The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  Maybe Russia wasn’t so racist after all.

  When they reached the escalators, Allison stepped on first, followed by Jones. For the next few minutes, he would have a chance to question her.

  “When we were outside, did Jon point out my shadow?”

  She nodded. “Back near the square.”

  “Did the guy make any phone calls or talk to anyone on the street?”

  “Not that I could see. He never stopped moving.”

  “Good.”

  Jones glanced over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers. The person behind him was listening to loud music through headphones. Farther back there was an older couple who didn’t look as if they could hear each other, let alone Jones.

  “What did the soldiers want?”

  She blushed slightly. “I think they wanted me.”

  “You? What did they want with you?”

  Her face turned even brighter.

  “Ohhhhh!” he said in understanding. “They wanted you. I know exactly how you feel. Women constantly treat me like a piece of meat. It’s disgusting.”

  She smiled at his claim. “It must get pretty hard for you.”

  “See! That’s exactly what I mean. Raunchy comments like that.”

  “Wait!” she blurted, realizing her double entendre. “I meant tough for you. Not hard.”

  Jones laughed at her discomfort. “Relax, I’m just teasing. I knew what you meant. I just wanted to see how red I could make your face. It’s kind of fun. Like coloring without a crayon.”

  She shrugged in resignation. “Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always been that way. Even as a little girl they used to tease me. I have fair skin, so the red comes shining through.”

  Jones pointed to his face. “I have the exact same problem.”

  She smiled, amazed that Jones was so relaxed despite his narrow escape.

  His confidence gave her confidence.

  “Back to my shadow for a moment. Did he look familiar to you?”

  “Jon asked me the same thing.”

  “And?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He was too far away to see.”

  “Not to worry. If he killed Richard, we’ll find out shortly.”

  “We will?”

  Jones nodded. “Of course we will. Jon is very good at his job.”

  “What do you mean? Jon is talking to him?”

  “Talking? I guess you could call it that.”

  A look of discomfort crossed her face. One that Jones instantly recognized. He had seen it many times before when civilians listened to stories about life in the military. They freaked out over tales of brutality, not able to understand that violence was often done to ensure peace.

  “Listen,” he said, “if we had simply wanted to lose my shadow, we would have handled things differently. But the truth is that we have to question him. The sooner, the better.”

  “I don’t get it. Why do you have to talk to him?”

  Jones groaned. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to stay calm?”

  “To hell with calm. I want the truth.”

  “Simply put, we’re doing it for your safety.”

  “My safety?”

  “Think about it. The guy knew where Richard was staying. How long would it take him to figure out that Richard paid for two rooms, not one? Hell, he probably knows already.”

  “But I thought you cleaned my room?”

  “I did. But I didn’t have a chance to erase the video surveillance from the lobby. For all we know, he bribed a security guard and has your picture in his pocket right now.”

  She gulped at the thought.

  “Hey, you wanted the truth.”

  “I know I did, but . . .”

  “Listen,” Jones said, trying to reassure her. “I swear to you, Jon is great at what he does. He’ll have a pleasant conversation with the guy and find out what he knows. After that, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  Concrete whizzed by as the train roared through the tunnels underneath Saint Petersburg. Every few minutes a recorded voice would make an announcement in Russian, and the train would slow to a stop. People would get on and people would get off, but Payne never moved. He kept staring out the window at the concrete, refusing to make eye contact with any of his fellow passengers-including the assassin at the other end of the car.

  The initial plan was for Payne to block Kozlov’s path, trapping him on the train while Jones slipped away. That was how they had done the maneuver in the past, and it had always worked. But the more Payne thought about it on the long ride down the escalator, the more he realized that his current objective was different from the previous times. This wasn’t about escape. This was about leveling the playing field with an experienced professional.

  That’s when Payne decided to run the bastard over.

  Not only did it leave Kozlov dazed, it also left him defenseless.

  When Payne was five years old, his grandfather bought him a deck of cards and showed him some simple tricks. Payne was so amazed that he became hooked for life. Over the years his grandfather encouraged him to read books about famous magicians. By the time Payne was a teenager, he had mastered the art of prestidigitation. He could pull coins out of thin air, make small objects disappear, and dazzle his toughest critics-including Jones.

  One of Payne’s best skills was his ability to pick pockets.

  He was smoother than a hungry Gypsy.

  If he bumped into someone, he could steal just about anything he wanted. A watch. A ring. Or a set of keys. And the victim would be none the wiser.

  That’s why Payne decided to get rough with Kozlov. He had to distract him for as long as possible while he took everything he could. His wallet, his badge, even his gun.

  And the best part of all?

  Kozlov didn’t realize that anything was missing.

  The Chernaya Rechka River flows through the northwest corner of Saint Petersburg. It is a minor tributary of the Bolshaya Neva, which is the largest armlet of the historic Neva.

  In the grand scheme of things, the Chernaya Rechka isn’t much of a river. It is 3 miles long and less than 80 feet across at its widest point. The water is cold and murky and only a few feet deep. Some Russians consider it a stream. Others view it as a nuisance. Nothing more than a barrier that they have to cross when driving into the city.

  A watery pain in the ass.

  To alleviate bridge traffic and to encourage northern expansion, the city built the Chernaya Rechka station near the banks of the waterway. The goal was to lure industry to the area by providing an efficient mass transit system for potential employees. Unfortunately, while the city waited for companies to build new factories, the Metro station was less popular than the river it was named after. After all, it was in the middle of nowhere.

  That’s why it was perfect for Kozlov’s home base. He wanted to be seen as little as possible, yet he needed quick and easy access to the city. So when he first came into town, he booked a room at a cheap hotel near the station and had used the Metro ever since.

  And it had worked out fine until the incident at Nevsky Prospekt.

  His ears were still ringing from the collision.

  The doors sprang open at Chernaya Rechka, and Kozlov stepped off the train. The last ten minutes had been filled with major disappointment. The black man had slipped out of his grasp and so had the things he had taken from Byrd’s room. Kozlov hated to think what might have been lost. For all he knew, it might have solved the mystery behind Byrd’s trip to Saint Petersburg and allowed him to head back to Moscow to collect his hefty paycheck.

  Instead, he was stuck here for a few more days. If not longer.

  The thought of it did not make him happy.

  For the time being, all he wanted to do was go to his room and pour himself a tall glass of vodka. Perhaps that would dull the throbbing in his head. Then, once his senses returned, he would go back to the Astoria Hotel and check both of Byrd’s rooms for any scraps that mi
ght have been left behind. He would also slip some rubles to the hotel staff and find out all he could about the black man who had eluded him on the train.

  Maybe he was working for Byrd.

  Maybe he could provide some answers, if he could only be found.

  Kozlov pondered these things as he walked across the deserted platform, temporarily unaware that Payne was lurking behind him, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

  But the Russian would find out soon enough.

  47

  When Dial and Andropoulos left the library at Great Metéoron, they decided to explore the grounds. Neither man said much as they strolled among the pink and white flowers and the manicured shrubs that lined the walkways. For them, it was a time of reflection, not discovery-a chance to ponder all the information they had learned before they returned to Kalampáka.

  Many things stood out from their meeting with Theodore, including the missing pages in the history of Holy Trinity and the way the monk had fumed about it. But nothing mattered more than the black-and-white photograph of Nicolas. His connection to the abbot, which had lasted more than forty years, struck a chord with Dial.

  Somehow he knew their relationship was vital to his case.

  Finding a picturesque spot, Dial sat on a wooden bench that faced the valley below. His view was unobstructed except for a thin railing made out of crisscrossed logs. Andropoulos sat next to him, unwilling to speak until spoken to. He hadn’t known Dial for very long, yet he understood the dynamics of their relationship. Sometimes Dial just wanted to think.

  A few minutes passed before Dial asked, “Have you ever been to Mount Athos?”

  Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. Not many outsiders have. Visitors must have special permission from the Orthodox Church.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The Church likes its privacy.”

  Ironically, Theodore was the one who had brought up Mount Athos, saying it was where older monks went to continue their spiritual growth. Then he had instantly regretted mentioning it. When Dial had tried to get more information about the place, Theodore had been reluctant to answer, claiming he had never been there, so he didn’t want to speak out of turn. Dial hadn’t pressed the issue, not wanting to sour their relationship after a very helpful conversation. Yet Theodore’s reluctance piqued Dial’s curiosity, as did the possibility that Nicolas might be recognized there.

  “Is Mount Athos far from here?” Dial wondered.

  “A few hundred kilometers. It sits to the east, surrounded by the Aegean.”

  “It’s an island?”

  Andropoulos shook his head. “It is a mountain on the tip of a peninsula. Greeks call it the Holy Mountain. It stretches from the water to the sky above.”

  Dial tried to visualize it. Other than Hawaii and a few other islands that were formed by volcanic explosions, he had never seen a mountain surrounded by water. “It sounds scenic.”

  Andropoulos nodded. “It is quite beautiful. I have seen many pictures.”

  “Would you like to take some yourself?”

  “Sir?” he asked, confused.

  Dial glanced at the young officer. “I get the feeling that we’ve learned all that we’re going to learn around here. That leaves us with two choices. We can go back inside and help Theodore look through his old books, or we can go to Mount Athos and interview some old monks.”

  “Just so you know, the drive would take all day.”

  “No, it won’t. I have access to a helicopter. If we left now, we could reach Mount Athos by mid-afternoon. That is, if you’re interested in going.”

  “Yes, sir! I would like that very much.”

  Dial grimaced at his enthusiasm. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t a date. I need an interpreter just in case the monks don’t speak English.”

  “And some won’t,” Andropoulos assured him. “But . . .”

  “What?”

  “As I mentioned, visitors aren’t admitted without clearance. How will we get in?”

  “Please!” Dial sneered. He was insulted by the question. “I’m in charge of the Homicide Division at Interpol. My credentials can get us anywhere.”

  Henri Toulon burst out laughing when he heard Dial’s request. “You must be joking! I can’t get you access to Mount Athos.”

  “Why not?” Dial growled into his cell phone. He stood up from the bench and walked away from Andropoulos so the young cop couldn’t hear. “This is for my investigation.”

  “They will not care. They do not recognize our authority.”

  “Why the hell not? Greece is one of our member states!”

  Toulon nodded, sitting at his desk. “True, but Mount Athos is not a part of Greece.”

  Dial paused, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Its official name is the Holy Community of the Holy Mountain. It is a self-governed state and has been for more than a thousand years. As my boss, you should know this.”

  Dial wasn’t in the mood for insults. He wanted clarification. “What are you saying? It’s a separate country, like Vatican City?”

  “Technically, no. Mount Athos is a part of Greece, but Greece doesn’t govern it. It is controlled by the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A church council located in Istanbul.”

  Dial shook his head, trying to absorb the information. “Mount Athos is run from Turkey? That doesn’t make any sense. That’s like Mecca being run from Rome.”

  Toulon smiled at the metaphor. “That is a good line. May I use it?”

  “Use whatever you want. But first, tell me what you’re talking about!”

  Dial was fully aware of the political tension between Greece and Turkey. It had existed long before Greece declared its independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1821 and had been fueled over the years by several wars. There were many reasons for their disagreements, but Dial knew the fundamental difference between the two countries was religion. In simple terms, most Greeks were Christians and most Turks were Muslims. Which is why Dial found it so hard to believe that Mount Athos was run from Istanbul, a city with more than two thousand mosques.

  Toulon asked, “Are you familiar with Constantine the Great?”

  “Of course I am. He was Emperor of Rome.”

  “Constantine was more than just an emperor. He was the emperor when it comes to Christianity. In the fourth century, he made the controversial decision to shift the capital city of the Christian world from Rome to Byzantium, a small city that was unstained by Roman politics and much closer to the lands of the East. Over a period of ten years, he expanded his city in hopes of expanding his empire. He built streets, sewers, aqueducts, and more. Then he decorated it with the finest treasures from Greece and Rome. In some cases, he actually disassembled temples, column by column, and reassembled them in Byzantium. Nothing was too good for Nova Roma, or New Rome, which officially became the capital in 330 A.D.”

  “Great,” Dial said sarcastically. “You only have seventeen hundred years to go.”

  Toulon smiled. “Eventually, the city became known as Constantinople, in honor of the emperor. It stayed that way until the last century, when the Turks officially named it Istanbul.”

  “And that helps me how?”

  “It explains why Mount Athos is run from Turkey. At one time, the entire Christian world was ruled from Constantinople. So it makes sense that the Ecumenical Patriarchate, an organization that is several hundred years old and provides spiritual leadership to the Greek Orthodox Church, would exist in that city-despite the presence of Islam.”

  Dial nodded in understanding. Sometimes Toulon took longer to make a point than Dial would have liked, but the Frenchman always got there eventually.

  “Okay,” Dial said, as he thought things through. “Turkey is a member country, too. So pick up the phone, call the Patriarchate, and ask them for a permit. I need to get to Mount Athos.”

  Toulon shook his head. “It’s not that
simple, Nick. The Patriarchate provides spiritual guidance to Mount Athos, helping them with religious decisions. Meanwhile, the Holy Mountain is governed on a day-to-day basis by a different body, known as Holy Administration. It is made up of representatives of the twenty ruling monasteries and an elected governor.”

  Dial growled in frustration. He didn’t care about the details. He just wanted an answer. “Let me make this simple. Who is in charge of permits?”

  “It is a joint decision. Every application is reviewed and thoroughly debated. This isn’t a rubber-stamp procedure. The committee evaluates a candidate’s worth and grants access only to those who qualify. From what I hear, they are very strict.”

  “So what are you saying? I don’t qualify?”

  “I am not sure. I will have to review their entry requirements. However, even if you qualify, these decisions are made weeks in advance. Permits must be granted. Sponsors must be found. It is all very complicated. There is no way I can accomplish this in an hour.”

  “Fine! I’ll give you two hours. But I’ll need twice as many permits. One for me and one for my translator. His name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

  Toulon cursed in French. He had worked with Dial long enough to know that he was serious. “You are asking for a miracle.”

  “Come on, Henri. You’re always bragging about how intelligent you are. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll come up with something.”

  “Oui, it is true. I am very smart.”

  “I know you are. So do me a favor and use all that brainpower to help me out. Get me access to Mount Athos and I’ll give you a long weekend off.”

  Toulon paused. “In that case, I will see what I can do.”

  48

  The blow to his head had left Kozlov dazed. It dulled his ability to think. To focus. To perceive the world around him. And that left him in a dangerous place, one where he was no longer the hunter. Suddenly, he was the target, trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.