The Lost Throne (4 page)

Payne hit Play, focusing on the second sentence.

“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”

Jones smiled, filling in the holes. “I was
given
your number by
blank
. Something that ends with –
er
. Like Miller. Or Harper. Know anyone like that who would give out your number?”

“Nothing rings a bell.”

“That’s okay. No pressure. Give it some time. It’ll come to you. It always does.”

Payne nodded halfheartedly. He appreciated Jones’s confidence but realized time was of the essence. It had been ninety minutes since the last call, an eternity in a life-or-death situation.

For all he knew, he was already too late.

N
ick Dial followed Andropoulos as he trudged down the dirt path from the main road. The hill was steep and the footing treacherous in the dying sunlight, yet Andropoulos navigated it with ease, never losing his balance despite his leather dress shoes.

“What are you?” Dial demanded as he stopped to catch his breath. “Part mountain goat?”

Andropoulos smiled. “I am all Greek. I was born in Kastraki, a small village to the east. I used to play in these hills as a boy. I know them quite well.”

“Is this the only path to Holy Trinity?”

“The only path, yes. The only way, no.”

Dial glanced around. He saw nothing but cliffs. “How else can you get there?”

“The monks have a cable-car system, meant to handle supplies. It is strong enough to carry a man. However, it is controlled from inside the monastery.”

“So it would require an accomplice.”

Andropoulos nodded. “That is why we are on this path. This is how the killers came.”

With that, he started walking again, weaving around boulders and bushes until he arrived at the bottom of the gorge, where he was greeted by a large blue sign. At the top in white letters in both Greek and English, it said:
HOLY
MONASTERY
OF
AGIA
TRIAS
. In gold letters underneath, it warned in four different languages that shorts and short-sleeved shirts were not permitted; neither were women in sleeveless dresses or pantaloons.

Dial read the warning and smiled. He hadn’t seen the word
pantaloons
in years.

Andropoulos asked, “Are you ready for the tough part? The footing gets worse from here.”

“Are you serious? How could it get worse?”

He turned on a flashlight and shined it forward. “You shall see.”

A steep trail rose before them. It meandered up the hillside past a small grove of Oriental plane trees, the most common tree in the valley, until it stopped at the bottom of a rocky crag, where a series of steps had been carved into the stone. Although he wasn’t afraid of heights, Dial dreaded the next part of their journey—especially at night. One misstep meant a nasty fall.

“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Dial said.

Andropoulos nodded, willing to do just about anything to impress his boss.

The Greek had been an officer for less than two years but hoped to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps something in Athens. Or maybe Interpol Headquarters in France. The truth is he would kill for a job in the Homicide Division, which is why he was wearing his father’s suit instead of his everyday uniform. He wanted to make a good first impression.

“Do you see something?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial shined the light against the surface of the cliff, surprised by what he saw. From a distance he figured the stone fingers were made of volcanic rock—cooled underground, then exposed to sunlight after millions of years of soil erosion—but on closer inspection he realized that wasn’t the case. The natural pillars were hardened sandstone, filled with tiny pebbles of many shapes and colors. The result was a geological mosaic that seemed to breathe and flow with the constant movement of the earth. A living sculpture that stretched toward the sky.

“Let me guess,” Dial said. “This region was once underwater.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Scientists say that Thessaly was a giant lake that emptied into the Aegean Sea when an earthquake split the mountains. However, according to Greek mythology, the flood was caused by Zeus, who hoped to bring fertile farmland to the region.”

Dial smiled at the myth and gazed across the valley one last time, trying to enjoy the landscape for a few more seconds before it was permanently disfigured in his mind. From this point on, he knew his memory of Metéora would forever be tarnished by the things he was about to see.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Andropoulos turned and started the steep climb to the monastery. Dial stayed close behind, using the flashlight to find the footholds that had been carved into the rock several decades before. He also searched for any evidence that might have been missed by the local police.

“There are one hundred forty steps. You can count them if you like.”

“One hundred forty? Is that number significant?”

“Yes,” said the Greek. “That is how many they needed to reach the top.”

“I meant—” Dial shook his head. There was no need to explain. “Go! Keep walking.”

Andropoulos obliged, not saying another word until they reached the entrance, which was cut into the side of the cliff like a natural fissure. The door was ten feet high and made out of solid wood. It had not been damaged during the assault. Neither had the ancient lock, which still worked despite centuries of use. “This is the only way in.”

Dial examined the hinges and frame. No scratches or holes. “Is it locked at night?”

“Always.”

“Whose job is it?”

Andropoulos shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Do me a favor and find out.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” Dial said. “Once we’re inside, I want to be left alone for a while. I always try to view the evidence and the crime scene with fresh eyes. It allows me to form my own conclusions before I hear anyone else’s. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dial stared at him, sizing him up. “You should try it sometime. It’s the best way to separate a good investigator from a bad one.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I was the first one here. So my opinions are my own.”

Dial smiled. He liked the Greek’s confidence. “Glad to hear it, kid. Let’s talk again in twenty minutes. I’ll find out then if you have any brains or I need to get a new tour guide.”

I
f they’d had more time, Payne and Jones would have driven to MacDill
AFB
to do their dirty work, using one of the computers on the high-speed military network. The encryption level was so high and the speeds were so blazing fast that Jones could have floated around the Internet like a ghost, grabbing whatever data he needed without worrying about being caught. But as things stood, they had to make do with Jones’s laptop and the hotel’s wireless network.

That and the help of a well-connected friend.

As a computer researcher at the Pentagon, Randy Raskin was privy to many of the government’s biggest secrets, a mountain of classified data that was there for the taking if someone knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the right hands at the right time. And he was great at it. Over the years, Payne and Jones had used his services on many occasions, and this had eventually led to a friendship.

Payne offered to give him a call while Jones turned on his computer.

“Leave me alone,” Raskin snapped from his desk in the Pentagon. “I’m busy.”

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Seriously, Jon. You shouldn’t be calling me. Today is the Sabbath. A day of rest.”

Payne smiled. “First of all, you’re Jewish, so don’t pull that crap with me.”

“What are you saying? Jews don’t deserve a day off ?”

“Secondly, I called you at the office. Therefore you’re not actually resting.”

Raskin cursed, realizing he had lost the argument. “Dammit! How come you always win? Tell me the truth: Were you on the debate team in high school?”

“No,” Payne joked, “but I beat them up when they wouldn’t do my homework.”

“I should’ve known. I’m going to make note of that in your personnel file.”

“If you must. But before you do, I was wondering—”

Raskin interrupted him. “If I could do you a favor.”

“Crap! Am I that predictable?”

“Both of you are. Let me guess, D.J. is there, too.”

“You know it.”

“And you’re calling from . . . Florida. Am I right?”

Payne nodded. “How’d you know that?”

The ever-present clicking of Raskin’s keyboard could be heard in the background. “Because I’m tracking your call with Blackbird, our latest
GPS
satellite. Give me ten more seconds and I can shoot a missile up your ass. Seriously. Right up your
ass.
”

“Ouch! You’re one scary geek.”

Raskin smiled. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Okay,” Jones said from across the hotel room. He sat in front of his laptop, which was logged on to an encrypted system at his office in Pittsburgh. “I’m ready.”

Payne turned on his speakerphone. “Randy, you’re on with D.J.”

“So,” Raskin asked, “what kind of trouble are you in this time?”

“It’s not us,” Jones explained. “It’s a colleague of ours. And the clock is ticking.”

Raskin nodded in understanding. The joking stopped at once. “What do you need?”

“We need access to restricted phone numbers. Seventeen calls in the last twelve hours. All of them placed to Jon’s cell.”

“The line we’re on now?”

“Affirmative,” Jones answered.

“No sweat. I started tracking it the moment he called. Give me a few seconds to get through his network’s firewall, and I can retrieve everything you need.”

“Can you send it to my laptop?”

“If you’d like. Or I can just read it to you.”

Jones shook his head. “No thanks. I want a hard copy.”

“Not a problem. I’ll send it right now.” Raskin hit Enter, sending the file. “It might take a few minutes to arrive. My system is running slow today. I’m crunching some serious data.”

“In that case,” Payne said, “would you mind answering one question about the calls?”

“Fire away.”

“Where did they come from?”

Raskin glanced at his middle screen. It was flanked by several others, all of them filled with data for other projects. “As far as I can tell, the calls came from three different sources. But the majority of them were placed in one city: Saint Petersburg.”

“Saint Petersburg? We’re
in
Saint Petersburg.”

Raskin shook his head. “Sorry, dude. Wrong Saint Petersburg. I’m talking about Russia.”

P
ayne hung up, more confused than before. “Someone’s calling me from Russia? That makes no sense. I haven’t been there in years.”

Jones said nothing as he waited for the file to appear on his screen. When it did, he hit a few keys and the document started to print on his portable printer, which weighed less than three pounds and fit inside his laptop bag.

“Here you go,” he said to Payne as he handed him a copy of the phone logs. Then he printed a second copy for himself, so he could take notes in the margin.

According to the list, fifteen calls had been made to Payne’s phone from one number in Saint Petersburg, Russia. They had started at 3:59 A.M. and had ended at 11:01 A.M. That pattern changed at 11:28 A.M. when the caller switched to a pay phone—a fact confirmed by his final message.

“Any thoughts?” Payne asked.

“A few. Take a look at the last column.”

The phone logs were divided into six columns, five of which were pretty straightforward. The first showed the date of the call. The second showed the time it was placed. The third showed the duration. The fourth showed the caller’s number. And the fifth showed the location.

No problems reading any of those.

But the sixth was a different story. It was more complicated.

At the top of the column, there was a single word:
TOW
.

No description. No explanation. No help of any kind.

Payne and Jones tried to figure out what it meant by analyzing the column itself, but the data was an enigmatic mix of numbers and letters, separated by a dash. 18-A. 22-F. 4-C. And so on. A few of the combinations appeared more than once, always on successive calls, yet there didn’t seem to be a discernible pattern. At least not at first glance. And for all they knew, the letters might have been translated from the Cyrillic alphabet.

Payne asked, “Is
TOW
an acronym?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe
time of something.
Something that starts with a
W
.”

“Time of waking my ass up.”

“Somehow I doubt it. In fact, now that I think about it, time won’t work at all. It doesn’t correspond with the alphanumeric codes in the last column.”

“The what?”

“The things with the dashes.”

Payne smiled. “Any thoughts on what could?”

Jones shrugged. “It might be some kind of machine code—a basic set of instructions for the phone company’s central processing unit. I’m not sure why it would be listed, though.”

“It wouldn’t be. But I think you’re on the right track. We’re definitely dealing with a code. The only question is what kind. Why don’t you fire up your
CPU
and run a search? Who knows? Maybe Google can help us out.”

Normally, Jones would have told Payne to wait, insisting that he could figure it out on his own. After all, solving mysteries was a passion of his, which was one of the main reasons that he had opened a private investigations firm in Pittsburgh when he left the MANIACs. But in this case, time was crucial, so he sat in front of his laptop and ran an Internet search for
TOW
.

Hundreds of possibilities popped up on his screen, none of which seemed likely.

But Jones kept trying, searching page after page, until something clicked. And when it did, he shook his head in frustration, pissed off that he hadn’t thought of it sooner.