The Lost Throne

Dial flipped on the light and opened the door. Petros was in civilian clothes. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were filled with passion.

“What’s wrong?” Dial wondered.

“Tell me about your case,” Petros demanded as he barged into the room.

“My case? You know about my case. I’m investigating the deaths at Meteora.”

“Yes, I know. But tell me how they died.”

Earlier Dial had skipped the gruesome details, preferring not to show his cards until he was admitted to Mount Athos. Now that plan no longer seemed possible.

“One monk was thrown over the cliff. The other seven were beheaded.”

“Beheaded? By who?”

Dial stared at him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Men dressed as Spartans.”

“Spartans?”

“Armor, shields, swords. The whole ensemble.”

“You are serious?”

Dial nodded. “Do you think I would’ve stayed the night if I was joking?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not only that,” he growled, “I got word today that they killed three cops. At least we think they did, because we still haven’t found them.”

Petros pondered this information for several seconds before he spoke. “Get your assistant and come with me. We are going to the mountain.”

Dial paused, surprised. “Wait. You’re letting us go inside?”

“Yes. I am granting you emergency access.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Two monks have been killed with swords. And we just found their bodies.”

Dial and Andropoulos pinned visitor badges to their shirts and followed Petros through the gate. A four-wheel-drive vehicle resembling a large golf cart was waiting for them. Dial sat up front next to Petros. Andropoulos climbed in the backseat, which faced the rear.

“What do you know?” Dial asked.

“Not much,” Petros explained as he drove. “I was sleeping at the barracks when I got the news. Two monks and a mule were slaughtered near Nea Skiti.”

“They killed a mule?”

“Cut its head clean off.”

“Who found it?”

“One of our guards.”

Dial considered the information as their cart bumped up and down along the narrow path. The vehicle had one working headlight, which barely lit the way-especially at the speed they were traveling. By the time they saw something, they were already running it over.

“How far is it?”

“Far. It’s near the southwest corner of the peninsula.”

“What else is down there?”

“Two small sketes and a beach.”

“Any treasures?”

Petros shook his head. “The sketes are small communities of hermitic monks. They live away from the monasteries to get away from all the riches.”

“And the closest monastery?”

“Agiou Pavlou. It’s a few miles from the sketes.”

“Have the monks been warned?”

Petros nodded. “We are doing that right now. Unfortunately, Mount Athos is large and our numbers are small. Especially at night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of the guards live elsewhere. At the end of their shift, they go home. I am one of the few employees who sleep here.”

“Hold up. How many guards are we talking?”

Petros shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty.”

“Twenty?” Dial blurted. “You have twenty guards for the entire peninsula? You have that many monasteries!”

“This is true, but-”

“Stop the cart!” Dial ordered. “Stop the cart right now!”

Petros slammed on the brakes. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“We need guns.”

“Guns?” he stammered. “I can’t give you guns. It is not allowed.”

“Fine. Then turn around and take us back to Dafni.”

“But-”

“But what?” Dial growled. “These guys have killed ten monks, three cops, and a fucking mule. If you want our help, you need to give us guns. Otherwise, I’m going back to bed.”

67

To announce prayer and mealtimes on Mount Athos, a monk strikes a simandro, a carved wooden plank that echoes throughout the grounds of his monastery. In the event of an emergency, it can also be used as a warning device. One monk sounds the alarm, pounding on it rhythmically until a monk at the neighboring monastery follows his lead. In a matter of minutes, the sound sweeps around the peninsula like war drums on a battlefield.

Bringing up the rear, Jones was the first from his group to hear it. He called ahead to Payne and Allison, who stopped on the wooded hillside to listen.

“Is that because of us?” Allison wondered.

Payne shook his head. “No way. If they spotted us, they would have stopped us.”

“Maybe they saw Jarkko.”

“Doing what?” Jones teased. “Peeing off the side of his yacht? Right now he’s anchored a mile offshore.”

“It’s not us and it’s not Jarkko,” Payne assured them. “Something else is going on.”

Jones listened as the pounding continued. “Do we have company?”

Payne nodded as he took the pack from his shoulders. He reached inside and pulled out his gun. “Someone hired Kozlov to kill Richard. We hoped he’d surface sometime.”

“And he was spotted?” Allison asked.

“Maybe,” Payne said. “Or maybe he hired reinforcements to find the treasure.”

A pollo heard the sound and knew exactly what it meant. He had grown up in the Taygetos Mountains where simandros were common. A few seconds of clanging told the workers in the fields what time it was. But a few minutes of pounding was an alarm.

Now that the element of surprise was gone, it was time for phase two.

In Ancient Sparta, hoplites fought together in a phalanx. They stood side by side, their shields locked together to protect one another, while a second row of soldiers thrust their spears over the front wall of shields. The Spartans were so adept at this technique that they could conquer vastly larger forces while suffering minimal losses.

Unfortunately, that style of warfare would not help them here.

They weren’t looking for a fight. They were looking for the book.