him coming after me. he’s scary.
r.r.
A few minutes later, they understood what Raskin was talking about when they viewed the file he had attached to the message. Sometime during the night, he had hacked into a Russian surveillance company and downloaded the security video of Richard Byrd’s murder. Actually, it was more than a murder. It was a cold-blooded execution, perpetrated by an assassin in a highly public venue. The type of wet work that was taught by the CIA, MI6, and other security agencies around the globe-including the old KGB.
At least that was the opinion of Payne and Jones.
The black-and-white footage was filmed from an elevated angle on the back porch of the Peterhof. It was a wide-angle shot, focusing on the banister above the main grotto, right where Richard Byrd was standing. Although the video was grainy, Payne and Jones were mesmerized by what they saw. The killer walked with precision. Never wasting energy or stopping to contemplate his next move. He approached Byrd, raised his gun, and fired. No hesitation. Never breaking stride. Totally professional. Then he tossed his weapon over the railing. It hit the water at the exact moment his victim tumbled into the fountain.
The timing was so perfect, the body and the gun made a single splash.
Payne and Jones replayed the video several times, looking for flaws in the killer’s technique. There were none. He never looked at the camera. He never ran or panicked. He never did anything to give away his identity. Even during the chaos that followed.
Payne watched the execution one more time. “What do you think? Ex-Agency?”
“Maybe. Or Russian mob. No one we want to tangle with-if we can help it.”
“Famous last words.”
Jones smirked. “I hope not.”
Payne tapped the computer screen. “Do me a favor and keep it running for a bit. Allison said she witnessed the shooting. Maybe we can see her in the aftermath.”
“Good idea.”
They stared at the footage, focusing on the people in the background. Someone on the patio must have seen the body and screamed, because all of a sudden everyone started running. Everyone, that is, except for one female with long blond hair. As chaos erupted around her, she fell to her knees in front of the giant waterfall and wailed with grief. It was a sorrowful scene, one that tugged at their heartstrings and reaffirmed their decision to help her out.
She looked so lost and confused and scared.
No wonder she had been so emotional on the phone.
“Keep it going,” Payne said. “I want to see what she’s made of.”
Surprisingly, she cried for less than a minute. After that, she wiped her eyes, brushed the dirt off her knees, then walked away from the camera until she was no longer visible.
One minute she was a crying mess, the next she was calm enough to escape.
Jones stopped the video. “Impressive. She’s tougher than I thought.”
Payne nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, so is the shooter.”
23
The blue tapestry hung from the ceiling to the floor, covering most of the back wall in the monk’s chamber. Dial had orig inally thought it was there to add a splash of color to an otherwise dreary room. Then he noticed a color that didn’t belong. The color was red. It was smeared on a few of the golden tassels near the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry-as if someone with bloody hands had grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall.
Careful not to contaminate the evidence, Dial lifted the tapestry and peered behind it. He hoped to find a message scrawled on the stone or something attached to the back of the Orthodox cross. But what he found was better. And much more surprising.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled to himself.
“What is it?” asked Andropoulos as he tried to peek over Dial’s shoulder.
“You’ll see in a minute. Go close the door.”
Andropoulos hustled across the room, glanced outside to make sure no one was coming, then quietly closed and locked the door. By the time he returned, Dial was standing in front of the tapestry, wondering how they could move it without damaging it. Eventually, he figured things out. The tapestry was hanging from two large hooks, one in each upper corner, that were drilled into the stone wall. All they had to do was remove the right corner from the right hook, fold the tapestry upon itself, and hang the right corner on top of the left corner. That way the tapestry would remain hanging, folded vertically, while dangling from the left-hand hook.
Working in unison, the two of them carefully lifted the tapestry so it wouldn’t drag across the floor and hung it as Dial suggested. Then they stepped back and stared at their discovery.
In the center of the stone wall there was a door.
A secret door.
One that looked hundreds of years old.
Dial didn’t know why it was there or where it might lead, but he knew they had stumbled onto something special. Not only because the monks had gone out of their way to conceal it, but also because the door itself was more glorious than any door he had ever seen before. Intricately carved by a master craftsman, it depicted dozens of Greek soldiers fighting a foreign horde on the battlefield. Some used spears. Others held swords. But all of them fought with honor.
Andropoulos moved closer to inspect the details, to appreciate the remarkable workmanship of his ancestors. He wanted to run his fingers across it, like a blind man reading Braille, just so he could touch a piece of history. That is, until he noticed the dried blood. It was just a small stain near the door’s handle, yet it brought him back to reality.
He wasn’t a tourist in a museum. He was a cop at a crime scene.
He said, “I found more blood. Just like the other door, it’s by the handle.”
Dial crouched down to study the stain. “Strange. Very strange.”
“How so?”
“There’s blood on both doors yet nothing in between. You don’t see that very often. Normally, you’d see a visible blood trail on the floor.”
Dial reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean tissue to open the door. He would have preferred latex gloves, but he was forced to improvise, since he didn’t have a pair.
“Any theories?” Dial asked.
“About what?”
“The source of the blood.”
Andropoulos shook his head. “Not really. What about you?”
“I
“What happens in three seconds?”
“You’ll see,” he said cryptically. “Are you ready? Three . . . two . . . one . . . breathe.”
Dial pushed the door forward and was instantly greeted by the stench of death. The smell, a mixture of blood and decaying flesh, caught Andropoulos completely off-guard. So much so, he started to gag the moment it hit his nostrils. But not Dial. He was expecting it. With the tissue, he covered his nose and mouth, then stepped inside the dark corridor.
“Mmmmm, death,” he said with a wry smile. “Do you have a light?”
Still coughing, Andropoulos handed him a tiny penlight that he kept clipped to his belt. Dial turned it on and shined the beam ahead, revealing a tunnel about ten feet long with a stone floor followed by a spiral staircase that faded downward from view. Creeping forward, Dial shined the light on the walls and the arched ceiling above him. Although it was made of stone, it was reinforced by several wooden planks-just like the one in the monk’s room.
“How often does Greece have earthquakes?”
Andropoulos cleared his throat. “Every year. They are small but very common.”
