Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people, because the details were classified, but all the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.
The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whit-ted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.
Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment and offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.
Part expert, part legend.
Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where MacDill Air Force Base occupies a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay—8 miles south of downtown Tampa and 9 miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.
They picked the destination, and the military picked up the tab.
“Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”
Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’ 9” and roughly 40 pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.
“I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”
“With you? Not if you’re wearing that.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”
Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Maybe I’m looking to get leid.”
Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Ten minutes later the duo was walking along Bayshore Drive. The temperature was in the mid-seventies with low humidity. Gentle waves lapped against the stone wall that lined the harbor, while palm trees swayed in the breeze. Payne wore a golf shirt and shorts, an outfit considered dressy in Florida, where many people wore T-shirts or no shirts at all.
As they turned onto Second Avenue NE toward the St. Petersburg Pier, Payne and Jones spotted a parked trolley bus called the Looper. It was light blue and filled with tourists who were taking pictures of a tiny brick building with a red-tiled roof. A senior citizen tour guide, wearing a beige Panama hat and speaking with a Southern drawl, explained the building’s significance over the trolley’s intercom system. They stopped to listen to his tale.
“You are looking at the fanciest public restroom in America, affectionately known as Little Saint Mary’s. Built in 1927 by Henry Taylor, it is a scaled-down replica of Saint Mary Our Lady of Grace, the gorgeous church he built on Fourth Street that we’ll be seeing soon. Both buildings are typical of the Romanesque Revival style, featuring several colors of brick, arched windows, and topped with a copper cupola. This one’s approximately twenty feet high and fifty feet wide.”
Cameras clicked as the tour guide continued.
“As the legend goes, the local diocese offered Taylor a large sum of money to build the octagonal church that he finished in 1925. However, for reasons unknown, they chose not to pay him the full amount. Realizing that he couldn’t win a fight with the Church, he opted to get revenge instead. At that time the city was taking bids to build a comfort station, a fancy term for bathroom, somewhere near the waterfront. Taylor made a ridiculously low bid, guaranteeing that he would get the project. From there, he used leftover materials from the church site and built the replica that you see before you, filling it with toilets instead of pews.”
The tour guide smiled. “It was his way of saying that the Catholic Church was full of crap!”
Everyone laughed, including Payne and Jones, as the Looper pulled away from the curb and turned toward the Vinoy. Meanwhile, the duo remained, marveling at the carved stone columns and the elaborate tiled roof of Little Saint Mary’s.
“Remind me to go in there later,” Jones said. “And I mean that literally.”
3
The Columbia Restaurant is the world’s largest Spanish restau rant. Opened in 1905 in Ybor City, a historic district in Tampa where hand-rolled cigars and Cuban mojitos are ubiquitous, the Columbia has fifteen dining rooms and enough seating for 1,700 people. Throw in the kitchens and the wine cellar, and the restaurant occupies 52,000 square feet, filling an entire city block.
Payne and Jones had eaten there on many occasions—it was practically a requirement anytime they visited MacDill AFB—and had been tempted to drive there for brunch. That was before they learned the Columbia had opened a St. Petersburg location within walking distance of their hotel. Built on the fourth floor of the Pier, an inverted five-story pyramid filled with shops at the end of a quarter-mile turnaround, the restaurant had the same menu as the original, while offering 360-degree waterfront views.
The duo took their seats next to a massive window overlooking the bay and the airfield. Within seconds, water was poured and freshly baked Cuban bread was placed on the table. Jones wasted no time, tearing the flaky crust with his hands and stuffing a chunk into his mouth.
Payne laughed at the sight. “Hungry?”
“Famished. I’ve been up since dawn. Damn seagulls woke me up.”
“Seagulls? I’ve seen you sleep through enemy fire.”
Jones shrugged. “Have you ever heard those relaxation tapes where they play New Age music over whales humping and birds singing? Those things freak me out. No way in hell I could fall asleep to that. I’d lie there all night, counting grunts and squeaks. But give me the rumble of a turbine or the gentle patter of gunfire, and I’m out like a light.”
Payne smiled. “You’re one messed-up dude.”
“Me? Look who’s talking! What time did you fall asleep? Or haven’t you yet?”
“Actually, last night wasn’t too bad. It would’ve been perfect if it wasn’t for the damn phone. Woke me up in the middle of the night.”
“Anything important?”
“Who knows? They hung up before I could answer.”
“No caller ID?”
Payne shook his head. “It was the hotel phone. At least I think it was. I was groggy.”
“Did you check your cell?”
“I tried, but I had a slight problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Both pieces of it. “I was hoping you could fix it.”
Jones put down his bread and studied the device. He had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and was a whiz with electronics. “How’d you manage this?”
“I think I knocked it off the nightstand. But I’m not sure. I was sleeping.”
“No big deal. It’s just the battery. Unfortunately, something is jamming the slot.”
“I know. That’s why I brought it to the wizard. I figured you could work your magic.”
Jones grabbed a butter knife and went to work. Five minutes later, it was fixed. He pushed the power button just to be sure, then put it on the table in front of Payne. “Good as new.”
“Thanks! You just saved me a hundred bucks.”
“Not really,” he assured him. “I’m gonna eat more than that, and you’re paying.”
Jones flipped through his menu, searching for some of his favorite dishes: roasted pork loin à la Cubana, sliced eye round of beef stuffed with chorizo, and paella à la Valencia—a mixture of clam
s, chicken, pork, shrimp, scallops, and rice. Meanwhile, Payne looked for lighter fare, settling on a pressed Cuban sandwich with a cup of Spanish bean soup.
The waiter came over to take their orders, but before they could speak, Payne’s phone started to buzz. All three of them stared as it vibrated wildly, bumping against an empty plate, which made a loud pinging sound. It was so loud that other diners turned and stared.
“Sorry about that,” Payne apologized. Bad cell-phone manners were a pet peeve of his, and he had just violated one of his major commandments. No cell phones in restaurants.
Without looking at the screen, he turned off the power and put it in his pocket.
And that’s where it stayed for the next few hours as precious time ticked away.
Payne gave it no thought until their return trip to the hotel. Hoping to kill time while Jones left a donation inside Little St. Mary’s, Payne turned on his phone and waited for it to get a signal.
Several hungry pelicans sat on a nearby railing, begging for hand-outs from the dozen fishermen who fished off the pier. A young boy felt sorry for the birds and tossed them some bait. Within seconds, five more pelicans swooped out of the sky and landed by their friends. All of them squawking for attention.
Smiling at the scene, Payne glanced at his screen and was surprised by the summary.
Seventeen missed calls. Three voice mails. One text message.
Damn. Something was wrong.
All of his friends knew he was a reluctant cell phone user, only carrying it for emergencies. Therefore getting seventeen calls was a big deal. Especially in one day.
Worried, he clicked through his options until he reached the list of missed calls. He scrolled through the numbers, looking for the source, but the same message appeared over and over.
Restricted.
Seventeen calls, seventeen restricted numbers.
“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, realizing what that meant. It was probably the government.
They were the masters of the blocked call. Always trying to conceal their identity.
The only question was, who? Payne had done consulting work for the Pentagon and every branch of the armed service, not to mention the FBI, CIA, and NSA. Of course, if those agencies were trying to reach him, they wouldn’t call seventeen times. They’d stalk him quietly and throw him into the back of a white van.
No, if he had to guess, he would have said the Air Force.
Not only was MacDill an Air Force base, it had also paid for his trip to Florida. Maybe the generals wanted to get one more lecture out of him before he returned home.
“What’s up?” Jones asked as he left the restroom. “Did your phone break again?”
“I wish. I had seventeen missed calls. All of them blocked.”
“Fucking government.”
“What about you? Any calls?”
Jones checked his phone. “Nope. Nada.”
“That’s strange.”
“Tell me about it. I’m used to booty calls, day and night.”
He laughed. “I was referring to MacDill, not McLovin.”
“What time did they start?”
Payne scrolled through his screen. “Let’s see. First call was 3:59 A.M. Damn. Maybe my cell phone woke me after all. I could’ve sworn it was the room phone.”
“Any messages?”
He nodded. “Three voice, one text.”
“Start with the text. You can read it now.”
The device looked tiny in his massive hands, yet somehow Payne clicked the appropriate buttons, dancing from screen to screen. The text was tough to read in the Florida sun, forcing him to shield the glare. But in time, he was able to read the message.
It was straightforward and unsigned.
The type of message that no one wants to receive.
This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.
4
The stranger stood on the edge of the cliff and gasped at what he saw. Massive rock pillars sprang out of the earth like giant stone fingers, each of them rising several hundred feet from the valley below. Yet somehow the natural beauty of the scenery paled in comparison with the architectural wonder of Metéora, a site that hovered in the heavens like the throne of God.
He heard footsteps behind him but refused to shift his gaze from the Monastery of the Holy Trinity as the sun slipped behind the Pindus Mountains to the west.
Marcus Andropoulos, the man who approached, spoke with a local accent. “The monks who built this place climbed the rock with their bare hands, then refused to leave until construction was finished. They stayed on top for many months, lifting supplies by rope during the day and sleeping in a cave at night.”
The stranger said nothing, still admiring the view.
Andropoulos stepped closer, tentative. “Eventually, they built retractable wooden ladders that reached the crops they had planted in the fields below. Grapes, corn, potatoes. They even had sheep and cattle.”
The stranger tried to picture the ladders. They must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said the Greek. “My name is Marcus Andropoulos.”
“Nick Dial,” he said over his shoulder.
“You’re an American, no? Are you a tourist?”
Dial shook his head. “What does Metéora mean?”
“It is a local word. It means ‘suspended in air.’ Originally there were twenty-four monasteries on the surrounding peaks. Many were destroyed during World War Two. Now only six remain.”
“How old is this one?”
“Fifteenth-century,” he answered, still trying to figure out who Dial was and why he was there. “Are you with the media?”
Dial laughed. “Definitely not. I can’t stand those guys.”
Andropoulos paused, thinking things through. If Dial wasn’t a journalist, how did he get past all the officers on the main road? “In that case, I think you need to leave.”
“Because I hate the media? That seems kind of harsh.”
“No, because this area is restricted. Didn’t you see the signs?”
Dial turned and stared at the man who was trying to throw him out.
Andropoulos was young and lanky, dressed in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. His hands and wrists hung three inches beyond his sleeves—as though he had recently grown and didn’t have enough money to get a new wardrobe. Or visit a tailor. Or get a haircut. Because his head was covered with dark curly hair that went over his ears and the back of his neck. Like a Greek Afro.
Dial said, “You seem to know a lot about this place. Are you a tour guide or something?”
Andropoulos reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I am definitely something. I am the NCB agent assigned to this case. In fact, I am in charge of the investigation.”
Dial smirked, then refocused his attention on the monastery. In this light its beige walls appeared to be glowing. Almost like amber. It was truly a remarkable sight.
“Please, Nick. Don’t make me tell you again. It’s time to leave.”
But Dial wasn’t ready. He picked up a pebble and tossed it over the edge. It fell for several seconds yet never made a sound, swallowed by the chasm below. He whistled, impressed.
In all his years, he had never worked in such a difficult location.
Simply put, this crime scene was going to be a bitch.
Dial picked up a second pebble, slightly larger than the first, and leaned back to throw it. He hoped to test a theory about the valley. But before he could, the young officer grabbed his arm.
“I wouldn’t throw that if I were you.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because I’m in charge and I said so.”
Dial grinned. This was going to be fun. “And if I were you, I’d let go of my arm.”
“Really? Why is that?”
He yanked his arm free and whipped out his identification. “Because I’m your boss.”
Nick Dial ran the Homicide D
ivision at Interpol, the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told, he was in charge of 186 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.
One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents to investigate a case. Instead they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their territory and reported pertinent information to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. From there, facts were entered into a central database that could be accessed via Interpol’s computer network.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (Drugs, Counterfeiting, Terrorism, etc.) was forced to take control of a case. Possibly to cut through red tape. Or handle a border dispute. Or deal with international media. All the things that Nick Dial hated to do. In his line of work, the only thing that mattered to him was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was the creed he had lived by when he was an investigator.
If he did that, all the other bullshit would take care of itself.
Then again, in a brutal case like this, was justice even feasible?
I apologize for my behavior. I should have recognized your name,” Andropoulos said. His face was bright red from embarrassment. “I didn’t expect anyone from France so soon.”
“Well,” Dial said, “I was on the continent, so I thought I’d drop by.”
Although he meant it as a joke, his comment was accurate. Dial had started the day on the other side of Europe, where he had been awakened by news of the massacre. He had taken the first flight from France to Athens, then had flown by helicopter to Metéora, which was in the central district of Thessaly. In reality, he rarely took trips like that on a moment’s notice, but how often were a bunch of monks slaughtered in the middle of the night?
The Lost Throne Page 2
