The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  24

  The candlelight from the first room barely penetrated the sec ond, forcing Dial to turn on the penlight once again. He shone the narrow beam on the stone altar that stood against the rear wall. Seven sets of eyes stared back at him. All of them vacant. All of them human.

  Dial recoiled at the sight, if only for an instant.

  “Jesus,” he said to himself.

  From the moment he had seen the blood on the hidden door, Dial expected to find the monks’ heads inside the tunnel, a theory that was supported by the stench of rotting flesh. But he hadn’t expected to find them like this. The heads were neatly stacked in a pyramid. Four in the bottom row, two in the middle, and one on top. Dried blood held it all together like papier-mâché.

  Andropoulos walked into the room. “You called?”

  Looking over Dial’s shoulder, Andropoulos saw the gruesome scene and instantly gagged. All the color rushed from his face, leaving his cheeks pale. Dry heaves were soon to follow.

  Dial turned around to make sure the Greek was all right. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “For the record, I said ‘Jesus,’ not ‘Marcus.’”

  Andropoulos kept coughing while trying to apologize. “Sorry . . . I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I gagged a little, too.”

  The Greek leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Everyone has moments like this. And I mean everyone. Hell, I had several when I was a rookie. Trust me, I saw some things that could make a billy goat puke. . . . Not to say you’re going to puke. Because that would be bad.”

  “No, sir, I won’t puke.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Dial patted him on his back. “It smells bad enough already.”

  Andropoulos smiled at the comment. Not a huge grin, but one that signaled he was going to be all right. Dial gave him a moment to regain his composure, then handed him a tissue.

  “Wipe your eyes, blow your nose, or whatever you need to do. When you’re done, I’ll be back here, looking for more heads.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dial nodded and returned to work, focusing on the altar room instead of his assistant. Deep down inside, he knew that’s what Andropoulos needed. He didn’t need attention. He needed space. And Dial gave him plenty. He figured the young cop would return when he was ready. And if he didn’t return soon, he wasn’t nearly as tough as Dial thought he was.

  But Andropoulos didn’t disappoint him. Less than five minutes later he was standing in the back room, right next to Dial. And this time there were no signs of discomfort. No coughing. No hacking. No dry heaves. The color had even returned to his face. Somehow the kid had steadied himself without stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. To Dial, that was more impressive than someone with an iron stomach who wouldn’t have gagged in the first place.

  It showed that Andropoulos had character. That he could overcome setbacks. That he wouldn’t let his shortcomings keep him down.

  And strangely, Dial felt a hint of paternal pride.

  “Look over there,” he said as he pointed to several garbage bags in the corner. The interiors of the bags were covered in blood, as was the floor in front of the altar. “I’m guessing they stuffed the heads inside the bags and carried them down here for their little display.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To send a message. You don’t lug a bag of heads around if you aren’t sending a message.”

  “To us?” Andropoulos asked.

  “Definitely not. If they wanted us to find it, they would’ve left a blood trail.”

  To prove his point, Dial walked through the archway and shined the light on the floor in front of the empty shelves. As expected, there was no sign of blood outside the altar room.

  “No,” he surmised, “they used plastic bags to conceal this location. They wanted someone to find the heads—someone who knew about this place—but not us.”

  “Someone like Nicolas?”

  Dial shrugged. It was a fair question, but one he didn’t have an answer for quite yet. Not this early in the investigation. To change the topic, he said, “Any thoughts on the pyramid?”

  “Actually, sir, I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

  “I told you, I always have a theory. But I’m more concerned with yours.” Dial handed him the penlight and told him to take a closer look. “Let me know if you find anything.”

  Andropoulos gulped and leaned closer to examine the heads. Although decomposition had started—which was the source of the horrible smell—they still had their hair and skin and looked remarkably lifelike. Expressions of horror were frozen on their faces like Hallow een masks, as if they still felt the sting of the Spartan’s sword. To Andropoulos, one head stood out among the others. It was someone he recognized the moment he set foot in the room.

  “The man on top is the abbot,” he said.

  “Really? What about the others?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know the others. Just the abbot.”

  Dial nodded, wondering if the order of the heads or their configuration had any meaning. “Refresh my memory. What’s the name of the local monastery with the bone collection?”

  “Great Metéoron.”

  “Do they stack their skulls like this?”

  Andropoulos closed his eyes, trying to get a mental picture of the bone room. It had been many years since he had visited the site. “No, sir. They sit in six or seven rows, one row above another. But the skulls are not touching. They are separated by shelves.”

  Dial pointed to the first chamber. “Do their shelves look like that?”

  “No, sir. The shelves at Metéoron are simple boards. Not fancy at all.”

  “What about the altar? Does it look familiar to you?”

  Until that moment, Andropoulos hadn’t paid much attention to it. The sight and stench of the heads had been far too distracting. But now, under Dial’s watchful gaze, he had no choice. He had to narrow his focus. He had to concentrate on the stone altar.

  Made out of white marble, it stood in the center of the rear wall and nearly came up to his waist. The heads rested on a rectangular slab that was smooth and ten inches thick. All four sides were adorned with carvings of Greek soldiers. Some of them marching, some of them fighting, all of them looking courageous. The slab itself was supported by four legs that resembled ancient swords. But unlike the blades used in the massacre, these were one-sided and topped with intricate handles that were designed for pageantry. The type of swords used by kings, not hoplites.

  “Sorry, sir, I’ve never seen it before.”

  “And you’ve been to all the local monasteries?”

  Andropoulos nodded. “Yes, sir. All six of them.”

  “Tell me about their artwork. Do they have any themes?”

  “Themes, sir?”

  “Does the art have anything in common? Like angels or whatever.”

  “Most of the paintings are religious. Like scenes from the Bible.”

  “In other words, typical church shit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing unusual?”

  Andropoulos shook his head. “Not that I can remember.”

  “Nothing predating Christ?”

  “Sorry, sir, I don’t know much about art.”

  Dial nodded in empathy. History and art weren’t his strengths, either. Still, it seemed pretty strange that the public frescoes in the local monasteries showcased religion while the hidden artwork at Holy Trinity—the door, the shelves, the stone altar—featured war.

  What did warfare have to do with Metéora?

  Furthermore, what did it have to do with the murdered monks?

  Obviously, they were slaughtered for a reason. And in all likelihood their heads were severed to leave a message. But a message about what? About religion? About Greece?

  Or, as he feared, something he knew nothing about?

  Dial shook his head in frust
ration. How could he catch the killers if he couldn’t put the murders in a proper context? Without context, he couldn’t determine a motive. And without a motive, he couldn’t come up with a list of suspects—unless, of course, trace evidence discovered something unexpected. But at this stage of the game, he wasn’t counting on that.

  No, if he wanted to solve this case, he realized he had to learn more about the hidden artwork. And why men of peace would worship war.

  25

  Kaiser sat on a bench underneath one of the chestnut trees in St. Martin’s Square. A newspaper lay next to him. His manner was calm, completely relaxed. Like someone enjoying the warm weather on his lunch break. As people strolled by, he occasionally smiled and nodded. Sometimes he even waved. Whatever helped him blend in with his surroundings.

  Payne and Jones watched him from opposite ends of the square. They scanned all the faces around him, making sure nobody looked out of place. Not because they didn’t trust Kaiser, but because they were about to break the law in a very public place.

  And getting arrested was the last thing they needed.

  Once Jones was sure the plaza was clear, he signaled to Payne by crouching down and tying his shoe. It meant Payne could approach the bench with caution. From that point on, if Jones repeated the action, it meant trouble was coming and he needed to leave. Just to be safe, Kaiser had a signal as well. If he noticed anything suspicious, he would simply stand up and walk away.

  But so far, everything looked fine.

  Payne approached from the front just to make sure he didn’t startle Kaiser. For a large man Payne was incredibly light on his feet and had the innate ability to sneak up on people. His grandfather used to call it “walkin’ like an Indian.” Payne realized the expression was no longer politically correct, but “walkin’ like a Native American” didn’t have the same ring to it.

  “Take a seat,” Kaiser said.

  Payne sat on the bench and glanced across the square. Jones was standing near a bus stop, casually looking for danger. He saw none. “Any problems?”

  “Nope. I got everything you needed. Passports and visas are inside the newspaper. They look wonderful. You’ll be impressed.”

  “Weapons?”

  “In a shopping bag under the bench. Ammo, too.”

  “Boat?”

  “A fishing boat out of Finland. It looks shitty, but it’ll do the job. Details are inside the newspaper. Word of warning: The captain is something of a character. He was paid for twenty-four hours of service. After that, he’s out of there—whether you’re aboard or not.”

  Payne nodded. That’s how most mercenaries worked. “Money?”

  “I checked my account. We’re cool. Your transfer went through.”

  “Good. The second half will arrive shortly.”

  “I know it will.”

  Payne smiled. It had taken many years to earn that level of trust through a combination of keeping his promises and keeping his mouth shut. Those two skills went a long way in this business.

  “Anything else?”

  Kaiser nodded. “Now that you mention it, a couple of things are bothering me.”

  Payne glanced at him but said nothing.

  “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds when I told you guys about Russia. I know race is a sensitive subject to some people, but I would’ve felt like an asshole if I hadn’t mentioned it.”

  Payne shook his head. “Not to worry. You didn’t offend anyone. In fact, D.J. appreciated your candor. You know us. We hate surprises—especially overseas.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve been worried about that since breakfast.”

  “Well, stop your damn worrying. Things are cool on our end.”

  “In that case, let’s talk about the second thing. I wasn’t going to bring this up if you guys were pissed at me about number one. But since you aren’t, I figured I’d ask.”

  “Go on.”

  Kaiser leaned closer. “I need your opinion on something. Your honest opinion. Lies will do me no good here. I need you to tell me the truth.”

  Payne looked him and nodded. “I promise. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  A few seconds passed before Kaiser broke into a wide grin. “Where do you stand on the links versus patties debate?”

  Payne and Jones took a taxi back to Ramstein Air Base, arriving an hour before their flight to Finland. Unlike the first leg of their trip, when they rode in the belly of a cargo plane, their second flight would be far more pleasant—thanks to good fortune and a few favors.

  A brigadier general by the name of Adamson was vacationing in Helsinki and needed to be picked up that evening for a military summit in Stockholm. The transport plane was a richly appointed private jet—equipped with leather seats, TV screens, and a wet bar—that was owned and operated by military lobbyists based in Kaiserslautern. The flight was scheduled to be empty on its journey north, except for four armed guards who were to accompany the general to Sweden. But all that changed when Payne called one of his contacts at the Pentagon.

  Suddenly, six passengers would be making the trip.

  There were two main airports in Helsinki. Vantaa was the largest in Finland and the fourth largest in the Nordic countries. It handled most of the commercial flights into the capital city and served as the hub for Finnair, Finland’s largest airline. The other airport, Malmi, was much smaller and handled most of the private traffic into Helsinki. So that was where they were headed. Located 7 miles from the city, Malmi was much more relaxed than Vantaa in terms of rules, regulations, and inspections. Once they were on the ground, Payne and Jones knew they could slip into the terminal unseen. From there, they could take a taxi to Helsinki Harbor, where they would meet the boat captain that Kaiser had hired.

  Reclining in a leather seat, Payne stared out the window as the plane lifted off the runway. Within seconds, Germany disappeared from view, hidden by a bank of clouds that cast a shadow on the countryside below. Jones sat across from Payne, separated by a wooden table and a map of Saint Petersburg. As in their earlier flight, they would do most of their planning while they were in the air.

  “What’s on your mind?” asked Jones as he tapped his pencil on the table. He’d known Payne long enough to recognize his moods. Especially his bad ones.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  Payne sighed. “Sausage.”

  Jones didn’t smile or laugh. It would only encourage Payne to joke around, as he was apt to do. “Seriously, what’s bothering you?”

  Payne paused a few seconds before answering. “When I was growing up, I used to goof around with the same group of kids from my neighborhood. There were eight of us, all within two years of each other. A great bunch of guys. Every day after school we’d get together in this park near my house. Football, baseball, basketball, whatever. It didn’t really matter. If the weather was nice, you knew where to find us.”

  Jones listened, unsure where this was going.

  “Not surprisingly,” Payne continued, “I was the biggest kid on the block. Which, if you know anything about playground politics, meant I was the leader of the group. A real alpha dog.”

  Payne laughed at the memory. It was a cherished part of his life.

  “One day when I was nine, my best friend in the group—his name was Chad—couldn’t play because he had to rake his yard. We lived in this wooded stretch of Pittsburgh where the trees outnumbered the houses by about five hundred to one. I’m talking Sherwood Forest minus Robin Hood. Oak trees, maples, you name it. Everywhere you looked, nothing but falling leaves.”

  Jones smiled in empathy. His town house was pretty close to where Payne grew up.

  “Anyway, Chad was a clever kid. He tried to convince me to get all the guys to help him rake his yard so we’d have the same number of players for our afternoon game. Obviously, I laughed in his face. No way in hell I was going to rake someone else’s yard for free. I mean, I was nine years old. No one volunteers to do chores when they’re nine. That�
��s un-American.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “So,” Payne said, “the seven of us go to the park to play football. I’m all-time quarterback, wearing my Steelers jersey, and we’re playing three on three. The sun goes down, the lights kick on, and we keep on playing well past dinnertime. This goes on for another hour or so. We’re covered in mud, having the time of our lives, laughing like there’s no tomorrow. Simply having a great day . . .”

  Payne paused. “Until we heard the siren.”

  Jones felt his stomach drop.

  “We’re kids, right? And damn curious about life, so I grab the ball and run toward the noise. Soon another siren can be heard in the distance. And another. And another. We see the flashing lights and think it’s the coolest thing in the world. Something exciting is happening on our block! I’m leading the pack because I’m the fastest runner. The whole time I’ve got the ball under my arm, pretending I’m being chased by the Dallas Cowboys. I’m dodging mailboxes, jumping over curbs, acting like a total idiot. Without a care in the world. Until I saw Chad’s bike in the middle of the street. The damn thing was completely mangled.”

  Payne cleared his throat, fighting back his emotions. “I skid to a stop and so do the other guys. There are seven of us, just standing there on the side of the road, growing up in the blink of an eye. None of us knew what to say or do. Finally, one of their parents—I can’t remember whose—ran over to us and made us turn away so we wouldn’t see the cops scrape Chad off the road. Sorry, too late. I had already seen more than I’d wanted to. . . . Lucky me, huh?”

  Jones asked, “How did it happen?”

  “My best guess is that he raked his yard until it was too dark to rake. After that, he knew we’d still be playing in the park under the lights, so he hopped on his bike and pedaled as fast as he could to join us. Some guy driving a truck didn’t see him, and, well, that was that.”

  Payne paused before continuing. “That night, as you can probably imagine, I had trouble sleeping. My parents, who were still alive back then, came into my room in the middle of the night to make sure I was okay, but I wasn’t in there. They looked all over the house, but I was nowhere to be found. So now they start panicking. One kid had already died that night, now they’re worried about me. They call the cops. They call the neighbors. They call everyone they can think of. In less than an hour, a search party was formed and they’re out looking for me. I mean, my parents were freaking out. Totally sick with worry. Finally, after an hour or two, somebody spots me and tells my parents where I am.”