As she glanced through the items, disappointment filled her face. She was aware of one fake identity-the one he had used to enter Russia. All the others were a surprise. “Why did he have so many?”
Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”
She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.
Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault. He dragged you into this mess. He put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”
Allison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.
“Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote his appointments. Maybe we can figure out what he’s been up to.”
“Good idea,” said Jones as he passed her the journal.
It was bound in black leather. Byrd’s initials were embossed in fancy script on the front cover. A gold ribbon, glued to the binding of the book, marked the current week. Allison flipped to that page and studied the schedule for Sunday, May 18-the day that Byrd was killed.
“One entry,” she said. “There’s a man’s name and a phone number. Nothing else.”
“What’s the name?”
She tried to read Byrd’s handwriting. It was barely legible. “Ivan Borodin.”
“Ring any bells?”
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
“Local number?”
She nodded. “Should we call it?”
“Not yet. First, look back a day or two. See if anything else stands out.”
Allison flipped back a page. “That’s strange. The same name and number. Only it’s been scratched out.”
Jones walked behind her for a better view. “Go back one more page.”
The same name appeared, also crossed off. “Ivan Borodin.”
“You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”
“Positive. Richard never told me anything.”
“Flip back some more. Find the first time Ivan is mentioned.”
Allison turned the pages slowly, trying to decipher Byrd’s scribbles. Some of his entries made sense, particularly the appointments that involved her in some way-a lunch meeting, a trip to the library, and so on. But most of his notes were nonsense. They were either written in code or simply illegible. “As far as I can tell, Ivan’s name first appeared on the eighth. There’s even a star written next to it.”
“The eighth? I thought you were in Germany on the eighth?”
She nodded. “We were. We flew to Russia on the tenth.”
Jones considered this information. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. See if this makes sense. He calls Ivan on the eighth. They talk about whatever and set up a meeting in Saint Petersburg. The only problem is that Richard can’t get into Russia without a fake visa. So he takes a day or two to get the phony paperwork and arrange a flight. Bing, bang, boom. Next thing you know, your plans to Greece get canceled because he needs to meet with Ivan.”
She smiled. “Bing, bang, boom?”
“What? You’ve never heard that expression?”
“Of course I have. I simply prefer, ‘yada yada yada.’ It’s classier.”
“Oh my goodness! You made a joke. I can’t wait to tell Jon.”
Allison blushed slightly. “Just so you know, I do have a personality.”
“I know you do. I’m just glad to see you finally using it.”
“Ouch.”
“Anyway,” Jones said, feeling guilty about teasing her, “if my theory is correct, that means Ivan has something that Richard needed. Any ideas on what it was?”
She shook her head. “No clue. But the answer might be among his paperwork.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” He wrote Ivan’s number down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Why don’t you start looking through this stuff? Meanwhile, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with.”
Jones walked into the guest bedroom and partially closed the door. He didn’t want to disturb her or leave her unattended. For the time being, she was his responsibility. Using the cell phone that Payne had bought for him, Jones dialed a number that he knew by heart. A few seconds passed before the phone started ringing at the Pentagon.
Randy Raskin answered. “Research.”
Jones glanced at his watch. It was still early in America. “Damn! Do you ever sleep?”
“There’s no need. That’s why God invented caffeine.”
“Good point.”
“By the way, I have to commend you on your trickiness.”
“My trickiness? What are you talking about?”
“You called me from a different number. You’re lucky, too. If I had known it was you, I probably wouldn’t have answered.”
Jones smiled. He peered into the other room, just to make sure Allison wasn’t listening. “And if you hadn’t picked up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about your future girlfriend.”
“My future girlfriend?” It took a moment for the comment to register, but when it finally did, Raskin’s voice went up an octave. “Hold up! You mean that blonde from California? You actually found her?”
“Not only that, she wants you to do her a favor.”
Drool practically dripped from Raskin’s mouth. He and his computer lived a lonely life in the Pentagon basement. “Anything she wants. And I mean anything. With a touch of a button, I can name a battleship after her.”
“Ahhhhhh! How romantic! What a sweet and totally inappropriate gesture.”
“Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”
“Thankfully, her idea of a favor is a little smaller than that. She needs information on a man named Ivan Borodin. I have a phone number, if that will help.”
“Of course it will help.”
Jones read it to him. “I’m pretty sure it’s in Saint Petersburg.”
Raskin waited for the details to flash on his screen. “You are correct. Ivan Sergei Borodin lives in Saint Petersburg on some street I can’t pronounce. I can spell it for you, though.”
Jones wrote down the address. “Anything else?”
“From what I can tell, the dude is pretty old. He’s eighty-eight.”
“Eighty-eight? That can’t be right. Does he have a son of something?”
“Hold on. Different database.” The sound of typing filled the line until Raskin spoke again. “Nope. No kids listed. His wife is deceased. His brother is deceased. His sisters are deceased. Surprisingly, his parents are still alive.”
“What!”
“Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were listening.”
Jones smiled. “What about employment history?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s retired.”
“From where?”
“Hold on. . . .”
“I know. Different database.”
“Okay,” Raskin said. “Last known employer was the State Hermitage Museum. I can get you the address if you need it.”
“No, thanks. I’m familiar with the place. Do you know what position he held?”
“I sure do. Until eight years ago, Ivan Borodin was the director of the museum.”
50
While Dial made the arr
angements for their trip to Mount Athos, Andropoulos drove him to his hotel in Kalampáka. It took nearly thirty minutes from Great Metéoron.
“We have some time to kill before the helicopter arrives,” Dial said when they reached the hotel parking lot. “I’d like to show you something.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.”
Dial led the way to his hotel room. A “do not disturb” sign hung from the knob. He unlocked the door and walked inside. A large bulletin board was sitting on a table, leaning against the far wall. The board was covered with handwritten notes on index cards and several photographs from the crime scene.
Andropoulos stared at it with a mixture of confusion and wonder. “Sir, what is all of this?”
“It’s my way of organizing a case.” Dial had assembled it the night before while trying to digest his authentic Greek dinner. His project was finished long before his indigestion had disappeared. “Some people prefer computers. But not me. I’m old-school when it comes to investigations. I like seeing everything in front of me all at once. I like having the freedom to shift things around as the pieces fall into place. It helps me see the big picture.”
Andropoulos pointed at the board. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”
Dial nodded. “If you’re going to be my translator at Mount Athos, I need to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“In that case, you’d better walk me through everything.”
Dial started with the index card at the top of the board. On it he had written the numbers one through seven, followed by the names of the monks who had been identified by the police. “So far we know about four monks, not including the one who kept his head. Each of them is from a different country, right?”
“That is correct. Russia, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Greece.”
“Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? That monks from four different countries were having a secret meeting in the middle of the night in a place as isolated as Metéora.”
“Very strange.”
“I have a feeling it’s going to get even stranger. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you that the remaining three monks are from different countries as well.”
“Countries with ties to the Orthodox Church.”
Dial smiled. “Exactly.”
“Yet you don’t think this meeting was about religion.”
“My gut tells me no. And after talking to my colleague at Interpol, I’m even more confident than before.”
“Why is that, sir?”
Dial pointed to a small map that was thumbtacked to the bottom of his board. It showed the geography of Greece and several surrounding countries. “Originally, I had assumed that the seat of the Greek Orthodox Church would be in Greece. Nope, stupid me. It turns out the Ecumenical Patriarchate is located in Istanbul.”
“The Patriarchate is in Turkey? I thought it was in Athens.”
“That’s what I assumed, too. But it’s not.”
Andropoulos stared at the map. “And why is that important?”
“If this diverse group of monks was having an official meeting about church doctrine, where would it be held?”
“In Istanbul.”
“And if they were having an unofficial meeting, where would they go?”
“Probably Athens.”
Dial nodded. “Makes sense to me. Major airport. Centrally located. A very solid choice.”
“But they chose here instead.”
“Exactly. Which makes no sense at all. Why arrange a meeting in the middle of the night on top of a mountain unless you had a specific reason to do it?”
“Such as?”
Dial tapped Andropoulos on his chest. “See, that’s a question right there that needs to be answered. Once we figure that out, all of this other stuff will start to fall into place.”
Andropoulos nodded as he returned his attention to the bulletin board. Underneath the index card with the names of the dead monks, Dial had tacked two additional cards. One said Nicolas; the other said Spartans. “What do those mean?”
“Tell me, Marcus, what does Nicolas have in common with the Spartans?”
He gave it some thought. “Both of them are Greek.”
Dial grimaced. “And so are you, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. I just-”
“Come on, Marcus, use your head. Don’t waste your time on superficial bullshit. Focus on what’s important. Why would I place those two cards right next to each other?”
“Because they’re connected.”
“Right. And how are they connected?”
Andropoulos stared at the cards, struggling to find the link.
“Look at the card above. How do the dead monks connect to Nicolas and the Spartans?”
“Well,” he said, trying to talk his way through the process, “we don’t think that Nicolas is a Spartan, so we can rule that out.”
“Go on.”
“Actually, we aren’t quite sure who Nicolas is. Or why he was there.”
“But . . .”
“But . . . somehow he knew.”
Dial smiled. “Knew what?”
“Nicolas knew about the meeting. Somehow he knew when and where the meeting was being held. Just like the Spartans. They knew about the meeting, too.”
“Not only that,” Dial added, “Nicolas knew about the abbot’s death before we did. That means he knew the time, the place, and the guest list. That’s an awfully large chunk of information for someone to possess.”
“Which is why we’re going to Mount Athos. To look for Nicolas.”
Dial nodded. “Admittedly, the odds are pretty slim that we’ll find the guy. Mount Athos is large, and Nicolas probably looks like half the monks there. Still, I think it’s worth our time and effort. Especially after I saw that old photo of him at Holy Trinity. That cinched the trip for me.”
“Why, sir? Why is that picture so important?”
“Let me show you,” Dial said as he removed the photograph from a plastic sleeve designed to protect it. Theodore, the monk from the library, had been kind enough to lend it to them for their investigation. “Look at the people in this picture. What do they have in common?”
“Most of them are dead.”
“And how do you know that?”
“The picture was taken four decades ago, and the monks were already old back then.”
“Define old,” Dial ordered. “And you’d better watch your word choice.”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply-”
Dial pointed to the oldest monk in the photo. “How old do you think he was?”
“I don’t know. Maybe seventy.”
“And what about this guy here?”
“Early sixties.”
“And this one?”
“Fifties.”
“Noticing a pattern?”
Andropoulos nodded. “Their ages are staggered.”
“Exactly. Seven monks, each of them born several years apart. Kind of interesting, huh?”
“In what way, sir?”
Dial sighed. He thought his point was rather obvious. “Take a look at the bulletin board.”
“Okay.”
He pointed to a single photo. Seven heads were stacked in a pyramid in the secret passageway underneath Holy Trinity. “Ignore the blood and the brutality. Focus on the faces. What can you tell me about these monks?”
Andropoulos stared at the image, trying to figure out the answer that Dial was looking for. Several seconds passed before it came to him. “The monks were different ages.”
“Exactly! Seven monks with staggered ages. Where have we seen that before?”
“In the other picture.”
“Not only that, but the abbot was in each one. He was a young monk in the old photo and the old monk in the new photo. Somehow I doubt that’s a coincidence.”
“I don’t get it, sir. Why would they stagger the ages?”
“Only one reason I can think of: succession.”
>
“Succession?”
Dial nodded. “The monks were trying to keep something alive, whether it was a secret or a tradition or whatever. The way I figure it is this. When one of the monks died, they brought a new one into the fold. That guaranteed a new generation to keep things going. Hell, they might have gone so far as to choose seven monks from different countries just to make sure that a natural disaster didn’t wipe them all out at once. That would explain the wide variety of faces in the photos. A new monk from a different place to keep something alive.”
“I’m confused, sir. What kind of something are you talking about?”
He tapped Andropoulos on his chest again. “That goes back to my earlier question. What were these monks discussing in an isolated monastery in the middle of the night?”
“Do you have any theories?”
“Of course I do. I always have theories. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“But you’re keeping them to yourself.”
“For the time being, yes. I don’t want to taint your opinions until I’m a little more certain.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about you? Do you have any theories?”
Andropoulos smiled. “Actually, sir, I might.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to keep them to yourself so you don’t taint me.”
“No, sir. I’d be happy to share it with you if you’re willing to listen.”
“I’m all ears. What’s your theory about?”
“I think I just figured out why they were meeting at Holy Trinity, not Athens or Istanbul.”
“Go on.”
“It never dawned on me until you said the word, but maybe the reason they were meeting locally was tradition. After all, the photograph from forty years ago was also taken here. Maybe they met here every year. Maybe it was a part of their ritual.”
Dial stroked his chin in thought. “You know what, Marcus? That’s a pretty good theory. It makes more sense than anything I’ve come up with.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it.”
Dial walked closer to the bulletin board, staring at all the pictures and index cards. As he did, he ran different scenarios through his mind, trying to decide if he needed to shift anything around. Sometimes that was how it worked with Dial. One thing fell into place, followed by another and another until all his questions were Suddenly, answered.
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