Dial frowned at Clive’s word choice. “What do you mean,
“You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. Over the past several years it’s gone from a working monastery to a tourist attraction. People come and go as they please with no security whatsoever. Heck, they even filmed a James Bond movie up there. Can you imagine the monks trying to protect something of value at Meteora?”
“No, I can’t,” Dial admitted.
Everything Clive said made perfect sense. Centuries ago, Meteora had been the best place to store the most valuable relics from the Church. But that notion had faded about the same time that the doors to Meteora were opened to the general public. At that point, the monks had to find a better place to hide their treasures, and in the Orthodox world, nothing was safer than Mount Athos.
It was a country within a country, a theocracy where the monks controlled the guest list and men with guns were allowed to patrol the borders.
A place that even cops couldn’t visit without permission.
64
The Spartan soldiers had left their village before dawn. When they arrived in Leonidi, a town on the shores of the Aegean, they found the boat waiting for them. It had been left by the foreigner, just as he had promised when they struck their deal several days before.
Apollo would have preferred a warship, much like the vessels that Sparta had used when it was still a maritime power. Somehow that would have been fitting, considering the mission that he was on-trying to protect the legacy of his ancestors. Instead, he would have to make do with a large white yacht. It blended in with all the other pleasure crafts that dotted the sea. Plus, it was big enough to keep his men and weapons below deck, out of sight from prying eyes.
Their journey to Mount Athos took all day. First, he and his men had to navigate through some of the Cyclades Islands-Kythnos, An dros, Tinos, and Kea. Later they passed Alonnisos and Skyros and the rest of the Sporades Islands. The farther north they traveled, the less familiar they were with the blue waters of the Aegean. Still, with the aid of a compass and a simple map, they kept a correct heading and reached their destination before the sun set in the western sky.
At first glance, Mount Athos was much taller than they had expected. The rocky terrain was covered in thick layers of green trees, and footpaths were nonexistent. But the topography worked in their favor. They were used to training in the Taygetos Mountains. They knew how to fight on a slope, how to hide in the brush, and how to use the hills to their advantage. If they were forced to wage battle in an open field, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Guns, bullets, and modern weapons would tear through their flesh before they could even raise their swords.
But here, on the rock-strewn peninsula where Xerxes’ army once marched?
Apollo loved his chances.
Dial’s tour continued as Clive drove his boat past Xenofontos, a waterfront monastery that was founded in A.D. 1010. Over the centuries, it had been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times, and this was reflected in the newer architecture of some of the buildings.
“Coming up is one of my favorites,” Clive said as he pushed the throttle forward, doubling the boat’s speed in a heartbeat. “It goes by many names: Agiou Panteleimonos, Saint Panteleimon, and Rosikon. Around here, they simply call it ‘the Russian one.’ ”
Even without an introduction, Dial would have known its country of affiliation. The onion-domed churches and colorful roofs were a dead giveaway. The complex was built like a small Russian town. Buildings of various heights and colors surrounded a courtyard that could not be seen from the water. A century ago, more than 1,400 monks had lived inside. That was no longer possible, not since 1968 when a fire ravaged the guest wing that once housed 1,000 people.
Nowadays the community was much smaller than it had been in previous centuries. Fewer than fifty monks lived there, but since it was the only Russian monastery in Mount Athos, it was one of the most popular to visit- especially for followers of the Russian Orthodox faith.
Three of the Russian monks were working near the shore. Despite the sunny weather, they wore black stovepipe hats and long black cloaks. Their beards were dark and bushy.
Clive slowed his boat. “Not only are their chapels gorgeous, but you haven’t heard chanting until you’ve heard one of their services. The Slavonic Liturgy is like a symphony.”
Dial smiled. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m still hoping I can get you inside.”
“I hope so, too. Speaking of which, how much farther to the main port?”
“I could gun it and get you to Dafni in two minutes, but the harbor police are stationed there. It might be best if we approach with a modicum of respect.”
Dafni is a small port town in the center of the Athos Peninsula. From its position on the western coast, boat traffic is monitored and visitors to the Holy Mountain are screened. A maximum of 120 Orthodox Christian visitors are allowed daily. The number of non-Orthodox Christians is capped at 14 per day. A visitor’s permit, known as a Diamoneterion, must be acquired well in advance-unless a special invitation was issued by Karyes, the capital of Mount Athos.
Dial hoped for one of those invitations. But he knew his odds were slim.
After tying his boat to one of the smaller docks, Clive led Dial and Andropoulos toward the front gate. It was made of metal and looked rather flimsy. The man standing beside it did not. He wore the uniform of a customs officer. His muscles bulged against his sleeves. A sidearm hung at his hip like a sheriff from the Old West. His face was intense; his eyes were focused.
“Let me talk to him first,” Clive said as he walked along the quay. “Our goal is to get you past this gate. Once inside, you still have to get through customs and his supervisor.”
“Do they speak English?” Dial wondered.
“Some do, some don’t. I’ll introduce you in Greek, just in case.”
“Marcus is Greek. He can serve as my translator, if that will help.”
“That can’t hurt,” Clive admitted. “Neither can your badge.”
Dial glanced around the port. It was completely empty. Early in the day, when the ferry arrived from Ouranoupoli, a line of pilgrims stretched out to the dock. By mid-afternoon, the place was devoid of activity. It would stay that way until the ferry came again.
“Hang tight,” Clive said. He patted Dial on the shoulder, and walked over to the customs officer. The two of them had a quiet conversation in Greek. Andropoulos strained to hear their words, but the gentle waves that lapped against the rocky shore prevented that.
A minute later, Clive was waving them over for an introduction. “This is Nick Dial, the director of the Homicide Division at Interpol. And this is Marcus Andropoulos, his assistant.”
The officer nodded from behind the steel fence. “May I have your identification?”
It was phrased as a question, but it came across as an order. The officer wanted to take their badges inside the terminal for further verification. Knowing this, Dial did as requested, handing both of them through a slit in the wire fence.
The officer glanced at them, and then called out in Greek. Soon a second officer emerged from the station house. He looked remarkably similar to the first one. Young, muscular, and rather unhappy. They quickly swapped places, so the original guard could head inside.
Grabbing Dial’s arm, Clive pulled him away for a private conversation.
“Don’t do anything stupid like offering them a bribe,” Clive warned. “That would be viewed as disrespectful. Instead, I would stress that you are here for the monks’ safety. Tell them you’re investigating the murders at Meteora, and you’re trying to stop a repeat performance. That might get their attention.”
“Fortunately, that’s exactly why I’m here.”
“Good. Because lying will get you nowhere.”
Dial glanced over his shoulder. The guard was staring at them. “Any other advice?”
“No advice,” Clive said as he shook his hand. “But I wish you luck.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Dial smiled and gave him his business card. “If I can ever be of service, just give
