The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  Payne shook his head. “Not that I can think of. Unless you have a travel advisory. Anything we need to know.”

  “Maybe,” Kaiser said. “Just maybe.”

  “Meaning?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “How long since you’ve been to Russia?”

  Payne answered. “A few years.”

  “What about you, D.J.?”

  “Never been there. Why?”

  “Well, it’s gotten worse for some people. A lot worse.”

  “How so?” Jones wondered.

  Kaiser grimaced. “I have a black friend who just got back from Moscow. Nice guy, clean-cut, about your age. He was invited by the Russian government to speak at an economic summit. Didn’t matter, though. He got stopped by soldiers every ten feet. He was frisked. He was followed. He was called ‘monkey’ to his face. He swore to me he’d never go back.”

  “What about Saint Pete? Is it better than Moscow?” Payne asked.

  “Things tend to be more liberal there, but I honestly don’t know. I can’t speak from experience.” Kaiser paused, not sure what else to say. “I just thought I should mention it.”

  Jones nodded, appreciative of the information. “Don’t worry, Kaiser. I can handle it. I get the same reaction when I go to a country-western bar.”

  “And if things get too bad,” Payne assured him, “we’ll just shoot the bastards.”

  20

  The words hit Dial like a sucker punch. Their impact was so unexpected, he actually had a physical reaction. His cheeks flushed. His chest tightened. Acid gurgled in his gut.

  “What do you mean he wasn’t a monk? Who the hell was he?”

  Theodore ignored the profanity. “That is a question I cannot answer, for I do not know.”

  Dial took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the thought of being duped by an impostor got his blood boiling. “You’re sure you don’t know him? Old guy. Walks with a limp.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dial-”

  “Nick. Call me Nick.”

  Theodore nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have lived at Metéora for nearly a decade, but I don’t know the man you describe.”

  Dial grimaced as he replayed the previous night in his head. He remembered seeing the light under the door. He’d knocked. Nicolas had answered and closed the door behind him. Then they had walked to the bell tower, where Nicolas had regaled him with stories of the monastic life. At no point had Dial found anything about their conversation suspicious. In fact, he had been thrilled to talk to someone as knowledgeable as Nicolas. So much so, he had thought he was a godsend.

  Now he didn’t know what to think.

  If Nicolas wasn’t a monk, what was he? And what had he been doing at Metéora?

  Could his presence have anything to do with the bloodstain on the door?

  That possibility bothered Dial. It was something he needed to find out.

  He said, “Please forgive me. Where are my manners? There you are holding a box, and here I am standing in your way. Please let me help.”

  Theodore nodded as Dial grabbed the box. It was crammed with books, toiletries, and a few personal items. Sitting on top was a large key ring, filled with the type of keys that a dungeon master might have used in the Middle Ages. They were old and long and made out of brass. Theodore picked up the ring and searched for the correct key. It took several seconds to find it.

  Dial filled the silence with small talk. “Sorry about your abbot. When did you hear?”

  “This morning during breakfast. All of us were saddened by the news.”

  “Us?”

  “The brothers of Great Metéoron. It is the largest of the six monasteries. It sits in the hills above Kastraki. Perhaps you saw it on your drive to Holy Trinity.”

  Dial shook his head. “With the abbot gone, who selected you to come here?”

  “Nobody. I volunteered.”

  “That’s awfully noble of you.”

  Theodore said nothing, concentrating on the keys instead. He finally found the one he was looking for and put it in the old lock. It turned with a loud click. Pushing the door forward, he stepped inside, then turned on the light. Dial followed him in, hoping to figure out why Nicolas had been in there the night before. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to examine.

  The ceiling was supported by dozens of ancient beams, far more than necessary. There were so many planks up there, angled in so many different directions, it looked like a wooden spiderweb. Fascinated by the haphazard design, Dial studied it with two things in mind. First, he hoped to spot another nanny cam somewhere in the rafters-just like the one they had found in the gift shop. But the only wires he saw were for the iron chandelier that lit the windowless room. Second, Dial wanted to figure out why the monks had killed half a forest to hold up such a small ceiling.

  There had to be a rational explanation, didn’t there?

  Theodore anticipated the question. “No one knows why it was built in that manner.”

  “Really? It just seems so odd. Like an abstract painting.”

  “We have a library at Great Metéoron. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts, including a history of our monasteries. Not only the six survivors, but the earlier ones as well. I have read these records myself, and no answers were given. It remains a mystery to this day.”

  Dial searched the room for other anomalies but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The floor was made of large gray stones that were held together by some kind of mortar. Two small cots sat against the near wall, separated by a nightstand and a lamp. The only other furniture was a rickety table and four wooden chairs under the chandelier. Dial put Theodore’s box on the table and instantly regretted it. A thick cloud of dust floated into the air, making him sneeze.

  He nearly made a smart-ass comment about the previous tenant being lax in his cleaning duties, but he bit his tongue when he remembered that the previous monk was now dead.

  Looking to change the subject, Dial focused on the only splash of color in the dreary room. An enormous blue tapestry hung across the back wall. It was fringed with golden tassels around the edges and had a large gold cross in the center. It looked like a Christian cross, except it had an extra bar above the horizontal beam and a slanted bar-that looked like a forward slash-underneath it. Dial had seen the same symbol inside the church.

  “Is this your cross?” Dial asked. He had learned a lot about crosses when he worked his crucifixion case a few years back, so he was interested in the subject.

  “Yes. The Crux Orthodoxa. The Eastern Orthodox cross. It is the cross of my faith.”

  “What do the beams represent?”

  Theodore pointed toward the tapestry. “The top beam represents the sign that hung above Christ. It said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’”

  “And the slanted beam at the bottom? Is that a footrest?”

  “Some scholars believe so, but many of my faith disagree. To us, it represents the two thieves who were crucified next to Christ. The criminal on the left was repentant and accepted Christ as his savior, so his side points toward Heaven. The thief on the right rejected Him, so his side points toward Hell.”

  “Really?” As someone who dealt with people of all religions and beliefs, Dial was surprised he didn’t know that. “I learn something new every day.”

  “I’m glad I could enlighten you,” Theodore said. “If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them. Otherwise, I’d like to make myself available to the other officers.”

  “Please, help them out. They need it more than I do.”

  Dial glanced around the room again. But this time he had a strange feeling that he was overlooking something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he sensed it was something important. “If it’s okay with you, can I stay in here and look around some more? We already missed the blood on the door. I’d hate to think we missed something inside.”

  Theodore frowned as he considered the request.

  Hoping to charm him, Dial put his
hand on one of the rickety chairs. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t steal the furniture.”

  The monk cracked a smile, then scurried out of the room.

  21

  Dial had been in the room for less than two minutes when Andropoulos knocked on the door.

  D “Sir?” he said. “May I come in?”

  “Of course you can come in. This isn’t my apartment. It’s a crime scene.”

  Andropoulos blushed and stepped inside. He was carrying a folder filled with information about the victims. “I have the background that you asked for.”

  But Dial ignored him, focusing on the nightstand instead. It sat between the two cots and was the only furniture in the monk’s room where something could be stored. He opened the drawer, hoping to find something important, but it was empty. Just like the rest of the room.

  “Speaking of crime scenes,” Dial said as he glanced back at the young cop, “who’s in charge of the perimeter?”

  “The perimeter?”

  “You know, the imaginary line that encircles a crime scene. Who’s in charge of it?”

  “We are, sir.”

  “Who’s we? Because I know I’m not in charge of it.”

  “Us, sir. The local police department.”

  Dial nodded. He had known the answer. He just wanted Andropoulos to take ownership of the problem. “And what’s your policy for letting people into the crime scene?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, do you let anyone enter the crime scene?”

  “Of course not, sir. Only authorized personnel.”

  “Authorized personnel.” Dial practically spat when he said it. “Does that include cops?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about reporters?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about monks?”

  Andropoulos paused. “I’m not sure about that one.”

  Dial smirked. “I don’t blame you. That’s a tough one. I mean, they’re men of God, so we can trust them, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” Dial shook his head in disappointment. “Earlier to day, we saw a monk entering the crime scene, didn’t we? Up in the cable car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I’m guessing he didn’t sneak in. Not while wearing a cassock and carrying a box.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So someone let him through.”

  Andropoulos nodded. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

  Dial softened the tone in his voice. He was angry at Nicolas’s presence at the crime scene but didn’t want to blame the young cop for something that wasn’t his fault. “Not you personally, but someone on your team screwed up big-time. Remember the old monk I introduced to you last night? I just found out he didn’t belong here. In fact, he might not be a monk at all.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “The monk from the cable car. Then again, maybe he’s not a monk, either.”

  “You mean Theodore? He’s definitely a monk. I’ve met him before.”

  “But not Nicolas?”

  Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. He didn’t look familiar to me.”

  “Great,” Dial mumbled to himself. “Next time speak up a little sooner.”

  “I will, sir. In the meantime, what should I do to fix this?”

  Dial stared at the kid. He had just lectured him over something he didn’t do, yet Andropoulos had taken it like a man. He hadn’t gotten defensive. He hadn’t passed the buck. He simply wanted to know how he could make things right. It was the perfect reaction to the situation.

  Dial said, “Get word to the perimeter about Nicolas. Find out who let him in and why. Also find out what time he left and if anyone gave him a ride. I know when I came through last night, they recorded my name and ID badge into a log. Maybe they did the same thing with him. If so, get someone to verify the information ASAP.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” Andropoulos said.

  “No. Get someone else. You have better things to do with your time.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do me a favor and look at the door.”

  “Which door?”

  Dial pointed. “The one you just walked past.”

  Andropoulos did what he was told. It didn’t take him long to spot the stain near the handle. “Is this blood?”

  “It sure looks like it. And as far as I can tell, it hasn’t been processed.”

  “You’re right, sir. It hasn’t. I’ll get forensics in here at once.”

  Dial nodded and turned back to examine the interior of the room. Combine the bloodstain on the door with Nicolas’s presence inside, and Dial knew he was missing something.

  But what was it? What was being overlooked?

  “Marcus, before you leave, I’d like your opinion.”

  “On what, sir?”

  “If you were a criminal, why would you come into this room?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “No, it’s not a fucking test. I’m asking for your help. Is there something in here that would interest you?”

  Andropoulos tried not to smile as he walked back into the room. Hoping to impress his boss, he scanned everything, focusing on the intricate wooden ceiling for several seconds before he moved on to the nightstand and the two cots that rested against the wall. Eventually, he stopped near the table and chairs in the center of the room. “May I look in the box, sir?”

  “Not the box. Ignore the box. I carried it in myself.”

  Andropoulos considered Dial’s statement, then said, “Did you carry anything out?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Dial said, “but that’s a pretty good question. When you talk to your people, find out if Nicolas was carrying anything when he left the grounds.”

  “This is about Nicolas?”

  Dial nodded. “He was in here when I met him, but I can’t figure out why. This place has nothing in it.”

  “Maybe he was hiding in here, waiting for people to leave.”

  “I considered that. But that doesn’t explain why he chatted with me for twenty minutes. If you were hiding, would you answer a knock on the door? Or at the very least, wouldn’t you make up some kind of excuse so you didn’t have to talk to me?” Dial shook his head as he continued to reflect on the previous night. “Strangely, the more I think about it, the more I get the sense that he took me up to the bell tower because he wanted to get me away from here. There was something about the way he stepped outside and quickly closed the door behind him that bothers me. It was-I don’t know-like he didn’t want me to see the interior of the room.”

  Andropoulos glanced around the room again. “Could someone else have been in here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about the blood? Was it here last night?”

  Dial shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It was too dark to see.”

  “But you think it was, right?”

  Dial furrowed his brow. “When did you start asking the questions?”

  Andropoulos stammered. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to-”

  Dial cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. Go on.”

  He took a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re assuming the blood is from the killers, right? They opened the door to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and when they did, they left the bloodstain near the handle.”

  “Or,” Dial suggested, “they came in here looking for something. Not someone.”

  “Like what?”

  Dial growled softly. “That’s the same damn thing I asked you five minutes ago. I hope you realize the goal is to answer my question, not rephrase it.”

  Andropoulos nodded. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t see anything in here.”

  “Me neither,” said Dial as he moved to the back of the room. The two cots were old and rusty. The nightstand and lamp were secondhand. So were the table and chairs. The only thing worth taking was the tapestry of the Orthodox cross. “What do you think this is worth?”

  The you
ng Greek walked toward Dial. “I don’t know. It depends how old it is. I’d say several hundred euros. Maybe more.”

  “That much, huh?” Dial moved closer to examine the golden tassels on the edges of the tapestry. “Does Holy Trinity have any other artwork?”

  “Some frescoes have been painted on the walls.”

  “I mean removable artwork. Statues, pottery, precious metals.”

  “No, sir. Not that I can remember.”

  “Me neither,” Dial said as he ran his fingers across the heavy fabric. It was much thicker than he had expected. Much more durable, too. The type of thing that could last for centuries. “And the frescoes are in areas of worship, right? The chapel and so on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So why is this in here? It’s locked away in their private quarters for no one else to see.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out? I could ask someone.”

  Dial shook his head as he leaned closer to the tapestry.

  It had taken a while, but he had finally found the answer he was searching for.

  22

  To create fake documents for Payne and Jones, Kaiser hired a world-class forger who lived in K-Town and specialized in visas and passports. Not only was he an expert on ink, paper, and handwriting, he also had a unique perspective on the industry, since he used to be a border guard at the Berlin Wall. So he understood the risks of a border crossing-what guards looked for, what they questioned, and so on-and guaranteed his creations would pass scrutiny.

  For a trip to Russia, he recommended a single-entry tourist visa. Simple, straightforward, and rarely challenged. Especially if it was issued to a Canadian citizen. In the world of espionage, Canada was viewed as the Switzerland of the West. In other words, harmless. Payne and Jones knew this, which is why they had requested Canadian paperwork. Many countries around the world hated the United States. But few people-except jealous hockey fans-hated Canada.

  When it came to border crossings, Payne and Jones were veterans. They had sneaked into so many countries when they were in the MANIACs that they weren’t the least bit stressed over their trip. Of course they realized their return trip would be a lot more difficult, since they’d be escorting Allison Taylor, a wild card if there ever was one. From the sound of her voice on the phone, they were tempted to buy some horse tranquilizers, just to keep her calm.