The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  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 clams, 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 heav
ens 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 Division 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?

  “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, movi
e-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.