And that was completely unacceptable.
The first monk to be interviewed was Theodore. Dial wanted to look him in the eye and see if he was telling the truth. If not, Dial was determined to make an example out of him-if for no other reason than to get full cooperation from every other monk at Metéora.
He had to seize control of the case, and he had to do it now.
When Theodore finally came into view, Dial didn’t smile, or nod, or acknowledge the monk’s approach in any other way. He simply stared at him with unblinking eyes. Occasionally he clenched his jaw, causing his temples to pulse and his massive chin to jut forward.
His intensity was impossible to miss.
Theodore sensed the change in Dial from afar. This wasn’t the same man who had joked with him about stealing furniture less than an hour before. “You asked to see me?”
Andropoulos hovered behind the monk, hoping to unnerve him. It was a subtle technique that was usually quite effective.
Dial paused for a moment before answering. “I did.”
“Is there a problem?”
He nodded slowly. “There is.”
Now it was Theodore’s turn to wait, and he did so for several seconds. He stood in his black cassock and cap, with his brown thicket of a beard, staring right back at Dial. Not the least bit intimidated by his badge or his glare. Not even tempted to speak.
If monks were good at one thing, it was silence.
A wry smile crossed Dial’s lips. He wasn’t backing down, either.
Finally, Andropoulos spoke. “We found something we’d like you to explain.”
“Of course,” said Theodore, still staring at Dial. “Do you have the item with you?”
“No,” Dial answered. “I can’t bring it out here. It’s way too big for me to carry. We’ll have to go inside to check it out.”
The monk extended his right arm. “After you, Nick.”
Dial grinned, surprised the monk had remembered his name. “Thanks, Ted.”
With that, Dial opened the door and walked inside. Everything was exactly as he had left it. The tapestry dangled from a single hook. The hidden door was open. The tunnel was fully exposed. Dial quickly turned around to watch Theodore’s reaction as he entered the room.
A moment later, Dial was certain of one thing: the young monk knew nothing about the tunnel. That was obvious from his wide-eyed expression and the gasp that sprang from his lips.
“Go ahead,” Dial said. “Start explaining.”
Theodore staggered toward the passageway. “I can’t explain this.”
“Why? Are you sworn to secrecy or something?”
“Because I know nothing about it.” Confusion filled the monk’s face as he glanced back at Dial and Andropoulos. “How did you find this?”
Dial shrugged, keeping the details to himself.
Theodore turned back toward the tunnel. “Where does it go?”
“To the morgue,” Dial said bluntly. “We found your brethren in the basement. I’d let you see it yourself, but I don’t want you throwing up on your beard.”
The young monk blinked a few times as he absorbed the news. Then he mumbled a short prayer in Greek and made the sign of the cross, using only three digits-his thumb, index and middle fingers-instead of the five digits used by Western Christians.
Dial said, “Refresh my memory. How long have you been at Metéora?”
“Almost ten years.”
“And you’ve never heard rumors about a tunnel?”
Theodore shook his head. “Never.”
“What about monuments of war?”
“War? I don’t understand.”
Dial walked toward the hidden door, trailed closely by the monk. “Look at the carvings. Tell me what you see.”
“Greek soldiers.”
“Downstairs it’s the same thing. Soldiers and war, everywhere you look. That seems kind of strange for a monastery, don’t you think?”
Theodore nodded.
“And you know nothing about this?”
“Nothing. This is a shock to me.”
Dial pressed the issue. “Fine. Who would know about it?”
“The abbot might have known, but the abbot’s dead.”
“Who else?”
Theodore paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know.”
“See, I find that hard to believe. I mean, I know about the tunnel. And Marcus knows about the tunnel. Even the killers know about the tunnel. Yet you’re telling me no one at Metéora knows about it? Pardon me for being so blunt, but I think that’s bullshit.”
Theodore nodded in agreement, which surprised the hell out of Dial.
“Wait! What are you saying? Someone does know about the tunnel?”
But this time, Theodore was the one who didn’t answer. Instead he stared down the stone corridor, trying to figure out where it went and why it had been built. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see much in the darkness. Not the stairs or the empty shelves.
Noticing the monk’s curiosity, Dial was struck by a simple idea. He could use the tunnel as a bargaining chip, one that would encourage Theodore to provide some inside information.
“Sorry,” Dial said as he pulled the door shut, nearly catching Theodore’s beard in the process. “That’s a crime scene in there. I can’t let you see it at this time.”
Disappointment filled the monk’s eyes. Palpable disappointment.
“Earlier,” Dial said, “when we were talking about the ceiling, didn’t you say something about a library at Great Metéoron?”
“I did.”
“And it has a complete history of Metéora?”
“It does. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts that document all the monasteries, including those that have been destroyed.”
“And you have access to this, right?”
The monk nodded in understanding. He knew where this was going long before Dial asked the question. “You would like me to research Holy Trinity and all of its artwork.”
“Indeed I would. It would be a huge help to our investigation.”
“And if I agree to your request?”
Dial smiled in victory. “I’d be happy to bend the rules and allow you inside the tunnel.”
27
Kauppatori Market Helsinki, Finland
Helsinki sits on the northern shore of the Gulf of Finland, the eastern arm of the Baltic Sea. Approximately 297 miles from Saint Petersburg, the capital city of Finland is flanked by thousands of small islands that protect its natural harbor. Sprawling for blocks along the scenic waterfront, the Kauppatori Market comes alive with tourists during the warmer months, attracting a wide variety of vendors who sell everything from fresh seafood to expensive jewelry.
Because of the chaos of the market and its proximity to the sea, it was the perfect spot for Payne and Jones to meet the boat captain who would be taking them to Russia. Details about him had been kept to a minimum-his name was Jarkko and he’d be waiting for them at a specific stall when the market closed. Other than that, they were told nothing. For his safety and theirs.
The cab dropped them off down the street from the Presidential Palace, which overlooked the market square from the northern side of the Esplanadi. Payne paid the driver as Jones walked toward a small sign on the edge of the marketplace. It was written in Finnish and English. The market opened at 6:30 A.M. and closed at 6 P.M. Jones glanced at his watch and nodded. They had an hour to kill before they met their contact.
“Where to?” Payne wondered as he caught up.
“Beats me. We’ll have to ask somebody.”
The two of them entered the square from the west, unsure where they were headed but determined to find out. They strolled along the cobblestone road, marveling at all the tents and stalls that seemed to go on forever. This section of the market specialized in fruits, vegetables, and other homegrown produce. Tables were filled with tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and more. Cartons overflowed with cloudberries, ling onberries, and
several berries they didn’t recognize-an edible rainbow of shapes and colors. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air.
Payne stopped at a tiny booth and got directions from a woman who spoke perfect English. She told him that he was at the wrong end of the market, but if he kept walking east, he would eventually find the stall he was looking for. Payne thanked her by buying a small bag of her strawberries. Remarkably, they were sweeter than any he had ever eaten.
Jones said, “We’d better get more chow than that. I doubt our trip will be catered.”
Payne agreed. “You pick the place. I’ll buy the food.”
Five minutes later they came across several picnic tables that were nestled among a dozen food stalls. Most of the tables were filled with tourists. Some of whom were eating. Others were watching the boats in the harbor. The view was like a moving postcard.
Jones led the hunt, walking from stall to stall, searching for something tasty to eat. He saw shrimp, crayfish, seafood paella, salmon and potatoes, grilled Arctic char, herring, perch, and octopus. The only nonseafood items he found were french fries and onion rings. A little farther down, Payne stumbled across a booth that featured exotic local cuisine-everything from bear meat stew to moose salami. But one item in particular made him laugh: reindeer sausage.
He was half tempted to buy some for Kaiser.
Eventually, the duo decided to play it safe. They avoided anything fried or spicy before their long trip at sea and ordered grilled salmon, potatoes, and two loaves of Finnish bread.
After their meal, they casually strolled to the other end of the market. They passed tents filled with jewelry, furs, artwork, toys, and everything in between. Finally, at a few minutes to six, they hit the section of the market they were searching for. It was obvious in several ways. They heard seabirds screeching overhead, begging for scraps, and felt the temperature drop as they walked past huge blocks of ice. A variety of seafood was laid out in wooden crates. The stench of spoiled fish came from the garbage bins in back.
“Damn!” Jones exclaimed. “This place smells like Popeye.”
Payne laughed. “I’m not even sure what that means, but it sounds about right.”
“I probably shouldn’t mention that to Jarkko, huh?”
“Probably not.”
Jones looked around. Many fishermen were packing up their goods, preparing for the market to close at six. “Where are we meeting him?”
Payne pointed to a stall across the way. The name above it was long and Finnish. It was identical to the name on Kaiser’s paper. This was definitely the place they were looking for.
A burly man stood behind the counter. He did not look happy. He was wearing an oversized apron, the kind a butcher might wear to attack a cow. It was streaked with blood and guts and all kinds of filth. On his head, he wore a black knitted cap that covered half of his brow and the tops of his ears. His gnarled hands were hidden by thick rubber gloves that he tucked inside the sleeves of his waterproof jacket. A scowl was etched on his face.
Payne approached him with caution. “We’re looking for Jarkko.”
“Who are you?” said the man. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Finnish accent.
“We’re friends of Kaiser.”
The man considered this response. “Then I am Jarkko.”
He smiled and extended his right hand across the countertop. His glove was dripping with fish parts. Payne didn’t want to offend him so early in their partnership, so he ignored the goo and shook his hand. Jarkko smiled even wider. “You’re American, no?”
Payne shook his head. “We’re Canadian.”
“Canadian, my perse! You are American. Do not lie to Jarkko.”
Payne wasn’t sure what perse meant but assumed it was profane. “For this particular trip, we are Canadian.”
Jarkko shrugged. “As you wish.”
Jones stood a few feet behind Payne, listening to their conversation. He would have stepped closer, but he didn’t feel like getting slimed. Instead, he simply nodded his head.
Jarkko nodded back. “So why are you here? You are day early.”
“No, we’re not,” Payne assured him. “Our trip is today.”
“Impossible! Russia is closed today. There is no getting through.”
“Closed? What do you mean it’s closed?”
“Do you not understand Jarkko? My English is good. Russia is closed.”
Payne had visited enough places around the world and had dealt with enough shady characters to recognize a shakedown when he saw one. Sometimes the problem was solved with a few dollars. Other times it required a little finesse. But in his experience, there was always a workable solution. It was just a matter of figuring out what that was.
Jarkko picked up a hose from behind the counter and began spraying the ground in a slow, sweeping motion. A thin layer of grime floated toward the closest drain.
Payne spoke over the sound of gushing water. “Obviously, you’re the expert here. If you say Russia is closed, then Russia is closed. Who am I to doubt you?”
Jarkko continued to work as he considered Payne’s words. Finally, he turned off the hose. “That is all? No bribes? No threats? No promises to Jarkko?”
Payne shook his head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”
“But you did insult me. You lied to Jarkko, and Jarkko did not like. I am man of principle. A simple man. A fisherman. I work hard every day. I have no time for lies. Or men who tell them.”
“Really? So you expect me to believe that Russia is closed?”
“No! Russia is not closed. Do not be a molopää! How you close a country? Jarkko was lying to teach you lesson. You no lie to Jarkko, then Jarkko no lie to you!”
“Fine,” Payne said. “No more lies.”
“Good! Start with name. Not name on fake passport. Real name. It is my secret.”
Payne realized he didn’t have much of a choice. If he wanted a ride to Saint Petersburg, he had to get on Jarkko’s good side. “My name is Jon. That’s D.J.”
Jarkko studied Payne’s eyes. “Yes, I believe you. Our trip is not canceled.”
“Glad to hear it. We can’t wait to leave.”
“Soon,” Jarkko said as he peeled off his gloves. He laid them on the countertop and pulled out a large thermos from behind it. “First, we toast my new friends, Jon and D.J.”
Jones approached, no longer worried about being slimed. “What are we drinking?”
“It is drink I invent. I call it Kafka. I name it after famous writer.”
Jones grimaced, unsure why a Finnish fisherman would name a drink after Franz Kafka, a German-speaking author. “Are you a fan of his stories?”
Jarkko ignored the question, pouring the beverage into the top of his thermos. “Drink!”
Jones eyed the cup suspiciously, then took a small sip. He immediately scrunched his face in disgust. “Good Lord! My tongue went numb. What the hell is that stuff ?”
“I already tell you. It is Kafka.”
“But what’s in it?”
“You want recipe? It is coffee made with vodka. Cof-ka. Kafka!”
“No water?”
“Water? Why use water? I fish in water. I clean with water. I no drink water.” Jarkko pointed toward Payne. “Give cup to Jon. He must drink before we go.”
“With pleasure,” Jones said as he handed the cup to Payne. “Bottoms up!”
Not wanting to insult his host, Payne took a sip of the potent cocktail. It was more disgusting than he could have imagined. It was like drinking bile. Grimacing, he handed the cup back to the Finn. “Now that we’re done with that, it’s your turn to tell me the truth.”
“Okay. What you want to know?”
“What’s a molopää?”
Jarkko laughed as he gulped the rest of the Kafka. “It is Finnish word for penis head.”
Jones grinned at the insult. “Wait a second. You called him a penis head?”
“Never! I never insult my new friend. I say don�
��t be a molopää.”
“Actually, that’s good advice,” cracked Jones. “I tell him that all the time.”
Jarkko laughed even louder. “I like you, D.J.! Come, give Jarkko hug!”
Before Jones could jump out of the way, he found himself wrapped in a massive bear hug. He tried not to breathe while his face was buried in Jarkko’s bloody apron, but the Finn’s grip was so tight that Jones wasn’t able to push himself away before he was forced to inhale. In a flash, he knew what it smelled like inside the belly of a whale.
Jarkko released Jones, then said, “Okay. Now we go to boat and visit Russia!”
28
The Greek police were ecstatic about the recovery of the monks’ heads and the discovery of the secret tunnel at Holy Trinity. Dial realized it wouldn’t benefit his career in any way, so he told everyone at the crime scene that Marcus Andropoulos had found it by himself. It was Dial’s way of rewarding the young cop for his hard work during the past few days. It also freed him from the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow, time he could use on the investigation.
Before breaking the news, he photographed everything he could with a digital camera that he had borrowed from Andropoulos. The carved door. The stone walls. The wooden shelves. The stacked heads. The elaborate altar. And anything else that looked the least bit important. Experience had taught him the most significant clues often appeared in the smallest of details, so he took no chances. By the time he was done, he had taken more than a hundred photographs. Once Dial uploaded them to the Interpol server, Henri Toulon or anyone else with the proper clearance could examine them on their global network.
Awake since the crack of dawn, Dial knew he needed to catch his second wind. A nap was a possibility. So was a cup of coffee. But before he did anything else, he wanted to wash the stench of death off his skin. Borrowing the car from Andropoulos, he drove to his hotel in Kalampáka, where he was tempted to use the heated pool at the Divani Metéora. Unfortunately, he hadn’t packed his swimming trunks, so he opted for a shower instead. A long, soothing shower.
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