“Each column represents a different language.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember, Schliemann wasn’t an Italian. He was a German who had lived all over the world. A man who could speak twenty-two languages. From what I can tell, he used several of those languages on his deathbed. The officer did the best he could to write the words phonetically. It was the only way he could keep track of what was being said.”
She ran her finger down the first column. The word ENGLISH was written at the top. Next were columns for GERMAN, GREEK, RUSSIAN, ITALIAN, and FRENCH. Then she flipped the page. Six more columns appeared. They were labeled SPANISH, PORTUGUESE, DUTCH, and so on. Some of the columns were filled with words; others were nearly empty.
“Richard went through the journal and placed words in corresponding columns. Then he translated each of those words and tried to figure out what Schliemann was saying.”
“And?” Jones asked, excited by the possibilities.
“Unfortunately, Richard came up with gibberish.”
“Damn!”
She glanced back at Jones, who was looking over her shoulder. She was thrilled that he cared enough to curse. “Don’t worry. There’s still hope. I have plenty of information to work with. Give me some time and I might be able to figure it out.”
“Or maybe not. I’ve seen a few people die. They didn’t always make sense at the end. In fact, some of them were pretty damn delusional.”
“Well,” she said, trying not to think about it, “I’ll do my best.”
Payne asked, “At first glance, does anything stand out?”
She nodded. “One word is repeated over and over in many different languages. Il trono. Le trône. El trono. And so forth.”
“I’m hoping el trono means ‘the coat.’ ”
She smiled. “Actually, it means ‘the throne.’ But Richard does mention ‘the coat’ on the final page of his translation.”
She pointed to the words that filled the bottom of the last page. They had been written in big capital letters, and then the message had been circled. A giant star was drawn to the left of the note, stressing how important it was. It read: THE COAT = THE KEY
53
As the black helicopter touched down in an open field on the outskirts of Kalampáka, dirt and dust swirled into the air like a cyclone. Andropoulos, who had never ridden in a chopper before, watched with childlike wonder from inside his car. His vehicle rattled from the whooshing of the powerful blades until the pilot flipped a switch and stopped the turbines.
“This is going to be awesome!” Andropoulos gushed. “Thanks for bringing me along.”
Dial rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm. For him, air travel had lost its luster a long time ago. “You aren’t onboard yet. Keep it up, and I’ll hire the pilot to be my translator.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize. Make yourself useful. Grab our bags from the trunk.”
Andropoulos scurried off to complete his task while Dial cracked a smile. No matter how helpful the young Greek was-and so far he had exceeded Dial’s expectations-Dial planned on busting the kid’s balls every chance he got. He was a veteran member of the law enforcement community, and it was his God-given right and duty to toughen the youngster up.
Plus, it was a hell of a lot of fun.
Dial was about to step out of the car when his phone started to vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was Henri Toulon from Interpol. “Hola, Henri.”
“Spanish?” he growled. “I tell you not to speak French, so you speak Spanish?”
“What can I say? I’m an equal-opportunity linguist.”
“Oui. You mangle all languages the same amount.”
Dial smirked. “From the insolent tone of your voice, I’m assuming you have good news about my permits to Mount Athos. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so rude.”
“I have good news. I also have bad news. Which would you like first?”
“Not this shit again,” he muttered, remembering that Toulon had played the same game when telling him about the Spartans. “Just tell me all the news, Henri.”
“Now who is rude? People say we French are rude, but no one ever talks about Americans. And you know why we do not mention you? Because your country has the most bombs. If that was not so, people would say Americans are rude rather than the French!”
Toulon was obviously frustrated about something, so Dial responded in a calm voice.
“What’s wrong, Henri? What’s the bad news?”
“I have let you down.”
“How so?”
“I try and I try but you cannot visit Mount Athos today.”
Dial groaned. They were ready to take off. “Why not?”
“Because the monks are very strict. And you are arriving late.”
He glanced at his watch. It was mid-afternoon in Greece. “Late? I’ll be there by dinner.”
“Which is too late for them. The monks live regimented lives. They work together. They pray together. They eat together. Your arrival will interrupt that schedule. After a certain time each day, the guards will not allow anyone to enter Mount Athos-even those with permits. As I say, they are very strict.”
“Fine. What’s the good news?”
“I have arranged two meetings for you. One is with the governor of Mount Athos. He was appointed by the Hellenic Ministry of Foreign Affairs and is in charge of the civil administration of the Holy Mountain. For requests like yours, he is the man who must sign off on your visit. He has the authority to grant you emergency admission, if he feels it is warranted. So when you speak to him, you must be convincing.”
“Don’t worry, I will be.” Dial jotted a few notes. “Where will I meet him?”
“In Ouranoúpoli, a small village just across the border from Mount Athos.”
“Great. What about the second meeting?”
“There are twenty monasteries on the mountain. Each of them has a guest-master, a monk who is in charge of guided tours, showing relics, and more. He is the main contact person at each site. Visitors must check in with him before they enter his monastery.”
“But I don’t know which monasteries I need to visit.”
“This is why you will meet with the supervisor of all guest-masters-if the governor grants you access to their community. The supervisor has an office at Karyes. It is the largest settlement on Mount Athos. It is where all administrative matters are handled.”
Toulon gave him further details, including times and directions.
“Thanks, Henri. I appreciate it.”
“So you are not mad at me?”
Dial shook his head. “Why should I be mad?”
“Because you asked me to get you access today, and I have failed.”
“Hey, it was a tough task-especially considering their rigid schedules.”
Toulon paused. “Does this mean you will give me a long weekend off like you promised?”
Dial laughed. “I don’t know about that. The big prize was incentive for a miracle. And you didn’t produce a miracle. You produced a couple of meetings.”
“Oui. This is true. I have been to your meetings. They are not miraculous.”
“Speaking of miracles, what’s the latest on that officer from Spárti?”
“George Pappas.”
“Right. Did he have any luck on his search for Spartans?”
Toulon fiddled with his ponytail. “I do not know. I have spent all my time talking to the officials at Mount Athos. I have not had time to talk to George.”
“Well, now that you’re done with the monks, I’d appreciate it if you could give him a call. The more information I have before I meet with the governor, the better.”
“I will call him now. Would you like him to call you directly?”
“Only if he has something major to report. Otherwise, just call me back and leave a voice mail. I doubt I’ll hear my phone in the chopper.”
“You are leaving now?”
Dial nodded.
“I don’t have much of a choice. I commandeered the chopper from the Greek police, and they need it back as soon as possible. I’ll just have the pilot drop us off at Ouranoúpoli. That way I’ll be ready for my morning meeting. The last thing I want to do is be late for the governor.”
“Oui, that would be bad.”
“Besides, this will give me a chance to see the Holy Mountain today. I’ll have the pilot do a few flyovers, just so I can get a feel for the place.”
54
Payne read the words aloud. “The coat equals the key. What does that mean?”
Allison shrugged. “I have no idea, since I don’t know what the coat is. I could have asked Ivan on the phone, but I figured that would’ve appeared suspicious.”
Jones nodded in agreement as he returned to his chair. “Any theories?”
“It might be referring to a coat of arms. Many cities in Europe, both new and ancient, use decorative shields as a symbol. Perhaps the coat is pointing toward a specific location.”
“Look in the French column on the tablet,” Jones suggested. “Coat of arms is the translation of a French term, cote d’armes. It might be listed there.”
Payne stared at him like he was speaking French. Which, in fact, he had been. “How in the hell do you know that?”
Jones shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody?”
Payne wanted to tease him, but Allison interrupted him before he could.
“Sorry. There’s no coat mentioned in French.”
“What about Schliemann’s family?”
“What about them?” she asked.
Jones explained. “Many important families in Europe have their own coat of arms. That sounds like something Schliemann might’ve had done to boost his stature.”
“Hmmm, I never thought of that. I don’t remember seeing one during my research, but I can look through my notes. I have some pictures of Iliou Melathron. Maybe I’ll spot one there.”
Payne grimaced in confusion. “What is Iliou Mel-?”
“Melathron. It is Schliemann’s former residence in Athens. The term translates to the Palace of Ilium, which was the name of the Roman city built on top of the site of Troy. Schliemann’s mansion was so extravagant it was purchased by the Hellenic Ministry of Culture for the Athens Numismatic Museum. It now houses over six hundred thousand coins.”
“That’s a lot of change,” Jones said.
Allison smiled. “We were going to visit it when we went to Greece. It’s near the Acropolis.”
Payne recognized the look in her eye. She was about to go off on a wild tangent, probably talking about the Parthenon or some other site that she hoped to see. Payne knew if they were going to get out of Russia before he died of old age, he had to keep her rambling to a minimum.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said to Allison. “Even if Schliemann had a coat of arms, what does it really matter? I mean, I doubt it was a family secret. That would have gone against his motivation to get a coat of arms to begin with. So what good would it do us?”
Allison sighed. “You make a good point.”
“For the time being, I think it would be best if you kept working on the journal. See if you can figure out why Richard rushed to Naples to buy it and then spent so much time translating it. Obviously, he thought it was important.”
She nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Richard didn’t like wasting time. He must have been looking for something in particular. I’m not sure what, but something.”
“What about a throne?” Jones suggested. “Schliemann mentioned it several times in several different languages. He must have done that for a reason-even if he was delusional at the time. According to Richard’s notes, the coat is supposed to be the key. But Schliemann didn’t mention a coat. He mentioned a throne, over and over again.”
She corrected him. “Not a throne. The throne. Like a very specific throne. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound familiar to me. I’ve been studying Schliemann for two years, and I don’t remember him searching for any thrones.”
Jones glanced at Payne. He was sitting quietly, listening to their discussion like an outsider. “Hey, Jon, while we’re looking through Richard’s stuff, why don’t you run an Internet search for ancient thrones? Maybe you can find something related to Schliemann.”
Payne stood up from the table. “I can do that. Where’s her computer?”
“On the writing desk in the corner.”
Normally, computer searches would have fallen into Jones’s area of expertise. He wasn’t as skilled as Randy Raskin-then again, nobody was-but Jones had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and spent half his free time designing and building computers in his garage. He simply loved tinkering with electronics. Making things faster and more powerful.
Payne, on the other hand, used his computer for simple tasks, like checking e-mail and sports scores. Other than that, his knowledge was pretty limited. In some ways that embarrassed him-especially since his company, Payne Industries, had its own high-tech division-but when it came right down to it, Payne didn’t like being stuck behind a desk, typing on a keyboard.
In fact, he hated it.
But, in the context of this particular mission, Payne knew that his computer skills were far more advanced than his knowledge of ancient history. And Jones realized it, too, which was the reason he asked Payne to use the Internet to get some background material.
Payne couldn’t read multiple languages, interpret historical data, or discuss the most important moments in Heinrich Schliemann’s life.
But he was fully capable of running a search for ancient thrones.
He could handle that like a champ.
Payne took his job seriously, even though it didn’t seem quite as important as the work going on behind him. But in missions like this, he knew a breakthrough could occur at any time.
He remembered a similar situation at the Ulster Archives when he and Jones had been asked to help some colleagues look for information about the crucifixion of Christ. Payne had been relegated to menial tasks while Jones dug through a series of ancient texts. Yet it was Payne who had made the most important observation, one that led to a major archaeological discovery.
To this day, he still teased Jones about it every chance he got.
Viewing this opportunity in the same light, Payne went to his favorite search engine and typed “ancient thrones.” A split second later, he had several hundred thousand links to choose from. He scrolled through the most popular choices and ignored anything that seemed unlikely-relics from Asia, Africa, and Western Europe. Instead, he focused on the areas that could be linked to Heinrich Schliemann, particularly Italy, Russia, and Greece.
Payne changed his search query to “ancient thrones + italy” and scanned the results. One article stood out. A Roman throne had been recently discovered in Herculaneum. Payne clicked on the link and read the entire story.
“How big of a discovery am I looking for?”
“Why?” Jones asked from the table.
“Back in December, experts found a wood-and-ivory throne in Herculaneum. It was discovered in the house of Julius Caesar’s father-in-law. According to this, it’s the first original throne from the Roman era ever to be recovered.”
Allison spoke up. “I remember reading about that. Academically speaking, it was a wonderful discovery. But that’s not the type of item that Richard would have been interested in. Think much bigger. Something that would’ve put him on the cover of Time.”
“Like a huge treasure?”
“Exactly.”
“Also,” Jones cracked, “you probably shouldn’t look for things that have already been discovered.”
“That is a very good point.”
Payne tweaked his search criteria for Italy a few different ways and found nothing of interest. So he decided to move on to the next region on his list.
He typed “ancient thrones + russia” and scanned the results.
At first glance, Saint Petersburg seemed to h
ave more thrones per square mile than any other place on earth. The Winter Palace, which was part of the Hermitage Museum that Ivan Borodin once worked for, had multiple thrones-including the Great Throne Room, where the emperor and empress used to receive their guests. There was also a different throne at the Peterhof and a few more in locations near Nevsky Prospekt that Payne had seen during the past day.
But they weren’t looking for thrones that were on display.
They were searching for thrones that hadn’t been found.
55
Payne moved the computer into the kitchen so he could eat dinner and search for ancient thrones at the same time. Halfway through a three-course meal that consisted of cabbage salad, meat soup, and broiled fish, Payne shifted his focus to Greece.
Despite his limited knowledge of Heinrich Schliemann, Payne knew the German had spent most of his time looking for Greek treasures. This was reinforced by a simple Internet search. Whether Payne was reading about a new exhibit in Athens or an ancient site in the Peloponnese, Schliemann’s name always seemed to get mentioned. Some of the articles praised him; others despised him. Yet there was no denying he’d had a major impact on modern-day archaeology.
With too many articles to choose from, Payne changed the parameters of his search. Instead of looking through long sections of text, he clicked the image-only option on his search program. A few seconds later, his screen was flooded with pictures of Ancient Greece.
“Much better,” he said to himself.
He carefully scrolled through the images, looking for anything that resembled a throne. He paid more attention to paintings and sketches than he did to photographs. His rationale was simple. If an artifact had been photographed, it had already been discovered. Unfortunately, most of the artwork he saw depicted scenes from Greek mythology and the gods of Mount Olympus. He recognized many of their names in the captions-Apollo, Poseidon, Athena, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Zeus-but assumed these ancient deities would play no role in his current search.
His opinion changed a few minutes later.
Ironically, it wasn’t a colorful painting that caught his eye, rather a photograph of an antique coin that made him think of America. Minted by Elis, an ancient district on the western coast of Greece, it depicted the profile of a bearded man who looked strangely similar to the image of Abraham Lincoln on the American penny. Payne admired the precise details of the face-the swirls of his beard, the curve of his cheekbone, and the shadows near his nose-and wondered if the U.S. Treasury had based their design on this two-thousand-year-old coin.
The Lost Throne paj-7 Page 28