The Lost Throne

14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that all about?”

Andropoulos blushed. “Did I do something wrong?”

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

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

“That’s what I thought you did.”

“Did I mess up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where did your parents learn it?”

“From James Bond.”

Dial grimaced. “James Bond?”

“You know, 007.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about your French?”

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

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

“Only a few words. Why do you ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bodies?”

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

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

“What’s your point?”

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

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

“Not anymore. We recovered them this afternoon.”

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

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

“What do you mean by intact?”

“He was the only one who had a head.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dial glanced at him. “Birds?”

“Wolves.”

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

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

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

“A mixture of all three.”

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

“Sir?” he asked, confused.

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

“To kill them.”

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

Andropoulos pondered the question. “Intimidation?”

“For what reason?”

“To get answers.”

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

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

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

“Sorry. I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

“The abbot is dead? Who told you so?”

“Nicolas, the monk I introduced you to.”

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

“As of when?”

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