The Lost Throne

50

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

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

“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very strange.”

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

“Countries with ties to the Orthodox Church.”

Dial smiled. “Exactly.”

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

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

“Why is that, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“In Istanbul.”

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

“Probably Athens.”

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

“But they chose here instead.”

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

“Such as?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know. I just—”

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

“Because they’re connected.”

“Right. And how are they connected?”

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

“But…”

“But… somehow he knew.”

Dial smiled. “Knew what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most of them are dead.”

“And how do you know that?”

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

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

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply—”

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

“I don’t know. Maybe seventy.”

“And what about this guy here?”

“Early sixties.”

“And this one?”

“Fifties.”

“Noticing a pattern?”

Andropoulos nodded. “Their ages are staggered.”

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

“In what way, sir?”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

“In the other picture.”

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

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

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

“Succession?”

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

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

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

“Do you have any theories?”

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

“But you’re keeping them to yourself.”

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

“Fair enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you thinking about, sir?”

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

“That I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

“The tunnel?”

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

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

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

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

“Wanted who to know?”

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

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

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

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

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