The Lost Throne

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.