The Lost Throne

“Only one reason I can think of: succession.”

“Succession?”

Dial nodded. “The monks were trying to keep something alive, whether it was a secret or a tradition or whatever. The way I figure it is this. When one of the monks died, they brought a new one into the fold. That guaranteed a new generation to keep things going. Hell, they might have gone so far as to choose seven monks from different countries just to make sure that a natural disaster didn’t wipe them all out at once. That would explain the wide variety of faces in the photos. A new monk from a different place to keep something alive.”

“I’m confused, sir. What kind of something are you talking about?”

He tapped Andropoulos on his chest again. “That goes back to my earlier question. What were these monks discussing in an isolated monastery in the middle of the night?”

“Do you have any theories?”

“Of course I do. I always have theories. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“But you’re keeping them to yourself.”

“For the time being, yes. I don’t want to taint your opinions until I’m a little more certain.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about you? Do you have any theories?”

Andropoulos smiled. “Actually, sir, I might.”

“Let me guess. You’re going to keep them to yourself so you don’t taint me.”

“No, sir. I’d be happy to share it with you if you’re willing to listen.”

“I’m all ears. What’s your theory about?”

“I think I just figured out why they were meeting at Holy Trinity, not Athens or Istanbul.”

“Go on.”

“It never dawned on me until you said the word, but maybe the reason they were meeting locally was tradition. After all, the photograph from forty years ago was also taken here. Maybe they met here every year. Maybe it was a part of their ritual.”

Dial stroked his chin in thought. “You know what, Marcus? That’s a pretty good theory. It makes more sense than anything I’ve come up with.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it.”

Dial walked closer to the bulletin board, staring at all the pictures and index cards. As he did, he ran different scenarios through his mind, trying to decide if he needed to shift anything around. Sometimes that was how it worked with Dial. One thing fell into place, followed by another and another until all his questions were Suddenly, answered.

“What are you thinking about, sir?”

“The reason. What was the reason they started meeting at Holy Trinity?”

“That I don’t know.”

“I’m glad,” Dial teased. “It will give me a chance to earn my big paycheck.”

Andropoulos smiled and was about to say something else until he noticed the faraway look in Dial’s eye. He was no longer paying attention to the young cop. Instead, he was focused on the bulletin board, crunching all the data in his head, trying to figure out the answer to the question that he had just asked. Why were they meeting at Holy Trinity?

A few minutes passed before Dial spoke again. When he did, he spoke with clarity.

“The tunnel. This whole thing is about the goddamn tunnel.”

“The tunnel?”

“More specifically, what used to be in the tunnel.”

To make his point, Dial tapped on a photo of the stone altar that they had found underneath Holy Trinity. “Look at the craftsmanship of that thing. That altar used to hold something important. I’m not sure what, but it was important. Same with all those empty shelves we found. Something important used to be down there.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m assuming that’s why the Spartans took the time to leave the heads on the altar. They wanted somebody to know that they had found their secret tunnel and weren’t going to stop killing people until they found what they were looking for.”

“Wanted who to know?”

“Maybe Nicolas. Maybe they wanted him to know for some reason. Maybe that’s why he showed up, to see the message for himself.”

Andropoulos glanced at the bulletin board, focusing on the card that said Nicolas. As he did, a question popped into his head. “Sir, if your theory is correct about succession, why wasn’t Nicolas killed? I mean, shouldn’t he have been here for the meeting? He was in that picture from forty years ago, the one with the abbot.”

“I was wondering when you were going to mention that. That question has been plaguing me, too. Maybe death wasn’t the end of a monk’s term. Maybe there was an age limit. Maybe that’s the reason he wasn’t there when the rest of the monks were killed. Being old might have saved his life.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Nicolas did something to get thrown out of the group.”

Dial nodded. “Trust me. That thought had crossed my mind, too.”

51

Jones was excited about the news. He walked into the other room to share it with Allison, who was going through Byrd’s papers. “I found Ivan Borodin. He lives here in Saint Petersburg.”

“That’s great. Now all we have to do is figure out who he is.”

“I found that out, too. He used to be the director of the State Hermitage Museum.”

“Wow,” she said as she considered what that meant. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Richard never liked wasting time with peons. He always went straight to the top.”

“Maybe so, but Borodin retired eight years ago. Why talk to him now?”

“Remember what I told you last night? The Hermitage launched its Schliemann exhibit in 1998. That means Borodin was the man who brought it here. Imagine what information he has! He would know, better than anyone, what items aren’t on display.”

Jones nodded. “Petr Ulster once told me that eighty-five percent of all artifacts are never shown to the general public. That’s a lot of stuff that Richard might have been interested in.”

“I’ll keep looking through his notes. Maybe I can figure out what he wanted to see.”

“Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use your computer. I want to get some background information on Borodin. The more we know about him, the better.”

“Help yourself. It’s fully charged.”

Jones grabbed the laptop bag and carried it to the writing desk near the guest bedroom. He was about to turn on the computer when he felt his cell phone vibrate. “Hello?”

It was Payne, calling from the back entrance to the hotel. “I’m on my way up.”

“Already?”

“Do me a favor. Run interference for me. I need to take a shower.”

“No problem.”

Jones knew not to ask any questions. Payne would talk about his confrontation with Kozlov when he was ready. Depending on what had happened, it might be five minutes or an hour. In the meantime he didn’t want to be bothered. Not by Jones or anyone else.

This was standard protocol for Payne. He needed time to decompress.

“Hey, Allison,” Jones said as he hung up his phone. “I need to let Jon in. Just to be safe, hang out in the bedroom for a few minutes.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Of course it is. I’m just being cautious.”

She nodded, too occupied with Byrd’s journal to challenge Jones’s request. Taking the book with her, she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

A short time later, Payne entered the suite. His clothes were dirty and slightly damp-as though he had been