The Lost Throne (43 page)

D
ial and Andropoulos sat in the customs office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.

Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.

When Petros returned, he broke the news to Dial. “I am sorry, Nick. There is nothing more I can do. Not until morning.”

Dial took it in stride. “Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best.”

“I did, and so did your colleague. He called the governor twice while I was there.”

Dial was pleased by the thought of Toulon groveling.

“If you like, you can spend night in Dáfni.”

“Where? In here?”

Petros laughed. “Not in this office, across courtyard. We have small hotel, market, and restaurant. You are not the first traveler who has been denied entry.”

“I don’t know,” Dial said as he considered his alternatives. “What are the odds that the governor will let me through tomorrow morning?”

“I am not sure. It depends on his mood. But if he says no, I have other options.”

“Such as?”

“Each monastery has one abbot. If he extends a personal invitation, you may enter grounds with special permit. Twenty monasteries mean twenty chances.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Most people do not. It is customs secret.”

“But if I can’t come in, how can I plead my case?”

“You cannot. But I can,” Petros said. “And most abbots are nicer than the governor.”

A
s the plane touched down in Limnos, Payne stared at the Venetian castle that was perched above the island’s main harbor. Built in the thirteenth century, its gray stone walls contrasted sharply with the red-tiled roofs that lined the sandy beaches.

Jarkko beamed with pride. “Is beautiful, no?”

Payne nodded. “Very. I’ve never been to this part of Greece before.”

“My yacht is in marina. We will be there soon.”

“How far are we from Mount Athos?”

“You shall see shortly.”

Payne wasn’t sure what Jarkko meant until they stepped out of the plane. Even though they were more than 50 miles away from the mountain, Payne could see the snowcapped peak in the distance. It towered over the Aegean as Mount Fuji towered above Japan.

Jarkko patted him on the back. “I hope you bring coat!”

T
he Spartans lingered a few miles offshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they eased their boat into the southwest corner of the peninsula and dropped anchor.

One by one, they jumped into the waist-deep water and made their way to the shore. Ten of them in total, all of them dressed in battle gear. Breastplates and greaves protected their bodies and shins, and helmets protected their heads. They carried shields on one arm. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs, and daggers hung from their hips. One Spartan looked different—it was Apollo, the leader of the group, who had a plume of red horsehair topping his helmet, which signified his rank.

He would set the pace. He would give the orders.

He would tell them when to kill.

And soon, their swords would be bathed in blood.

D
ial paced back and forth like a caged tiger. When he looked out the window of his cramped hotel room in Dáfni, he could see the grounds of Mount Athos. He was literally a foot away from being inside. But because of his job title, he couldn’t risk breaking the glass or breaking the rules.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself as he replayed the day’s events in his head.

Three cops were missing, and so were all the Spartans.

The governor was being a total prick, and time was ticking away.

Dial wondered how things could get any worse. Then the phone rang.

“Nick,” Toulon said in a soft voice, “the police in Spárti brought in some dogs, and they found a lot of blood.”

“Where?”

“Near the entrance to the Spartan village and in a fighting pit near their school.”

“They have a fighting pit?”

“
Oui.
The blood was buried under a layer of stones and dirt. That is why they did not see it. When they dug underneath, they found blood, hair, skin, and teeth.”

“Shit.”

“Whoever was in there was hacked into pieces.”

Dial’s voice hardened as his anger boiled inside. “Any bodies?”

“No.”

“What about villagers?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything else?”

“I am sorry about before,” Toulon assured him. “I tried calling the governor several times, but I had no luck getting through. I can try again tomorrow, if you would like.”

“No, Henri, I’ll handle customs myself.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Stay in touch with Spárti. If you learn anything, I want to know at once.”

A
gíou Pávlou, or Saint Paul’s, is the southernmost monastery on Mount Athos. Inside its walls, many treasures are protected, including fragments of the True Cross and some of the gifts brought to Jesus by the Magi. Outside its community, it owns two sketes—small villages of hermitic monks who prefer to live in seclusion away from the larger monastery. Both of them, Néa Skiti and Skiti Agías Annas, are located on the southwest corner of the peninsula and are connected to Saint Paul’s by a simple path through the dense forest.

At this time of night, the two monks did not expect to see anyone on the way to their skete. Hauling supplies on the back of a mule, they heard a rustling in the trees and paused to find the source of the sound. The lead monk lifted his lantern and was stunned by the sight. A man, dressed in full armor and carrying a sword, stepped through a thicket of bushes. A second later, another soldier emerged behind them, blocking any avenue of retreat.

The monks and the mule were now trapped.

“Hello,” said a voice from the trees. The two monks turned toward their right as Apollo stepped onto the dirt path. The red plume on the top of his helmet glowed in the lantern light. “We are seeking the next ridge. Is there a road?”

Both monks shook their heads.

“I thought not.” Apollo paused as he glanced at the dark peak that hovered above him. Its silhouette could barely be seen in the pale moonlight. “Kill them.”

In unison, the two soldiers lifted their swords and slashed the monks’ throats. Both holy men made gurgling sounds as they fell to their knees, drenched in a fountain of blood. The crash of their lanterns spooked the mule, which started kicking and braying.

The commotion was stopped a moment later when the Spartans struck again.

This time silencing the defenseless animal.

W
hen Payne and Jones landed on the southeastern tip of the peninsula, they knew nothing about the Spartans. Otherwise, they would have approached their mission differently. For starters, they would have kept Allison on the yacht, far away from the violence that was about to erupt on Mount Athos. But since they weren’t expecting any bloodshed, they let her join the group.

After all, she was the expert on ancient treasures.

“I feel kind of guilty,” she said as they trudged up the narrow beach toward the first hill. “Women aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Feel free to wait with Jarkko,” Payne said from the front position.

“No way. This is the chance of a lifetime. Besides, I’m just following Schliemann’s lead.”

“How so?”

“He dressed up as a Bedouin tribesman and snuck into the forbidden city of Mecca. Do you know the courage it took to do that?”

Jones smirked from behind her. “I’m not impressed.”

“You’re not impressed? It’s a Muslim-only city. They would have killed him if they caught him.”

“Been there, done that.”

Allison wanted to ask Jones, who had sneaked into Mecca for a mission, what he meant by his comment, but Payne ordered them to shut up. They were heading into the first line of trees, and he wanted to move in silence—especially at the lower altitudes, where they were more likely to run into guards.

According to Jarkko’s map, Megístis Lávras, the largest and oldest monastery on Mount Athos, sat a few miles to the northeast of their landing point. A large Romanian skete called Prodromos was even closer, maybe a mile away. The two communities were connected by a narrow footpath that continued across the southern tip of the peninsula and eventually joined a bigger trail along the western shore. Until they crossed that road, there would be no talking.

Payne led the way, shining a tiny flashlight along the hillside so he could maneuver between the rocks and trees. Allison and Jones had flashlights as well, but they used them sparingly.

All of them were dressed in a similar manner. Long dark pants, sturdy shoes, and dark short-sleeved shirts. Large packs hung from their backs. Eventually, once they reached the higher elevations and the temperature dropped, they would add layers of clothes. Until then, it was important not to sweat too much or they would get dehydrated during their journey.

Mount Athos was 6,670 feet tall. If Schliemann’s treasure map was correct, they were searching for a cave roughly halfway up the mountain. By the time they finished their trek, the weather would be much colder, and they would be exhausted.

T
he guard wasn’t allowed to smoke on duty, yet he did so every night. He would walk along the trail, listening to the waves as they crashed against the rocks below, and think about his life. In some ways, he was like the hermitic monks who lived in the nearby skete. He loved the peace and quiet of the southern end of the peninsula, where nothing ever happened.

He had walked the trail so many times he knew the route by heart. Up ahead there was a slight dip in the path followed by a gradual climb. Nothing too steep or his lungs wouldn’t be able to handle it. That was one of the drawbacks of his pack-a-day habit. Stench was another. If he wasn’t careful, he would reek of smoke when he returned at the end of his shift.

That’s why he liked smoking here. He had plenty of time to air out before he got back to Dáfni.

With a cigarette pressed between his lips, he pulled his lighter from his uniform pocket and flicked it with his thumb. A quick flash followed by a steady flame lit up his immediate surroundings. He slowly brought it toward his face when he realized something was wrong. Although it hadn’t rained in days, the path and the nearby trees glistened in the firelight.

“What in the world?” he mumbled in Greek.

Intrigued, he moved a few steps closer and extended his lighter in front of him.

Then, and only then, did he see the headless mule.

T
he lights were out in his hotel room, but Dial was wide awake.

He lay on his bed, furious, incensed over his investigation. He had wasted an entire day, and for what? To be jerked around by the community that he was trying to protect. In his line of work, he dealt with political bullshit all the time, but normally it involved two different countries fighting over evidence or the right to prosecute a case.

But this? This was something new.

Hell, it was
so
new he didn’t know how to work around it.

Dial’s seething continued until he heard a knock on his door. Actually, it was more than a knock. It was more like an urgent pounding.

“Open up,” said the voice in the hall. “It’s Petros.”

Dial flipped on the light and opened the door. Petros was in civilian clothes. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were filled with passion.

“What’s wrong?” Dial wondered.

“Tell me about your case,” Petros demanded as he barged into the room.

“My case? You know about my case. I’m investigating the deaths at Metéora.”

“Yes, I know. But tell me how they died.”

Earlier Dial had skipped the gruesome details, preferring not to show his cards until he was admitted to Mount Athos. Now that plan no longer seemed possible.

“One monk was thrown over the cliff. The other seven were beheaded.”

“Beheaded? By who?”

Dial stared at him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Men dressed as Spartans.”

“Spartans?”

“Armor, shields, swords. The whole ensemble.”

“You are serious?”

Dial nodded. “Do you think I would’ve stayed the night if I was
joking
?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not only that,” he growled, “I got word today that they killed three cops. At least we think they did, because we still haven’t found them.”

Petros pondered this information for several seconds before he spoke. “Get your assistant and come with me. We are going to the mountain.”

Dial paused, surprised. “Wait. You’re letting us go inside?”

“Yes. I am granting you emergency access.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Two monks have been killed with swords. And we just found their bodies.”

D
ial and Andropoulos pinned visitor badges to their shirts and followed Petros through the gate. A four-wheel-drive vehicle resembling a large golf cart was waiting for them. Dial sat up front next to Petros. Andropoulos climbed in the backseat, which faced the rear.

“What do you know?” Dial asked.

“Not much,” Petros explained as he drove. “I was sleeping at the barracks when I got the news. Two monks and a mule were slaughtered near Néa Skiti.”

“They killed a
mule
?”

“Cut its head clean off.”

“Who found it?”

“One of our guards.”

Dial considered the information as their cart bumped up and down along the narrow path. The vehicle had one working headlight, which barely lit the way—especially at the speed they were traveling. By the time they saw something, they were already running it over.