The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  A moment later it was spitting out a sheet of paper that was nearly blank. One line for the header. One line for the phone call. Then nothing but empty white.

  Still, the missing page gave them their biggest break yet.

  A phone number that they recognized.

  10

  Andropoulos hustled from room to room, searching for his boss. He finally spotted Dial in the main courtyard, where he and an elderly monk were leaving the bell tower. Andropoulos stopped in his tracks, not sure if he should approach, until Dial waved him over.

  “Nicolas,” Dial said as an introduction, “this is Marcus, my squire.”

  The old man nodded but said nothing.

  “Where have you been hiding?” Dial wondered.

  “Sir,” Andropoulos whispered, “we need to speak.”

  “That’s right. I promised you a chance to impress me. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

  “No, sir. It’s not that. It’s something else.”

  “Such as?”

  Andropoulos shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s confidential.”

  Dial glanced at Nicolas, half-embarrassed. He had spent the past several minutes trying to convince the monk that he would be kept in the loop on everything, hoping to establish a level of trust that rarely existed between church and state. Now the first thing out of Andropoulos’s mouth was that he had a secret. Talk about shitty timing.

  “Don’t worry. I understand,” Nicolas said. “Some things are not meant to be shared.”

  “Talk tomorrow?” Dial asked.

  The old monk nodded, then hobbled out of sight.

  Dial waited until Nicolas was completely out of earshot before he turned his attention to Andropoulos. “This better be good.”

  “It is,” the young cop assured him. “Potentially great.”

  “How great are we talking?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to show you something and get your opinion.”

  “Oh goody. Show-and-tell!” Dial said sarcastically. “Please, lead the way.”

  The two of them walked across the monastery toward the small annex that had been built behind the main chapel. It was an unremarkable building with several windows that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Andropoulos opened the narrow door and ducked inside the stuffy room. Originally it had been used for meditation; now it served as a gift shop.

  Dial stepped inside and stared at the cheap trinkets on the tables. Suddenly, snippets of his conversation with Nicolas sprang to mind.

  The old monk was right. Agia Triada had become a haven for tourists.

  “Don’t tell me,” Dial said. “You want me to buy you a T-shirt.”

  Andropoulos ignored the comment. He was far too excited about his discovery. “Earlier you said the difference between a good investigator and a bad one was the ability to examine a scene. Well, as far as I know, I’m the first one to notice this.”

  Dial glanced around the room, confused. “Notice what?”

  Andropoulos pointed toward a chest of drawers that rested along the rear wall. The cabinet was carved out of local wood and stained a dark brown. On top sat a metal box where the monastery kept the money from any gift purchases.

  Dial walked over and examined it. He was less than impressed.

  “You brought me here for this?”

  The Greek shook his head. “Look above you.”

  Dial did as he was told. The ceiling was held up by ancient beams that were cracked and splintered. Most had been there for hundreds of years and looked as if they might give way. Suddenly, Dial didn’t feel very safe. In fact, he was about to ask for a hard hat when he noticed something that was out of place. It was a flat piece of glass, roughly the size of a coin.

  “Wait. What is that? Is that a camera?”

  Andropoulos nodded as he approached the cabinet. “The wire runs on top of the wood and drops down behind the stone. Then it comes out of the wall and goes into this.”

  He opened the right-hand drawer, revealing a small video recorder.

  Dial stared at the device. “I’ll be damned. The monks have a nanny cam. Seems kind of strange in a place that teaches love and trust.”

  “A nanny cam?”

  “Sorry. It’s an American term. It means a hidden video camera. Sometimes parents set it up when they aren’t at home to spy on their babysitters.”

  “Ah, yes! I have heard of this. We have something similar in Greece.”

  “Really? What’s it called?”

  “A neighbor.”

  Dial laughed. Sometimes old-fashioned methods worked just as well.

  “So,” Andropoulos asked, “did I do good?”

  “Yes,” Dial admitted, “this was good work on your part. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, the viewing angle won’t give us any video of the killers. Unless, of course, they came in here to pick out a souvenir.”

  “Yes, I agree. That camera is no good for our needs. But it made me think. If they put a camera in here, maybe they put a camera out there.”

  “Maybe.”

  Andropoulos continued. “Then I remembered that many local monasteries keep a tin box in the chapel so people can donate money. Do you have this in America?”

  “Some churches do.”

  “Well, do you know where the chapel is from here?”

  Dial smiled in understanding. “On the other side of this wall.”

  “Yes,” said the Greek as he opened the left-hand drawer. Inside was a second video system that was identical to the first. “On the other side of that wall.”

  Even though Dial used to be one of the top investigators in the world, his current job with Interpol was mostly administrative. He was allowed to make suggestions and give advice to NCB agents in the field, but when it came to gathering evidence, that was strictly the duty of local officers, since they were responsible for the chain of custody in local courts.

  In reality, Dial knew his involvement with this case was slightly premature. One of Interpol’s bylaws prohibited him from working on any military or religious crimes, which was Interpol’s way of staying politically and philosophically neutral. But as a division chief, he was allowed to use discretion on any homicide with unknown motives, a gray area that he often took advantage of-including a famous case that had involved crucifixions on several continents. That was one of the reasons he had spent so much time talking to Nicolas about the monastic way of life. He needed to determine if this was a crime against the Orthodox faith or something else.

  If it was a hate crime, Dial had no choice. He would be forced to step aside.

  If not, there was still a major hurdle that he needed to clear if he wanted to stay involved. Dial needed to prove that this case affected multiple member states. Otherwise, it would be considered a domestic issue, and the Greeks could ask him to leave at once.

  Strangely, Dial wasn’t the least bit concerned. Experience had taught him to view everything as one piece of the puzzle. And he knew in his gut that something significant was going on, something that transcended religious crimes and crossed foreign borders.

  He wasn’t sure about specifics, but he didn’t plan on leaving until he figured it out.

  11

  Küsendorf, Switzerland (82 miles southeast of Bern)

  Clinging to the southern slopes of the Lepontine Alps, Küsendorf is a village of nearly 2,000 people in Ticino, the southernmost canton (or state) in Switzerland. Known for its scenic views and local brand of Swiss cheese, Küsendorf is the home of the Ulster Archives, the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world.

  Built as a temporary haven for Austrian philanthropist Conrad Ulster, the Archives Building eventually became his permanent residence. During the early 1930s, Ulster, an avid collector of rare artifacts, sensed the political instability in his country and realized there was a good chance that his prized library would be seized by the Nazis. To protect himself and his books, he smuggled his collection across the Swiss bo
rder in railcars, hidden under thin layers of brown coal, and kept out of public view until after World War II. He died in 1964 but expressed his thanks to the people of Switzerland by donating his estate to his adopted hometown-provided they kept his collection intact and accessible to the world’s best academic minds.

  For the past decade, the Archives had been run by his grandson Petr Ulster, who had been forced to rebuild several floors after religious zealots tried to burn the place to the ground. Their goal was to destroy ancient documents that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church.

  Thankfully, the attack failed, thwarted by two men whom Petr considered heroes.

  Jonathon Payne and David Jones.

  Ulster heard the ringing of his private line and lumbered across his office to answer it. He was a round man in his early forties with a thick brown beard that covered his multiple chins. Yet he came across as boylike, because of the twinkle in his eye and his enthusiasm for life.

  “Hello,” he said with a faint Swiss accent. “This is Petr.”

  “Hello, Petr. This is Jon.”

  Ulster broke into a broad smile. “Jonathon! How glorious it is to hear your voice. I’ve been thinking of you all day!”

  “You have?”

  “Indeed I have! Didn’t you get my message?”

  Payne furrowed his brow. “What message?”

  “The one I left at your home. Isn’t that why you’re calling?”

  “Actually, I’m on the road right now. I’m calling because you called my cell phone.”

  Ulster nodded. “Don’t be upset with me, Jonathon, but I gave your number to a colleague of mine. He needs to chat with you right away and hasn’t had much luck. That’s why I called-to help you two connect.”

  “Why didn’t you leave a message?”

  “Because I already left one at your house. You know how I hate redundancy.”

  Payne paused, thinking things through.

  Everything that Ulster said fit the facts. He was the one who called at 9:14. He had given Payne’s number to the mystery caller. That meant the -er-the syllable that could be heard in the first message-referred to Ulster. Or Petr. Either way, that issue was solved.

  However, one thing remained unclear. What did the caller want?

  “Jonathon, is something wrong? You don’t seem happy with me.” Ulster leaned back in his leather chair, which groaned under his weight. “Did I overstep my bounds by giving out your number? If so, please forgive me.”

  “Petr, it’s fine. I’m not mad. Just worried.”

  “Worried? About what?”

  “Your colleague. What did he want from me?”

  “Your advice.”

  “My advice? On what?”

  Ulster lowered his voice to a whisper. “Smuggling.”

  “Smuggling?” Payne asked, surprised. “What do I know about smuggling?”

  “Come now, Jonathon. I know all about your former career, sneaking behind enemy lines and strangling men in their sleep. Remember, I saw you in action when you protected the Archives.”

  “Protecting is much different from smuggling.”

  “Maybe so, but you were the first person I thought of when the topic was broached.”

  Payne said nothing, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

  “So,” Ulster asked, “did Richard ever get ahold of you?”

  “Richard who?”

  “Richard Byrd. The colleague we’re discussing.”

  “That depends on your definition. Have I talked to him? No. But he’s called me seventeen times in the last twelve hours.”

  Ulster laughed. “Stop exaggerating.”

  “I wish I were, but I’m quite serious. Seventeen calls and three messages.”

  “Good heavens! I had no idea he would be so intrusive.”

  “I don’t think intrusive is the right word. More like scared. Byrd is scared about something.”

  “Scared? Why would he be scared?”

  “You tell me. What was he trying to smuggle? Drugs? Weapons?”

  “Weapons? Heavens no! I would never get involved in something like that.”

  “Then what? What are we talking about?”

  Ulster paused, detecting tension in Payne’s voice. He sounded more serious now than two years ago when the Archives were under attack. “Jonathon, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “No, Petr, what aren’t you telling me? If I’m going to keep your friend alive, I need to know everything-starting at the very beginning.”

  “Alive? Who said anything about dead?”

  Payne took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Your friend did. He sent me a text message that said: This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Couple that with all his calls and you can see why I’m concerned.”

  “Oh my Lord, I had no idea. I just thought he needed your advice.”

  “Unfortunately,” Payne said, “I think he needs more than that.”

  “Jon,” Jones whispered, “put him on speakerphone.”

  Payne nodded. “Petr, I’m going to put you on speakerphone so D.J. can listen in.”

  “Yes, of course. The more help, the better.”

  Payne clicked the button and placed the phone on the desk between him and Jones.

  “Hey, Petr,” Jones said. “How are you?”

  “I was much better five minutes ago. Now I’m worried for Richard.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. But first we need some background info.”

  “Whatever you need, just ask.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “His name is Richard Byrd. He’s an American collector from California. He’s visited the Archives a number of times during the past few years, spending most of his time with my Greek collection. In return, he loaned us several ancient coins to examine. Lovely items. Just lovely.”

  The goal of the Ulster Archives was to foster the concept of sharing when it came to historical research, something of a rarity in academia, where experts and collectors tend to hoard things for themselves. According to some estimates, only fifteen percent of the world’s most valuable artifacts are displayed in public forums like museums or galleries. The other eighty-five percent are kept in private collections or stored in crates for safekeeping. In order to gain access to the Archives, a scholar had to bring something of value-either new research or an ancient relic-for his peers to study. Otherwise, Ulster wouldn’t let him enter the facility.

  Jones frowned. “Wait a second. Did you say Greek?”

  “Yes, Greek.”

  “Not Russian?”

  “Russian? Why would I say Russian?”

  Payne answered. “Because that’s where he was calling from.”

  “From Russia? He was supposed to be in Greece!”

  “Yet he was calling from Saint Petersburg. We have the phone records to prove it.”

  Ulster grimaced, growing more confused by the minute. “That doesn’t make any sense. The last time we spoke he said he had found a wonderful addition for my Greek collection and wanted to bring it here immediately. The only problem was getting it through customs, since the Greek government is notorious for protecting its heritage. That’s when he asked me for my advice and I gave him your phone number.”

  “When was that?”

  “Several days ago. However, earlier today he did leave a message. Thanks to static, it was virtually incomprehensible, but I recognized his voice and heard your name. I couldn’t understand anything else. That’s one of the reasons I gave you a call. To see if you had spoken.”

  “And you thought I would help him with smuggling?”

  “Jonathon, please keep in mind I’m not talking about stealing or selling items on the black market. I would never support either of those activities. I’m talking about smuggling for academic purposes. Without it, we wouldn’t know half the things we do about Egypt, Greece, or Rome. Without i
t, we would still view the Mayans, Incas, and Aztecs as savages, not the innovators that they were. Without it, the Ulster Archives never would have existed, because the Nazis would have seized my grandfather’s collection before he smuggled it out of Austria. And if that had happened, I would have been denied the greatest pleasure of my life!”

  Ulster paused, trying to calm himself. “I realize smuggling is an ugly word. But in the world of antiquities, it is often a necessary evil to unlock the mysteries of the past.”

  12

  Winter Palace Saint Petersburg, Russia

  The boat was named the Meteor. It was tied to the quay on the Neva River behind the Winter Palace. Stretching along the waterfront, the green-and-white fortress had nearly two thousand windows and looked as if it had been built in France. In fact, much of Saint Petersburg looked French. This was a Western European city that happened to be in Russia.

  On any other occasion, Allison Taylor would have enjoyed the scenery. She would have stopped to take pictures of the palace where Cath erine the Great once lived. She would have roamed the halls of the Hermitage Museum, admiring the art of Michelangelo, Monet, Rem brandt, and Van Gogh. She would have sat in the Palace Square, watching the other tourists as they gazed at the Alexander Column in the center of the plaza.

  But today, none of those things were possible.

  Not if she wanted to live.

  As she ran to the station at the end of the platform, her blond hair fluttered in the breeze. She was an attractive woman in her mid-twenties with eyes the color of sapphires. In a city where Nordic models roamed the streets, she definitely fit right in. She was tall and lean and striking.

  She was also trembling with fear.

  She bought her ticket at the last possible moment to make sure no one was following. She scanned the crowd on the long wharf, searching for anyone who looked suspicious before making her way to the boat. She needed to reach her destination before dark, and this was her best option. No stops. No traffic. No distractions of any kind. She knew her intellect was the key to survival. She had to stay sharp or she’d be dead before dawn.

  Taking a deep breath, Allison stepped on board and refused to sit down until the crew pushed away from the shore. She stood there, restless, nervously biting her lip, expecting someone to burst from the crowd and jump aboard the Meteor before she had a chance to jump off. But that didn’t happen. The motor sprang to life, and within seconds she could see water churning behind them as they slowly picked up speed. Only then did she search for a seat.