The Lost Throne

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.”