52
Jarkko was more than happy to stay an extra night in Saint Peters burg. He was getting paid to drink on his boat, an activity that he normally did for free.
Once the arrangements had been made, Payne asked Jones to join him in the guest room. They still needed to discuss the information learned from Kozlov. It was a conversation they didn’t want to have in front of Allison. For the time being, she was focused on Byrd’s documents, and consumed with Ivan Borodin and his mysterious coat.
Distracting her with death and violence would be counterproductive.
Jones entered and closed the door behind him. Two chairs and a small table filled the right corner of the room. He grabbed one of the chairs and turned it backward, allowing him to prop his arms in front of him. Meanwhile, Payne sat on the foot of the bed.
“Who was he?” Jones asked.
“His name was Alexei Kozlov. He was ex-FSB.” Payne handed him Kozlov’s badge. It was gold with Cyrillic lettering. “He assured me it was fake.”
Jones recognized the emblem. “It damn well better be or we need to leave now. We don’t want to tangle with the FSB.”
“Don’t worry. I’m confident he was telling the truth.”
Jones nodded. He trusted Payne’s judgment. “What else did you learn?”
“He killed Byrd. Never got paid, though. Kozlov worked through an intermediary with the Russian Mafia. They gave him a phone number to call. He talked to the man who hired him but never knew his name. He was told to find Byrd, figure out what he was doing, and then kill him before he left town.”
“Anything else?”
“His boss spoke with a Mediterranean accent. Couldn’t tell if it was Greek, Turkish, or Italian. But definitely Mediterranean.”
Jones fiddled with the badge. “This sure looks real to me.”
“At one time, it probably was. But killing pays better than government work.”
“It always does.” He handed it back to Payne. “Should we be worried about the Mafia?”
Payne shook his head. “He wasn’t in the Mafia. This was a contract job, plain and simple.”
“Which means Allison is safe.”
“She is from Kozlov. I can guarantee that.”
No explanation was necessary. He knew what Payne meant.
“Changing subjects,” Jones said. “Any theories on Byrd?”
“Not yet. I’ve been kind of busy. What about you?”
“I found a stack of phony passports and foreign currency. Either Byrd was on the run, or he was expecting to be.”
“Then why come to Russia? And why bring Allison with him?”
“Those are two good questions, especially since he didn’t take her to Italy.”
“Hell,” Payne said, “he didn’t even tell her he went to Italy. If she hadn’t seen the airport tags on his suitcase, she wouldn’t have known.”
“Exactly. So why bring her to Saint Petersburg and not take her to Naples?”
“Only one reason to do that. He needed her here for something.”
Jones nodded. He was thinking the exact same thing. “If I had to guess, this has to do with Schliemann. According to her, she knew a lot more about Schliemann than Byrd ever did. That has to be the reason he brought her here. To help him with Schliemann.”
Guys!” Allison called from the dining room. “I might have found something important!”
Payne and Jones left the guest room and joined her at the table. A small journal, yellowed with age, was open in front of her. Next to it sat a modern-day legal tablet. It was filled with crisp white pages and several columns of information. The words were written in blue ink.
Jones studied the top page. “Someone’s been busy.”
“Not me,” she assured him. “This is Richard’s notebook. I found it in his files.”
“And what is that?” Payne asked, pointing at the journal.
“That is the reason I’m so excited. I think I know why Richard went to Italy.”
Payne and Jones glanced at each other, amused. They had just been discussing that topic in the other room. Intrigued, Jones slid out of his chair and moved behind her. He wanted a better view of the book, which looked more than a century old.
Allison continued. “Remember what I told you last night? When Richard returned from Naples, he asked me all kinds of questions about Pompeii and Herculaneum, the two cities that were destroyed by the eruption from Mount Vesuvius. Schliemann had toured that area prior to his death, and I assumed that Richard went there to figure out what he had been looking for.”
“A fair assumption,” Jones remarked.
“Well, I was wrong. That might have been a smoke screen. I’m pretty sure Richard went to Naples to buy this.” She tapped the journal for emphasis. “Do you know what this is?”
“If we did,” Payne said, “we wouldn’t be staring at you.”
“It’s a transcript of Heinrich Schliemann’s final words, recorded by one of the police officers who found him unconscious on the street. I think Richard bought it in Naples.”
Jones leaned closer to inspect the journal. “How could it be a transcript? If he was unconscious, how did he talk?”
“According to this journal, Schliemann was taken to the police station while they tried to establish his identity. At one point, despite being incoherent, he started talking in his sleep.”
“Were you aware of that?”
“Not at all. But rumors have circulated for years about Schliemann’s final days, including his quest to find the largest treasure of all time. Most academics assumed it was part of the hype that he had created during his lifetime. I mean, this was a man who funded the construction of his own mausoleum and paid for the inscription to read, ‘To the Hero Schliemann.’ ”
Jones laughed. “The guy wasn’t modest.”
“No, he wasn’t. That much is certain. But little else is. When it comes to Schliemann’s life, there is always a fuzzy line between fact and fiction.”
“Tell us more about the journal,” Payne said.
“At first glance, I thought it was written by an idiot. Every other word is badly misspelled or abbreviated. I could tell that right away, and I don’t even speak Italian.” She picked up the legal tablet and showed it to Payne. The top page was divided into several different categories. “Then I found this. Richard had gone through the journal and translated everything into English.”
“What’s with the columns?” Payne asked.
“Each column represents a different language.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember, Schliemann wasn’t an Italian. He was a German who had lived all over the world. A man who could speak twenty-two languages. From what I can tell, he used several of those languages on his deathbed. The officer did the best he could to write the words phonetically. It was the only way he could keep track of what was being said.”
She ran her finger down the first column. The word ENGLISH was written at the top. Next were columns for GERMAN, GREEK, RUSSIAN, ITALIAN, and FRENCH. Then she flipped the page. Six more columns appeared. They were labeled SPANISH, PORTUGUESE, DUTCH, and so on. Some of the columns were filled with words; others were nearly empty.
“Richard went through the journal and placed words in corresponding columns. Then he translated each of those words and tried to figure out what Schliemann was saying.”
“And?” Jones asked, excited by the possibilities.
“Unfortunately, Richard came up with gibberish.”
“Damn!”
She glanced back at Jones, who was looking over her shoulder. She was thrilled that he cared enough to curse. “Don’t worry. There’s still hope. I have plenty of information to work with. Give me some time and I might be able to figure it out.”
“Or maybe not. I’ve seen a few people die. They didn’t always make sense at the end. In fact, some of them were pretty damn delusional.”
“Well,” she said, trying not to think about it, “I’ll do my best.�
��
Payne asked, “At first glance, does anything stand out?”
She nodded. “One word is repeated over and over in many different languages. Il trono. Le trône. El trono. And so forth.”
“I’m hoping el trono means ‘the coat.’ ”
She smiled. “Actually, it means ‘the throne.’ But Richard does mention ‘the coat’ on the final page of his translation.”
She pointed to the words that filled the bottom of the last page. They had been written in big capital letters, and then the message had been circled. A giant star was drawn to the left of the note, stressing how important it was. It read:
THE COAT = THE KEY
53
As the black helicopter touched down in an open field on the outskirts of Kalampáka, dirt and dust swirled into the air like a cyclone. Andropoulos, who had never ridden in a chopper before, watched with childlike wonder from inside his car. His vehicle rattled from the whooshing of the powerful blades until the pilot flipped a switch and stopped the turbines.
“This is going to be awesome!” Andropoulos gushed. “Thanks for bringing me along.”
Dial rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm. For him, air travel had lost its luster a long time ago. “You aren’t onboard yet. Keep it up, and I’ll hire the pilot to be my translator.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize. Make yourself useful. Grab our bags from the trunk.”
Andropoulos scurried off to complete his task while Dial cracked a smile. No matter how helpful the young Greek was—and so far he had exceeded Dial’s expectations—Dial planned on busting the kid’s balls every chance he got. He was a veteran member of the law enforcement community, and it was his God-given right and duty to toughen the youngster up.
Plus, it was a hell of a lot of fun.
Dial was about to step out of the car when his phone started to vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was Henri Toulon from Interpol. “Hola, Henri.”
“Spanish?” he growled. “I tell you not to speak French, so you speak Spanish?”
“What can I say? I’m an equal-opportunity linguist.”
“Oui. You mangle all languages the same amount.”
Dial smirked. “From the insolent tone of your voice, I’m assuming you have good news about my permits to Mount Athos. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so rude.”
“I have good news. I also have bad news. Which would you like first?”
“Not this shit again,” he muttered, remembering that Toulon had played the same game when telling him about the Spartans. “Just tell me all the news, Henri.”
“Now who is rude? People say we French are rude, but no one ever talks about Americans. And you know why we do not mention you? Because your country has the most bombs. If that was not so, people would say Americans are rude rather than the French!”
Toulon was obviously frustrated about something, so Dial responded in a calm voice.
“What’s wrong, Henri? What’s the bad news?”
“I have let you down.”
“How so?”
“I try and I try but you cannot visit Mount Athos today.”
Dial groaned. They were ready to take off. “Why not?”
“Because the monks are very strict. And you are arriving late.”
He glanced at his watch. It was mid-afternoon in Greece. “Late? I’ll be there by dinner.”
“Which is too late for them. The monks live regimented lives. They work together. They pray together. They eat together. Your arrival will interrupt that schedule. After a certain time each day, the guards will not allow anyone to enter Mount Athos—even those with permits. As I say, they are very strict.”
“Fine. What’s the good news?”
“I have arranged two meetings for you. One is with the governor of Mount Athos. He was appointed by the Hellenic Ministry of Foreign Affairs and is in charge of the civil administration of the Holy Mountain. For requests like yours, he is the man who must sign off on your visit. He has the authority to grant you emergency admission, if he feels it is warranted. So when you speak to him, you must be convincing.”
“Don’t worry, I will be.” Dial jotted a few notes. “Where will I meet him?”
“In Ouranoúpoli, a small village just across the border from Mount Athos.”
“Great. What about the second meeting?”
“There are twenty monasteries on the mountain. Each of them has a guest-master, a monk who is in charge of guided tours, showing relics, and more. He is the main contact person at each site. Visitors must check in with him before they enter his monastery.”
“But I don’t know which monasteries I need to visit.”
“This is why you will meet with the supervisor of all guest-masters—if the governor grants you access to their community. The supervisor has an office at Karyes. It is the largest settlement on Mount Athos. It is where all administrative matters are handled.”
Toulon gave him further details, including times and directions.
“Thanks, Henri. I appreciate it.”
“So you are not mad at me?”
Dial shook his head. “Why should I be mad?”
“Because you asked me to get you access today, and I have failed.”
“Hey, it was a tough task—especially considering their rigid schedules.”
Toulon paused. “Does this mean you will give me a long weekend off like you promised?”
Dial laughed. “I don’t know about that. The big prize was incentive for a miracle. And you didn’t produce a miracle. You produced a couple of meetings.”
“Oui. This is true. I have been to your meetings. They are not miraculous.”
“Speaking of miracles, what’s the latest on that officer from Spárti?”
“George Pappas.”
“Right. Did he have any luck on his search for Spartans?”
Toulon fiddled with his ponytail. “I do not know. I have spent all my time talking to the officials at Mount Athos. I have not had time to talk to George.”
“Well, now that you’re done with the monks, I’d appreciate it if you could give him a call. The more information I have before I meet with the governor, the better.”
“I will call him now. Would you like him to call you directly?”
“Only if he has something major to report. Otherwise, just call me back and leave a voice mail. I doubt I’ll hear my phone in the chopper.”
“You are leaving now?”
Dial nodded. “I don’t have much of a choice. I commandeered the chopper from the Greek police, and they need it back as soon as possible. I’ll just have the pilot drop us off at Ouranoúpoli. That way I’ll be ready for my morning meeting. The last thing I want to do is be late for the governor.”
“Oui, that would be bad.”
“Besides, this will give me a chance to see the Holy Mountain today. I’ll have the pilot do a few flyovers, just so I can get a feel for the place.”
54
Payne read the words aloud. “The coat equals the key. What does that mean?”
Allison shrugged. “I have no idea, since I don’t know what the coat is. I could have asked Ivan on the phone, but I figured that would’ve appeared suspicious.”
Jones nodded in agreement as he returned to his chair. “Any theories?”
“It might be referring to a coat of arms. Many cities in Europe, both new and ancient, use decorative shields as a symbol. Perhaps the coat is pointing toward a specific location.”
“Look in the French column on the tablet,” Jones suggested. “Coat of arms is the translation of a French term, cote d’armes. It might be listed there.”
Payne stared at him like he was speaking French. Which, in fact, he had been. “How in the hell do you know that?”
Jones shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody?”
Payne wanted to tease him, but Allison interrupted him before he could.
“Sorry. There’s no coat mentioned in French.”
“What about
Schliemann’s family?”
“What about them?” she asked.
Jones explained. “Many important families in Europe have their own coat of arms. That sounds like something Schliemann might’ve had done to boost his stature.”
“Hmmm, I never thought of that. I don’t remember seeing one during my research, but I can look through my notes. I have some pictures of Iliou Melathron. Maybe I’ll spot one there.”
Payne grimaced in confusion. “What is Iliou Mel—?”
“Melathron. It is Schliemann’s former residence in Athens. The term translates to the Palace of Ilium, which was the name of the Roman city built on top of the site of Troy. Schliemann’s mansion was so extravagant it was purchased by the Hellenic Ministry of Culture for the Athens Numismatic Museum. It now houses over six hundred thousand coins.”
“That’s a lot of change,” Jones said.
Allison smiled. “We were going to visit it when we went to Greece. It’s near the Acropolis.”
Payne recognized the look in her eye. She was about to go off on a wild tangent, probably talking about the Parthenon or some other site that she hoped to see. Payne knew if they were going to get out of Russia before he died of old age, he had to keep her rambling to a minimum.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said to Allison. “Even if Schliemann had a coat of arms, what does it really matter? I mean, I doubt it was a family secret. That would have gone against his motivation to get a coat of arms to begin with. So what good would it do us?”
Allison sighed. “You make a good point.”
“For the time being, I think it would be best if you kept working on the journal. See if you can figure out why Richard rushed to Naples to buy it and then spent so much time translating it. Obviously, he thought it was important.”
She nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Richard didn’t like wasting time. He must have been looking for something in particular. I’m not sure what, but something.”
“What about a throne?” Jones suggested. “Schliemann mentioned it several times in several different languages. He must have done that for a reason—even if he was delusional at the time. According to Richard’s notes, the coat is supposed to be the key. But Schliemann didn’t mention a coat. He mentioned a throne, over and over again.”
The Lost Throne Page 28
