The Lost Throne

surpassed by 9/11.

And in all these cases, Dial had been called in to help with the official investigation.

“So,” Dial asked, “the hills around Sparti are filled with these men?”

“Oui, but they are different from militia.”

“In what way?”

“They use no guns. They use no bombs. They fight with their hands and their blades.”

“Just like their ancestors.”

“Just like the Spartans.”

Dial considered this while staring at the natural rock pillars that loomed behind the hotel. They stood at attention like ancient soldiers whose sole job was to guard the monasteries from any force that meant them harm. Over the centuries, they had performed their duty admirably during times that were far more turbulent than these: times of war and revolution in Greece.

That’s why none of this made any sense.

What had brought on the sudden violence? And what did it have to do with Spartans? If, in fact, that’s who the killers were. What connection could they possibly have with a bunch of monks who lived several hundred miles away from Sparti?

“Let me ask you a question,” Dial said, racking his brain for potential links between the two groups. “Were the Spartans religious people?”

Toulon shrugged. “That is a tough question. I do not know.”

“Really?” Dial teased. “I thought you were an expert on Ancient Greece.”

“I am. But no one knows the answer to your question. As I’ve mentioned, the Spartans did not support the arts. This included the art of writing. According to Spartan law, historical records were not kept. Literature was not created. And laws were memorized, not recorded. That means everything we know about the Spartans comes from outside sources, written by men who never fully grasped the culture that they described.”

“Then how do we know they were great warriors?”

“Because everyone, even their most hated rivals, praised their skill as soldiers. That is the one thing that all of Greece agreed upon. Do not mess with the Spartans.”

“But all the other stuff-religion, politics, and so on-is just a guess by historians?”

“Oui. Just a wild guess. No one knows for sure.”

Dial nodded. “Which ultimately worked to the Spartans’ advantage.”

“In what way?”

“People fear what they don’t understand.”

“This is true.” Toulon lit his cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke into the air. He enjoyed the flavor and his civil disobedience. “That is why I fear nothing.”

Dial smiled at the comment as he pondered all the information he had been told. Unlike Toulon, who pretended to know everything, there were still several things that Dial didn’t understand about the case. “Do me a favor. Get ahold of that NCB agent from Sparti.”

“George Pappas.”

“Right. Get ahold of George and ask him to snoop around those mountain towns near Sparti. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

29

TUESDAY, MAY 20

Gulf of Finland

The 235-mile boat trip from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg was uneventful, just as Payne, Jones, and Jarkko had hoped. The Gulf of Finland was calm. The weather was unseasonably warm. And because of the northern latitude, the sun didn’t set until nearly 11 P.M. This allowed them to blend in with all the other fishermen who were taking advantage of the extra daylight. In Russia, the phenomenon is called Belye Nochi, or White Nights. During the summer months, the sun doesn’t drop low enough behind the horizon for the sky to grow completely dark. At times, day and night are often indistinguishable. In fact, it is so pronounced in late June and early July that the city of Saint Petersburg saved money by not turning on its streetlights.

Thankfully, the effect isn’t quite as severe in May because Payne and Jones preferred darkness for border crossings. Fewer witnesses. Fewer guards. More freedom to improvise.

As they approached the Russian coast, all three watched for patrol boats. They rarely bothered local fishermen, spending most of their time searching for drug runners and warships, but occasionally, when the soldiers were bored, they stopped boats for the hell of it. Just to be safe, Payne and Jones wore waders and waterproof jackets over their normal clothes. That way if their boat was stopped, they would look as if they belonged.

Jarkko asked, “Where you want to dock? You tell Jarkko, we go there.”

Jones had never been to this part of Russia, but he had spent enough time memorizing the layout of the city to know his best options. Located in the Neva River delta, Saint Petersburg is spread over 576 square miles, including 42 river islands, 60 river branches, and 20 major canals. Known as the Venice of the North, the city of nearly five million people is connected by over 300 bridges, some of which have been standing for centuries.

The main dockyards sit to the west of the city, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Areas like those are patrolled around the clock, so Jones wanted no part of them. The same went for anything inside the city proper. Even though it was bisected by a 20-mile stretch of the Neva River, a fishing boat would look somewhat out of place. Particularly at night. The last thing he wanted was to deal with the city police before they even set foot ashore.

“Maybe you can suggest a place around here,” Jones said as he pointed to a map of the coastline. “I’m looking for a small marina, preferably something that isn’t patrolled.”

“Yes! I know good dock. It is near bar that Jarkko go.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The Finn laughed as he changed his course. “Jarkko work hard. Jarkko get thirsty.”

“I bet you do.”

Payne overheard the conversation. “Have you always fished these waters?”

“When ice permits, I fish entire Baltic from Copenhagen to Oulu. I have since little boy. In winter, Jarkko try to stay warm. I visit Mediterranean near Spain. Ionian near Italy. Aegean near Greece. I like girls in Malta. They keep Jarkko warm.”

He unleashed a loud belly laugh, one that was contagious. Both Payne and Jones laughed as well, enjoying this portion of their trip much more than they could have imagined. If not for their mission, they would have been tempted to hire Jarkko for a week of fishing and drinking.

Payne said, “I’m guessing you use a different boat down south.”

“Last time Jarkko check, Europe is big chunk of land. Tough to drive boat through. Or has that changed? I do not have TV.”

“Nope. It’s still pretty big.”

Jarkko smiled as he guided his boat into the river channel that would take them to a private dock. “Then, yes, Jarkko have two boats. This one is old. She is rusty and smells like fish, but she never lets me down. I will keep her till she sinks.”

“And the other?”

“The other is yacht. It has no rust and smells like champagne. Pretty girls love her.”

Jones grinned at the image. “Are you serious? You really have a yacht?”

“Yes, Jarkko have yacht. She stays in Limnos. Why is this surprise?”

“Why? I didn’t know fishing paid that well.”

Jarkko laughed. “Fishing does not. But Americans do!”

As promised, Payne and Jones were put ashore on the outskirts of the city. The marina was deserted and had no surveillance. Jarkko would sleep aboard his boat until morning, then head back to the