“And you know nothing about this?”
“Nothing. This is a shock to me.”
Dial pressed the issue. “Fine. Who
“The abbot might have known, but the abbot’s dead.”
“Who else?”
Theodore paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know.”
“See, I find that hard to believe. I mean, I know about the tunnel. And Marcus knows about the tunnel. Even the killers know about the tunnel. Yet you’re telling me no one at Meteora knows about it? Pardon me for being so blunt, but I think that’s bullshit.”
Theodore nodded in agreement, which surprised the hell out of Dial.
“Wait! What are you saying? Someone does know about the tunnel?”
But this time, Theodore was the one who didn’t answer. Instead he stared down the stone corridor, trying to figure out where it went and why it had been built. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see much in the darkness. Not the stairs or the empty shelves.
Noticing the monk’s curiosity, Dial was struck by a simple idea. He could use the tunnel as a bargaining chip, one that would encourage Theodore to provide some inside information.
“Sorry,” Dial said as he pulled the door shut, nearly catching Theodore’s beard in the process. “That’s a crime scene in there. I can’t let you see it at this time.”
Disappointment filled the monk’s eyes. Palpable disappointment.
“Earlier,” Dial said, “when we were talking about the ceiling, didn’t you say something about a library at Great Meteoron?”
“I did.”
“And it has a complete history of Meteora?”
“It does. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts that document all the monasteries, including those that have been destroyed.”
“And you have access to this, right?”
The monk nodded in understanding. He knew where this was going long before Dial asked the question. “You would like me to research Holy Trinity and all of its artwork.”
“Indeed I would. It would be a huge help to our investigation.”
“And if I agree to your request?”
Dial smiled in victory. “I’d be happy to bend the rules and allow you inside the tunnel.”
27
Helsinki sits on the northern shore of the Gulf of Finland, the eastern arm of the Baltic Sea. Approximately 297 miles from Saint Petersburg, the capital city of Finland is flanked by thousands of small islands that protect its natural harbor. Sprawling for blocks along the scenic waterfront, the Kauppatori Market comes alive with tourists during the warmer months, attracting a wide variety of vendors who sell everything from fresh seafood to expensive jewelry.
Because of the chaos of the market and its proximity to the sea, it was the perfect spot for Payne and Jones to meet the boat captain who would be taking them to Russia. Details about him had been kept to a minimum-his name was Jarkko and he’d be waiting for them at a specific stall when the market closed. Other than that, they were told nothing. For his safety and theirs.
The cab dropped them off down the street from the Presidential Palace, which overlooked the market square from the northern side of the Esplanadi. Payne paid the driver as Jones walked toward a small sign on the edge of the marketplace. It was written in Finnish and English. The market opened at 6:30 A.M. and closed at 6 P.M. Jones glanced at his watch and nodded. They had an hour to kill before they met their contact.
“Where to?” Payne wondered as he caught up.
“Beats me. We’ll have to ask somebody.”
The two of them entered the square from the west, unsure where they were headed but determined to find out. They strolled along the cobblestone road, marveling at all the tents and stalls that seemed to go on forever. This section of the market specialized in fruits, vegetables, and other homegrown produce. Tables were filled with tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and more. Cartons overflowed with cloudberries, ling onberries, and several berries they didn’t recognize-an edible rainbow of shapes and colors. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air.
Payne stopped at a tiny booth and got directions from a woman who spoke perfect English. She told him that he was at the wrong end of the market, but if he kept walking east, he would eventually find the stall he was looking for. Payne thanked her by buying a small bag of her strawberries. Remarkably, they were sweeter than any he had ever eaten.
Jones said, “We’d better get more chow than that. I doubt our trip will be catered.”
Payne agreed. “You pick the place. I’ll buy the food.”
Five minutes later they came across several picnic tables that were nestled among a dozen food stalls. Most of the tables were filled with tourists. Some of whom were eating. Others were watching the boats in the harbor. The view was like a moving postcard.
Jones led the hunt, walking from stall to stall, searching for something tasty to eat. He saw shrimp, crayfish, seafood paella, salmon and potatoes, grilled Arctic char, herring, perch, and octopus. The only nonseafood items he found were french fries and onion rings. A little farther down, Payne stumbled across a booth that featured exotic local cuisine-everything from bear meat stew to moose salami. But one item in particular made him laugh: reindeer sausage.
He was half tempted to buy some for Kaiser.
Eventually, the duo decided to play it safe. They avoided anything fried or spicy before their long trip at sea and ordered grilled salmon, potatoes, and two loaves of Finnish bread.
After their meal, they casually strolled to the other end of the market. They passed tents filled with jewelry, furs, artwork, toys, and everything in between. Finally, at a few minutes to six, they hit the section of the market they were searching for. It was obvious in several ways. They heard seabirds screeching overhead, begging for scraps, and felt the temperature drop as they walked past huge blocks of ice. A variety of seafood was laid out in wooden crates. The stench of spoiled fish came from the garbage bins in back.
“Damn!” Jones exclaimed. “This place smells like Popeye.”
Payne laughed. “I’m not even sure what that means, but it sounds about right.”
“I probably shouldn’t mention that to Jarkko, huh?”
“Probably not.”
Jones looked around. Many fishermen were packing up their goods, preparing for the market to close at six. “Where are we meeting him?”
Payne pointed to a stall across the way. The name above it was long and Finnish. It was identical to the name on Kaiser’s paper. This was definitely the place they were looking for.
A burly man stood behind the counter. He did not look happy. He was wearing an oversized apron, the kind a butcher might wear to attack a cow. It was streaked with blood and guts and all kinds of filth. On his head, he wore a black knitted cap that covered half of his brow and the tops of his ears. His gnarled hands were hidden by thick rubber gloves that he tucked inside the sleeves of his waterproof jacket. A scowl was etched on his face.
Payne approached him with caution. “We’re looking for Jarkko.”
“Who are you?” said the man. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Finnish accent.
“We’re friends of Kaiser.”
The man considered this response. “Then I am Jarkko.”
He smiled and extended his right hand across the countertop. His glove was dripping with fish parts. Payne didn’t want to offend him so early in their partnership, so he ignored the goo and shook his hand. Jarkko smiled even wider. “You’re American, no?”
Payne shook his head. “We’re Canadian.”
“Canadian, my
Payne wasn’t sure what
