He wondered if that was coincidence, or part of some, he hoped, not divine plan.
Still, using the Protos’ private number Andreas was able to get him on the phone and pressed him to meet immediately. At first the Protos resisted, saying he couldn’t possibly leave Mount Athos again this week. His absence would attract too much attention. Andreas said that for the same reason it was not wise for him to come to Mount Athos. ‘Attention is something neither of us wants, considering what I have to show you.’
At that the Protos suggested they meet in Ouranoupolis, a seaside village at the threshold to the Holy Mountain, ninety miles slightly southeast of the city of Thessaloniki. It was about as close as you could get to Mount Athos by road, as one of its ancient laws forbade ‘a road upon which a wheel can run’ to connect it to the rest of the world. The village — whose name meant ‘city of the heavens’ — was where pilgrims presented their required visiting permits to the Athos Bureau and waited at the edge of the sea for boat passage, inevitably staring up at the mysterious fourteenth-century Byzantine Tower of Prosforiou dominating the harbor. The Protos said he could explain it as a quick, necessary trip to the bureau office.
Three hours later it was Andreas’ turn to sit in a room in a stranger’s house waiting for a monk to arrive. It was one of many whitewashed, red tile roof houses multiplying along the green hillsides edging the port village.
I’m a sitting duck, Andreas thought. All alone in the middle of nowhere, waiting to show something to someone that got the last guy who tried the same thing sliced ear-to-ear. Terrific. Maggie, if your instincts were wrong The front door burst opened and sunlight filled the doorway. Andreas instinctively stood up. Someone stepped inside. He couldn’t make out a face against the light, but from the eclipse the figure caused Andreas knew who it was. ‘Afternoon, Sergey.’
No answer, but Andreas made out a nod. The Protos stepped out from behind him. Andreas waited until Sergey had left and closed the door, then he stepped forward and kissed the Protos’ hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Your Holiness.’
‘I understood it was important.’ He seemed focused on wanting to hear what Andreas thought so serious.
Andreas nodded. ‘I know you’re very busy, so let me get right to the point.’ He reached under his shirt and pulled out a large manila envelope tucked flat into his pants. ‘No reason to attract attention.’ Andreas had decided to keep any parallels to Vassilis’ fate to a minimum — and a 9mm strategically concealed in a holster over his family jewels. He pulled out two eight-by-sixteen photographs and handed them to the Protos. ‘Here.’
The Protos looked quickly at one, then the other. He held one up, looked at it more closely, and handed it to Andreas. ‘That one was taken the day I became protos.’ He studied the other for about a minute. He shrugged. ‘It’s a little hard to make out details, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.’
Andreas reached into the envelope and pulled out a magnifying glass. ‘This should help.’ Thank God for Maggie. She thought that might happen, even with the greatly enlarged photos.
The Protos nodded thank you, and sat down on a chair by a table beneath a window draped in white lace. Andreas didn’t move. He preferred standing, watching the Protos carefully study each face.
After five minutes or so, the Protos put down the magnifying glass and pointed to a chair next to him. ‘Please, my son, sit.’
Andreas did, but on a chair on the other side of the Protos, facing the door.
The Protos didn’t seem to care. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘They were on a computer flash drive Kalogeros Vassilis had hidden in a cross he was carrying when he was murdered.’
The Protos smiled. ‘Ah, Vassilis, resourceful until the end. Always hiding things in the most obvious, yet overlooked, places.’ He pressed his finger against the photo four times. ‘Just like here, I’m certain of it.’
‘What did you find?’
‘May I see the other photograph again?’
Andreas handed it to him.
The Protos bobbed his head through a face-by-face comparison of the photographs. ‘Yes, just as I thought. The faces superimposed on the abbots of the twenty monasteries attending my ceremony are of monks from those same abbots’ monasteries. But, with the exception of three who have succeeded to a position of abbot, none of the others holds any significant hierarchical position in his monastery.’
‘What about the three new abbots? Were they important before in their monasteries?’
The Protos paused. ‘No.’
‘Then how did they become abbots?’
‘The monks in their monasteries elected them.’
‘Weren’t you surprised?’
He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. Our abbots are elected to serve for life, and there seemed so many more qualified, seasoned candidates available.’ He shrugged. ‘But such is the way of democracy.’
‘How did the three they replaced die?’
‘Die? Oh no, only one died.’ He spoke as if Andreas were implying they’d been murdered. ‘And he was very old. Another moved on to a different monastery away from Mount Athos, and the third… uhh… resigned.’
Andreas knew from the newspapers about the third one’s resignation. He was the abbot caught up in the scandal that haunted Vassilis. ‘Can you think of any reason why these twenty-one men are in this photograph?’ He pointed to the doctored photo.
‘I only recognize twenty faces. And I have no idea why they appear.’
Andreas asked for the names and monasteries linked to the superimposed faces, and took great care to write them down — so as not to make completely obvious that he was recording their conversation.
‘Which face don’t you recognize?’
He looked grim. ‘The face replacing mine.’ He pointed to a blurred image. ‘It looks familiar but I can’t quite make it out. Do you have a better copy?’
‘No, it’s exactly as it appeared on the drive.’
‘Knowing Vassilis, I’m surprised he’d have made such a significant mistake.’
‘Maybe it was meant to be that way?’
The Protos shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What do you make of the empty chairs and the carpet?’
The Protos picked up the glass and looked again at the photograph. ‘Not much, they seem the typical gold tone and red velvet chairs so favored by our monks. It’s a style you see in almost every abbot’s office.’
‘And the carpet?’
He shrugged. ‘Again, a patterned oriental of a type I see everywhere.’
Andreas reached into the envelope. ‘There was something else on the drive.’ He handed him the note. ‘What do you think this means?’
The Protos read it quickly, then read it again much more slowly. He picked up the doctored photograph and magnifying glass. Andreas noticed the glass start to shake, then the photo. At first ever so slightly ‘My God.’ The Protos crossed himself three times, apparently not realizing he was holding the glass in his hand as he did. He held up the photograph to Andreas. ‘The chairs, the twenty-four chairs. Saint John saw twenty-four elders in twenty-four chairs immediately after the beginning of his vision. Their meaning is a source of rich debate, but in this photograph I have no doubt what Vassilis is trying to tell me.’ He waved the photograph at Andreas.
‘This symbolizes the twenty-four survivors of Armageddon who will represent the church’s resurrected faithful when the Kingdom of Heaven has come. I’m not saying that is Vassilis’ view, but it’s the message he’s passing me through symbols from Revelation he knew I’d recognize.’ He paused. ‘And he sees them in the presence of great evil.’
‘Okay, now you’ve completely lost me.’ Andreas felt a bit like a kid caught unprepared for Sunday school.
The Protos’ expression did not change. ‘Every symbol, every word, and certainly every number in Revelation has spawned endless interpretations, many with significant distinctions having little in common with each other. “The pearly gates,” “streets of gold,” “harps in heaven,” “seven seals,” and, of course, “666” are just some of them. But that is the way of apocalyptic writing. It is highly symbolic and can be made to serve many purposes, some good, others not.’
There was a subtle change to the Protos’ voice; he was sounding more and more like a teacher. ‘Perhaps it
