Dial said, “I know it’s just a picture, but can you give me a time period?”
“Maybe if I held the blade, but not from this photo.”
“Come on, Henri, take a wild guess. Are we talking Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans?”
Toulon blew smoke into the air. “We are talking Nick Dial in Clueless.”
“Be nice,” Dial warned him, “or I’ll fine you for smoking.”
Toulon coughed, practically swallowing his cigarette in the process. How did Dial know he was smoking? He looked around again. Maybe the sneaky bastard had a nanny cam.
“That is insulting,” Toulon said. “I would do no such thing.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Now answer my question. How old are we talking?”
“The second one. Harry Hamlin.”
Dial smiled. He loved making Toulon think in American terms. It was one of the simple joys in his life. “But this weapon is a replica, right?”
“Tell me, Nick. Do you know when Ancient Greece flourished?”
“Before Christ.”
“Several centuries before Christ. Now look at this picture. Does this sword look that old to you? Of course not. Therefore this sword is a replica.”
“Yet real enough to kill someone.”
“Oui. In that way, it is quite real.”
Dial nodded, thinking back to the blood at the crime scene. For a blade to pass through the bones and tendons of someone’s neck, it had to be remarkably strong. Probably some type of high-grade steel, he figured. Just to be sure, he made a note to ask a local blacksmith.
“Okay. What about the other picture? Anything helpful?”
Still puffing away, Toulon switched images on his screen and zoomed in on the photograph of the warrior. He studied his uniform, focusing on the intricacies of his armor, the shape of his full-size helmet, the way he held his sword. All of it looked authentic.
“Well,” Toulon said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Good news first.”
“If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”
“Why do you think that?”
Toulon took a long drag on his cigarette, enjoying the flavor before he blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a cranky French dragon. “Notice the design of his headgear. No patterns. No decorations. No fancy flourishes. This is a helmet, not a work of art. If it had been Corinthian or Trojan or even Athenian, it would have been far more ornate, since those cultures supported the arts. The Spartan culture did not.”
He paused, taking another drag.
“Now look at the cuirass—the bronze armor that protects his chest and back. It is plain, too, except for the ridges of the rib cage and stomach. This is a design used by the Spartans. The muscular contours were meant to scare the enemy. And trust me, they did.”
“Anything else?”
“That is all for now. I’ll look some more once I drink my coffee.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Dial finished his notes and was about to hang up when Toulon cleared his throat quite loudly. “What now?”
“You are forgetting something, no?”
“I said thanks.”
“No. It is not that. You still haven’t heard my bad news.”
“Crap, that’s right. What’s the bad news?”
Toulon smiled, eager to show off his knowledge. “The bad news is identical to the good news. If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”
The comment puzzled Dial. “What’s your point?”
“Tell me, Nick, what do you know about the Spartans?”
“Not very much. They came from Sparta and they liked to fight.”
Toulon shook his head. “That is the understatement of the year.”
“How so?”
“How so?” he echoed, as he leaned back in his chair. “Since the dawn of man, there has never been a culture like the Spartans. From the moment of their birth until the time of their death, all Spartans were consumed by one thing: the art of war.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Oui, I can give you thousands.”
“Great. But let’s start with one.”
Toulon took another puff. “Let’s start at birth. When a baby was born, the child’s father took it to a group of elders who decided, right then and there, whether the child was worthy of Sparta. If it was small or weak, it was immediately taken to Mount Taygetus, also known as the place of rejection, where it was thrown off the mountain.”
“They killed their own babies?”
“Oui. They killed their own babies.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That is simply the beginning. When a Spartan boy reached the age of seven, he was enrolled in the agoge. It was like a military boarding school except far more brutal. The boys were stripped, beaten, and underfed, all in the hope of toughening them up. This went on for ten years, until they were ready for the crypteia, a secret initiation where their most promising youths proved their worth. These teenage boys were abandoned in the countryside with simple instructions: kill any Helots they saw and steal anything they needed to survive.”
“What’s a Helot?”
“The Helots were conquered subjects who worked the lands. This allowed the Spartans to focus all their time and energy on war, not farming.”
“And the boys killed them in cold blood?”
“Oui, but only Helots who were up to no good. This, of course, accomplished two things: It taught the boys how to hunt human flesh, and it kept the Helots in line. Simply put, they were too scared to rebel or run away from Sparta.”
Dial grimaced at the brutality. “And you think these guys are Spartans?”
“No, no, no! Do not misunderstand me. I think these men were dressed as Spartans. Whether they are or not, I do not know.”
“But could they be?”
Toulon laughed. “Nick, you must realize that Sparta was conquered centuries ago. Today it is a series of crumbled ruins. Nothing more.”
“I know that, Henri. But look at the facts. Two days ago a group of men attacked a nearly impenetrable fortress and slaughtered everyone inside. Then, for good measure, they threw all the bodies off the mountain—just like the flying babies you mentioned. And even though they were wearing body armor and helmets and carrying swords, there were no witnesses to the crime. That means these guys moved with great stealth.”
Dial paused, trying to calm the emotion in his voice. “I don’t know about you, but doesn’t that sound like the warriors you just described?”
“Oui,” he said. His tone was Suddenly, serious. “It certainly does.”
“So, as crazy as it sounds, let me ask you again. Could these guys be Spartans?”
Toulon puffed on his cigarette one last time, then smashed it into an empty cup until the embers were no more. “If they are, I’d hate to be the man who’s chasing them.”
18
Andropoulos pulled his car to the front entrance of the hotel. Dial was waiting for him, staring at the rocky cliffs that faded into the morning mist. He was wearing jeans and the same boots as the day before but opted for a long-sleeved shirt instead.
No sense breaking the dress code two days in a row.
Thanks to Dial’s comment about his suit, Andropoulos had changed as well. He wanted to placate his boss from Interpol, so he had copied his wardrobe: jeans, dress shirt, and hiking boots.
“Good morning, sir,” Andropoulos said as Dial climbed into the front seat.
Dial nodded, then studied the Greek from head to toe. “No time for a haircut?”
“Sorry, sir. I worked late last night.”
Dial grunted, trying his best not to smile. “Anything to report?”
Andropoulos pulled into traffic. Despite the early hour, the narrow streets were filled with tourists who were hoping to see all the local sites in a single day. “Three of the monks have been identified, including the abbot. The
other two were foreigners. One was from Russia, the other from Turkey.”
“Turkey? I thought that was a Muslim country.”
“Ninety-nine percent are Muslims. The other percent is mostly Orthodox.”
Dial considered the information and nodded. Victims from three different countries meant this was an Interpol case. Somehow he had always sensed it would be—otherwise he wouldn’t have flown to Greece on such short notice—but now it was official. That meant he could turn up the intensity of his investigation. He could chase down leads. He could interview witnesses. He could do all the things that he wanted to do without needing permission from the Greek government. Suddenly, his day was looking a whole lot brighter.
Unfortunately, his mood would change less than an hour later.
Andropoulos parked his car on the upper access road to Holy Trinity, right behind several other blue-and-white Citroëns. Dial counted the squad cars and shook his head. For some reason the entire police force was roaming around the cliffs, doing God knows what.
“If I were a criminal,” Dial said, “I would head straight to Kalampáka and rob a bank. It would take thirty minutes for you guys to reach town.”
Andropoulos glanced at the city nestled in the valley. “You are right. I am tempted to call my cousin and let him know.”
“Is he an officer?”
“No, sir. He’s a pickpocket. But he has the potential to be so much more.”
Dial laughed as he followed Andropoulos down the steep hillside. They used the same path as the day before, though it didn’t seem nearly as treacherous to Dial. Perhaps he was getting used to the footing. Or maybe it had to do with the sunlight, which was a drastic improvement over a single flashlight. Whatever the reason, he was able to pay closer attention to the terrain than he had on the previous night.
The first thing Dial noticed was the cable-car system that ran across the gorge to Holy Trinity. He slowed his pace when he saw its thin wires bouncing up and down as if they were caught in a violent storm. Then he spotted the reason why. A single monk, wearing a black cassock and cap, was sitting in a rickety cart as it was being pulled toward the top, more than a thousand feet in the air. Dial stopped to stare at the spectacle, and when he did, he heard the distant squeaking of pulleys and wheels coming from somewhere inside the ancient monastery.
Dial said, “You’d have to pay me a lot of money to ride in that thing.”
Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “I once asked a monk when they replaced the cable. And he said, ‘When the old one breaks.’”
“Strangely, I had a friend in college who had the same policy about condoms.”
“Sir, that’s disgusting.”
Dial laughed at his juvenile joke as he continued down the hillside. He knew he couldn’t make comments like that inside the monastery—at least not within earshot of any monks—so he tried to get them out of his system now. It was more difficult than it sounded. Working in a profession that was filled with so much violence and death, Dial relied on humor to keep him sane. Sometimes it was a racy comment. Other times it was a practical joke. Most of the time, it wasn’t meant to be malicious—like teasing Andropoulos about his hair and clothes. He was just having some fun while trying to solve a case that would probably depress him. Otherwise, he figured, he’d have to drink himself to sleep like half the cops he’d met.
In his mind, humor was a pretty good alternative to alcoholism.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were inside Holy Trinity, reexamining the crime scene. To Dial, everything looked different during daylight hours. The color of the stone was lighter. The construction of the monastery looked older, somehow more fragile. And the distance to the valley below was much greater than he expected. He glanced over the wall and for the first time could actually see the ground. At least ten people were down there, searching for clues or cleaning the rocks or something. Dial couldn’t tell for sure. Not from this far away.
“Hey, Marcus, do me a favor. Get me the names and backgrounds of all the monks they’ve identified. I’d like to have that ASAP.”
“Yes, sir. Where will you be?”
“I’ll be speaking with Nicolas. I need to ask him a few questions.”
Dial strolled toward the bell tower, glancing down the stone corridors and peeking in windows, hoping to spot the old monk meditating or chanting or doing whatever it is that old monks do. Dial had enjoyed talking to him the night before and looked forward to chatting with him again. Perhaps he could shed some light on the different nationalities of the victims and how he knew about the dead abbot before the police did. That, in particular, still bothered him.
Halfway across the complex, Dial approached the door where he had met Nicolas the previous night. Only this time he was able to see the grain of the ancient wood in the bright sunlight. It had the same consistency as the front gate. Not nearly as tall, yet just as thick and strong. The type of door that would put up a good fight against a battering ram.
Dial was about to knock when he noticed a large stain between the handle and the antique keyhole. The smudge was six inches long and the color of rust. If he had been sightseeing or entering an office building, Dial wouldn’t have given it much thought. But in the context of a crime scene, he crouched down for a closer look.
Except in rare circumstances, Interpol never handled forensic evidence—that was the job of the local cops who would eventually prosecute the case—yet Dial had worked enough murders to recognize blood when he saw it. And this stain was blood. No doubt about it. From the look of it, someone had tried to open the door with bloody hands. Whether the person had been successful or not was a different matter altogether. But someone had definitely tried to get inside.
The question was, why?
It wasn’t the only thing that popped into Dial’s mind. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if the stain had been there the night before, when he talked to Nicolas. The only reason Dial had approached the door to begin with was because there was a bright light shining under it—not because he had spotted the blood. Without the light, he would have kept on walking.
“Excuse me,” said a stern voice from behind. “What are you doing?”
Dial, who was crouching near the keyhole, turned to face his inquisitor. He was expecting to find another cop. Instead, it was the monk in the black cassock and cap who had ridden across the gorge in the cable car. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair and a thicket of a beard that practically hid his lips. He was holding a box in his hands.
“I was looking for clues,” Dial said.
“Through the keyhole? Have you no dignity?”
Dial stood up. “Not through it. Next to it. I found some blood by the lock.”
The monk stepped forward for a closer look. Once he saw the bloodstain, his tone changed immediately. “I am sorry for my accusation. As you can probably imagine, I am still trying to grasp what happened here. It has been a shock to us all.”
Dial brushed it aside with a wave of his hand. “No apologies needed. I can only imagine what it looked like.”
The monk nodded in gratitude. “My name is Theodore.”
“Nick Dial. I’m with Interpol.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dial—despite the circumstances. If you have any questions about Metéora, I’d be happy to answer them. I’ll be here for the duration.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m sure Nicolas will enjoy your company.”
“Nicolas? Who is Nicolas?”
Dial smiled. “Old guy, gray beard. I met him here last night.”
“You met him where?”
“Here. Right here.” Dial tapped on the door for emphasis. “He came out of this room.”
Confusion filled Theodore’s face. The type of confusion that couldn’t be faked.
“What? Is something wrong?” Dial asked.
Theodore tried to regain his composure. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dial. I don’t mean to doubt you. If you say you met a man named Nicola
s, I believe you. I truly do.” He paused momentarily. “That being said, I can assure you of something else. Whoever you spoke to wasn’t a monk, and he certainly didn’t belong at Holy Trinity.”
19
St. Martin’s Square Kaiserslautern, Germany
The Kaiserslautern Military Community (KMC) is the largest U.S. military community outside the continental United States, bringing in close to a billion dollars annually to the local economy and housing nearly 50,000 members of NATO personnel, mostly from the U.S. This gave the German city, located 80 miles southwest of Frankfurt, a uniquely American flavor.
During their previous trips to Ramstein, Payne and Jones had made several contacts, on and off the base, who could have helped their cause. After discussing it, they came to the conclusion that they should go to their best source for this mission—even though he wouldn’t be cheap.
The man called himself Kaiser because he was the king of K-Town.
At least when it came to getting supplies.
Payne and Jones reached him by phone shortly after their arrival in Germany. He agreed to meet them for breakfast at a small café right down the street from the former Hotel Zum Donnersberg, where Napoleon himself once dined. Neither of them had eaten a full meal since Florida, so they were starving by the time they reached the rendezvous point.
St. Martin’s Square (or the Martinsplatz) was the gateway to the old part of town, the section of the city that survived the Allied bombings in World War II. In the square was the old city hall, which now housed a school of music and several large chestnut trees that shaded the square during the hot summer months. But at this time of year, the weather was perfect for eating outside. There was a light breeze and the temperature was in the upper sixties.
They spotted Kaiser at a sidewalk table, casually sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, the same clothes he always wore. Nothing about his appearance really stood out, which was advantageous in his line of work. He was in his mid-fifties with slicked-back gray hair and bushy eyebrows above his dark eyes. They knew he was American—an ex-supply sergeant who retired from the military when he realized he could make a lot more money on his own—but little else about him.
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