The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  “And he was spotted?” Allison asked.

  “Maybe,” Payne said. “Or maybe he hired reinforcements to find the treasure.”

  A pollo heard the sound and knew exactly what it meant. He had grown up in the Taygetos Mountains where simandros were common. A few seconds of clanging told the workers in the fields what time it was. But a few minutes of pounding was an alarm.

  Now that the element of surprise was gone, it was time for phase two.

  In Ancient Sparta, hoplites fought together in a phalanx. They stood side by side, their shields locked together to protect one another, while a second row of soldiers thrust their spears over the front wall of shields. The Spartans were so adept at this technique that they could conquer vastly larger forces while suffering minimal losses.

  Unfortunately, that style of warfare would not help them here.

  They weren’t looking for a fight. They were looking for the book.

  And they wanted to find it as quickly as possible.

  In Apollo’s mind, the best way to accomplish that goal was to split up. Ten soldiers marching together could be spotted from the air. But ten men spread across the mountain would be hard to stop-especially if they were strategically placed to intercept anyone in pursuit.

  The monks had stopped their pounding by the time Dial arrived at the crime scene. A duty holster carried his gun and extra ammo. Andropoulos and Petros were armed as well.

  The guard who found the bodies reeked of tobacco. He had smoked half a pack while waiting for his boss to arrive. A few guards worked in the background, searching the nearby woods for clues and other victims. But the smoking guard stayed on the path, still frazzled from his gruesome discovery. Petros spoke to him in Greek while Dial walked the scene.

  “Marcus,” Dial said to Andropoulos, “these guys came ashore for a reason. We need to figure out what they’re looking for.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Go and talk to the guards. Ask them if there’s anything over here besides the sketes.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said as he ran off.

  Meanwhile, Dial took a moment to study the trail. Normally, he would have focused on the blood and the bodies, trying to figure out what had happened. But that wasn’t necessary in this case. He knew enough about the Spartans to recognize their handiwork, so his immediate goal was capture, not conviction. He wanted to stop his opponents before they could strike again.

  Shining his flashlight along the edge of the path, Dial searched for footprints and found several in the loose soil. As far as he could tell, all of them were heading north-away from the water below toward the mountain above. That meant they weren’t marching along the path toward one of the monasteries. Instead, they had been crossing the path when they came across the monks.

  “Did you find something?” Petros wondered.

  Dial countered the question with one of his own. “How far are we from the beach?”

  “Just over half a mile. Why?”

  “Did anyone check for boats?”

  “Harbor patrol was called. They will tell us if they find something.”

  “If they do, tell them to lock it down. We don’t want these guys escaping.”

  “I will tell them.” Petros pulled out his radio and walked away.

  “Sir,” Andropoulos called from behind. “The guards assured me there is nothing over here but some caves. Centuries ago, hermits lived in them for months at a time, but that practice stopped when the sketes were built.”

  “Where are the caves located?”

  “All over the place. The mountain is full of them.”

  “And they’ve been here for centuries?”

  “They’re caves, sir. They’ve been around since the dinosaurs.”

  Jarkko sat on his yacht more than a mile away from the shore. Even from way out there, he had heard the monks pounding on their simandros. The sound rolled across the water like thunder.

  Curious about all the commotion, he decided to move closer.

  At this time of night, he had the biggest boat in the Singitic Gulf. Sixty-five feet long, accommodations for six, and a master bath complete with a small hot tub. If he got too close to Mount Athos, the harbor patrol would notice him for sure. Normally, he wouldn’t care. He would have a drink in one hand, and he would flip them off with the other.

  But tonight, he couldn’t afford the extra attention.

  His goal was to get close enough to assist his friends in case they needed help, but far enough away that he looked like a fisherman trolling for fish.

  To complete his façade, he got out a rod and reel, lit a cigar, and put up his feet.

  Staring at Mount Athos, Dial asked, “Are the monks safe?”

  “All of the monasteries are fortified,” Petros explained. “Sturdy gates, heavy doors, elevated architecture. They should be fine.”

  “What about the guards? What are they doing?”

  “Protecting the monasteries.”

  Dial grimaced. “Twenty guards are protecting twenty monasteries? No, wait. Make that sixteen guards because some of your men are over here. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but that seems like an inefficient use of manpower.”

  “That is not my job. I am in charge of customs. I am not in charge of the guards.”

  “Who is?”

  Petros explained that the leader of the guards was currently on vacation. And the acting leader of the guards was in Karyes, trying to coordinate his men from the capital city.

  “Do you have any pull with him?” Dial asked.

  Petros nodded. “I hope so. I helped him get hired.”

  Dial smiled. That would make things easier. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds here, but I have a lot of experience with manhunts. Since the monks are safe, our main goal is to find the assailants as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes. That would be best.”

  Dial pointed to several footprints near the trail. “The Spartans killed the monks and then continued up the mountain. I don’t know where they’re headed, but our best chance to find them is with as many guards as possible.”

  Petros nodded in agreement. “I will make the suggestion.”

  Dial shined his flashlight on the nearby trees. Many of the branches had been disturbed. Some had been cut with swords. From the physical evidence, he guessed roughly a dozen Spartans had made the journey north.

  “One more thing,” Dial added. “Make sure they’re armed as well.”

  68

  The Spartans moved swiftly and silently in pairs. Some of them continued up the mountain, searching for the ancient book. Others sprinted across the slope, striving to kill the guards before their search gained momentum. Without modern weapons, the Spartans realized they had to choose their battles carefully. They couldn’t wage war in an open field, so they positioned themselves for a sneak attack, using the rocks and branches as camouflage.

  The first confrontation was remarkably one-sided. Two young guards, who were used to patrolling the eastern side of the peninsula, trudged up the mountain, their flashlights leading their way. The Spartans saw the beams from their position in the trees a full minute before the guards were underneath them. In unison, they leapt on top of the guards, using their weight and gravity to drive their blades through the guards’ shoulders all the way to their hearts. Blood sprayed in all directions, coating the Spartans’ hands and faces. And both of them loved it.

  In their world, the only thing that quenched their thirst was the blood of the enemy.

  And since they rarely got to taste it, they planned to drink all night.

  The next pair of Spartans weren’t as lucky. They had been asked to defend the southeastern slope of Mount Athos. Since their boat had landed on the southwest corner of the peninsula, they had been forced to run across the breadth of the mountain in order to get into position.

  Shortly after getting there, they spotted a single beam of light. Despite the rocks and fallen tree branches that clogged the slope
, it moved up the gradient at a steady rate. The Spartans grinned in anticipation. One of them took his position in the trees above. The other ducked down behind a large boulder that was partially embedded into the turf.

  Their ambush would begin a minute later.

  Fifty yards away, Payne was oblivious to their presence. There was no way for him to know the Spartans were waiting for him. They hadn’t scaled the hill that Payne was climbing, so no footprints marred the ground. And the Spartans had moved without light, their years of training preparing them for moments like this, when they were asked to hunt in darkness.

  In fact, if not for a lucky break, Payne probably would have been filleted by one of the Spartans’ blades before he even knew what hit him. But the best-trained soldiers are able to take advantage of opportunities, letting them live another day. Many heroes could recall the land mine that didn’t go off when they stepped on it, or the dropped canteen that caused them to bend over just as the bullet whizzed overhead.

  In this case, it was the simple crack of a branch as the Spartan shifted his weight that alerted Payne to the danger in the trees. He glanced up just as the Spartan leapt, his sword held above him ready to strike. In one fluid motion, Payne fell backward onto his pack and extended his arms forward. With two rapid pulls of his trigger, he sent two rounds into the night. The first caught the Spartan just below his trachea. It ripped through the cartilage of his neck and tore through the center of his spine before it dug itself into a nearby branch.

  Bullet number two struck the man six inches higher and slightly to the left, missing the metal flap of his helmet by a fraction of an inch. His cheekbone exploded from the impact, as did the back of his skull. By the time he landed on Payne, the Spartan was already dead. His blade clanged harmlessly to the ground, followed by Allison’s screams of terror.

  Jones saw the attack from his position in the rear. He charged forward, more concerned about Payne than Allison’s screaming, just as the second assault began. When Payne fired his gun, he had dropped his light, which gave the hidden Spartan a window of opportunity. Using the darkness as his ally, he crept out from behind the boulder and inched down the hill.

  “What the hell was that?” Payne demanded as Jones pulled the dead Spartan off him. Blood covered the front of Payne’s clothes as he struggled to make sense of what had happened.

  Jones flipped the body onto its back and stared at half a face. The rest was either torn asunder from Payne’s bullet or covered by the metal helmet.

  “Seriously,” Payne repeated. “What the hell was that?”

  Jones was about to answer when he noticed the second Spartan. “Behind you!”

  Payne, who was sitting on the ground and facing downhill, arched his body backward as he lifted his gun over his head. At the same time, Jones pointed his gun at the creeping shadow. Bullets sprang from both weapons as the Spartan charged forward. The first shot pinged off his shield, but his luck stopped there. From his position on the ground, Payne fired low, splintering the Spartan’s legs with multiple shots. Meanwhile, Jones aimed high, squeezing his trigger in rapid succession until he hit brain.

  Pink mist could not be seen in the darkness. But it was there.

  The Spartan fell forward and rolled, the slope of the hill and his momentum carrying him forward like a human avalanche. Eventually, he skidded to a bloody stop at Allison’s feet.

  Her screams echoed through the night as Payne and Jones scrambled into position.

  “Shut up!” Payne ordered as he slipped off his pack.

  He helped her understand his orders by clamping his hand over her mouth and pulling her back into the trees. Then he forced her to crouch near the ground.

  “Stay here,” he whispered. “Do you understand me? Stay here!”

  She nodded her head.

  “I’ll be back,” he said as he ran up the hillside, searching for more Spartans.

  Jones had started his search a moment before, occasionally clicking his flashlight on to hunt for footprints. As far as he could tell, only two men had been lying in wait. And they were now dead. Payne came to the same conclusion a few minutes later.

  They reconvened near the bodies, hoping to learn more about their enemy. They stared at the armor with amazement. The helmets, shields, greaves, and swords. Both Payne and Jones were experts on the history of war. At the military academies, they had studied ancient warfare and particularly loved reading about the Spartans. Still, in their wildest dreams, they had never imagined they would come across hoplites on the battlefield.

  It didn’t make any sense-even in an archaic place like Mount Athos.

  “What do you think?” Payne asked as he picked up a sword.

  Jones laughed. “What do I think? I think Jarkko dropped us off in Ancient Greece. I don’t know what he paid for his yacht, but it was worth every penny.”

  “D.J., I’m serious.”

  “I am, too. If we hurry, maybe we can help them build the Parthenon.”

  Payne grinned and turned his attention to Allison. She was standing next to him, staring at the blade he held in his hands, even though she had been told to stay behind. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded but said nothing. Prior to her trip to Russia, she had never seen anyone killed before. Now everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death.

  It would take a while for things to sink in.

  “Come on,” Payne said as he tossed the sword to the ground. “We have to get moving. It’s just a matter of time before the guards investigate the gunshots.”

  Dial heard the gunfire from his position on the mountain. It had come in disciplined bursts. Two shots, a long pause, and then a rapid cluster. Whoever was firing was a seasoned pro.

  And they were shooting at something on the southeastern side of Mount Athos.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dial growled, realizing that his search party was on the southwestern side of the mountain-the same side where the dead monks had been found. “Who’s over there?”

  “Let me find out,” Petros said as he turned up his radio and started asking questions in Greek. A few minutes passed before he had an answer. “It is not the guards.”

  “Shit!” Dial blurted. “That means one of two things. Either the Spartans are carrying guns, or there’s another party on the mountain. And if I had to guess, I’d go with number two.”

  “Why is that?” Andropoulos asked.

  “Because if the Spartans have guns, who are they firing at? I mean, we’re over here.”

  “That is true.”

  “It also means there might be more Spartans over there. Because that other party is firing at someone, and it’s certainly not us.”

  Dial paused, rubbing his chin in thought. As he did, Petros and Andropoulos stared at him, waiting for his next set of instructions. None of the guards had as much experience in hostile situations as Dial. For the time being, everyone was willing to follow his lead.

  “Petros, we’re at a serious disadvantage here. Multiple groups of armed men are climbing your mountain and we don’t know why. We don’t know where they’re headed, and we’re clueless about their numbers. The only thing we know for sure is that they’re willing to kill.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Honestly? We shouldn’t do anything. We should recall the guards and wait for reinforcements.”

  “We should wait? They killed two monks, and we should wait?”

  Dial nodded. “Here’s the problem. In combat, elevated positions have an advantage. We’re several minutes behind them in our climb. That means there’s no way we can overtake them without going through them. If we had superior firepower or twice as many men, I’d be tempted to take those odds. But as it stands, our pursuit would be suicide.”

  Petros asked, “What if I could change the odds? What if we could get in front of them?”

  “How? Do you have a helicopter I don’t know about?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I have an idea that just might work.”


  69

  Driving as fast as he could, Petros explained his plan to Dial and Andropoulos. “There is an old goat path up the western side of the mountain. It starts near Agíou Pávlou and crosses toward the southern face. If we hurry, we might be able to beat the soldiers to that point.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Dial demanded. “We could have set up shop on the mountain and pinned the Spartans in.”

  Their cart hit a dip in the road. They all bounced roughly in their seats as Petros struggled to maintain control. He temporarily eased off the accelerator until he had righted things.

  “It is not that simple. The path is too narrow for this cart to fit.”

  “Then how would we get up there?”

  “Motorcycles.”

  Dial stared at him in disbelief. “The monks have motorcycles?”

  “Last year,” Petros said, “two men came to Athos on a trip across Greece. They brought their motorcycles over on the ferry and parked them outside our walls. The men were supposed to stay for three days. Once inside, they fell in love with the monastic life. One of the abbots gave them permission to stay longer, and they haven’t left since.”

  “And their bikes?”

  “We moved them into storage.”

  “But there’s two of them, right?”

  “Yes, only two.”

  “But there’s three of us.”

  Petros nodded. “Someone will have to ride double.”

  “I am very experienced,” Andropoulos said from the backseat. “I have owned a motorcycle for many years, so I can drive one up the path.”

  “What about you?” Petros asked Dial as their bumpy ride continued.

  Dial groaned in frustration. He hadn’t driven a bike in decades. And even then, he had never taken one off pavement. Throw in the darkness factor, and Dial realized he had no choice.

  He would have to rely on Andropoulos.

  Payne stared at a photocopy of the treasure map that they had made in Limnos, and then glanced at the rock face above him. It was fifteen feet high and angled back toward them. There was no way they could climb it without the proper equipment.