The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  “What now?” Jones asked as he shined his light on the ridge.

  “We have to go around it.”

  “Which way?”

  “If we go east,” Payne said, “we’re moving closer to the largest monastery on the peninsula. There’s no telling how many guards will be over there.”

  “What about west?”

  “There are several monasteries and sketes, but they’re a lot farther away.”

  “What do you think, Allison?”

  She blinked, surprised that they were asking her opinion. “Let’s go west.”

  Payne nodded his approval. “You heard the lady. West it is.”

  Petros accelerated on the dual-sport bike, which was street legal but had off-road capability, and rocketed up the goat trail. Andropoulos and Dial were next, only they took things much slower. Their headlight lit the way as they crept past the weeds and trees that lined the narrow path.

  “Are you all right?” Andropoulos shouted over his shoulder.

  Dial ignored the question. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  “It can go much faster.”

  “Then quit talking and start driving.”

  Andropoulos grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  In a flash, their speed tripled, and Dial found himself holding on for dear life. The young cop proved his skill by accelerating and turning like an expert. Despite the extra weight, they found themselves catching up to Petros less than a minute later.

  They rode like this for nearly 3 miles, cutting across the western face while gradually climbing higher. Dial did calculations in his head and tried to figure out how high they had to go in order to guarantee that they would be ahead of the Spartans. Unfortunately, it was an equation he couldn’t solve without knowing all the variables.

  When did the Spartans arrive on the peninsula? How fast were they moving? Were they headed straight up the mountain, or did they start to angle toward the east or west?

  Actually, Dial wasn’t even sure when the Spartans would stop marching. Maybe they were heading to a cave that was only a thousand feet from the shore. If that was so, they might have overshot the Spartans by several hundred feet.

  A few seconds later, Dial found out that wasn’t the case.

  The two Spartans heard the roar of the engines long before they saw the headlights approach. They quickly repositioned themselves along the footpath, preparing for a sneak attack. One crouched behind a boulder to the south of the trail. The other remained standing, hidden by a thick grove of trees. On the battlefield, Spartans would never relinquish their shields-it was considered the ultimate sin, because it left other soldiers in the phalanx unprotected. But here, where mobility was more important than defense, it was the right thing to do.

  Both Spartans clutched their swords with two hands, ready to strike.

  Petros led the charge over the crest of the hill. He was fifty feet ahead of Dial and Andropoulos, barely within range of their headlight, when the Spartan in the trees launched his assault.

  As Petros sped through the night, the Spartan stepped forward and swung his weapon with all his strength. Years of discipline and training went into that swing, and it showed when his blade made contact. One moment Petros’s head was attached to his neck; the next it was spinning through the air as the rest of his body shot forward on the motorcycle. Somehow the bike stayed upright for several feet before it tilted off the path and crashed into a tree, tossing the headless corpse into the air like a scarecrow in a dust storm.

  Dial saw none of this from his position on the back of the second bike. But Andropoulos saw it all. The sword, the head, and the Spartan who blocked their path. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Petros, the young Greek went into a controlled slide-hitting the brake and shifting his weight in order to minimize the impact of his fall. His front wheel went sideways, and so did he. Dial fell first, tumbling off the back of the bike and skidding to a painful stop on the upslope of the mountain. Andropoulos was dragged twenty feet farther, tumbling along the rock-strewn turf until his momentum slowly died.

  When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.

  Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.

  Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.

  He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.

  Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.

  And all Dial could do was watch.

  70

  As the blade started forward, Dial heard the two most beautiful sounds of his entire life. A gunshot rang out from the tree line, followed by a soft gasp from the Spartan’s mouth.

  His cocky laughter from a moment before had been replaced by his dying breath.

  Blood gushed from the hole in the warrior’s neck as he slumped to the ground. As he did, he tried to use his last ounce of strength to kill one more opponent. With wide eyes, Dial watched the sword on its downward flight as it headed straight for his face. But before it made contact, multiple shots burst from the night, knocking the Spartan off-balance. His blade struck the ground with so much force that it remained upright a lot longer than he did.

  The sword stood at attention like a flag planted on foreign soil.

  Dial turned his head and stared at it. He gulped as he did.

  Four inches to the left, and he would have been dead.

  “Are you all right?” called a voice from the trees.

  “Yes,” Dial said, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m fine.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  “What?”

  “Show me your fucking hands!”

  “Okay.” From his prone position, Dial lifted his arms slowly. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No. I was riding with my partner.”

  “Your partner?”

  “I’m a cop. . . . Is my partner all right?”

  The shooter in the trees crept closer, trying to see the face of the cop he had just saved. “Your partner is fine. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working on a case.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “A homicide. . . . The men with swords killed several monks.”

  Silence filled the air for several seconds. Dial glanced toward the tree line, from where the shooter had last spoken, but saw nothing. A moment later, Dial heard footsteps behind him.

  Somehow the shooter had traveled twenty feet without making a sound.

  “Damn,” Dial said to himself. “What are you doing back there?”

  “I’m picking up your gun.”

  “Oh.”

  Dial listened closely, worried that the man was going to put a bullet in the back of his head. Some criminals got a special thrill from that, using a cop’s weapon against him. Then again, if he had wanted Dial to die, why had he just saved his life?

  “Can you sit up?” asked the shooter.

  “Yes.”

  “Then lock your hands behind your head and sit up slowly.”

  Dial did as he was told, sitting up despite the pain that emerged in his ribs and back. With all the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten he had just been in a bike wreck.

  Meanwhile, the shooter waited until Dial was in an upright position. Now, for the first time, he would be able to see the cop’s face in the beam of the headlight. Moving quietly, he walked around to the front and stared
at the man whose life he had just saved.

  And he was stunned by the sight.

  Payne couldn’t believe his eyes. “Nick?”

  Dial flinched at the mention of his name. With one hand, he shielded the bright headlight of the motorcycle and focused on the man in front of him. He was just as shocked as Payne. “Jon?”

  “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Dial slumped to the ground in utter relief. “Holy shit, you gave me a heart attack. I thought you were going to kill me.”

  “Kill you? I just saved you.”

  “I know,” he said, laughing to himself. “But it’s been a strange night.”

  Dial had met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars amp; Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they had kept in touch ever since-occasionally bumping into each other in the strang est places. Once at an airport in Italy. Another time at a bookstore in London. But this, by far, took the prize for their most auspicious meeting ever.

  Payne helped his friend to his feet and was greeted with a friendly hug.

  “Nice shooting,” Dial said as he patted Payne on the back.

  Payne smiled. “Glad I could help.”

  Jones watched the embrace from afar. “Guys? This is the Holy Mountain, not Brokeback Mountain.”

  Dial laughed at the comment. “I should’ve known. Where there’s Payne, there’s Jones.”

  Jones stepped forward and shook his hand. “Nick fuckin’ Dial. I knew I recognized that big-ass chin of yours. What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Dial grinned. “Jon asked me the same damn thing.”

  “And I’m still waiting for an answer,” Payne reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it in a moment. First, how are Marcus and Petros?”

  Jones grimaced. “Which is which?”

  “Marcus is the kid.”

  Jones answered. “The kid’s fine. The other one, not so much.”

  Dial, who hadn’t seen Petros’s death, needed to have things explained. Andropoulos filled him in the best he could, including how Jones had saved his life by shooting the other attacker.

  “Speaking of which,” Payne wondered, “who are those guys?”

  Jones added, “So far, we’ve killed four of them.”

  “Only four?” asked Dial, who was quite familiar with their Special Forces backgrounds. “I’m guessing there are a lot more than that.”

  He took a few minutes to describe the Spartans, the murdered monks, and the missing cops. He didn’t have time to go into all the specifics of the case, but he told them enough so they would understand what was going on. “We still aren’t sure what the Spartans are looking for. But whatever it is, it must be big. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have risked this type of exposure.”

  Jones glanced at Payne but said nothing.

  And Dial happened to notice. “What?”

  Payne grimaced. “Nick, let’s take a walk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to talk.”

  The two moved away from Andropoulos, so the young Greek couldn’t hear what was about to be said. And Jones made sure of it by keeping an eye on him. Over the years, Payne and Dial had shared confidential information to help each other with various missions and assignments. And this was one of those times when they needed to speak in private, for both of their sakes.

  “What’s up?” Dial asked.

  “I want to tell you why we’re here. But only if it’s off-the-record.”

  Dial stared at him, wondering where this was going. “Fine.”

  “I think I know what the Spartans are looking for. It’s probably the same thing we’re looking for.”

  “Which is?”

  Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the treasure map. “A colleague of mine recently called me from Russia and asked for my help. By the time I responded, it was too late. Someone had killed him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Payne shrugged it off. “D.J. and I poked around a little bit and figured out why he was murdered. He was looking for this.”

  Dial took the map from Payne and studied it in the beam of the headlight. He instantly recognized the geography of Mount Athos. “Is this a treasure map?”

  Payne nodded. “The man who killed my colleague was a hit man who used to work for the FSB. When I questioned him, he said he’d been hired by someone with a Mediterranean accent. We assumed he might be Greek, but we don’t know that for sure.”

  “Why Greek?”

  “Because the treasure is Greek. That is, if it even exists.”

  Payne gave him a quick summary of the story of Richard Byrd, Heinrich Schliemann, and the possible existence of the lost throne. In addition, he filled him in on all the other treasures that could have been removed from Constantinople before the fire, everything from gold relics to ancient manuscripts.

  “I think you’re right,” Dial said. “Our two matters are probably related.”

  “I know. So what are we going to do about it?”

  Dial gave the question some thought. “As far as I’m concerned, Interpol is here for one reason only: to catch the men who killed the monks. Everything else is a nonissue to me.”

  Payne nodded in appreciation. “Glad to hear it.”

  “And,” Dial said as he pointed at the map, “since my suspects seem to be heading toward this location, it might be nice if we could tag along with you.”

  “That’s fine with me. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless the kid is going to be a problem.”

  “You mean Marcus? He won’t be a problem at all. D.J. just saved his life. I really doubt he’s going to ask to see your visitor’s pass.”

  Payne smiled. “Good. Because there’s one other thing I’ve been keeping from you. And it’s kind of hard to explain. . . .”

  71

  Payne asked Allison to step out of the shadows where she had been ordered to wait.

  Dial stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t expecting Payne’s big surprise to be a female. “You brought a woman to Mount Athos? The Virgin Mary is going to be pissed.”

  Payne ignored the comment. “Nick, this is Allison. She was with Richard Byrd when he was killed in Russia. She goes wherever I go until this thing is done.”

  Dial nodded in understanding. “Nice to meet you, Allison.”

  She smiled and shook his hand. “You too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” Payne said, cutting them off. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, we’d better get moving. The longer we stand around, the more time we waste.”

  Jones walked toward Dial and handed him a radio. “I got this from Petros. You should update the guards and tell them to stay below this ridgeline. We’ll leave the headlights on as a beacon.”

  “Wait,” Dial said, “isn’t that counterproductive? Obviously, the Spartans have made it this far. It stands to reason that they’re ahead of us.”

  “Some probably are,” Jones explained. “But so far, we’ve killed four soldiers who seemed pretty intent on stopping us from climbing this mountain. My guess is there are more Spartans down there, lying in wait. Let the guards worry about those guys. We can take care of the rest.”

  The Spartan scout listened from the nearby trees, and then ran off to warn Apollo.

  If they stopped this group of five, who were only a few minutes behind, they would have all the time they needed to locate the book. But that task would be tougher than it sounded, because these soldiers seemed to be far more competent than the other guards. The two largest men had already killed four hoplites in the last hour. Normally, it was the Spartans who showed such efficiency in battle, not their opponents.

  Of course, if there was one thing the Sparta
ns enjoyed, it was a worthy adversary.

  Payne led the way, followed by Dial, Allison, Andropoulos, and Jones. They trudged single file up the steep terrain, with enough space between them to lessen the effects of a sneak attack. If a Spartan leapt out of a tree, he would only be able to attack one person in Payne’s group before someone got off a gunshot. At least that was Payne’s rationale. The truth was that in all of his years of soldiering he had never faced an opponent who preferred ancient weaponry to guns.

  It forced him to view things from a whole new perspective.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the motorcycles, the group came across a narrow chasm in the center of a long ridge. Payne and Jones shined their flashlights along the steep rock face, searching for an easier way around it, while the other three members of their party caught their breath. The temperature had started to drop, and the minor injuries that Dial and Andropoulos had suffered in their bike crash had started to take their toll. Their breathing had become labored, not only because of the thinning air but because their ribs had been bruised in the fall.

  None of the three spoke as they took turns gulping bottled water.

  Meanwhile, Jones caught up to Payne along the ridge. “What do you think?”

  “We either go through here or walk a half-mile out of the way.”

  Jones nodded. “We have to be careful. A smart soldier would use this to his advantage.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  The two of them walked back and joined the others. Jones explained to them what needed to be done. “This is a classic choke point. We need to pass through it as quickly as possible. Jon will go first, followed by Nick, and so on. Once you climb through, be on full alert.”

  While the others got ready, Payne pulled Allison aside.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “Tired, but fine.”

  “Well, you’re doing great. Just keep it up.”

  She smiled in appreciation.

  “Do you understand what we need you to do here?”

  “Climb through and be ready to move.”

  “Simple enough, huh?”