The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  But here, on the rock-strewn peninsula where Xerxes’ army once marched?

  Apollo loved his chances.

  Dial’s tour continued as Clive drove his boat past Xenofóntos, a waterfront monastery that was founded in A.D. 1010. Over the centuries, it had been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times, and this was reflected in the newer architecture of some of the buildings.

  “Coming up is one of my favorites,” Clive said as he pushed the throttle forward, doubling the boat’s speed in a heartbeat. “It goes by many names: Agíou Panteleímonos, Saint Panteleimon, and Rosikón. Around here, they simply call it ‘the Russian one.’ ”

  Even without an introduction, Dial would have known its country of affiliation. The onion-domed churches and colorful roofs were a dead giveaway. The complex was built like a small Russian town. Buildings of various heights and colors surrounded a courtyard that could not be seen from the water. A century ago, more than 1,400 monks had lived inside. That was no longer possible, not since 1968 when a fire ravaged the guest wing that once housed 1,000 people.

  Nowadays the community was much smaller than it had been in previous centuries. Fewer than fifty monks lived there, but since it was the only Russian monastery in Mount Athos, it was one of the most popular to visit—especially for followers of the Russian Orthodox faith.

  Three of the Russian monks were working near the shore. Despite the sunny weather, they wore black stovepipe hats and long black cloaks. Their beards were dark and bushy.

  Clive slowed his boat. “Not only are their chapels gorgeous, but you haven’t heard chanting until you’ve heard one of their services. The Slavonic Liturgy is like a symphony.”

  Dial smiled. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’m still hoping I can get you inside.”

  “I hope so, too. Speaking of which, how much farther to the main port?”

  “I could gun it and get you to Dáfni in two minutes, but the harbor police are stationed there. It might be best if we approach with a modicum of respect.”

  Dáfni is a small port town in the center of the Athos Peninsula. From its position on the western coast, boat traffic is monitored and visitors to the Holy Mountain are screened. A maximum of 120 Orthodox Christian visitors are allowed daily. The number of non- Orthodox Christians is capped at 14 per day. A visitor’s permit, known as a Diamoneterion, must be acquired well in advance—unless a special invitation was issued by Karyes, the capital of Mount Athos.

  Dial hoped for one of those invitations. But he knew his odds were slim.

  After tying his boat to one of the smaller docks, Clive led Dial and Andropoulos toward the front gate. It was made of metal and looked rather flimsy. The man standing beside it did not. He wore the uniform of a customs officer. His muscles bulged against his sleeves. A sidearm hung at his hip like a sheriff from the Old West. His face was intense; his eyes were focused.

  “Let me talk to him first,” Clive said as he walked along the quay. “Our goal is to get you past this gate. Once inside, you still have to get through customs and his supervisor.”

  “Do they speak English?” Dial wondered.

  “Some do, some don’t. I’ll introduce you in Greek, just in case.”

  “Marcus is Greek. He can serve as my translator, if that will help.”

  “That can’t hurt,” Clive admitted. “Neither can your badge.”

  Dial glanced around the port. It was completely empty. Early in the day, when the ferry arrived from Ouranoúpoli, a line of pilgrims stretched out to the dock. By mid-afternoon, the place was devoid of activity. It would stay that way until the ferry came again.

  “Hang tight,” Clive said. He patted Dial on the shoulder, and walked over to the customs officer. The two of them had a quiet conversation in Greek. Andropoulos strained to hear their words, but the gentle waves that lapped against the rocky shore prevented that.

  A minute later, Clive was waving them over for an introduction. “This is Nick Dial, the director of the Homicide Division at Interpol. And this is Marcus Andropoulos, his assistant.”

  The officer nodded from behind the steel fence. “May I have your identification?”

  It was phrased as a question, but it came across as an order. The officer wanted to take their badges inside the terminal for further verification. Knowing this, Dial did as requested, handing both of them through a slit in the wire fence.

  The officer glanced at them, and then called out in Greek. Soon a second officer emerged from the station house. He looked remarkably similar to the first one. Young, muscular, and rather unhappy. They quickly swapped places, so the original guard could head inside.

  Grabbing Dial’s arm, Clive pulled him away for a private conversation.

  “Don’t do anything stupid like offering them a bribe,” Clive warned. “That would be viewed as disrespectful. Instead, I would stress that you are here for the monks’ safety. Tell them you’re investigating the murders at Metéora, and you’re trying to stop a repeat performance. That might get their attention.”

  “Fortunately, that’s exactly why I’m here.”

  “Good. Because lying will get you nowhere.”

  Dial glanced over his shoulder. The guard was staring at them. “Any other advice?”

  “No advice,” Clive said as he shook his hand. “But I wish you luck.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Dial smiled and gave him his business card. “If I can ever be of service, just give me a call.”

  “Trust me, I will. I’d love to hear how this all turns out. I’m a sucker for a good story.”

  Dial and Andropoulos were waved through the front gate, where they were met by the first guard. Without saying a word, he returned their badges, then led them across the compound. In some ways, Dial felt as if he were in Purgatory. He knew where he wanted to go; he just didn’t know if he’d be allowed to get there. It was all up to the holy men who were already inside.

  “What now?” Dial asked as they strolled across the tiny courtyard.

  Stone buildings served as barriers on the left, on the right, and straight ahead. Trees and flowers dotted the perimeter, making it seem more like a town square than a customs checkpoint, but Dial knew exactly what it was. It was a buffer zone between Mount Athos and the outside world.

  “Go in there,” the guard ordered as he pointed to an open door on the left.

  Dial nodded and walked in first, followed by Andropoulos. An older officer stood behind a wooden counter. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and bushy eyebrows. He wore the same uniform as the other guards, except he had several more patches on his chest and sleeve.

  “Hello,” he said in English. “Are you Director Dial?”

  Dial shook the man’s hand. “Please call me Nick. This is Marcus, my assistant.”

  “My name is Petros. I am supervisor of border. How can I assist you?”

  “We are investigating the massacre at Metéora and would like to enter Mount Athos to continue our investigation. We believe there is a connection between the monasteries.”

  Petros sighed. “I was told of deaths at Metéora. It is a tragedy.”

  “Eight monks lost their lives that night. I would like to prevent number nine.”

  “Are our monks at risk?”

  Dial nodded. “Until we catch the men who did this, all monks are at risk. That is why I’m here. To avoid another tragedy.”

  Petros studied Dial’s eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a few seconds, he found the answer he was searching for. “If I could, I would let you through at once. But choice is not mine. Without a permit, I must get permission from governor in Karyes.”

  “Can you try?”

  “Yes, I can try. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  Petros leaned in closer and whispered. “I am told he is in bad mood today. He woke up early for important meeting, and his colleague never showed.”

  65

  Dial and Andropoulos sat in the cu
stoms office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.

  Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.

  When Petros returned, he broke the news to Dial. “I am sorry, Nick. There is nothing more I can do. Not until morning.”

  Dial took it in stride. “Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best.”

  “I did, and so did your colleague. He called the governor twice while I was there.”

  Dial was pleased by the thought of Toulon groveling.

  “If you like, you can spend night in Dáfni.”

  “Where? In here?”

  Petros laughed. “Not in this office, across courtyard. We have small hotel, market, and restaurant. You are not the first traveler who has been denied entry.”

  “I don’t know,” Dial said as he considered his alternatives. “What are the odds that the governor will let me through tomorrow morning?”

  “I am not sure. It depends on his mood. But if he says no, I have other options.”

  “Such as?”

  “Each monastery has one abbot. If he extends a personal invitation, you may enter grounds with special permit. Twenty monasteries mean twenty chances.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Most people do not. It is customs secret.”

  “But if I can’t come in, how can I plead my case?”

  “You cannot. But I can,” Petros said. “And most abbots are nicer than the governor.”

  As the plane touched down in Limnos, Payne stared at the Venetian castle that was perched above the island’s main harbor. Built in the thirteenth century, its gray stone walls contrasted sharply with the red-tiled roofs that lined the sandy beaches.

  Jarkko beamed with pride. “Is beautiful, no?”

  Payne nodded. “Very. I’ve never been to this part of Greece before.”

  “My yacht is in marina. We will be there soon.”

  “How far are we from Mount Athos?”

  “You shall see shortly.”

  Payne wasn’t sure what Jarkko meant until they stepped out of the plane. Even though they were more than 50 miles away from the mountain, Payne could see the snowcapped peak in the distance. It towered over the Aegean as Mount Fuji towered above Japan.

  Jarkko patted him on the back. “I hope you bring coat!”

  The Spartans lingered a few miles offshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they eased their boat into the southwest corner of the peninsula and dropped anchor.

  One by one, they jumped into the waist-deep water and made their way to the shore. Ten of them in total, all of them dressed in battle gear. Breastplates and greaves protected their bodies and shins, and helmets protected their heads. They carried shields on one arm. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs, and daggers hung from their hips. One Spartan looked different—it was Apollo, the leader of the group, who had a plume of red horsehair topping his helmet, which signified his rank.

  He would set the pace. He would give the orders.

  He would tell them when to kill.

  And soon, their swords would be bathed in blood.

  Dial paced back and forth like a caged tiger. When he looked out the window of his cramped hotel room in Dáfni, he could see the grounds of Mount Athos. He was literally a foot away from being inside. But because of his job title, he couldn’t risk breaking the glass or breaking the rules.

  “Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself as he replayed the day’s events in his head.

  Three cops were missing, and so were all the Spartans.

  The governor was being a total prick, and time was ticking away.

  Dial wondered how things could get any worse. Then the phone rang.

  “Nick,” Toulon said in a soft voice, “the police in Spárti brought in some dogs, and they found a lot of blood.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the entrance to the Spartan village and in a fighting pit near their school.”

  “They have a fighting pit?”

  “Oui. The blood was buried under a layer of stones and dirt. That is why they did not see it. When they dug underneath, they found blood, hair, skin, and teeth.”

  “Shit.”

  “Whoever was in there was hacked into pieces.”

  Dial’s voice hardened as his anger boiled inside. “Any bodies?”

  “No.”

  “What about villagers?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I am sorry about before,” Toulon assured him. “I tried calling the governor several times, but I had no luck getting through. I can try again tomorrow, if you would like.”

  “No, Henri, I’ll handle customs myself.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Stay in touch with Spárti. If you learn anything, I want to know at once.”

  A gíou Pávlou, or Saint Paul’s, is the southernmost monastery on Mount Athos. Inside its walls, many treasures are protected, including fragments of the True Cross and some of the gifts brought to Jesus by the Magi. Outside its community, it owns two sketes—small villages of hermitic monks who prefer to live in seclusion away from the larger monastery. Both of them, Néa Skiti and Skiti Agías Annas, are located on the southwest corner of the peninsula and are connected to Saint Paul’s by a simple path through the dense forest.

  At this time of night, the two monks did not expect to see anyone on the way to their skete. Hauling supplies on the back of a mule, they heard a rustling in the trees and paused to find the source of the sound. The lead monk lifted his lantern and was stunned by the sight. A man, dressed in full armor and carrying a sword, stepped through a thicket of bushes. A second later, another soldier emerged behind them, blocking any avenue of retreat.

  The monks and the mule were now trapped.

  “Hello,” said a voice from the trees. The two monks turned toward their right as Apollo stepped onto the dirt path. The red plume on the top of his helmet glowed in the lantern light. “We are seeking the next ridge. Is there a road?”

  Both monks shook their heads.

  “I thought not.” Apollo paused as he glanced at the dark peak that hovered above him. Its silhouette could barely be seen in the pale moonlight. “Kill them.”

  In unison, the two soldiers lifted their swords and slashed the monks’ throats. Both holy men made gurgling sounds as they fell to their knees, drenched in a fountain of blood. The crash of their lanterns spooked the mule, which started kicking and braying.

  The commotion was stopped a moment later when the Spartans struck again.

  This time silencing the defenseless animal.

  66

  When Payne and Jones landed on the southeastern tip of the peninsula, they knew nothing about the Spartans. Otherwise, they would have approached their mission differently. For starters, they would have kept Allison on the yacht, far away from the violence that was about to erupt on Mount Athos. But since they weren’t expecting any bloodshed, they let her join the group.

  After all, she was the expert on ancient treasures.

  “I feel kind of guilty,” she said as they trudged up the narrow beach toward the first hill. “Women aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “Feel free to wait with Jarkko,” Payne said from the front position.

  “No way. This is the chance of a lifetime. Besides, I’m just following Schliemann’s lead.”

  “How so?”

  “He dressed up as a Bedouin tribesman and snuck into the forbidden city of Mecca. Do you know the courage it
took to do that?”

  Jones smirked from behind her. “I’m not impressed.”

  “You’re not impressed? It’s a Muslim-only city. They would have killed him if they caught him.”

  “Been there, done that.”

  Allison wanted to ask Jones, who had sneaked into Mecca for a mission, what he meant by his comment, but Payne ordered them to shut up. They were heading into the first line of trees, and he wanted to move in silence—especially at the lower altitudes, where they were more likely to run into guards.

  According to Jarkko’s map, Megístis Lávras, the largest and oldest monastery on Mount Athos, sat a few miles to the northeast of their landing point. A large Romanian skete called Prodromos was even closer, maybe a mile away. The two communities were connected by a narrow footpath that continued across the southern tip of the peninsula and eventually joined a bigger trail along the western shore. Until they crossed that road, there would be no talking.

  Payne led the way, shining a tiny flashlight along the hillside so he could maneuver between the rocks and trees. Allison and Jones had flashlights as well, but they used them sparingly.

  All of them were dressed in a similar manner. Long dark pants, sturdy shoes, and dark short-sleeved shirts. Large packs hung from their backs. Eventually, once they reached the higher elevations and the temperature dropped, they would add layers of clothes. Until then, it was important not to sweat too much or they would get dehydrated during their journey.

  Mount Athos was 6,670 feet tall. If Schliemann’s treasure map was correct, they were searching for a cave roughly halfway up the mountain. By the time they finished their trek, the weather would be much colder, and they would be exhausted.

  The guard wasn’t allowed to smoke on duty, yet he did so every night. He would walk along the trail, listening to the waves as they crashed against the rocks below, and think about his life. In some ways, he was like the hermitic monks who lived in the nearby skete. He loved the peace and quiet of the southern end of the peninsula, where nothing ever happened.