The old monk nodded, then hobbled out of sight.
Dial waited until Nicolas was completely out of earshot before he turned his attention to Andropoulos. “This better be good.”
“It is,” the young cop assured him. “Potentially great.”
“How great are we talking?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to show you something and get your opinion.”
“Oh goody. Show-and-tell!” Dial said sarcastically. “Please, lead the way.”
The two of them walked across the monastery toward the small annex that had been built behind the main chapel. It was an unremarkable building with several windows that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Andropoulos opened the narrow door and ducked inside the stuffy room. Originally it had been used for meditation; now it served as a gift shop.
Dial stepped inside and stared at the cheap trinkets on the tables. Suddenly, snippets of his conversation with Nicolas sprang to mind.
The old monk was right. Agia Triada had become a haven for tourists.
“Don’t tell me,” Dial said. “You want me to buy you a T-shirt.”
Andropoulos ignored the comment. He was far too excited about his discovery. “Earlier you said the difference between a good investigator and a bad one was the ability to examine a scene. Well, as far as I know, I’m the first one to notice this.”
Dial glanced around the room, confused. “Notice what?”
Andropoulos pointed toward a chest of drawers that rested along the rear wall. The cabinet was carved out of local wood and stained a dark brown. On top sat a metal box where the monastery kept the money from any gift purchases.
Dial walked over and examined it. He was less than impressed.
“You brought me here for this?”
The Greek shook his head. “Look above you.”
Dial did as he was told. The ceiling was held up by ancient beams that were cracked and splintered. Most had been there for hundreds of years and looked as if they might give way. Suddenly, Dial didn’t feel very safe. In fact, he was about to ask for a hard hat when he noticed something that was out of place. It was a flat piece of glass, roughly the size of a coin.
“Wait. What is that? Is that a camera?”
Andropoulos nodded as he approached the cabinet. “The wire runs on top of the wood and drops down behind the stone. Then it comes out of the wall and goes into this.”
He opened the right-hand drawer, revealing a small video recorder.
Dial stared at the device. “I’ll be damned. The monks have a nanny cam. Seems kind of strange in a place that teaches love and trust.”
“A nanny cam?”
“Sorry. It’s an American term. It means a hidden video camera. Sometimes parents set it up when they aren’t at home to spy on their babysitters.”
“Ah, yes! I have heard of this. We have something similar in Greece.”
“Really? What’s it called?”
“A neighbor.”
Dial laughed. Sometimes old-fashioned methods worked just as well.
“So,” Andropoulos asked, “did I do good?”
“Yes,” Dial admitted, “this was good work on your part. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, the viewing angle won’t give us any video of the killers. Unless, of course, they came in here to pick out a souvenir.”
“Yes, I agree. That camera is no good for our needs. But it made me think. If they put a camera in here, maybe they put a camera out there.”
“Maybe.”
Andropoulos continued. “Then I remembered that many local monasteries keep a tin box in the chapel so people can donate money. Do you have this in America?”
“Some churches do.”
“Well, do you know where the chapel is from here?”
Dial smiled in understanding. “On the other side of this wall.”
“Yes,” said the Greek as he opened the left-hand drawer. Inside was a second video system that was identical to the first. “On the other side of that wall.”
Even though Dial used to be one of the top investigators in the world, his current job with Interpol was mostly administrative. He was allowed to make suggestions and give advice to NCB agents in the field, but when it came to gathering evidence, that was strictly the duty of local officers, since they were responsible for the chain of custody in local courts.
In reality, Dial knew his involvement with this case was slightly premature. One of Interpol’s bylaws prohibited him from working on any military or religious crimes, which was Interpol’s way of staying politically and philosophically neutral. But as a division chief, he was allowed to use discretion on any homicide with unknown motives, a gray area that he often took advantage of-including a famous case that had involved crucifixions on several continents. That was one of the reasons he had spent so much time talking to Nicolas about the monastic way of life. He needed to determine if this was a crime against the Orthodox faith or something else.
If it was a hate crime, Dial had no choice. He would be forced to step aside.
If not, there was still a major hurdle that he needed to clear if he wanted to stay involved. Dial needed to prove that this case affected multiple member states. Otherwise, it would be considered a domestic issue, and the Greeks could ask him to leave at once.
Strangely, Dial wasn’t the least bit concerned. Experience had taught him to view everything as one piece of the puzzle. And he knew in his gut that something significant was going on, something that transcended religious crimes and crossed foreign borders.
He wasn’t sure about specifics, but he didn’t plan on leaving until he figured it out.
11
Clinging to the southern slopes of the Lepontine Alps, Kusendorf is a village of nearly 2,000 people in Ticino, the southernmost canton (or state) in Switzerland. Known for its scenic views and local brand of Swiss cheese, Kusendorf is the home of the Ulster Archives, the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world.
Built as a temporary haven for Austrian philanthropist Conrad Ulster, the Archives Building eventually became his permanent residence. During the early 1930s, Ulster, an avid collector of rare artifacts, sensed the political instability in his country and realized there was a good chance that his prized library would be seized by the Nazis. To protect himself and his books, he smuggled his collection across the Swiss border in railcars, hidden under thin layers of brown coal, and kept out of public view until after World War II. He died in 1964 but expressed his thanks to the people of Switzerland by donating his estate to his adopted hometown-provided they kept his collection intact and accessible to the world’s best academic minds.
For the past decade, the Archives had been run by his grandson Petr Ulster, who had been forced to rebuild several floors after religious zealots tried to burn the place to the ground. Their goal was to destroy ancient documents that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church.
Thankfully, the attack failed, thwarted by two men whom Petr considered heroes.
Jonathon Payne and David Jones.
Ulster heard the ringing of his private line and lumbered across his office to answer it. He was a round man in his early forties with a thick brown beard that covered his multiple chins. Yet he came across as boylike, because of the twinkle in his eye and his enthusiasm for life.
“Hello,” he said with a faint Swiss accent. “This is Petr.”
