The Lost Throne (12 page)

The man called himself Kaiser because he was the king of K-Town.

At least when it came to getting supplies.

Payne and Jones reached him by phone shortly after their arrival in Germany. He agreed to meet them for breakfast at a small café right down the street from the former Hotel Zum Donnersberg, where Napoleon himself once dined. Neither of them had eaten a full meal since Florida, so they were starving by the time they reached the rendezvous point.

St. Martin’s Square (or the Martinsplatz) was the gateway to the old part of town, the section of the city that survived the Allied bombings in World War II. In the square was the old city hall, which now housed a school of music and several large chestnut trees that shaded the square during the hot summer months. But at this time of year, the weather was perfect for eating outside. There was a light breeze and the temperature was in the upper sixties.

They spotted Kaiser at a sidewalk table, casually sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, the same clothes he always wore. Nothing about his appearance really stood out, which was advantageous in his line of work. He was in his mid-fifties with slicked-back gray hair and bushy eyebrows above his dark eyes. They knew he was American—an ex-supply sergeant who retired from the military when he realized he could make a lot more money on his own—but little else about him.

Just the way Kaiser liked it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, getting up from his chair. He greeted them by name and shook their hands before offering them a seat. “How long has it been?”

Payne and Jones sat across from each other. That way they could keep an eye on traffic in both directions. “A couple of years, I think.”

Jones agreed. “Sounds about right.”

“I thought you guys got out of the game.”

Payne shrugged. “Does anyone leave for good?”

Kaiser smiled. “Not if they have a pulse.”

A waitress stopped by the table and handed them menus. She spoke fluent English with just a hint of a German accent. As soon as she left, Kaiser stared at them, dead serious.

“Since you are old acquaintances of mine, I’m going to help you guys out. Trust me when I tell you this: it’s a
huge
favor.” He leaned forward as if he were going to share a national secret. Instinctively, Payne and Jones leaned in. “Do not, I repeat, do
not
leave this café without ordering the sausage. I’m telling you, it’s like heaven on a plate.”

Payne and Jones both laughed, glad that Kaiser was just messing around.

“Are you trying to give us a heart attack?” Jones asked.

“Trust me, if you eat enough of this sausage, you
will
have a heart attack. But man, oh, man, what a way to go!”

Payne patted him on the shoulder. “Same old Kaiser. Still loving life.”

“Might as well. You only get one.”

They made small talk while glancing at the menus, which were written in English and filled with foods they were familiar with. Soft-boiled eggs, cereal, pancakes with a wide variety of fruit toppings, and a whole page dedicated to breakfast meats, some hot and some cold.

Kaiser said, “Did you know that sausage is so ingrained in the German culture, instead of saying, ‘That’s okay with me,’ they say,
‘Es ist mir Wurst.’
That means, ‘It is sausage to me.’”

Jones smiled. “Wow, I didn’t know that. But if I ever apply for a job at a slaughterhouse, I’ll be sure to mention it.
Es ist mir Wurst!
”

Kaiser laughed. “Okay, I can take a hint. No more sausage talk at the table. At least not until mine arrives. After that, no promises.”

“In that case,” Payne said, “let’s get our business stuff out of the way—just in case you want to debate the merits of links versus patties.”

“Dammit, Jon, don’t get me started! That’s a sensitive subject around here!”

“I kind of figured it would be.”

Kaiser laughed as he pushed his menu aside. He was ready to talk shop.

“So,” he said, “what do you need on this little trip of yours?”

“Don’t worry,” Jones assured him, “nothing too crazy.”

When it came to missions, Jones was a brilliant strategist. He had received the highest score in the history of the Air Force Academy’s
MSAE
(Military Strategy Acumen Examination) and had organized hundreds of operations with the MANIACs. He had a way of seeing things several steps ahead, like a chess master. So Payne let him take control of the conversation.

For a trip like this, both of them realized that they had to remain anonymous. Otherwise, the Russian government would follow them wherever they went. That is, if they even let them enter the country. Moscow commonly denied travel visas to foreign soldiers—even those who had retired long ago. And elite soldiers like Payne and Jones were automatically red-flagged.

“First things first. We need papers. Fake names, fake backgrounds. Preferably Canadian. Not only for us but a woman as well.”

“How soon?”

“Yesterday.”

Kaiser nodded. “Get me some photos and I’ll have them by lunch.”

“Next,” Jones said, “we need weapons. Two guns each. Something clean and concealable. We aren’t going through customs, but we’ll be working in public.”

“My armory is your armory. I’ll give you the pick of the litter.”

“We also need a ride.”

“From?”

“Helsinki.”

“To?”

“Saint Pete.”

“Nighttime arrival?”

Jones smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kaiser said. “This time of year, it shouldn’t be a problem. In the winter, it’s a much different story.”

“Why’s that?” Payne wondered.

“Icebergs are a bitch.”

Jones laughed, then continued, “We’ll also need a return trip. One additional passenger. Maybe some cargo. Time and place to be determined.”

“Guesstimate?”

Jones did the math in his head. “No more than twenty-four hours.”

“No problem. The boat can stay put for that long.”

Jones glanced at Payne. “Anything else?”

Payne shook his head. “Not that I can think of. Unless you have a travel advisory. Anything we need to know.”

“Maybe,” Kaiser said. “Just maybe.”

“Meaning?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “How long since you’ve been to Russia?”

Payne answered. “A few years.”

“What about you, D.J.?”

“Never been there. Why?”

“Well, it’s gotten worse for some people. A lot worse.”

“How so?” Jones wondered.

Kaiser grimaced. “I have a black friend who just got back from Moscow. Nice guy, clean-cut, about your age. He was invited by the Russian government to speak at an economic summit. Didn’t matter, though. He got stopped by soldiers every ten feet. He was frisked. He was followed. He was called ‘monkey’ to his face. He swore to me he’d never go back.”

“What about Saint Pete? Is it better than Moscow?” Payne asked.

“Things tend to be more liberal there, but I honestly don’t know. I can’t speak from experience.” Kaiser paused, not sure what else to say. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Jones nodded, appreciative of the information. “Don’t worry, Kaiser. I can handle it. I get the same reaction when I go to a country-western bar.”

“And if things get too bad,” Payne assured him, “we’ll just shoot the bastards.”

T
he words hit Dial like a sucker punch. Their impact was so unexpected, he actually had a physical reaction. His cheeks flushed. His chest tightened. Acid gurgled in his gut.

“What do you mean he
wasn’t
a monk? Who the hell was he?”

Theodore ignored the profanity. “That is a question I cannot answer, for I do not know.”

Dial took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the thought of being duped by an impostor got his blood boiling. “You’re
sure
you don’t know him? Old guy. Walks with a limp.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dial—”

“Nick. Call me Nick.”

Theodore nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have lived at Metéora for nearly a decade, but I don’t know the man you describe.”

Dial grimaced as he replayed the previous night in his head. He remembered seeing the light under the door. He’d knocked. Nicolas had answered and closed the door behind him. Then they had walked to the bell tower, where Nicolas had regaled him with stories of the monastic life. At no point had Dial found anything about their conversation suspicious. In fact, he had been thrilled to talk to someone as knowledgeable as Nicolas. So much so, he had thought he was a godsend.

Now he didn’t know what to think.

If Nicolas wasn’t a monk, what was he? And what had he been doing at Metéora?

Could his presence have anything to do with the bloodstain on the door?

That possibility bothered Dial. It was something he needed to find out.

He said, “Please forgive me. Where are my manners? There you are holding a box, and here I am standing in your way. Please let me help.”

Theodore nodded as Dial grabbed the box. It was crammed with books, toiletries, and a few personal items. Sitting on top was a large key ring, filled with the type of keys that a dungeon master might have used in the Middle Ages. They were old and long and made out of brass. Theodore picked up the ring and searched for the correct key. It took several seconds to find it.

Dial filled the silence with small talk. “Sorry about your abbot. When did you hear?”

“This morning during breakfast. All of us were saddened by the news.”

“Us?”

“The brothers of Great Metéoron. It is the largest of the six monasteries. It sits in the hills above Kastraki. Perhaps you saw it on your drive to Holy Trinity.”

Dial shook his head. “With the abbot gone, who selected you to come here?”

“Nobody. I volunteered.”

“That’s awfully noble of you.”

Theodore said nothing, concentrating on the keys instead. He finally found the one he was looking for and put it in the old lock. It turned with a loud click. Pushing the door forward, he stepped inside, then turned on the light. Dial followed him in, hoping to figure out why Nicolas had been in there the night before. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to examine.

The ceiling was supported by dozens of ancient beams, far more than necessary. There were so many planks up there, angled in so many different directions, it looked like a wooden spiderweb. Fascinated by the haphazard design, Dial studied it with two things in mind. First, he hoped to spot another nanny cam somewhere in the rafters—just like the one they had found in the gift shop. But the only wires he saw were for the iron chandelier that lit the windowless room. Second, Dial wanted to figure out why the monks had killed half a forest to hold up such a small ceiling.

There had to be a rational explanation, didn’t there?

Theodore anticipated the question. “No one knows why it was built in that manner.”

“Really? It just seems so odd. Like an abstract painting.”

“We have a library at Great Metéoron. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts, including a history of our monasteries. Not only the six survivors, but the earlier ones as well. I have read these records myself, and no answers were given. It remains a mystery to this day.”

Dial searched the room for other anomalies but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The floor was made of large gray stones that were held together by some kind of mortar. Two small cots sat against the near wall, separated by a nightstand and a lamp. The only other furniture was a rickety table and four wooden chairs under the chandelier. Dial put Theodore’s box on the table and instantly regretted it. A thick cloud of dust floated into the air, making him sneeze.

He nearly made a smart-ass comment about the previous tenant being lax in his cleaning duties, but he bit his tongue when he remembered that the previous monk was now dead.

Looking to change the subject, Dial focused on the only splash of color in the dreary room. An enormous blue tapestry hung across the back wall. It was fringed with golden tassels around the edges and had a large gold cross in the center. It looked like a Christian cross, except it had an extra bar above the horizontal beam and a slanted bar—that looked like a forward slash—underneath it. Dial had seen the same symbol inside the church.

“Is this your cross?” Dial asked. He had learned a lot about crosses when he worked his crucifixion case a few years back, so he was interested in the subject.

“Yes. The Crux Orthodoxa. The Eastern Orthodox cross. It is the cross of my faith.”

“What do the beams represent?”

Theodore pointed toward the tapestry. “The top beam represents the sign that hung above Christ. It said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’”

“And the slanted beam at the bottom? Is that a footrest?”

“Some scholars believe so, but many of my faith disagree. To us, it represents the two thieves who were crucified next to Christ. The criminal on the left was repentant and accepted Christ as his savior, so his side points toward Heaven. The thief on the right rejected Him, so his side points toward Hell.”

“Really?” As someone who dealt with people of all religions and beliefs, Dial was surprised he didn’t know that. “I learn something new every day.”

“I’m glad I could enlighten you,” Theodore said. “If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them. Otherwise, I’d like to make myself available to the other officers.”

“Please, help them out. They need it more than I do.”

Dial glanced around the room again. But this time he had a strange feeling that he was overlooking something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he sensed it was something important. “If it’s okay with you, can I stay in here and look around some more? We already missed the blood on the door. I’d hate to think we missed something inside.”

Theodore frowned as he considered the request.

Hoping to charm him, Dial put his hand on one of the rickety chairs. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t steal the furniture.”

The monk cracked a smile, then scurried out of the room.

D
ial had been in the room for less than two minutes when Andropoulos knocked on the door.