Jones continued. “And since he was the private type, I’m sure he had a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on his door the entire trip, right?”
She nodded.
“I’m also guessing that wasn’t good enough for him, so he probably locked his documents in his room safe-even when he used the bathroom.”
“Like clockwork.”
“No problem,” bragged Jones, who had picked many locks in his day. Not only in the Special Forces, but also as a private detective. “Hotel locks are easy. Give me five minutes and that safe is mine. Another two and I can collect your research. By the time I’m done, your room will be spotless. No one will even know you stayed there.”
“And then what?” Payne wondered.
“Then we come back here and look through Richard’s stuff. It’s obvious the guy was hiding something. Once we know what it was, we’ll be a whole lot closer to solving his murder.”
35
From the moment Nick Dial entered the grounds of Great Metéoron, he felt like an outsider.
Unlike Holy Trinity, which was filled with talkative cops, bloodstained floors, and severed heads, Great Metéoron was a working monastery. Everywhere Dial looked, he saw silent monks, manicured gardens, and religious icons. It was enough to make his skin crawl. If he wanted to walk around in peaceful harmony, he would have moved to Tibet. Or smoked a lot of pot.
As it was, he was investigating a murder. He didn’t have time to chant. Or inhale.
“I feel like I’m back in high school,” Dial said to Andropoulos as they made their way up the stone steps that led to the main courtyard, which was adorned with trees. Potted flowers lined most of the walls and walkways.
“Why is that?” Andropoulos wondered.
Dial passed two monks who gave him the evil eye, as if they had just caught him pissing on a church altar. Other monks had acted the same way. He didn’t know if it was due to his talking or because he was visiting the monastery on the one day it was supposed to be closed to the public. Whatever the reason, he felt the cold glares of the holy men everywhere he walked.
Dial said, “My father was an assistant football coach, which is one of the least stable jobs in America. When he succeeded, he was hired by better colleges. When he failed, he was fired and we were forced to move. Either way, it meant I was always the new kid at school. And the new kid was always treated like this.”
Andropoulos smiled. It was the first time Dial had opened up to him. Even at dinner the night before, the two of them had mostly talked about the case, not their private lives. “Don’t take it personally, sir. These men have chosen a life of solitude. They view us as a link to the outside world. A world that recently claimed eight of their own.”
“Don’t worry. I never take things personally. I didn’t back then, and I don’t now.”
Great Metéoron, also known as Megálo Metéoro, is the oldest and largest of the six local monasteries. Founded in 1340 by Saint Athana sios Meteorites, a scholar monk from Mount Athos, it had expanded several times over the years, housing as many as three hundred monks in the mid-sixteenth century. What started as a single building carved into the rock had expanded to a small town on top of it-more than two thousand feet above the valley below. There were four chapels, a cathedral, a tower, a refectory, a dormitory, a hospital, and several other structures.
Most of them made of stone. Most of them centuries old.
Dial soaked it all in as they followed the stone pathway between the buildings. Thankfully, Andropoulos knew where they were going, or Dial would have been forced to ask directions from one of the monks. A conversation that would have been, undoubtedly, one-sided.
A few minutes later, they met Joseph, a fair-haired monk and one of the youngest at Great Metéoron. Because of his low standing in the order, he had been assigned to be their tour guide while Theodore finished his research in the library. Joseph, who was so young he couldn’t even grow a decent beard, was waiting for them outside the monastery’s katholikón, an Eastern Orthodox term for cathedral. Dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ, it was often called the Church of the Metamorphosis. Built in 1544 to replace a smaller katholikón that still served as its sanctuary, it was the most important building in the entire complex.
“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”
Dial stepped inside the katholikón and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.
Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”
Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology-the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.
“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”
“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”
Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”
“What are you talking about?”
Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.
Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes-images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God-that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.
“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.
Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.
“Jesus,” Dial said as he angrily turned toward Andropoulos. “How did you forget about this? There’s a pile of fucking heads on the ceiling!”
Andropoulos was about to defend himself when he was saved by Joseph. The monk heard Dial’s vulgarity and charged toward him like an angry rhino protecting its young.
“This is a house of God!” he snarled. “You must show respect in here.”
“Sorry,” Dial apologized, quickly realizing his mistake. Embarrassed, he lowered his head to convey his shame. It was a technique he had learned while working in Japan. “Please forgive me. I forgot where I was. I’m truly sorry for my behavior.”
The young monk paused, as if he had been expecting a confrontation that never materialized. He was so surprised by this development that his anger melted away, replaced by mercy and forgiveness.
“This is our church,” Joseph said, his voice much kinder than a moment before. “Treat it as you would your own.”
Dial nodded, apologetically. “Speaking of chur
ches,” he whispered in a reverential tone, “I was wondering about these paintings. They seem out of place in a house of worship.”
“Not to us.”
“I don’t follow.”
Joseph gazed at the ceiling, his eyes twinkling with awe and admiration. “In the Orthodox faith, one must ask himself what he would do if his beliefs were ever challenged. Would he display the courage and stamina that is necessary to overcome the pains of the flesh? Does he have the devotion in his heart that would lead him to martyrdom? Most people would crumble like ancient ruins, unwilling to fight for what they believed in. But some, like those brave souls honored above, were willing to die for their cause. And to them, we give our respect.”
Dial realized that Joseph was talking about Christianity. But given the circumstances of the massacre and all the connections that Dial had found to soldiers and war, he couldn’t help but wonder if the monks had died for a cause as well-something that had nothing to do with their Orthodox faith. That would explain why seven elderly monks, from different parts of the world, were secretly meeting at Holy Trinity. The odds were pretty damn good they weren’t debating religious doctrine. That type of conversation would be held during the day in a city like Athens, not in the middle of the night on top of a rocky plateau.
So what had they been discussing? What was worth dying for?
Andropoulos pointed at the ceiling. “What is the significance of the heads?”
The monk glanced upward. “Those are the heads of saints, the men we admire most. They gave their lives for their faith. . . . If you look closely, you will notice halos above them. It is our way of showing reverence to their sacrifice.”
In the dim church light, Dial strained to see the halos. On closer inspection, he noticed tiny gold loops above the severed heads. It was a strange twist to an already strange painting.
“Come,” Joseph said. “If you are interested in heads, I have a special treat.”
A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of a wooden door. It was spotted with black knots and cracked down the middle from centuries of rot. Yet it still hung on its hinges, protecting its occupants from the outside world. The smell of incense leaked from a foot-high arch that was cut in the door. Dial moved closer and saw candlelight flickering inside the room. As the flames danced, he saw death.
“This is the ossuary,” Joseph explained as he opened the door. “Some call it a bone room. Or a charnel house. This is where we keep our dead.”
Dial walked in first, not the least bit scared by what he saw. If anything, he was captivated by the morbidity. Seven rows of wooden shelves, all of them lined with skulls that stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He moved closer, marveling at their shapes, the curve of their craniums, the hollowness of their nasal cavities. Even in death, after years of rot and decay, he could imagine their faces. He could picture the way they had looked when they were alive.
“These are our founders,” Joseph whispered. “They remind us how short our life is on earth and how insignificant we truly are.”
Dial stared at the lowest shelf. Stacks of bones-femurs, tibias, ribs, and more-were wedged under and between the bottom row of skulls. Entire skeletons crammed into a tiny space like books in a library. None of it seemed respectful to Dial, who had seen burial traditions in many countries. But he realized different cultures believed in different things, so he wasn’t the least bit offended by the way they treated their dead. Just intrigued.
Turning to his right, he noticed a wooden cabinet standing next to the stone wall. He walked toward it, staring at the two framed photographs that sat on the top of the unit. Each one was a picture of a monk. They were dressed in their traditional black cassocks and caps, although the two men looked nothing alike. One was old and regal. His eyes filled with wisdom. His beard gray with age. Meanwhile, the other monk was younger than Dial. His cheeks were round and chubby. His smile full of life. Yet both pictures were displayed in the same manner. They were surrounded by several lit candles in metal trays and tiny gold lanterns filled with incense.
The scent was piney and pungent, like a forest fire.
Dial asked, “Who are they?”
Joseph answered, his voice vacant of any emotion. “That is the abbot and the caretaker of Holy Trinity. We honor their sacrifice and mourn our loss.”
Dial glanced back at the monk, who showed no signs of sadness. Normally, that would have raised a red flag with Dial, particularly in a community as small as Metéora, where everyone knew everybody else. But considering the skulls and images he had seen in the last twenty minutes, Dial realized the monks had a much different view of death from most people’s.
Whether those views would help or hinder his investigation, he wasn’t sure.
But he would keep it in mind when he talked to Theodore in the library.
36
Nevsky Prospekt, a bustling avenue that cuts through the heart of the city, is the most famous street in Saint Petersburg. Planned by the renowned French architect Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Le Blond, it honors Alexander Nevsky, a national hero who defeated the Swedish and German armies in the thirteenth century and was later canonized as Saint Alexander.
More important to David Jones, it gave him an easy route to Allison’s hotel.
Glancing at his watch, Jones left the Palace Hotel and turned west on Nevsky. The sidewalks were filled with a lunchtime crowd, a mixture of tourists and locals. Jones had his fake passport in one pocket and his lock picks in another. His gun was covered by his un-tucked shirt.
Five minutes later, Payne and Allison left the hotel, using a different exit. They walked to the nearest intersection and waited for the light to change. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. Six lanes of cars, taxis, and buses. All of them rushing to get somewhere. When the traffic stopped, they crossed to the northern side of Nevsky and turned west.
They would shadow Jones from the opposite side of the street.
During the past week, Allison had spent several hours in nearby museums and libraries, doing research while Richard Byrd roamed the city. By foot, the Astoria Hotel was only twenty minutes away. It was near the Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, and the Mariinsky Theater. Tourists would be everywhere. Eating their lunches. Standing in lines. Enjoying the spring weather in the nearby plaza. It was a good spot to wait while Jones broke into Byrd’s room.
Payne wanted to be close in case there was trouble.
In a perfect world, Payne wouldn’t have brought Allison with him. He would have left her in their suite at the Palace Hotel until they returned a few hours later. But somehow she had talked him into it, convincing him it was worth the risk. She could take him to the dock for the Meteor, the boat she rode into the Peterhof. She could point out the Hermitage Museum, where Schliemann’s treasure was kept.
Payne didn’t know where clues existed, so he wanted to see everything.
On their side of the street, they passed a large trade house, which was adorned with multiple stained-glass windows and several patina-coated statues, the same color as the Statue of Liberty. In sharp contrast, the building sat next to an Adidas clothing outlet and a discount record and video store. New and old sharing the same neighborhood.
Back across Nevsky, Payne noticed an elaborate building that seemed to stretch for an entire block. People of all ages streamed in and out of the front entrance.
“What’s that?” he asked as they kept walking west.
“The Russian National Library. It’s one of the largest in the world. It has over thirty million items. Since 1811, it has received one copy of every book published in Russia.”
Payne shook his head. “You’re as bad as D.J. He’s always spouting facts like that.”
She smiled. “Richard took me there when we first got into town. He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for, so I roamed the aisles on my own. I read that fact in a pamphlet.”
As they continued, his focus remained on the opposite side of the street. He
noticed a pillared Greek temple called the Portik Rusca that used to be the entrance to a long arcade of shops. It sat next to an eight-story clock tower, which was topped by a two-story antenna that used to receive optical telegraphs in the 1800s. He had read about such devices-they were eventually made obsolete by the electric telegraph-but he had never seen one.
“So,” Payne said, shifting his attention back to Allison, “what’s your take on Richard?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you trust the guy?”
Her cheeks turned pink, her standard reaction anytime she was embarrassed. In the world of poker, it would be a horrible tell. “Please don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s dead. What good would it do to criticize him?”
“I’m not asking you to make fun of him. I want to know if you trusted him.”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Payne glanced to his right and saw St. Catherine’s Armenian Church. Its façade was painted turquoise, a color that sparkled among the grays and beiges of the surrounding buildings.
“Was he a criminal?”
Her face registered surprise. “What? Why would you ask me that?”
“Why? Because he was killed by a professional. It seems like a legitimate question.”
She remained silent while she sorted through all the thoughts that had plagued her during the past two days. And Payne didn’t press her. He just kept walking, taking in the architecture, keeping an eye on all the people who filed past them on the busy sidewalk. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being followed. He did this casually, using his peripheral vision or looking at the reflections in store windows.
Up ahead he saw the Grand Hotel Europe. Adorned with gold letters and stylish maroon awnings, it looked far more luxurious than where they were staying. At least from a distance. A black Mercedes limousine was parked in front, while a chauffeur waited nearby. If they’d had more time, Payne would have glanced inside the lobby-just to see what it looked like. For some reason, he had always been fascinated by fancy hotels, especially in foreign countries.
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