The Lost Throne (8 page)

In the end, it made him a better person.

“So,” Jones wondered, “how do you want to handle this?”

“Not much we can do from here. Not until Byrd calls back.”

“And then?”

“Then it depends on him. If he seems legitimate, I say we bail him out. I mean, a friend of Petr’s is a friend of ours. On the other hand, if he seems shady in any way, I say we wish him well but tell him we’re on vacation.”

Jones nodded. “Agreed.”

“In the meantime, why don’t you dig up some background on him.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” He turned his laptop toward Payne and pointed at the screen. “As soon as Petr mentioned his name, I ran an Internet search and came up with a few articles. It seems the two of you have something in common.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You both come from money.”

Payne sat at the hotel desk and studied the image on the screen.

Richard Byrd was a handsome man in his late forties. He had sandy brown hair that was gray at the temples and a deep California tan. In the picture he was standing on the deck of his yacht, the
Odyssey,
while Catalina Island loomed in the distance. He looked cool, confident, and in total control—the exact opposite of how he had sounded on the phone.

Underneath there was a short biography, detailing his academic and professional careers. He had graduated from Stanford with a degree in history but never worked in that field. Instead, he had taken control of his family’s fortune, which had been amassed during the gold rush of the 1800s, and multiplied it many times over in the banking business. According to this website, he had retired a few years ago to pursue outside interests, although none were listed.

“Let me guess,” Payne said. “His hobbies include traveling, antiques, and Greece.”

“Is it just me, or does he look like a catalogue model?”

Payne smiled and handed the computer back to Jones. “Enough with the fluff. Why don’t you get some dirt on this guy? Anything that might suggest criminal activities. I want to know as much as possible before he calls again.”

As if on cue, Payne’s phone started to ring on the nearby table.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t answer it,” Jones shouted as he scrambled for his laptop bag. He quickly unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a short black cord that he plugged into the back of his computer. “Give me your phone.”

Payne did as he was told and watched Jones attach it to the cord. This would allow them to listen through the laptop’s speakers while recording the call as a digital file.

Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. Three rings, then four.

“Are we good?” Payne asked.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Payne took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hello?”

A loud blast of static filled the room. Jones leaned forward and lowered the volume on his computer. It helped with the sound level but didn’t help with the clarity. Static still filled the line.

“Hello?” Payne repeated.

There was a two-second pause before they heard a response.

“Hello,” said the voice. It was soft and meek and feminine.

Payne glanced at the number. It was restricted, just as before. “Who is this?”

She ignored his question. After another pause, she said, “Is this Jonathon?”

“Yes. This is Jon. Who is this?”

Static filled the line for a few seconds. Followed by a gasp and a sob.

“Are you all right?” Payne asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible.

“Is this Jonathon?” she repeated.

“Yes. This is Jonathon. Who is
this
?”

A slight delay, then an answer: “This is Allison.”

“Allison who?”

“Taylor.”

Payne looked at Jones, who shrugged. Neither of them knew who she was.

“Allison, where are you calling from?”

A few seconds of static. “Russia. I’m calling from Russia.”

“Are you with Richard?”

She let out a soft wail. No talking, just crying.

“Allison, where’s Richard?”

A slight pause, then a thunderbolt. “Richard’s dead.”

“What?” Payne said, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“They killed him. They killed Richard.”

“Who is
they
?”

“I don’t know. But they killed him.”

Payne paused, not sure what to ask. “Allison, how did you know Richard?”

Static for a few seconds. “I was helping him.”

“With what?”

“His trip.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“They shot him in the head. He fell in the fountain.”

“Allison, where are you in Russia?”

“Saint Petersburg.”

“Are you an American?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. Then I want you to go to the consulate. There’s an American consulate in Saint Petersburg. If you go there, they’ll protect you.”

She sobbed. “I can’t. Richard said we couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. But he said we
couldn’t
go there. He said if anything happened to him that I was supposed to call. He bought me a phone just so I could call you. He programmed your number into the phone. It’s the only number I’ve got.”

Payne swore under his breath, not sure what to do. Byrd was dead. Allison was freaking out. And she refused to go to the only safe place he could think of. Back in the day, he used to know several places around the city where operatives could hide in an emergency, but he hadn’t been to any of them in years. So there was no way of knowing if they were still in play.

“Jon,” Jones whispered, “if they killed Byrd, Petr could be in trouble.”

Payne covered the phone. “Explain.”

“Byrd went to the Ulster Archives on several occasions to do research. Who knows what he found there. If these people are thorough, they might go there next.”

Payne nodded in understanding. Suddenly, they had little choice in the matter. They had to get involved to protect their friend.

“Allison,” he said with a firm voice, “listen to me. Everything is going to be fine. Do you believe me when I say that?”

“They killed him,” she said meekly.

“I know that, Allison. It must be tough for you. But let me tell you a secret. Do you know
why
Richard told you to call me? He knew if you needed my help, I would give it to you. And trust me when I say this, I’m a very helpful guy.”

Static filled the line. Several seconds’ worth.

“Allison? Are you still there?”

Another lengthy pause. Finally, she asked, “How can you help me?”

“It’s pretty simple. I’m coming to get you out.”

W
hile Andropoulos sealed the videotapes in evidence bags, Dial strolled into the main chapel and searched for the second camera. He spotted it in the rear of the church, right above the donation box.

Trying not to draw attention to himself, Dial casually leaned against the back wall and glanced upward. The wire was attached to a wooden beam in the same fashion as in the gift shop. Except in this case, the viewing angle was slightly more favorable.

With a little luck, they might actually have footage of the killers.

Ideally, Dial would have viewed the videos right away, but considering their current location, that was an impossibility. Instead, they would have to wait until they drove to the station house in Kalampáka or got to a secondary location like Dial’s hotel. The truth was Dial didn’t care where he watched it, as long as he got to see the recordings as soon as possible.

A few minutes later, Andropoulos walked into the church and approached a uniformed officer who looked even younger than he did. The kid snapped to attention and listened intently as Andropoulos handed him the tapes and gave him a series of orders in Greek. When their conversation ended, the kid hustled through the same door Andropoulos had entered.

Dial smiled, watching all of this from afar. “Marcus!”

He spotted Dial near the back table and walked toward him. “Yes, sir?”

“What was that all about?”

Andropoulos blushed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“That depends. What in the hell did you just do?”

“I thought someone should view the tapes immediately. And since I can’t leave here yet, I asked another officer to look at them.”

“That’s what I thought you did.”

“Did I mess up?”

Dial shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, that’s the most impressive thing you’ve done all night. You just put justice ahead of your own ambition. That’s pretty rare in a case like this.”

Andropoulos breathed a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess up?”

Dial laughed. “Let’s walk outside. I want to discuss the crime scene.”

D
ial didn’t speak again until they were outside, far away from the other officers. At this stage of the game, he still wasn’t allowed to investigate the scene—since he lacked proof that multiple member states were involved—and would be forced to leave if he overstepped his bounds. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Turf wars were common in his business, one where egos were easily bruised and jurisdictions were guarded like jealous lovers.

For the time being, the local police were in charge of the monastery. Things would stay that way until the Greek government decided the locals couldn’t handle it—or
shouldn’t
handle it—and the inspector general for northern Greece showed up with a team of national experts from the Forensic Division and the Special Violent Crime Squad. After that, it was only a matter of time before Dial was thanked for his interest in the case and driven to the airport. Then again, Dial wouldn’t blame the inspector. If Dial were in charge of the case, he wouldn’t want an outsider lurking around, either. Especially someone who wanted to take control of things.

“So,” Dial asked Andropoulos, hoping to bond with his liaison, “where did you learn English? Other than a slight accent, you speak it better than most Americans.”

The Greek beamed with pride. “I learned English when I was very young. My parents owned a small café in Kastraki, and I worked there as a child. Half our customers were tourists who could not speak Greek. If I did not know English, I could not do my job.”

“And where did your parents learn it?”

“From James Bond.”

Dial grimaced. “James Bond?”

“You know, 007.”

“Yeah,” Dial assured him, “I know all about James Bond. I just don’t understand your comment. How did he teach them English?”

“You do not know? They filmed
For Your Eyes Only
in Metéora. The cast and crew were in Kalampáka and Kastraki for weeks. This was in 1981, before I was born, but Roger Moore ate in my parents’ café on many nights. My mother said he was a very nice man and so good-looking. I am told my father was very jealous, but he said nothing, since Roger Moore has a license to kill.” Andropoulos laughed at his own joke. “I think that is why I joined the police. I wanted to carry a gun so I could impress my father.”

“Hold up,” Dial ordered. He was a James Bond fan but couldn’t think of any scenes that took place in a monastery. “Refresh my memory. What was the plot of that movie?”

“James Bond was searching for a weapon that was stolen by a Greek villain. Holy Trinity was his secret lair, and Bond had to climb up the cliff to kill him.”

Dial nodded. “Okay.
Now
I remember it. No wonder I had a sense of déjà vu when I first arrived. I had seen Metéora on the big screen.”

“I love American films. I watch them all the time. They help me with my English.”

“What about your French?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No. They do not help me with my French.”

Dial rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Marcus, I know they don’t help you with your French. I’m asking if you
know
any French.”

“Only a few words. Why do you ask?”

“Because Interpol is located in France. It might be helpful if you spoke the language.”

“What are you saying? You think I might be good for headquarters?”

“Not with that haircut, I don’t. Or with that suit.” Dial tried not to smile or it would ruin his hazing. “What happened? Did you grow a foot since this morning?”

Andropoulos was about to defend himself when Dial cut him off.

“On the other hand, I have been impressed with your work. If you keep this up, I might be willing to pass your name to someone in Lyon. No promises, though.”

“Yes,” he said excitedly, “I understand.”

“Of course, you can help your cause even further if you do well on your assignment. Weren’t you supposed to assess the crime scene?”

“Yes, sir. I studied the layout of the church and all the evidence. If we go back inside, I can explain my theories.”

Dial turned away from the young cop and leaned against the railing, staring at the fog below. Somewhere down there was a second crime scene—one he hadn’t had a chance to visit because of the darkness and the treacherous terrain. “Tell me about the bodies.”

“The bodies?”

“You know, the things that
used
to be people.”

Andropoulos frowned. “But they weren’t found inside the church.”

“What’s your point?”

“You said you didn’t like to hear about evidence until you’ve seen it for yourself.”

“Tell me, Marcus, are the bodies still down there?”

“Not anymore. We recovered them this afternoon.”

“Then how in the hell am I supposed to see them at the scene?” The question was rhetorical, but Dial let it linger for several seconds, hoping to unnerve Andropoulos. “Once again, if you don’t mind, please tell me about the bodies.”

The young Greek took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Villagers found eight bodies on the rocks below and called us in Kalampáka. Because of their clothes, we think all of them were monks. We are still trying to get names and backgrounds on seven of them. The eighth victim was the caretaker of Holy Trinity. He was the only one we found intact.”

“What do you mean by
intact
?”

“He was the only one who had a head.”

Dial glanced at Andropoulos to see if he was joking. “As in they fell off when they landed?”

“As in they were cut off before they were dumped.”