Payne furrowed his brow. “What was he looking for?”
“I have no idea. He never trusted me enough to tell me.”
“Come on. Don’t give me that. A smart gal like you, you must have a theory.”
She smiled. “I have a couple.”
“Such as?”
“As I mentioned, Richard didn’t care about the treasures that Schliemann found. He was more concerned with the ones he didn’t. So I focused my attention there, trying to figure out what Schliemann was hunting for in the latter stages of his life. Two days before he died, despite a horrible ear infection that had required several operations in the preceding weeks, Schliemann toured the ruins of Pompeii. As you probably know, the city was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in seventy-nine A.D. and wasn’t rediscovered until the mid- seventeen hundreds.”
“Pardon my ignorance,” Payne said. “But isn’t Pompeii in Italy?”
She nodded. “Near Naples.”
“What does it have to do with Ancient Greece?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. But Richard had an interest in the place, probably because of Schliemann. One day he showed me ancient maps of Pompeii, along with some artwork that survived the blast. Another time he asked me about Herculaneum, Pompeii’s wealthier sister city, which was also destroyed.”
Jones asked, “And you’re not sure why Schliemann was there?”
“I have absolutely no idea. Schliemann was consumed with Ancient Greece, not Ancient Rome. So it didn’t make sense to me. However, a week before we came to Russia, Richard left me in Berlin for a few days. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or when he was coming back, but my room was paid for, so I didn’t complain. I used the time to work on my thesis. When he returned, he summoned me to his room, where we did the same routine as before. I looked at pictures and offered my opinions. While this was going on, I noticed his suitcase sitting in the corner. It had an airport tag that read Aeroporto di Napoli. He had been to Naples.”
“Strange,” Jones admitted. “Very strange.”
“So was this trip to Saint Petersburg. We weren’t supposed to come here. We were supposed to go to Greece. At least that’s what I was told when I was hired. We’d be in Germany for a while, and then we were going to Greece. He changed our itinerary at the last minute.”
Payne nodded, realizing that Petr Ulster had mentioned the same thing on the phone. He had fully expected Byrd to be in Greece, not Russia. That meant either Byrd was playing a game, trying to deceive everyone who knew anything about his project, or something had altered his travel plans. If that was the case, it could be the reason he was killed.
“Out of curiosity,” Payne said, “how’d you get into Russia?”
“By plane.”
He shook his head. “Not to Russia, into Russia. This country requires a travel visa, which takes some time to acquire. Without it, you aren’t getting in. So how’d you get in?”
Allison blushed and lowered her eyes. Payne noticed it immediately. It was the first time during their conversation that she had looked away. The first time he sensed something was off.
“What is it?” Payne demanded.
She took a moment to gather her senses, to re-collect her cool. Then she looked at him. “Sorry. I’m just embarrassed. I normally don’t break the law.”
Payne stared at her, studying her every tic. Making sure that she was telling the truth.
She said, “We snuck into the country. I’m not proud of it, but we did. There wasn’t time to get a real visa, so Richard got us fake ones in Berlin. Fake names. Fake visas. Fake everything. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”
Jones mumbled under his breath. “Fucking Kaiser.”
Payne nodded in agreement. Byrd had the cash, and Kaiser ran the underground in Germany. It was a match made in smuggler heaven. “That explains why you wouldn’t go to the American consulate.”
“How could I? I wasn’t supposed to be here. Richard told me I’d be arrested on the spot.”
“Not arrested, detained. But you still should’ve gone. It’s better than being shot.”
She conceded his point. “You’re right. You’re definitely right. And if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve gone to the consulate. I swear I would have.”
“Great,” Jones teased. “Now she’s blaming us.”
“What?” she said defensively. “I’m not blaming you. I’m thanking you. Without you guys, I would be dead or in prison. There’s no doubt in my mind. So thank you for coming here.”
“You’re welcome,” Jones said. “Glad we could help.”
Payne glanced at him. “Don’t go patting yourself on the back just yet. She’s still in Russia. She’s still in danger. And we still don’t know why.”
“True,” he admitted. “Very true. But I have a few theories on the topic—including a possible solution to her woe.”
“Did you just say ‘woe’?”
Jones smiled. “I did, my good man, I did. Shall I define it for you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Good. Then I’ll get straight to my point.” Jones looked at Allison. “How long were you going to stay in Russia?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks.”
“So there’s a good chance your rooms are still paid for, right?”
“Definitely. At least for a few more days. Richard always paid ahead.”
Jones continued. “And since he was the private type, I’m sure he had a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on his door the entire trip, right?”
She nodded.
“I’m also guessing that wasn’t good enough for him, so he probably locked his documents in his room safe—even when he used the bathroom.”
“Like clockwork.”
“No problem,” bragged Jones, who had picked many locks in his day. Not only in the Special Forces, but also as a private detective. “Hotel locks are easy. Give me five minutes and that safe is mine. Another two and I can collect your research. By the time I’m done, your room will be spotless. No one will even know you stayed there.”
“And then what?” Payne wondered.
“Then we come back here and look through Richard’s stuff. It’s obvious the guy was hiding something. Once we know what it was, we’ll be a whole lot closer to solving his murder.”
35
From the moment Nick Dial entered the grounds of Great Metéoron, he felt like an outsider.
Unlike Holy Trinity, which was filled with talkative cops, bloodstained floors, and severed heads, Great Metéoron was a working monastery. Everywhere Dial looked, he saw silent monks, manicured gardens, and religious icons. It was enough to make his skin crawl. If he wanted to walk around in peaceful harmony, he would have moved to Tibet. Or smoked a lot of pot.
As it was, he was investigating a murder. He didn’t have time to chant. Or inhale.
“I feel like I’m back in high school,” Dial said to Andropoulos as they made their way up the stone steps that led to the main courtyard, which was adorned with trees. Potted flowers lined most of the walls and walkways.
“Why is that?” Andropoulos wondered.
Dial passed two monks who gave him the evil eye, as if they had just caught him pissing on a church altar. Other monks had acted the same way. He didn’t know if it was due to his talking or because he was visiting the monastery on the one day it was supposed to be closed to the public. Whatever the reason, he felt the cold glares of the holy men everywhere he walked.
Dial said, “My father was an assistant football coach, which is one of the least stable jobs in America. When he succeeded, he was hired by better colleges. When he failed, he was fired and we were forced to move. Either way, it meant I was always the new kid at school. And the new kid was always treated like this.”
Andropoulos smiled. It was the first time Dial had opened up to him. Even at dinner the night before, the two of them had mostly talked about the case, not their private lives. “Don’t take
it personally, sir. These men have chosen a life of solitude. They view us as a link to the outside world. A world that recently claimed eight of their own.”
“Don’t worry. I never take things personally. I didn’t back then, and I don’t now.”
Great Metéoron, also known as Megálo Metéoro, is the oldest and largest of the six local monasteries. Founded in 1340 by Saint Athana sios Meteorites, a scholar monk from Mount Athos, it had expanded several times over the years, housing as many as three hundred monks in the mid-sixteenth century. What started as a single building carved into the rock had expanded to a small town on top of it—more than two thousand feet above the valley below. There were four chapels, a cathedral, a tower, a refectory, a dormitory, a hospital, and several other structures.
Most of them made of stone. Most of them centuries old.
Dial soaked it all in as they followed the stone pathway between the buildings. Thankfully, Andropoulos knew where they were going, or Dial would have been forced to ask directions from one of the monks. A conversation that would have been, undoubtedly, one-sided.
A few minutes later, they met Joseph, a fair-haired monk and one of the youngest at Great Metéoron. Because of his low standing in the order, he had been assigned to be their tour guide while Theodore finished his research in the library. Joseph, who was so young he couldn’t even grow a decent beard, was waiting for them outside the monastery’s katholikón, an Eastern Orthodox term for cathedral. Dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ, it was often called the Church of the Metamorphosis. Built in 1544 to replace a smaller katholikón that still served as its sanctuary, it was the most important building in the entire complex.
“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”
Dial stepped inside the katholikón and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.
Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”
Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology—the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.
“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”
“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”
Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”
“What are you talking about?”
Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.
Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes—images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God—that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.
“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.
Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.
“Jesus,” Dial said as he angrily turned toward Andropoulos. “How did you forget about this? There’s a pile of fucking heads on the ceiling!”
Andropoulos was about to defend himself when he was saved by Joseph. The monk heard Dial’s vulgarity and charged toward him like an angry rhino protecting its young.
“This is a house of God!” he snarled. “You must show respect in here.”
“Sorry,” Dial apologized, quickly realizing his mistake. Embarrassed, he lowered his head to convey his shame. It was a technique he had learned while working in Japan. “Please forgive me. I forgot where I was. I’m truly sorry for my behavior.”
The young monk paused, as if he had been expecting a confrontation that never materialized. He was so surprised by this development that his anger melted away, replaced by mercy and forgiveness.
“This is our church,” Joseph said, his voice much kinder than a moment before. “Treat it as you would your own.”
Dial nodded, apologetically. “Speaking of churches,” he whispered in a reverential tone, “I was wondering about these paintings. They seem out of place in a house of worship.”
“Not to us.”
“I don’t follow.”
Joseph gazed at the ceiling, his eyes twinkling with awe and admiration. “In the Orthodox faith, one must ask himself what he would do if his beliefs were ever challenged. Would he display the courage and stamina that is necessary to overcome the pains of the flesh? Does he have the devotion in his heart that would lead him to martyrdom? Most people would crumble like ancient ruins, unwilling to fight for what they believed in. But some, like those brave souls honored above, were willing to die for their cause. And to them, we give our respect.”
Dial realized that Joseph was talking about Christianity. But given the circumstances of the massacre and all the connections that Dial had found to soldiers and war, he couldn’t help but wonder if the monks had died for a cause as well—something that had nothing to do with their Orthodox faith. That would explain why seven elderly monks, from different parts of the world, were secretly meeting at Holy Trinity. The odds were pretty damn good they weren’t debating religious doctrine. That type of conversation would be held during the day in a city like Athens, not in the middle of the night on top of a rocky plateau.
So what had they been discussing? What was worth dying for?
Andropoulos pointed at the ceiling. “What is the significance of the heads?”
The monk glanced upward. “Those are the heads of saints, the men we admire most. They gave their lives for their faith. . . . If you look closely, you will notice halos above them. It is our way of showing reverence to their sacrifice.”
In the dim church light, Dial strained to see the halos. On closer inspection, he noticed tiny gold loops above the severed heads. It was a strange twist to an already strange painting.
“Come,” Joseph said. “If you are interested in heads, I have a special treat.”
A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of a wooden door. It was spotted with black knots and cracked down the middle from centuries of rot. Yet it still hung on its hinges, protecting its occupants from the outside world. The smell of incense leaked from a foot-high arch that was cut in the door. Dial moved closer and saw candlelight flickering inside the room. As the flames danced, he saw death.
“This is the ossuary,” Joseph explained as he opened the door. “Some call it a bone room. Or a charnel house. This is where we keep our dead.”
Dial walked in first, not the least bit scared by what h
e saw. If anything, he was captivated by the morbidity. Seven rows of wooden shelves, all of them lined with skulls that stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He moved closer, marveling at their shapes, the curve of their craniums, the hollowness of their nasal cavities. Even in death, after years of rot and decay, he could imagine their faces. He could picture the way they had looked when they were alive.
“These are our founders,” Joseph whispered. “They remind us how short our life is on earth and how insignificant we truly are.”
Dial stared at the lowest shelf. Stacks of bones—femurs, tibias, ribs, and more—were wedged under and between the bottom row of skulls. Entire skeletons crammed into a tiny space like books in a library. None of it seemed respectful to Dial, who had seen burial traditions in many countries. But he realized different cultures believed in different things, so he wasn’t the least bit offended by the way they treated their dead. Just intrigued.
Turning to his right, he noticed a wooden cabinet standing next to the stone wall. He walked toward it, staring at the two framed photographs that sat on the top of the unit. Each one was a picture of a monk. They were dressed in their traditional black cassocks and caps, although the two men looked nothing alike. One was old and regal. His eyes filled with wisdom. His beard gray with age. Meanwhile, the other monk was younger than Dial. His cheeks were round and chubby. His smile full of life. Yet both pictures were displayed in the same manner. They were surrounded by several lit candles in metal trays and tiny gold lanterns filled with incense.
The scent was piney and pungent, like a forest fire.
Dial asked, “Who are they?”
Joseph answered, his voice vacant of any emotion. “That is the abbot and the caretaker of Holy Trinity. We honor their sacrifice and mourn our loss.”
Dial glanced back at the monk, who showed no signs of sadness. Normally, that would have raised a red flag with Dial, particularly in a community as small as Metéora, where everyone knew everybody else. But considering the skulls and images he had seen in the last twenty minutes, Dial realized the monks had a much different view of death from most people’s.
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