cave opened wider.

Taking a deep breath, he crossed the threshold, wondering what he might find inside. He hoped it wouldn’t be similar to the last cave he had explored, which had been on Jeju, a tiny island in South Korea. The U.S. Army had asked him and Jones to investigate the disappearance of an ex-MANIAC, and when they arrived at the scene, the entire cavern had been bathed in blood. The stench of decomposition had lingered on their skin and hair for nearly a week.

Shining his light along the ground, he noticed a thin layer of gray dust. He crouched down and touched it with his fingers. It was coarse and similar in color to the natural stone.

“What is it?” Allison whispered.

“I don’t know. It almost feels like-”

Payne stopped and signaled for everyone to be quiet. Suddenly, the dust’s composition was less important than what he had noticed in its surface. A set of footprints.

He crouched lower and examined them. They were human and pointing forward. The person’s stride had been short and was accompanied by a secondary pattern on the left. It was circular and infrequent. Something man-made. Perhaps a walking stick. Or a spear. Payne couldn’t tell for sure. But he was certain of one thing: there were no tracks going out.

That meant whoever made them was still inside or had found another way out.

With a gun in his right hand and a flashlight in his left, Payne continued forward, striding over the uneven ground. Deeper inside, the cave opened slightly, its ceiling climbing to eight feet and its width stretching to ten. Payne was appreciative. Not only could he walk upright, he also had room to maneuver in case he was attacked.

Jones was next in line, his light burning bright. Allison was third, followed by Andropoulos and Dial. The four of them crept softly, watching Payne as he braved the tunnel ahead of them.

Suddenly, he raised his hand and signaled them to stop.

The group obliged, hardly making a sound.

Up ahead, Payne could see a solitary figure sitting in the darkness. It was an old man, wrapped in a wool blanket. He was leaning against the back wall of the cave. A cane lay by his side. He looked frail and feeble, withered with age. His beard was long and unkempt. It rested on the front of his cloak like a gray scarf. His head was tilted forward, and his eyelids were closed.

Payne wondered if the guy was still breathing.

A moment later, he got his answer.

Without opening his eyes, the old monk spoke, his words barely rising to a whisper. “I wondered when you would arrive. I have been waiting for you.”

Payne grimaced in confusion. He had no idea who this man was or what he was talking about. He figured he might be a crazed hermit who lived in this cave.

“What are you doing here?” Payne asked.

The monk’s eyes sprang open. He stared defiantly at the flashlight, not willing to shield the light from his eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Nick.”

From the back of the pack, Dial heard his name. It took a few seconds for things to sink in, but once they did, he knew who was hiding in the cave.

“Coming through,” Dial said as he squeezed his way past the others. He made his way to Payne, who was still shining his light on the old man.

“Do you know this guy?” Payne whispered.

Dial stared at the man and nodded. It was Nicolas, the old monk he had met on his first night at Metéora. The same one who appeared, forty years younger, in the framed photograph at Great Metéoron. The one man he had hoped to find at Mount Athos. And now he had.

Of course, he never expected to find him like this-actually inside the mountain.

“Hello, Nicolas. I’ve been looking for you.”

The old monk smiled at the sound of Dial’s voice. “I thought as much.”

“You’re a tough man to track down.”

“I apologize. I have been busy.”

Dial turned on his flashlight. “Doing what?”

“My duty.”

He took a step forward. “Your duty? I’m not sure what that means.”

Nicolas grinned. “You have come this far. You must know something.”

“Maybe so, but I was hoping you could fill me in on the rest.”

“My pleasure, Nick. What would you like to know?”

Dial raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting such an offer.

But he planned on taking full advantage of it.

74

Dial crept closer, wondering what he should ask first. With so many questions, he didn’t know where to start. He opted for the very beginning. “Why were the seven monks at Metéora?”

Nicolas answered. “That was where we always met. It gave us what we needed.”

“Which was?”

“Protection from those who sought the treasure.”

Dial glanced at Payne and nodded. This was about the lost throne.

“Why weren’t you killed at Metéora like the others?”

“I did not arrive until after I was told of their deaths.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was not invited to their meeting.”

“But earlier you said we. You said Metéora was where we always met.”

Nicolas nodded. “I also said was.”

“You were no longer a part of the group?”

“Age has certain limitations. Travel is one of them.”

“And yet here you are.”

Nicolas smiled meekly. “I had no choice. I am the only one left.”

“The only one?”

“The only one who knows where we moved the treasure.”

“You moved the treasure?”

“Long ago. Long before these recent threats.”

Dial paused. “Hold on. If you moved the treasure, why are you here?”

“Why? Because this is where the Brotherhood comes to die.”

“The Brotherhood?”

Nicolas nodded. “That was the name we were given long ago.”

“By whom?”

Nicolas smirked and pointed to the back corner of the cave. “By one of them.”

Dial shined his light in that direction and was shocked by the sight. Hundreds of human skulls were stacked in a massive pile against the side wall. Many of them faced forward, creating the illusion that their empty eye sockets were staring at him. Fortunately, he did not scare easily. Or else he would have bolted from the cave.

He considered the presence of the skulls. “Were they your brothers?”

Nicolas nodded again. “All of them died with one thing in common.”

“Which was?”

“They died nobly, without revealing our secret. For that reason alone, they were brought here to share eternity. This is where we honor them. On our holiest mountain.”

Dial nodded in understanding. “Which explains why you’re here. None of your brothers are left to move your remains, so you came here on your own. You’re sitting in the dark, waiting to die, so you can rest with your brothers in peace.”

Nicolas smiled. “From the moment we met, I knew you were smart.”

Dial ignored the flattery. “Trust me, I’m not that smart. For instance, I don’t know why this mountain is covered with Spartans. Or why they killed your brothers.”

“The reason is simple. Over the centuries, many forces have sought the location of our treasure. Some of them were evil men, willing to kill us for our knowledge. Eventually, we opted to fight back. Blade against blade, blood against blood, all in the name of secrecy.”

“But you’re a monk. Doesn’t violence go against your religion?”

Nicolas grimaced. “Not if done for self-preservation. And that is what it was. We pursued those who pursued us, and struck them where they stood.”

“And the Spartans?”

Nicolas paused in thought. “Somebody struck us.”

“Any idea who?”

He shrugged as the color slowly drained from his face. “I was given no names, since my involvement with the Brotherhood was . . . fleeting. However, from what I have gathered, our treasure . . . has been the source of recent interest . . . from several collectors.” He paused to catch his breath. “Including some . . . from . . . your homeland.”

Dial stepped forward, concerned by the anguish on the monk’s face and his sudden shortness of breath. “Nicolas? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

The monk wheezed. “I will be . . . soon.”

Dial rushed forward, worried that the monk was having a heart attack. He grabbed the wool blanket that was wrapped around the old man’s torso, and when he touched it, he realized it was damp. He didn’t know why until he ripped it off the monk.

Nicolas had a dagger in his hand and two large slashes through the femoral arteries in his thighs. For the past few minutes, he had slowly been bleeding to death while he calmly explained where he wanted to die.

By the time Dial noticed, there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

Everyone was stunned by the turn of events. All of them had been listening to Dial’s conversation, yet none of them had noticed the old man slowly dying in front of them.

His death-and his final message about the treasure being moved-was a setback they hadn’t expected.

“Now what?” Payne asked Jones and Allison.

Both of them shrugged, disheartened.

Payne pulled out his copy of the treasure map. “Why don’t you two take another look at the map? Maybe we missed something important.”

Jones shook his head. “The map worked fine. We found the cave right where it was supposed to be. But there’s nothing in here.”

“I know that, but-”

“Jon,” Jones argued, “think about it. If the Brotherhood moved the treasure in the last century, it was after Schliemann died. So his map wouldn’t show the new location.”

Payne nodded. “I realize that, but who’s to say when the monks moved it. What if they moved it before Schliemann died? Maybe his map led us here for a reason. Maybe there’s a secret clue that will point us to another location.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Hey,” Payne said, “I know you’re disappointed and all, but we just climbed a mountain to get here. We’re not going back down until you’ve looked around some more.”

Jones groaned in frustration. “Fine! I’ll look around the stupid cave, but if a giant boulder starts rolling at me from the ceiling, I swear to God I’ll-”

He stopped in mid-sentence and cocked his head to the side.

Payne stared at him, waiting for him to finish his rant. “You’ll what?”

Jones ignored the question. Deep in thought, he glanced around the cave, slowly considering everything about it. “This cave is kind of small, isn’t it?”

“It’s no Carlsbad Caverns, if that’s what you mean.”

“No,” Jones said as he shined his flashlight all around him. “I mean, the damn thing is really small. If they used to keep a huge treasure in here, where in the hell did they hide it?”

Payne paused. “That’s a very good point.”

“I mean, I doubt they just left it sitting out in the open. That wouldn’t make sense. Not if the Brotherhood was as careful as they seemed to be.”

Allison looked at the mouth of the cave. “What about the entrance? Could they have concealed it with rocks and branches?”

“That’s possible,” Jones conceded. “But unless they did it just right, it wouldn’t have looked natural. And if you’re trying to hide something, that’s a dead giveaway.”

Payne stared at his friend, who had the slightest hint of a smile. “Hold up. Do you know where the treasure is?”

Jones shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Payne shined his light on Jones. There was a gleam in his eye that hadn’t been there a moment before-and it wasn’t a reflection of the flashlight. “You bastard! I can tell from your face that you know where it is.”

Jones laughed. “I’m not positive, but I do have a theory. Ironically, if I’m right about it, I just gave you a clue.”

“You gave us a clue?”

He grinned. “If you had been paying attention, you would’ve noticed it.”

“You gave me a clue?”

Dial, who had been listening from the rear of the cave, spoke up. “He said dead.”

Payne turned and looked at him. “Dead?”

Dial nodded. “He said dead giveaway. He’s talking about the skulls.”

Jones whistled, impressed. “Score one for Nick Dial! How did you figure that out?”

“It wasn’t anything that you said,” Dial assured him. “It was something that Nicolas said before he died. He claimed the Brotherhood brought the skulls up here to honor them. But that goes against everything that Marcus and I learned at Metéora. The monks don’t keep skulls to honor them. They keep the skulls to remind them how fragile life is.”

He glanced down at Nicolas, who was lying on the ground underneath the blood-soaked blanket. “One minute you’re here, and the next you’re gone.”

“Okay,” Payne said. “I get that. But what does that have to do with the treasure?”

Dial continued. “Nicolas didn’t come up here to die. He came here to protect the treasure. And the only way he could do that was by convincing us that the Brotherhood had moved it somewhere else. Then he killed himself before we could ask him any more questions.”

“You seem pretty sure of that.”

Dial shrugged. “He’s lied to me before. I started to recognize his patterns.”

Allison asked, “So what does that mean? They didn’t move the treasure?”

Dial shook his head. “They didn’t have time. The Spartans killed them before they could.”

75

Payne studied the large pile of skulls stacked haphazardly against the wall. There were hundreds of them, several centuries’ worth of dead monks who had sworn to guard an ancient treasure. If his friends were correct, the monks still protected it-even in death.

“Explain this to me again,” he said to Jones. “You think the treasure is under there?”

“Not the treasure itself. But I think the skulls are hiding something. A fissure or a passageway.”

Payne smirked at his friend. “A minute ago you were making fun of me when I said there might be a clue somewhere in the cave. Now you’re telling me there’s a secret passageway?”

Jones nodded his head. “Yep. That’s what I’m saying.”

“That sounds kind of crazy.”

Andropoulos cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, it’s not that crazy. Director Dial and I found a secret tunnel at Metéora. It was hidden behind a large tapestry in the monks’ barracks.”

Payne glanced at him. “You found a tunnel? What was inside?”

“Stairs and an underground vault with several carved shelves and a fancy stone altar, but whatever had been stored in there had been moved long ago.”

“The room was empty?”

“Yes, sir. It was empty.”

Dial corrected him. “Actually, that’s inaccurate. We did find something important.”

Payne asked, “What was that?”

“The severed heads of the Brotherhood.”

“Are you serious? The heads were down there?”

Dial nodded as pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place. “The Spartans slaughtered the monks, and then stacked their heads on the stone altar. At the time, we assumed that they were sending a message, but we didn’t know what it was. Now I have my answer.”

“Which is?” Payne wondered.

“One of the monks-one of the seven members of the Brotherhood-must’ve revealed the treasure’s location before his death. The stacked heads were the Spartans’ way of bragging about it.”

Jones added, “Which would explain their presence on the mountain. They knew where the treasure was hidden, and they were coming to get it.”

“It appears that way, yes.”

Payne glanced at Dial. “It appears that way? Do you have another theory?”

Andropoulos said, “He always has a theory.”

Dial smiled. The young cop was learning. “For some reason, something about the Spartans’ role in this still doesn’t seem to fit. From what I have been told, the Spartans weren’t motivated by money. Their sole purpose in life was to be the best warriors they could be. They didn’t care about gold or treasure. They only cared about their reputations as soldiers.”

Payne shrugged. “Times change. People change. Money might mean more to them now.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dial argued. “They still live in the same region of Greece and continue to speak Laconian after all these years. They still train like their ancestors, and obviously have the same armor and weapons. On the surface, it appears they still care about the same basic things. And as far as I know, money isn’t one of them.”

“Then why were they here?”

“When Marcus and I spotted the tunnel, we found these incredibly detailed carvings of soldiers and war. They appeared on the door, on the shelves, and on the stone altar. To us, they seemed completely out of place in a monastery where all the other artwork focused on religion. Now I’m beginning to wonder if the carvings had something to do with the treasure.”

“Such as?”

Dial explained his theory. “We were informed that the monasteries have always been used as sanctuaries, a place where artists and writers were free to work without persecution. We were also told that Spartans frowned upon the written word. Actually, that’s an understatement. Writing was forbidden inside their culture. Everything we know about them comes from outside sources, and since we’re talking about twenty-five hundred years ago, sources are limited.”

He paused to catch his breath. “So, and this is just a wild guess here, what if there’s more to this treasure than gold? What if there are ancient books or artwork that would cast the Spartans in a negative light? What if their reason for coming here wasn’t to get rich? What if they came here to protect their heritage?”

Jones laughed and patted Dial on the back. “A wild guess? That doesn’t sound like a wild guess to me. It sounds like a highly detailed hypothesis. I was half-expecting you to pull out graphs and charts.”

Dial shrugged. “What can I say? I had a lot of time to think when we were climbing the mountain.”

“Well,” Jones said as he rubbed his hands together, “there’s only one way to see if your theory is correct. Let’s find us a treasure.”

While Andropoulos guarded the entrance to the cave, the other four worked as a team. Payne and Jones handed the skulls to Dial and Allison, who moved them carefully to the other side of the cave. Slowly but surely the first pile dwindled as the new pile started to rise.

Despite the seemingly gruesome nature of their task, none of them were fazed by the undertaking. In fact, the large number of skulls actually depersonalized the situation for them. In their minds, they weren’t picking up skulls. They were simply clearing loose impediments from a hidden tunnel.

At least they hoped they were.

They wouldn’t know for sure for another few minutes.

In the end, it was Jones who spotted the first harbinger. As he pulled a skull away from the wall, he noticed a small fissure. “Allison, hand me a light.”

Their flashlights sat on the floor, each of them shining on the ceiling above so they could work with both hands. She picked up the closest one and handed it to him.

“Do you see something?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He shined the light into the crack, which started a few feet above the ground. Because of his angle and the remaining skulls that blocked his view, he couldn’t see much. But the gap definitely extended into the wall. “There’s a hole back here.”

Standing next to the pile, Payne wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “How big is it?”

“I can’t tell yet.”

“Then put down the light and get back to work.”

Jones gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

They laughed in the gloom of the cave as they continued digging.

With each passing minute, with each skull that was carried away, their level of excitement grew. And so did the small hole. First it was a fissure. Then it became a crawl space. Before long they realized it was something more significant. It was the beginning of a stone ramp that went deep inside the core of the mountain.

The monks’ construction was ingenious. Instead of cutting an arch or doorway in the side of the cave, which would have been difficult to conceal in a natural setting, they had cut through the base of the wall and dug a trench through the cave’s floor. They’d used dirt and small rocks to pack the empty space below and then covered everything with skulls.

In the culture of Mount Athos, it was a wonderful deterrent.

Any hermit who stumbled upon the cave would have been reluctant to take residence in the final resting place of so many monks. And they certainly wouldn’t have moved the skulls or stolen them as souvenirs. That would have been the ultimate sign of disrespect. So the skulls did much more than conceal the tunnel: they actually kept interlopers away.

Until now.

76

The digging would have been finished sooner if they’d had shovels and wheelbarrows to assist them. As it was, they were forced to dig with their hands. They used Nicolas’s blood-soaked blanket to haul away dirt and debris.

Payne, who was covered in grime, shined his flashlight into the hole and made the announcement that they had been waiting for. “I think it’s big enough now.”

“Can you get through?” asked Jones, who was even dirtier than Payne.

He leaned in closer. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then it’s definitely big enough. I could’ve slipped through an hour ago.”

Payne smiled. “Your body could’ve, but your ego couldn’t.”

“Trust me, my ego isn’t my biggest feature.”

Payne rolled his eyes. “If you’re done lying to us, are you ready to go inside?”

“Of course I’m ready. I’ve been ready. Who goes first?”

Payne gestured toward the hole. “After you, my friend.”

Jones patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Jon. I appreciate that.”

“No problem,” he replied. “Scream if you feel any booby traps.”

Jones laughed as he got on his hands and knees and squirmed through the gap. Allison went next, then Dial, and finally Payne. Andropoulos stayed on guard duty, protecting the mouth of the cave-just in case more Spartans happened to wander by.

After crawling on a downward slant for nearly five feet, Jones had enough room to pull his legs underneath him. Sitting in a crouch, he reached his hand back and helped Allison through the gap before he continued onward. With every step he took, the passageway became higher until he was finally able to stand upright.

Shining his light on the passageway, he realized it had been carved into solid rock. “Will you look at this tunnel? They did all of this by hand.”

“It’s amazing,” she replied as she ran her fingers over the gray stone.

Waiting for the others to arrive, Jones pointed his light forward. A wall of darkness lingered beyond the reach of his beam. The temperature was in the low fifties, even cooler than the cave above, which had been warmed by their body heat. He put his nose into the air and took a deep whiff, worried about the presence of noxious gases. But he detected nothing.

“We’re clear,” Payne said from the back.

Jones nodded and started off again down the passageway. The ground was uneven and made of solid stone. The walls were wide, approximately ten feet across. He swept his beam from side to side, searching for anything that seemed out of place. Though Payne had been joking about booby traps, Jones realized there had been a grain of truth in what he said.

As a child, Jones had read stories about real-life archaeologists who had been undone by spring snares attached to trees or Burmese tiger pits lined with sharp spears. In the Special Forces, he had learned how to build both-and several other devices to trap or kill the enemy-so he knew such things existed.

He just didn’t know if they existed down here.

“Clear,” Jones called over his shoulder.

“Still clear,” Payne replied.

A few seconds later, the passageway turned sharply to the left. Jones peeked around the corner, not willing to commit his team until he knew what was waiting for them. What he saw boggled his imagination. The tunnel stopped and a natural cave began. Soaring to a height of over fifty feet, the massive cavern stretched beyond the scope of his light.

He stepped forward for a better view, and when he did, his eyes were drawn to the objects on the floor in front of him. Everywhere he looked, for as far as he could see, there were wooden crates. Some as small as backpacks, others much larger than caskets. Hundreds of ancient boxes stacked in neat rows, just sitting in the darkness waiting to be opened.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m fucking rich.”

Allison heard the comment and hurried up to him to see what he was talking about. She pointed her flashlight in the same direction and was staggered by the sight.

“Oh my God!” she gasped.

Jones grinned at her reaction. “Do you like my treasure? I saw it first.”

Dial was an expert on body language. From his position in the passageway, he knew his friends had discovered something momentous. The look of sheer joy on both their faces was proof of that. Still, it didn’t prepare him for his first glimpse of the cavern and its bounty.

He rounded the corner and stood there in shock, his massive jaw dropping to his chest.

“Good Lord!” Dial blurted. “I think I have to quit my job.”

Payne was the last one to see the treasure. Taller than the other three, he stood behind them and marveled at the enormity of it all: the cavern, the number of crates, and the effort it must have taken to haul this stuff from Constantinople, which was hundreds of miles away.

“There’s no way the monks carried this stuff by themselves,” he said to no one in particular. “How in the world did they keep this place a secret for so long?”

“I have no freaking idea,” Jones said. “No idea at all. Then again, that’s not what concerns me right now.”

“What does?”

“How are we going to carry this stuff down the mountain?”

The question lingered in the darkness as they rushed forward to open some crates. But Dial decided not to join them. Instead, he turned around and crawled back through the hole.

For the time being, he was still a law enforcement official, and he was still working on a case. Once the smoke cleared and he got back to France, he might have to reconsider his future.

As a director at Interpol, he made a good salary and had a great pension plan, but it paled in comparison with the riches they had found in the cavern. If Payne and Jones figured out a legal way for him to keep a share, he would be tempted to walk away from his career.

But until that day, he had other things to worry about.

Like what was happening on the mountain below.

Coming out,” Dial called to Andropoulos, who was still guarding the mouth of the cave. The last thing he wanted was to surprise the kid and get shot by mistake. “Any trouble out here?”

“No, sir. No trouble at all. How about you?”

“Things are good down below.”

“So,” he asked excitedly, “did they find any treasure?”

Dial smiled at him. “Why don’t you go and look for yourself ?”

“Thank you, sir. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Andropoulos turned to walk away.

“Hold up,” Dial ordered. “Before you go, there’s one other thing I forgot to mention.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Just so you know, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”

Andropoulos beamed with pride. “I was hoping you’d say that, too.”

With a smile on his face, he ran off to see the treasure.

Dial reached behind him and pulled out the radio they had taken from Petros. During their climb up the mountain, Dial had turned it off, afraid the noise might give away their position. But now that they had safely reached their destination, he felt he needed to update the other guards and let them know they were all right.

Several seconds passed before someone responded.

Without mentioning anything about the treasure, Dial filled them in on some basics. “Sorry I’ve been radio-silent for so long. Every time we turned around, we were under attack.”

“Are you all right?”

Dial paused, thinking about Nicolas. Somehow his death needed to be explained without revealing what had really happened. Dial didn’t want to lie. Yet at the same time, he knew he didn’t want to tell the full truth. “We’re fine. We found a monk, though. He didn’t make it.”

The guard said, “We had some losses, too. But we took some Spartans with us. Right now, we’re still searching the grounds, looking for more of them.”

“What about harbor patrol? Did they figure out how the Spartans got here?”

“Yes, sir. They found a boat anchored on the southern shore.”

“Anyone aboard?”

“No, sir. It was empty. But the boat had a name.” The guard paused as he searched for the information. “It was called the Odyssey. It’s a yacht registered in California.”

“California? The Spartans used a boat from California? Did they steal it?”

“I don’t know, sir. We’re still trying to reach the boat’s owner.”

Dial grimaced. “Wait. You know the owner’s name? Is he Greek?”

“I don’t think so, sir. His name is Richard Byrd.”

Payne, Jones, and Allison walked between the large stacks of crates, still trying to grasp how many items had been rescued from Constantinople. A few of the lids were brittle with age, so they were able to peek inside without risking damage to the precious contents.

And what they saw was amazing.

Gold relics and coins. Marble statues. Silver vases. Bronze weapons. Gemstones and jewelry. Painted vessels. Greek amphoras. And thousands of ancient scrolls.

None of them could be read until they were translated by scholars, but the fountain of knowledge that they might contain was staggering.

“Hey, Allison,” Jones said as they continued to explore, “I just realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“Your thesis is going to have one hell of an ending.”

She laughed with childlike delight. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Not only that,” he added. “You teamed up with Heinrich Schliemann to find this place.”

“I know! How wild is that?”

“Pretty damn wild.”

“Actually,” she admitted, “only one thing would make this better.”

Jones smiled. “Figuring out how to keep everything for ourselves?”

“No,” she said. “It would have been nice if we had found the Statue of Zeus. I mean, to discover one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World. That would have been, well, wonderful.”

While Jones and Allison continued to talk, Payne roamed to the far side of the cavern. In situations like this, the soldier in him always seemed to surface. Before he could enjoy the treasure, he needed to check the perimeter to make sure there were no possible threats. And if there were, he would eliminate them as quickly as possible.

Only in this case, he found no threats.

But he did find something that he couldn’t believe.

“Guys,” Payne called from his position near the back of the cave. “You have to see this.”

“See what?” Jones yelled back. “We’re busy playing with our gold.”

“Trust me, you need to see this. I can’t do it justice.”

Jones and Allison walked to the back of the cavern, where Payne was waiting for them to arrive. He was shining his light into an antechamber that hadn’t been visible from the entrance. Though not nearly as large as the main cavern, the space was big enough to store the most important treasure that the Ancient Greeks had recovered from Constantinople.

The object that Heinrich Schliemann had been looking for at the time of his death.

The one thing that all of them had hoped to find.

The disassembled pieces of the lost throne.

EPILOGUE

FRIDAY, JUNE 6

Limnos, Greece

Sixteen days had passed since the treasure had been discovered inside the Holy Mountain. During that time, Nick Dial had uncovered the answers to several questions.

As soon as he learned that the Spartans had used Richard Byrd’s yacht for their trip to Mount Athos, Dial contacted law enforcement officials in California, who acquired search warrants for Byrd’s home, office, and safe-deposit box. It didn’t take them long to find a direct link between Byrd and Apollo, the leader of the Spartans.

Several weeks earlier, Byrd had flown to Athens, rented a car, and driven to Spárti. A hotel reservation he had made with one of his fake identities confirmed his presence in the small town. While there, he purchased a disposable cell phone that was found at Apollo’s house, along with a map to the harbor in Leonidi, where Byrd’s yacht would be waiting for the Spartans, in case they required transportation. Phone records proved that several calls were made between Byrd’s and Apollo’s cell phones, apparently to coordinate the search for the treasure. This included the attack at Metéora. Since the Spartan village had no regular phone lines, this was the only way for Byrd to stay in touch with the men he had convinced to do his dirty work.

With this information, the Greek police were able to question the rest of the villagers, who were eventually found in the Taygetos Mountains, a few miles from their village. Most of them were uncooperative and unwilling to talk, but a few of them eventually broke down and revealed the Spartans’ motivation to go to Mount Athos.

Byrd had told Apollo that the Brotherhood possessed several documents that cast the Spartans in an unfavorable light. This included a document they referred to as “the book,” a comprehensive examination of Ancient Greece and all the city-states. One section supposedly contained inside information that had been written by a disillusioned Spartan. He hated the brutal culture he had been forced to endure from birth until he was in his mid-twenties, when he finally managed to slip away. Afraid that this information would leave a permanent stain on their heritage, Apollo and his men had vowed to do whatever they could to destroy it.

But their mission had been foiled.

The book-and thousands of other documents-would soon be examined by experts.

Which experts, though, was a matter of some contention.

Legally speaking, the treasure did not belong to anyone, since no one knew who had taken it to the mountain. The Brotherhood may have protected it for centuries, but that did not make it theirs. Furthermore, since the artifacts had supposedly been moved from Greece (and other parts of the world) to Constantinople and then to Mount Athos, there was no way of proving ownership of any of the items. Including the Statue of Zeus.

Was it stolen from Olympia? Or was it given to the Romans as a gift? No one knew for sure-and no one would know until everything inside the crates had been studied.

For the first few days after its discovery, Dial was able to keep news of the treasure from the outside world. He sealed off the cave and did not allow anyone inside, claiming it was an Interpol crime scene. Which, in fact, it was. Nicolas had killed himself inside the cave, and as a result of the information he had provided before his death-including his claim that a collector from Dial’s homeland had recently caused the monks trouble-Interpol searched the phone records of the seven monks who made up the Brotherhood, looking for anything suspicious.

One call stood out among all the others.

A few days before the abbot from Metéora had been murdered alongside his brethren, he had called an unlisted number in Russia. The conversation lasted seventeen minutes. After this phone call, a large sum of money had been wired from an account in Athens to one in Moscow. The name on the Russian account was Alexei Kozlov, the assassin who had killed Richard Byrd.

That meant the Brotherhood had paid to have Byrd eliminated.

What prompted them to take such an extreme step was still unclear. Had they learned about Byrd’s search for Schliemann’s map? Or had they been warned about his relationship with the Spartans? Unfortunately, Dial didn’t know for sure. He assumed that the Brotherhood’s secret meeting at Metéora had been called so they could discuss the situation.

Ironically, it was that gathering that had made them such an easy target.

They had met to protect their organization, but the meeting had led to their slaughter.

From the deck of Jarkko’s yacht, Payne stared at the light blue water of the Aegean Sea. Jones was somewhere nearby, swimming or fishing or talking to one of the local ladies Jarkko had brought aboard. No matter where they went in Limnos, everyone knew the fun-loving Finn.

Payne would be joining them shortly, but first he had to update Dial on the latest news about the treasure. “Nick,” he said into his cell phone, “how’s life?”

“Busy. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to keep your ass out of jail.”

“If it’s possible, I’d like to keep all of me out of jail. Not just my ass.”

Dial laughed. He was speaking to Payne on a secure line in his office at Interpol Headquarters. “Don’t worry. I’m a pretty good liar. I convinced the Greek government that I summoned you and D.J. as my personal backup once I learned of the trouble on Mount Athos.”

“What about Allison?” Payne wondered.

“Her presence was a little tougher to explain. Thankfully, one of my colleagues, Henri, told me that the Holy Mountain sheltered many women refugees during the Greek War of Independence in the nineteenth century. I claimed that her life had been in danger-which technically it was-and we decided the safest place for her was with us.”

“Did they buy it?”

“Eventually. Once I pointed out that her expertise led to our discovery of the treasure, they were willing to cut her some slack.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Speaking of which, is she there? I’d love to tell her the good news.”

“Sorry, Nick. She left last week.”

Dial growled softly. “Dammit, Jon. I thought I told all of you to stay in Greece until this situation was rectified.”

Payne smiled. “Relax. She’s still in Greece. She flew up to Athens to meet with Petr Ulster.”

“Petr’s in Greece? What’s he doing there? I thought he never left the Archives.”

“Normally, he doesn’t. But he was willing to make an exception. It’s not every day that one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World is discovered.”

“Good point. But what’s he doing in Athens?”

“While you’ve been busy with legal issues, I’ve been dealing with the treasure. Obviously, with a discovery of this magnitude, everyone wants to get their hands on it. The Greek government says it’s theirs. The Turks claim it was stolen from them. The Italians claim it belonged to the Roman Empire, so they should somehow be involved. Not to mention the monks of Mount Athos, who think the treasure should belong to the monasteries.”

“And Petr?”

“For the time being, all parties decided that the treasure needed to be catalogued and preserved as quickly as possible by an independent organization. And that’s where Petr comes into play. The Ulster Archives has a sterling reputation around the world, so everyone was fine with his involvement. Right now he and Allison are in Athens, trying to sort out the logistics.”

Dial paused. “While you were listing interested parties, I couldn’t help but notice that you left your name off the list.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely interested. I have a team of lawyers in Athens right now, making sure our interests are protected. That being said, we certainly aren’t going to be selfish about it. Our number one goal is to make sure that this treasure is available to the public. Back when I was a kid, I stood in a long line to see King Tut’s treasure at the Smithsonian Institution. The sight of all that gold just blew me away. With that in mind, I want a new generation of kids to have the same experience with this discovery.”

“And how does D.J. feel about that?”

“He’s completely cool with it-as long as he’s allowed to keep the throne for his backyard. He thinks it will impress his neighbors.”

Dial laughed. “I think he’s right.”

“In all seriousness, we’ve been assured by all parties that our team-you, me, D.J., Allison, and Marcus-will be recognized for the discovery and compensated for it.”

“And Jarkko!” shouted the Finn as he walked up behind Payne. “Don’t forget Jarkko!”

Payne glanced back at Jarkko, who was wearing a Speedo and nothing else. The image would be burned into his memory for a very long time. “And my half-naked friend Jarkko.”

Dial smiled. “I appreciate my inclusion. I truly do. And I know Marcus will be thrilled.”

“Once the dust settles, we can all get together and talk about details. But for now, rest assured that someday soon you’re going to have one hell of a retirement.”

“Enough business!” Jarkko ordered. “It is time to get off phone.”

“Go on,” Dial said, “have some fun. I’ll call you as soon as you’re allowed to leave Greece.”

“Thanks, Nick. Keep me posted.”

Payne disconnected and stood up from his lounge chair. He spotted his best friend walking across the deck of the yacht. Jones was wearing a bright green floral shirt, a white bathing suit, and a pair of flip-flops, an outfit that looked remarkably similar to the one he had been wearing in Florida when they heard the first message from Richard Byrd.

“It’s pretty sad,” Payne said to him.

“What is?” Jones asked.

“You’re about to become one of the most famous people in the world, and you still don’t know how to dress.”

“Me?” Jones argued. “Look at Jarkko. It looks like he’s smuggling sausage in his shorts.”

Payne shook his head. “No wonder he does so much business with Kaiser.”

Jones laughed loudly.

Jarkko frowned even though he didn’t fully understand the comment. “You make joke at Jarkko’s expense?”

“Don’t worry,” Jones assured him as he held his index finger and thumb about an inch apart. “It was just a tiny one.”

The Finn shrugged it off. “That is fine. Jarkko does not mind tiny joke. Do you know why?”

“No,” Payne said. “Why?”

Jarkko put his arms around Payne and Jones. “Because, my friends, it is time to drink!”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Some people are going to read this novel and assume that Heinrich Schliemann is a fictional character. How could someone like him-with all his quirks and crazy adventures-actually be real? Well, I have a confession to make. Not only was Schliemann a real person, I purposely excluded many of the wilder tales about his life in order to make him seem more believable. For all the bizarre details, visit a library or run an Internet search. Or, if you can get your hands on a copy, read Allison Taylor’s dissertation.

She definitely earned her doctorate.

Speaking of research, one of the most difficult things about writing an international thriller is all the legwork that must be done before a single word is typed. Since the majority of action in The Lost Throne occurs in Greece and Russia, two countries where English is a secondary language, I was forced to Americanize the spelling of many names and cities. If you’re having trouble finding details about Metéora, Spárti, or any other location in this book, make sure you try alternative spellings. Because these places actually exist. And they’re fascinating.

For additional information about this novel and answers to frequently asked questions about my writing, please visit my website: www.chriskuzneski.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Kuzneski is the internationally bestselling author of Sword of God, Sign of the Cross, and The Plantation. His thrillers have been translated into more than fifteen languages. Although he grew up in Indiana, Pennsylvania, he currently lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida. To learn more, please visit his website: www.chriskuzneski.com.