“If you had called,” Andropoulos said, “I would have been ready for you.”
Dial stopped. “What are you saying? You only work hard when your boss is watching?”
His face got redder. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Andropoulos stammered. “I, just, I would have been more ready for your visit.”
Dial tried not to smile. He was just busting the kid’s balls and would continue to do so until he learned more about him. Until then, he would have some fun at the young agent’s expense. “Speaking of my visit, I need somewhere to stay. Somewhere nice. And close. But not too close. I don’t want any dead monks falling on me.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll find something for you in Kalampáka. It’s the city over the hill.”
Dial nodded but didn’t say a word.
Andropoulos stared at him, waiting, not sure what to do.
Finally, after several painful seconds, Dial shooed him away. “Go!”
The kid sprinted up the hill like he was being chased by wolves. Only then did Dial start to laugh, remembering how he had been treated by senior officers when he was a rookie cop—how they used to call him Nikki and made him feel like a piece of shit but later admitted that they were just trying to toughen him up. Dial wasn’t nearly as mean as they had been, but he still used some of their tactics. After all, their methods must have worked, because a quarter-century later Dial was the first American to run a division at Interpol.
It was an unbelievable honor from the European agency. But one he completely deserved.
Few investigators had the success that Dial had.
Anticipating the rugged terrain, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was equipped with a special antenna that allowed him to get a signal just about anywhere, which was necessary in his line of work. He needed to be reachable at all times from any country in the world. Not only to make decisions but also to be briefed on the latest details of his case.
After punching in his office number, Dial lifted his phone and rested it on his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. Although he was in his mid-forties, he had a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Five o’clock shadow that arrived before noon. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. The type of guy who could star in an action movie or a Marlboro commercial.
A woman in one hand, a horse in the other, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Except he didn’t smoke, didn’t have time to date, and liked his animals medium-rare.
Other than that, he sure as hell looked the part—thanks to his world-class chin.
“Hello,” said a French voice on the other end of Dial’s phone. “I’m not in right now because my boss is out of town. When he gets back, I’ll get back. And not a moment before. . . .”
Dial smiled at the greeting. Henri Toulon was the assistant director of the Homicide Division and a notorious slacker. A wine-loving Frenchman who practically lived at the office yet spent half of the day avoiding work, Toulon was still an invaluable member of his Interpol team, mostly because he was the smartest person Dial worked with. Toulon had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun—whether it was history, sports, politics, or pop culture. Unfortunately, sometimes he talked for hours just to avoid his other responsibilities.
“Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. I’m still waiting for your background information on Metéora. So give me a call when you wake up from your nap. Oh, and if you’re sleeping in my office, make sure you open a window. Last time I came back, the whole place smelled of booze.”
Dial laughed and hung up the phone.
If that didn’t light a fire under Toulon’s ass, nothing would.
5
Payne read the text message several times, not sure what to make of it. Normally, he would’ve dismissed it as a joke—despite claims to the contrary—but for some reason it didn’t feel like one. Seventeen calls that started in the middle of the night screamed of urgency, not hilarity.
Without saying a word, he handed the phone to Jones and waited for his opinion.
Jones read it once. Then again. Then aloud. “This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.” He paused for a moment, giving it some thought. “What the hell?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Jones clicked a few buttons, hoping to get additional information. “It was sent from a restricted number. Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell if the message came from the same phone as all the calls. It probably did, but we can’t tell for sure. At least not from your phone.”
“Meaning?”
“If I access the phone company’s server, I can locate the number. Even if it’s blocked.”
“Can you do that from Florida?”
Jones nodded. “With a computer and an Internet connection, I can do just about anything.”
“Well, that might not be necessary. I still haven’t listened to my voice mail.”
“Hold on. Before you do I want to check something.” Jones scrolled to a different screen and studied the time of each missed call. He quickly noticed a pattern. “Thirty minutes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever it was called you every half hour. First call was 3:59 A.M. Next call was 4:30. Then 5:01. Then 5:29. And so on. All the way until 11:28.”
Payne grabbed the phone and looked at the times. It was true—the calls came approximately thirty minutes apart, except for an extra call at 9:14 A.M. “Who would call that often?”
“Someone desperate.”
Payne glanced at the clock. It was nearly 1:00 p.m. Nothing for the last ninety minutes.
One phrase echoed in his brain.
Life or death.
He prayed that wasn’t the reason the calls had stopped.
They spotted an empty bench near Little St. Mary’s where they could listen to the messages without any distractions. Jones had a pen in one hand and a windshield flier he had grabbed off a parked car in the other, ready to write names, numbers, or anything else he deemed important.
Payne turned on his speakerphone and hit play.
The first message was filled with static.
“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”
Payne hit the save button so they could listen to it over and over. Unfortunately, the quality of the sound didn’t improve during multiple attempts. Still, they learned some basic facts. The caller was a male with no detectable accent. He mentioned Payne by name, which meant it wasn’t a wrong number. And he stressed the urgency of the matter.
Not a lot to go on, but better than nothing.
The second message was recorded an hour later. And during that time, the static had worsened.
“Jon, I . . . early. I apologize . . . but . . . death. Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”
Payne frowned. “Is that my static or his?”
“Definitely his. Since you never answered the call, the message was recorded by the phone company on its server. So all the hissing and the dropped words are from his end.”
“Does that help us pinpoint his location?”
“Probably not,” Jones answered. “He could be calling from a rural area with poor coverage, or he could be in a major city with bad weather. Or he could be using a crappy cell phone. There are simply too many variables.”
Payne shrugged. He had figured as much.
“Play it again,” Jones said, “but concentrate on the second half.”
They listened to the message again. “Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”
Jones smiled. “Call me crazy, but I think he said someone is after us.”
Payne nodded in
agreement. “I think you’re right. Of course, that leads us to the next question: Who is he with?”
“No way of knowing. Not from what we’ve heard.”
“So it could be his friend or wife.”
“Or kids.”
Payne frowned. “Great. Now we have to save an entire family.”
“Or maybe, just maybe, he’s alone. For all we know, this guy is delusional.”
Payne shrugged. “Either way, here’s the final message. It was left at 11:28, right after you fixed my phone. It’s the call I ignored at lunch.”
He pushed the button and listened to the caller.
Static was no longer a problem, yet somehow the call sounded distant. Muffled.
“Sorry, I had to switch phones. I’m using a pay phone now. Hopefully no one is listening. I will keep calling as long as I can, but I’m being watched. . . . Damn! Where are you? Your friend assured me that I could trust you. Please. We need your help.”
They listened to it twice more before commenting.
Jones said, “He used the word we, so we’re definitely dealing with more than one person. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if your friend, whoever that is, is part of the we.”
“My guess is no. If my friend were there, he’d be calling me himself.”
“Unless he’s hurt. Or being held captive.”
“Great.”
“Any idea which friend?”
Payne shook his head. “Clueless. No idea at all.”
“Well, what time did—”
“Hold up,” Payne said, interrupting him. He clicked a few buttons on his phone until the first message was ready to play. “I’m not sure but he might’ve mentioned my friend in the first voice mail. It was garbled by static, but I think he did. Just listen.”
Payne hit Play, focusing on the second sentence.
“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”
Jones smiled, filling in the holes. “I was given your number by blank. Something that ends with -er. Like Miller. Or Harper. Know anyone like that who would give out your number?”
“Nothing rings a bell.”
“That’s okay. No pressure. Give it some time. It’ll come to you. It always does.”
Payne nodded halfheartedly. He appreciated Jones’s confidence but realized time was of the essence. It had been ninety minutes since the last call, an eternity in a life-or-death situation.
For all he knew, he was already too late.
6
Nick Dial followed Andropoulos as he trudged down the dirt path from the main road. The hill was steep and the footing treacherous in the dying sunlight, yet Andropoulos navigated it with ease, never losing his balance despite his leather dress shoes.
“What are you?” Dial demanded as he stopped to catch his breath. “Part mountain goat?”
Andropoulos smiled. “I am all Greek. I was born in Kastraki, a small village to the east. I used to play in these hills as a boy. I know them quite well.”
“Is this the only path to Holy Trinity?”
“The only path, yes. The only way, no.”
Dial glanced around. He saw nothing but cliffs. “How else can you get there?”
“The monks have a cable-car system, meant to handle supplies. It is strong enough to carry a man. However, it is controlled from inside the monastery.”
“So it would require an accomplice.”
Andropoulos nodded. “That is why we are on this path. This is how the killers came.”
With that, he started walking again, weaving around boulders and bushes until he arrived at the bottom of the gorge, where he was greeted by a large blue sign. At the top in white letters in both Greek and English, it said: HOLY MONASTERY OF AGIA TRIAS. In gold letters underneath, it warned in four different languages that shorts and short-sleeved shirts were not permitted; neither were women in sleeveless dresses or pantaloons.
Dial read the warning and smiled. He hadn’t seen the word pantaloons in years.
Andropoulos asked, “Are you ready for the tough part? The footing gets worse from here.”
“Are you serious? How could it get worse?”
He turned on a flashlight and shined it forward. “You shall see.”
A steep trail rose before them. It meandered up the hillside past a small grove of Oriental plane trees, the most common tree in the valley, until it stopped at the bottom of a rocky crag, where a series of steps had been carved into the stone. Although he wasn’t afraid of heights, Dial dreaded the next part of their journey—especially at night. One misstep meant a nasty fall.
“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Dial said.
Andropoulos nodded, willing to do just about anything to impress his boss.
The Greek had been an officer for less than two years but hoped to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps something in Athens. Or maybe Interpol Headquarters in France. The truth is he would kill for a job in the Homicide Division, which is why he was wearing his father’s suit instead of his everyday uniform. He wanted to make a good first impression.
“Do you see something?” Andropoulos wondered.
Dial shined the light against the surface of the cliff, surprised by what he saw. From a distance he figured the stone fingers were made of volcanic rock—cooled underground, then exposed to sunlight after millions of years of soil erosion—but on closer inspection he realized that wasn’t the case. The natural pillars were hardened sandstone, filled with tiny pebbles of many shapes and colors. The result was a geological mosaic that seemed to breathe and flow with the constant movement of the earth. A living sculpture that stretched toward the sky.
“Let me guess,” Dial said. “This region was once underwater.”
Andropoulos nodded. “Scientists say that Thessaly was a giant lake that emptied into the Aegean Sea when an earthquake split the mountains. However, according to Greek mythology, the flood was caused by Zeus, who hoped to bring fertile farmland to the region.”
Dial smiled at the myth and gazed across the valley one last time, trying to enjoy the landscape for a few more seconds before it was permanently disfigured in his mind. From this point on, he knew his memory of Metéora would forever be tarnished by the things he was about to see.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Andropoulos turned and started the steep climb to the monastery. Dial stayed close behind, using the flashlight to find the footholds that had been carved into the rock several decades before. He also searched for any evidence that might have been missed by the local police.
“There are one hundred forty steps. You can count them if you like.”
“One hundred forty? Is that number significant?”
“Yes,” said the Greek. “That is how many they needed to reach the top.”
“I meant—” Dial shook his head. There was no need to explain. “Go! Keep walking.”
Andropoulos obliged, not saying another word until they reached the entrance, which was cut into the side of the cliff like a natural fissure. The door was ten feet high and made out of solid wood. It had not been damaged during the assault. Neither had the ancient lock, which still worked despite centuries of use. “This is the only way in.”
Dial examined the hinges and frame. No scratches or holes. “Is it locked at night?”
“Always.”
“Whose job is it?”
Andropoulos shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Do me a favor and find out.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” Dial said. “Once we’re inside, I want to be left alone for a while. I always try to view the evidence and the crime scene with fresh eyes. It allows me to form my own conclusions before I hear anyone else’s. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dial stared at him, sizing him up. “You should try it sometime. It’s the best way to
separate a good investigator from a bad one.”
Andropoulos nodded. “I was the first one here. So my opinions are my own.”
Dial smiled. He liked the Greek’s confidence. “Glad to hear it, kid. Let’s talk again in twenty minutes. I’ll find out then if you have any brains or I need to get a new tour guide.”
7
If they’d had more time, Payne and Jones would have driven to MacDill AFB to do their dirty work, using one of the computers on the high-speed military network. The encryption level was so high and the speeds were so blazing fast that Jones could have floated around the Internet like a ghost, grabbing whatever data he needed without worrying about being caught. But as things stood, they had to make do with Jones’s laptop and the hotel’s wireless network.
That and the help of a well-connected friend.
As a computer researcher at the Pentagon, Randy Raskin was privy to many of the government’s biggest secrets, a mountain of classified data that was there for the taking if someone knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the right hands at the right time. And he was great at it. Over the years, Payne and Jones had used his services on many occasions, and this had eventually led to a friendship.
Payne offered to give him a call while Jones turned on his computer.
“Leave me alone,” Raskin snapped from his desk in the Pentagon. “I’m busy.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Seriously, Jon. You shouldn’t be calling me. Today is the Sabbath. A day of rest.”
Payne smiled. “First of all, you’re Jewish, so don’t pull that crap with me.”
“What are you saying? Jews don’t deserve a day off ?”
“Secondly, I called you at the office. Therefore you’re not actually resting.”
Raskin cursed, realizing he had lost the argument. “Dammit! How come you always win? Tell me the truth: Were you on the debate team in high school?”
The Lost Throne Page 3
