The Lost Throne

4

The stranger stood on the edge of the cliff and gasped at what he saw. Massive rock pillars sprang out of the earth like giant stone fingers, each of them rising several hundred feet from the valley below. Yet somehow the natural beauty of the scenery paled in comparison with the architectural wonder of Metéora, a site that hovered in the heavens like the throne of God.

He heard footsteps behind him but refused to shift his gaze from the Monastery of the Holy Trinity as the sun slipped behind the Pindus Mountains to the west.

Marcus Andropoulos, the man who approached, spoke with a local accent. “The monks who built this place climbed the rock with their bare hands, then refused to leave until construction was finished. They stayed on top for many months, lifting supplies by rope during the day and sleeping in a cave at night.”

The stranger said nothing, still admiring the view.

Andropoulos stepped closer, tentative. “Eventually, they built retractable wooden ladders that reached the crops they had planted in the fields below. Grapes, corn, potatoes. They even had sheep and cattle.”

The stranger tried to picture the ladders. They must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said the Greek. “My name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

“Nick Dial,” he said over his shoulder.

“You’re an American, no? Are you a tourist?”

Dial shook his head. “What does Metéora mean?”

“It is a local word. It means ‘suspended in air.’ Originally there were twenty-four monasteries on the surrounding peaks. Many were destroyed during World War Two. Now only six remain.”

“How old is this one?”

“Fifteenth-century,” he answered, still trying to figure out who Dial was and why he was there. “Are you with the media?”

Dial laughed. “Definitely not. I can’t stand those guys.”

Andropoulos paused, thinking things through. If Dial wasn’t a journalist, how did he get past all the officers on the main road? “In that case, I think you need to leave.”

“Because I hate the media? That seems kind of harsh.”

“No, because this area is restricted. Didn’t you see the signs?”

Dial turned and stared at the man who was trying to throw him out.

Andropoulos was young and lanky, dressed in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. His hands and wrists hung three inches beyond his sleeves — as though he had recently grown and didn’t have enough money to get a new wardrobe. Or visit a tailor. Or get a haircut. Because his head was covered with dark curly hair that went over his ears and the back of his neck. Like a Greek Afro.

Dial said, “You seem to know a lot about this place. Are you a tour guide or something?”

Andropoulos reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I am definitely something. I am the NCB agent assigned to this case. In fact, I am in charge of the investigation.”

Dial smirked, then refocused his attention on the monastery. In this light its beige walls appeared to be glowing. Almost like amber. It was truly a remarkable sight.

“Please, Nick. Don’t make me tell you again. It’s time to leave.”

But Dial wasn’t ready. He picked up a pebble and tossed it over the edge. It fell for several seconds yet never made a sound, swallowed by the chasm below. He whistled, impressed.

In all his years, he had never worked in such a difficult location.

Simply put, this crime scene was going to be a bitch.

Dial picked up a second pebble, slightly larger than the first, and leaned back to throw it. He hoped to test a theory about the valley. But before he could, the young officer grabbed his arm.

“I wouldn’t throw that if I were you.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because I’m in charge and I said so.”

Dial grinned. This was going to be fun. “And if I were you, I’d let go of my arm.”

“Really? Why is that?”

He yanked his arm free and whipped out his identification. “Because I’m your boss.”

Nick Dial ran the Homicide Division at Interpol, the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told, he was in charge of 186 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents to investigate a case. Instead they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their territory and reported pertinent information to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. From there, facts were entered into a central database that could be accessed via Interpol’s computer network.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or handle a border dispute. Or deal with international media. All the things that Nick Dial hated to do. In his line of work, the only thing that mattered to him was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was the creed he had lived by when he was an investigator.

If he did that, all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Then again, in a brutal case like this, was justice even feasible?

I apologize for my behavior. I should have recognized your name,” Andropoulos said. His face was bright red from embarrassment. “I didn’t expect anyone from France so soon.”

“Well,” Dial said, “I was on the continent, so I thought I’d drop by.”

Although he meant it as a joke, his comment was accurate. Dial had started the day on the other side of Europe, where he had been awakened by news of the massacre. He had taken the first flight from France to Athens, then had flown by helicopter to Metéora, which was in the central district of Thessaly. In reality, he rarely took trips like that on a moment’s notice, but how often were a bunch of monks slaughtered in the middle of the night?

“If you had called,” Andropoulos said, “I would have been ready for you.”

Dial stopped. “What are you saying? You only work hard when your boss is watching?”

His face got redder. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Andropoulos stammered. “I, just, I would have been more ready for your visit.”

Dial tried not to smile. He was just busting the kid’s balls and would continue to do so until he learned more about him. Until then, he would have some fun at the young agent’s expense. “Speaking of my visit, I need somewhere to stay. Somewhere nice. And close. But not too close. I don’t want any dead monks falling on me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll find something for you in Kalampáka. It’s the city over the hill.”

Dial nodded but didn’t say a word.

Andropoulos stared at him, waiting, not sure what to do.

Finally, after several painful seconds, Dial shooed him away. “Go!”

The kid sprinted up the hill like he was being chased by wolves. Only then did Dial start to laugh, remembering how he had been treated by senior officers when he was a rookie cop — how they used to call him Nikki and made him feel like a piece of shit but later admitted that they were just trying to toughen him up. Dial wasn’t nearly as mean as they had been, but he still used some of their tactics. After all, their methods must have worked, because a quarter-century later Dial was the first American to run a division at Interpol.

It was an unbelievable honor from the European agency. But one he completely deserved.

Few investigators had the success that Dial had.

Anticipating the rugged terrain, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was equipped with a special antenna that allowed him to get a signal just about anywhere, which was necessary in his line of work. He needed to be reachable at all times from any country in the world. Not only to make decisions but also to be briefed on the latest details of his case.

After punching in his office number, Dial lifted his phone and rested it on his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. Although he was in his mid-forties, he had a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Five o’clock shadow that arrived before noon. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. The type of guy who could star in an action movie or a Marlboro commercial.

A woman in one hand, a horse in the other, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Except he didn’t smoke, didn’t have time to date, and liked his animals medium-rare.

Other than that, he sure as hell looked the part — thanks to his world-class chin.

“Hello,” said a French voice on the other end of Dial’s phone. “I’m not in right now because my boss is out of town. When he gets back, I’ll get back. And not a moment before… ”

Dial smiled at the greeting. Henri Toulon was the assistant director of the Homicide Division and a notorious slacker. A wine-loving Frenchman who practically lived at the office yet spent half of the day avoiding work, Toulon was still an invaluable member of his Interpol team, mostly because he was the smartest person Dial worked with. Toulon had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun — whether it was history, sports, politics, or pop culture. Unfortunately, sometimes he talked for hours just to avoid his other responsibilities.

“Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. I’m still waiting for your background information on Metéora. So give me a call when you wake up from your nap. Oh, and if you’re sleeping in my office, make sure you open a window. Last time I came back, the whole place smelled of booze.”

Dial laughed and hung up the phone.

If that didn’t light a fire under Toulon’s ass, nothing would.