The Lost Throne

6

Nick Dial followed Andropoulos as he trudged down the dirt path from the main road. The hill was steep and the footing treacherous in the dying sunlight, yet Andropoulos navigated it with ease, never losing his balance despite his leather dress shoes.

“What are you?” Dial demanded as he stopped to catch his breath. “Part mountain goat?”

Andropoulos smiled. “I am all Greek. I was born in Kastraki, a small village to the east. I used to play in these hills as a boy. I know them quite well.”

“Is this the only path to Holy Trinity?”

“The only path, yes. The only way, no.”

Dial glanced around. He saw nothing but cliffs. “How else can you get there?”

“The monks have a cable-car system, meant to handle supplies. It is strong enough to carry a man. However, it is controlled from inside the monastery.”

“So it would require an accomplice.”

Andropoulos nodded. “That is why we are on this path. This is how the killers came.”

With that, he started walking again, weaving around boulders and bushes until he arrived at the bottom of the gorge, where he was greeted by a large blue sign. At the top in white letters in both Greek and English, it said: HOLY MONASTERY OF AGIA TRIAS. In gold letters underneath, it warned in four different languages that shorts and short-sleeved shirts were not permitted; neither were women in sleeveless dresses or pantaloons.

Dial read the warning and smiled. He hadn’t seen the word pantaloons in years.

Andropoulos asked, “Are you ready for the tough part? The footing gets worse from here.”

“Are you serious? How could it get worse?”

He turned on a flashlight and shined it forward. “You shall see.”

A steep trail rose before them. It meandered up the hillside past a small grove of Oriental plane trees, the most common tree in the valley, until it stopped at the bottom of a rocky crag, where a series of steps had been carved into the stone. Although he wasn’t afraid of heights, Dial dreaded the next part of their journey — especially at night. One misstep meant a nasty fall.

“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Dial said.

Andropoulos nodded, willing to do just about anything to impress his boss.

The Greek had been an officer for less than two years but hoped to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps something in Athens. Or maybe Interpol Headquarters in France. The truth is he would kill for a job in the Homicide Division, which is why he was wearing his father’s suit instead of his everyday uniform. He wanted to make a good first impression.

“Do you see something?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial shined the light against the surface of the cliff, surprised by what he saw. From a distance he figured the stone fingers were made of volcanic rock — cooled underground, then exposed to sunlight after millions of years of soil erosion — but on closer inspection he realized that wasn’t the case. The natural pillars were hardened sandstone, filled with tiny pebbles of many shapes and colors. The result was a geological mosaic that seemed to breathe and flow with the constant movement of the earth. A living sculpture that stretched toward the sky.

“Let me guess,” Dial said. “This region was once underwater.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Scientists say that Thessaly was a giant lake that emptied into the Aegean Sea when an earthquake split the mountains. However, according to Greek mythology, the flood was caused by Zeus, who hoped to bring fertile farmland to the region.”

Dial smiled at the myth and gazed across the valley one last time, trying to enjoy the landscape for a few more seconds before it was permanently disfigured in his mind. From this point on, he knew his memory of Metéora would forever be tarnished by the things he was about to see.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Andropoulos turned and started the steep climb to the monastery. Dial stayed close behind, using the flashlight to find the footholds that had been carved into the rock several decades before. He also searched for any evidence that might have been missed by the local police.

“There are one hundred forty steps. You can count them if you like.”

“One hundred forty? Is that number significant?”

“Yes,” said the Greek. “That is how many they needed to reach the top.”

“I meant—” Dial shook his head. There was no need to explain. “Go! Keep walking.”

Andropoulos obliged, not saying another word until they reached the entrance, which was cut into the side of the cliff like a natural fissure. The door was ten feet high and made out of solid wood. It had not been damaged during the assault. Neither had the ancient lock, which still worked despite centuries of use. “This is the only way in.”

Dial examined the hinges and frame. No scratches or holes. “Is it locked at night?”

“Always.”

“Whose job is it?”

Andropoulos shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Do me a favor and find out.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” Dial said. “Once we’re inside, I want to be left alone for a while. I always try to view the evidence and the crime scene with fresh eyes. It allows me to form my own conclusions before I hear anyone else’s. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dial stared at him, sizing him up. “You should try it sometime. It’s the best way to separate a good investigator from a bad one.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I was the first one here. So my opinions are my own.”

Dial smiled. He liked the Greek’s confidence. “Glad to hear it, kid. Let’s talk again in twenty minutes. I’ll find out then if you have any brains or I need to get a new tour guide.”