The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  Andropoulos nodded as he returned his attention to the bulletin board. Underneath the index card with the names of the dead monks, Dial had tacked two additional cards. One said Nicolas; the other said Spartans. “What do those mean?”

  “Tell me, Marcus, what does Nicolas have in common with the Spartans?”

  He gave it some thought. “Both of them are Greek.”

  Dial grimaced. “And so are you, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. I just—”

  “Come on, Marcus, use your head. Don’t waste your time on superficial bullshit. Focus on what’s important. Why would I place those two cards right next to each other?”

  “Because they’re connected.”

  “Right. And how are they connected?”

  Andropoulos stared at the cards, struggling to find the link.

  “Look at the card above. How do the dead monks connect to Nicolas and the Spartans?”

  “Well,” he said, trying to talk his way through the process, “we don’t think that Nicolas is a Spartan, so we can rule that out.”

  “Go on.”

  “Actually, we aren’t quite sure who Nicolas is. Or why he was there.”

  “But . . .”

  “But . . . somehow he knew.”

  Dial smiled. “Knew what?”

  “Nicolas knew about the meeting. Somehow he knew when and where the meeting was being held. Just like the Spartans. They knew about the meeting, too.”

  “Not only that,” Dial added, “Nicolas knew about the abbot’s death before we did. That means he knew the time, the place, and the guest list. That’s an awfully large chunk of information for someone to possess.”

  “Which is why we’re going to Mount Athos. To look for Nicolas.”

  Dial nodded. “Admittedly, the odds are pretty slim that we’ll find the guy. Mount Athos is large, and Nicolas probably looks like half the monks there. Still, I think it’s worth our time and effort. Especially after I saw that old photo of him at Holy Trinity. That cinched the trip for me.”

  “Why, sir? Why is that picture so important?”

  “Let me show you,” Dial said as he removed the photograph from a plastic sleeve designed to protect it. Theodore, the monk from the library, had been kind enough to lend it to them for their investigation. “Look at the people in this picture. What do they have in common?”

  “Most of them are dead.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “The picture was taken four decades ago, and the monks were already old back then.”

  “Define old,” Dial ordered. “And you’d better watch your word choice.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Dial pointed to the oldest monk in the photo. “How old do you think he was?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe seventy.”

  “And what about this guy here?”

  “Early sixties.”

  “And this one?”

  “Fifties.”

  “Noticing a pattern?”

  Andropoulos nodded. “Their ages are staggered.”

  “Exactly. Seven monks, each of them born several years apart. Kind of interesting, huh?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  Dial sighed. He thought his point was rather obvious. “Take a look at the bulletin board.”

  “Okay.”

  He pointed to a single photo. Seven heads were stacked in a pyramid in the secret passageway underneath Holy Trinity. “Ignore the blood and the brutality. Focus on the faces. What can you tell me about these monks?”

  Andropoulos stared at the image, trying to figure out the answer that Dial was looking for. Several seconds passed before it came to him. “The monks were different ages.”

  “Exactly! Seven monks with staggered ages. Where have we seen that before?”

  “In the other picture.”

  “Not only that, but the abbot was in each one. He was a young monk in the old photo and the old monk in the new photo. Somehow I doubt that’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t get it, sir. Why would they stagger the ages?”

  “Only one reason I can think of: succession.”

  “Succession?”

  Dial nodded. “The monks were trying to keep something alive, whether it was a secret or a tradition or whatever. The way I figure it is this. When one of the monks died, they brought a new one into the fold. That guaranteed a new generation to keep things going. Hell, they might have gone so far as to choose seven monks from different countries just to make sure that a natural disaster didn’t wipe them all out at once. That would explain the wide variety of faces in the photos. A new monk from a different place to keep something alive.”

  “I’m confused, sir. What kind of something are you talking about?”

  He tapped Andropoulos on his chest again. “That goes back to my earlier question. What were these monks discussing in an isolated monastery in the middle of the night?”

  “Do you have any theories?”

  “Of course I do. I always have theories. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “But you’re keeping them to yourself.”

  “For the time being, yes. I don’t want to taint your opinions until I’m a little more certain.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What about you? Do you have any theories?”

  Andropoulos smiled. “Actually, sir, I might.”

  “Let me guess. You’re going to keep them to yourself so you don’t taint me.”

  “No, sir. I’d be happy to share it with you if you’re willing to listen.”

  “I’m all ears. What’s your theory about?”

  “I think I just figured out why they were meeting at Holy Trinity, not Athens or Istanbul.”

  “Go on.”

  “It never dawned on me until you said the word, but maybe the reason they were meeting locally was tradition. After all, the photograph from forty years ago was also taken here. Maybe they met here every year. Maybe it was a part of their ritual.”

  Dial stroked his chin in thought. “You know what, Marcus? That’s a pretty good theory. It makes more sense than anything I’ve come up with.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it.”

  Dial walked closer to the bulletin board, staring at all the pictures and index cards. As he did, he ran different scenarios through his mind, trying to decide if he needed to shift anything around. Sometimes that was how it worked with Dial. One thing fell into place, followed by another and another until all his questions were Suddenly, answered.

  “What are you thinking about, sir?”

  “The reason. What was the reason they started meeting at Holy Trinity?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “I’m glad,” Dial teased. “It will give me a chance to earn my big paycheck.”

  Andropoulos smiled and was about to say something else until he noticed the faraway look in Dial’s eye. He was no longer paying attention to the young cop. Instead, he was focused on the bulletin board, crunching all the data in his head, trying to figure out the answer to the question that he had just asked. Why were they meeting at Holy Trinity?

  A few minutes passed before Dial spoke again. When he did, he spoke with clarity.

  “The tunnel. This whole thing is about the goddamn tunnel.”

  “The tunnel?”

  “More specifically, what used to be in the tunnel.”

  To make his point, Dial tapped on a photo of the stone altar that they had found underneath Holy Trinity. “Look at the craftsmanship of that thing. That altar used to hold something important. I’m not sure what, but it was important. Same with all those empty shelves we found. Something important used to be down there.”

  Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m assuming that’s why the Spartans took the time to leave the heads on the altar. They wanted somebody to know that they had found their secret tunnel
and weren’t going to stop killing people until they found what they were looking for.”

  “Wanted who to know?”

  “Maybe Nicolas. Maybe they wanted him to know for some reason. Maybe that’s why he showed up, to see the message for himself.”

  Andropoulos glanced at the bulletin board, focusing on the card that said Nicolas. As he did, a question popped into his head. “Sir, if your theory is correct about succession, why wasn’t Nicolas killed? I mean, shouldn’t he have been here for the meeting? He was in that picture from forty years ago, the one with the abbot.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to mention that. That question has been plaguing me, too. Maybe death wasn’t the end of a monk’s term. Maybe there was an age limit. Maybe that’s the reason he wasn’t there when the rest of the monks were killed. Being old might have saved his life.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Nicolas did something to get thrown out of the group.”

  Dial nodded. “Trust me. That thought had crossed my mind, too.”

  51

  Jones was excited about the news. He walked into the other room to share it with Allison, who was going through Byrd’s papers. “I found Ivan Borodin. He lives here in Saint Petersburg.”

  “That’s great. Now all we have to do is figure out who he is.”

  “I found that out, too. He used to be the director of the State Hermitage Museum.”

  “Wow,” she said as she considered what that meant. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Richard never liked wasting time with peons. He always went straight to the top.”

  “Maybe so, but Borodin retired eight years ago. Why talk to him now?”

  “Remember what I told you last night? The Hermitage launched its Schliemann exhibit in 1998. That means Borodin was the man who brought it here. Imagine what information he has! He would know, better than anyone, what items aren’t on display.”

  Jones nodded. “Petr Ulster once told me that eighty-five percent of all artifacts are never shown to the general public. That’s a lot of stuff that Richard might have been interested in.”

  “I’ll keep looking through his notes. Maybe I can figure out what he wanted to see.”

  “Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use your computer. I want to get some background information on Borodin. The more we know about him, the better.”

  “Help yourself. It’s fully charged.”

  Jones grabbed the laptop bag and carried it to the writing desk near the guest bedroom. He was about to turn on the computer when he felt his cell phone vibrate. “Hello?”

  It was Payne, calling from the back entrance to the hotel. “I’m on my way up.”

  “Already?”

  “Do me a favor. Run interference for me. I need to take a shower.”

  “No problem.”

  Jones knew not to ask any questions. Payne would talk about his confrontation with Kozlov when he was ready. Depending on what had happened, it might be five minutes or an hour. In the meantime he didn’t want to be bothered. Not by Jones or anyone else.

  This was standard protocol for Payne. He needed time to decompress.

  “Hey, Allison,” Jones said as he hung up his phone. “I need to let Jon in. Just to be safe, hang out in the bedroom for a few minutes.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course it is. I’m just being cautious.”

  She nodded, too occupied with Byrd’s journal to challenge Jones’s request. Taking the book with her, she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  A short time later, Payne entered the suite. His clothes were dirty and slightly damp—as though he had been working all day in the hot sun. His eyes were intense and focused. He patted Jones on the shoulder as he walked toward the guest wing. His gesture was a simple one, but it let Jones know that everything had been taken care of and he was all right.

  Then, without saying a single word, Payne closed and locked the guest room door.

  The sound of running water soon filled the hallway.

  Forty minutes later, Payne emerged a new man. He had showered and changed his clothes. A smile was on his face, and his stomach was growling. He strolled into the kitchen looking for something to eat, finding nothing but a bowl of fruit left over from breakfast. He grabbed an apple and walked toward the dining room table, where Jones and Allison were working.

  “What have we learned?” Payne wondered.

  Jones answered. “We went through Byrd’s planner and one name stood out: Ivan Borodin, the former director of the Hermitage Museum. We don’t know what they were discussing, but we assume it was Schliemann. Ivan was in charge of the Schliemann exhibit before he retired.”

  Payne pondered the information. “Is that why Byrd came to town, to meet with Ivan?”

  “That would be my guess, but we don’t know for sure. It fits the time line, though.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “We have his home phone and address. Oh, and the guy is eighty-eight years old.”

  “Damn. How long ago did he retire?”

  “Only eight years.”

  “He retired at eighty? That explains why Byrd wanted to talk to him. He must know the location of the fountain of youth.”

  Jones smiled. “You might be onto something. I searched the Internet and came up with several articles about his career. Ivan devoted most of his life to the Hermitage. He worked there for over sixty years, starting out as a tour guide and working his way up through the ranks. You rarely see that type of dedication anymore.”

  “Sixty years in one place? That’s plenty of time to learn a lot of secrets.”

  “We were thinking the same thing.”

  “How many times did they meet?”

  Allison entered the conversation. “We don’t know. Ivan’s name and number appeared several times in Richard’s planner, but he never mentioned his name to me.”

  “We have his number, right? Why don’t we give him a call?”

  Jones nodded. “We planned on it. I was just waiting to get your approval.”

  On the surface, it seemed like a straightforward comment. But Payne knew otherwise. He had worked with Jones long enough to know he wasn’t requesting permission to make a phone call. He was asking Payne if he wanted to continue their investigation. As things stood, Byrd’s killer had been taken care of and Allison was temporarily safe. One quick call to Jarkko and the thirsty Finn would have them drinking Kafka in international waters in less than an hour.

  For the time being, that option didn’t interest Payne. Not until they solved the mystery of Byrd’s death. What was Byrd looking for that was so important?

  Payne needed to know before he was willing to leave Russia.

  “Make the call,” Payne said, “but have Allison do the talking.”

  “What?” she stammered. “Why me?”

  “Because you were Byrd’s assistant. Maybe he didn’t tell you about Ivan, but he might have told Ivan about you. Besides, your voice is slightly less threatening than ours.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Allison,” he said, not in the mood to argue, “you’re making the call.”

  Before she did, Payne and Jones coached her on what to say, anticipating the questions about Richard that were sure to come. If possible, they wanted to meet with Ivan immediately. With the Russian’s advanced age, they figured he probably wouldn’t have a hectic social calendar. In fact, he might even welcome some company. The goal, though, was to meet with him face-to-face, whether that was at his home or at the museum. And the sooner the better.

  Allison turned on the speakerphone so Payne and Jones could listen in. Ringing filled their suite until Ivan answered.

  “Da?” he said.

  “Hello? Is this Ivan Borodin?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Allison. I’m Richard’s assistant.”

  “Richard Byrd?”

  Allison exhaled. She was glad that Byrd had used his real name, not one of h
is fake identities. That would make things so much easier. “Yes, sir. I’m his assistant.”

  “I was expecting him on Sunday. He never showed up.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He was called away on business. He asked me to apologize.”

  “I see.” Ivan’s voice was weak, as one might expect from an eighty-eight-year-old. It was also tinged with a Russian accent, which made it difficult to read his emotions over the phone. “I assumed he was no longer interested in the coat.”

  Allison whispered to Payne and Jones. “The coat?”

  They shrugged. They had no idea what Ivan was talking about.

  Jones whispered back. “Say you’re interested.”

  “No, sir. We’re still interested. Could I stop by today?”

  Ivan paused, longer than he should have to answer such a simple question. Eventually, he cleared his throat and replied. “Tomorrow would be better. Is ten o’clock too early?”

  Allison grinned. “Ten o’clock is perfect. Should I come to you?”

  “Yes. That would be best. I don’t move around like I used to.”

  Jones took the phone from Allison and shook her hand. “Well played, my lady.”

  “Wow,” she remarked. “That was kind of fun. Who can I call now?”

  Payne glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon. No way would they be ready to leave before their deadline. He needed to call Jarkko to make new arrangements.

  “Nice job,” he said to Allison. “But now comes the hard part. You have to figure out what Ivan was talking about. What is ‘the coat’ that he referred to?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. And I knew more about Schliemann than Richard ever did.”

  “Maybe it has nothing to do with Schliemann,” Jones suggested.

  She shrugged. “Maybe so. But now that I know what to look for, I should be able to find something in Richard’s notes. At least I hope I can.”

  “I’ll help you search. Four eyes are better than two.”

  Payne nodded at Jones. “I have to make some calls. As soon as I’m done, I’ll help as well. In the meantime, why don’t you guys order some dinner? It’s going to be a long night.”