The Lost Throne (22 page)

Jones said, “That explains his boat.”

She looked at him, confused. Not sure what he meant.

“We saw a picture of his boat. It was called the
Odyssey
.”

“Ah, yes. Richard’s yacht. A tribute to Homer and the journeys he hoped to make.”

“Journeys that included you,” Payne said, trying to keep her focused.

She nodded. “Richard called me a week later and asked me a number of questions about Schliemann and Greece. I must have passed his test, because he hired me sight unseen.”

Payne smiled at the comment. It said a lot about her personality. She wanted them to know that she had been hired for her brains, not her looks. Then again, Payne had known that within five minutes of talking to her. “When was that?”

“About a month ago.”

“A month? You’ve been here for a month?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve been here less than a week.”

“But you worked with him for a month. What were your duties?”

“At first, not much. He flew me to Berlin, where he spent most of his time at the local museums searching for information about Schliemann’s treasures. He talked to curators and experts in various fields. Meanwhile, I waited back at the hotel.”

“Why was that?” Payne asked.

“He didn’t trust me. In fact, he didn’t trust most people he met. In that way, he was just like Schliemann. He kept his plans to himself and only asked for help when he needed it.”

“What type of help?”

“He would summon me to his room, where I would be told to read a document or look at a picture. Then I would be asked for my opinion. Did I think this? Did I think that? It was very strange.”

“In what way?”

“It was always something different. One minute it was about Schliemann. The next about Zeus. Or the geology of Ancient Europe. There was never a consistent theme, like he was purposely trying to confuse me so I wouldn’t know what he was looking for.”

Payne furrowed his brow. “What
was
he looking for?”

“I have no idea. He never trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Come on. Don’t give me that. A smart gal like you, you must have a theory.”

She smiled. “I have a couple.”

“Such as?”

“As I mentioned, Richard didn’t care about the treasures that Schliemann found. He was more concerned with the ones he didn’t. So I focused my attention there, trying to figure out what Schliemann was hunting for in the latter stages of his life. Two days before he died, despite a horrible ear infection that had required several operations in the preceding weeks, Schliemann toured the ruins of Pompeii. As you probably know, the city was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in seventy-nine A.D. and wasn’t rediscovered until the mid- seventeen hundreds.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Payne said. “But isn’t Pompeii in Italy?”

She nodded. “Near Naples.”

“What does it have to do with Ancient Greece?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But Richard had an interest in the place, probably because of Schliemann. One day he showed me ancient maps of Pompeii, along with some artwork that survived the blast. Another time he asked me about Herculaneum, Pompeii’s wealthier sister city, which was also destroyed.”

Jones asked, “And you’re not sure why Schliemann was there?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Schliemann was consumed with Ancient Greece, not Ancient Rome. So it didn’t make sense to me. However, a week before we came to Russia, Richard left me in Berlin for a few days. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or when he was coming back, but my room was paid for, so I didn’t complain. I used the time to work on my thesis. When he returned, he summoned me to his room, where we did the same routine as before. I looked at pictures and offered my opinions. While this was going on, I noticed his suitcase sitting in the corner. It had an airport tag that read
Aeroporto di Napoli
. He had been to Naples.”

“Strange,” Jones admitted. “Very strange.”

“So was this trip to Saint Petersburg. We weren’t supposed to come here. We were supposed to go to Greece. At least that’s what I was told when I was hired. We’d be in Germany for a while, and then we were going to Greece. He changed our itinerary at the last minute.”

Payne nodded, realizing that Petr Ulster had mentioned the same thing on the phone. He had fully expected Byrd to be in Greece, not Russia. That meant either Byrd was playing a game, trying to deceive everyone who knew anything about his project, or something had altered his travel plans. If that was the case, it could be the reason he was killed.

“Out of curiosity,” Payne said, “how’d you get into Russia?”

“By plane.”

He shook his head. “Not
to
Russia,
into
Russia. This country requires a travel visa, which takes some time to acquire. Without it, you aren’t getting in. So how’d you get in?”

Allison blushed and lowered her eyes. Payne noticed it immediately. It was the first time during their conversation that she had looked away. The first time he sensed something was off.

“What is it?” Payne demanded.

She took a moment to gather her senses, to re-collect her cool. Then she looked at him. “Sorry. I’m just embarrassed. I normally don’t break the law.”

Payne stared at her, studying her every tic. Making sure that she was telling the truth.

She said, “We snuck into the country. I’m not proud of it, but we did. There wasn’t time to get a real visa, so Richard got us fake ones in Berlin. Fake names. Fake visas. Fake everything. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

Jones mumbled under his breath. “Fucking Kaiser.”

Payne nodded in agreement. Byrd had the cash, and Kaiser ran the underground in Germany. It was a match made in smuggler heaven. “That explains why you wouldn’t go to the American consulate.”

“How could I? I wasn’t supposed to be here. Richard told me I’d be arrested on the spot.”

“Not arrested, detained. But you still should’ve gone. It’s better than being shot.”

She conceded his point. “You’re right. You’re definitely right. And if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve gone to the consulate. I swear I would have.”

“Great,” Jones teased. “Now she’s blaming us.”

“What?” she said defensively. “I’m not blaming you. I’m
thanking
you. Without you guys, I would be dead or in prison. There’s no doubt in my mind. So thank you for coming here.”

“You’re welcome,” Jones said. “Glad we could help.”

Payne glanced at him. “Don’t go patting yourself on the back just yet. She’s still in Russia. She’s still in danger. And we still don’t know why.”

“True,” he admitted. “Very true. But I have a few theories on the topic—including a possible solution to her woe.”

“Did you just say ‘woe’?”

Jones smiled. “I did, my good man, I did. Shall I define it for you?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Good. Then I’ll get straight to my point.” Jones looked at Allison. “How long were you going to stay in Russia?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks.”

“So there’s a good chance your rooms are still paid for, right?”

“Definitely. At least for a few more days. Richard always paid ahead.”

Jones continued. “And since he was the private type, I’m sure he had a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on his door the entire trip, right?”

She nodded.

“I’m also guessing that wasn’t good enough for him, so he probably locked his documents in his room safe—even when he used the bathroom.”

“Like clockwork.”

“No problem,” bragged Jones, who had picked many locks in his day. Not only in the Special Forces, but also as a private detective. “Hotel locks are easy. Give me five minutes and that safe is mine. Another two and I can collect your research. By the time I’m done, your room will be spotless. No one will even know you stayed there.”

“And then what?” Payne wondered.

“Then we come back here and look through Richard’s stuff. It’s obvious the guy was hiding something. Once we know what it was, we’ll be a whole lot closer to solving his murder.”

F
rom the moment Nick Dial entered the grounds of Great Metéoron, he felt like an outsider.

Unlike Holy Trinity, which was filled with talkative cops, bloodstained floors, and severed heads, Great Metéoron was a working monastery. Everywhere Dial looked, he saw silent monks, manicured gardens, and religious icons. It was enough to make his skin crawl. If he wanted to walk around in peaceful harmony, he would have moved to Tibet. Or smoked a lot of pot.

As it was, he was investigating a murder. He didn’t have time to chant. Or inhale.

“I feel like I’m back in high school,” Dial said to Andropoulos as they made their way up the stone steps that led to the main courtyard, which was adorned with trees. Potted flowers lined most of the walls and walkways.

“Why is that?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial passed two monks who gave him the evil eye, as if they had just caught him pissing on a church altar. Other monks had acted the same way. He didn’t know if it was due to his talking or because he was visiting the monastery on the one day it was supposed to be closed to the public. Whatever the reason, he felt the cold glares of the holy men everywhere he walked.

Dial said, “My father was an assistant football coach, which is one of the least stable jobs in America. When he succeeded, he was hired by better colleges. When he failed, he was fired and we were forced to move. Either way, it meant I was always the new kid at school. And the new kid was always treated like this.”

Andropoulos smiled. It was the first time Dial had opened up to him. Even at dinner the night before, the two of them had mostly talked about the case, not their private lives. “Don’t take it personally, sir. These men have chosen a life of solitude. They view us as a link to the outside world. A world that recently claimed eight of their own.”

“Don’t worry. I never take things personally. I didn’t back then, and I don’t now.”

Great Metéoron, also known as Megálo Metéoro, is the oldest and largest of the six local monasteries. Founded in 1340 by Saint Athana sios Meteorites, a scholar monk from Mount Athos, it had expanded several times over the years, housing as many as three hundred monks in the mid-sixteenth century. What started as a single building carved into the rock had expanded to a small town on top of it—more than two thousand feet above the valley below. There were four chapels, a cathedral, a tower, a refectory, a dormitory, a hospital, and several other structures.

Most of them made of stone. Most of them centuries old.

Dial soaked it all in as they followed the stone pathway between the buildings. Thankfully, Andropoulos knew where they were going, or Dial would have been forced to ask directions from one of the monks. A conversation that would have been, undoubtedly, one-sided.

A few minutes later, they met Joseph, a fair-haired monk and one of the youngest at Great Metéoron. Because of his low standing in the order, he had been assigned to be their tour guide while Theodore finished his research in the library. Joseph, who was so young he couldn’t even grow a decent beard, was waiting for them outside the monastery’s
katholikón
, an Eastern Orthodox term for cathedral. Dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ, it was often called the Church of the Metamorphosis. Built in 1544 to replace a smaller
katholikón
that still served as its sanctuary, it was the most important building in the entire complex.

“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”

Dial stepped inside the
katholikón
and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.

Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”

Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology—the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.

“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”

“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”

Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”

“What are you talking about?”

Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.

Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes—images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God—that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.

“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.

Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.