The Lost Throne(125)

“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 Metéora, 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 me a call.”

“Trust me, I will. I’d love to hear how this all turns out. I’m a sucker for a good story.”





Dial and Andropoulos were waved through the front gate, where they were met by the first guard. Without saying a word, he returned their badges, then led them across the compound. In some ways, Dial felt as if he were in Purgatory. He knew where he wanted to go; he just didn’t know if he’d be allowed to get there. It was all up to the holy men who were already inside.

“What now?” Dial asked as they strolled across the tiny courtyard.

Stone buildings served as barriers on the left, on the right, and straight ahead. Trees and flowers dotted the perimeter, making it seem more like a town square than a customs checkpoint, but Dial knew exactly what it was. It was a buffer zone between Mount Athos and the outside world.

“Go in there,” the guard ordered as he pointed to an open door on the left.

Dial nodded and walked in first, followed by Andropoulos. An older officer stood behind a wooden counter. He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and bushy eyebrows. He wore the same uniform as the other guards, except he had several more patches on his chest and sleeve.

“Hello,” he said in English. “Are you Director Dial?”

Dial shook the man’s hand. “Please call me Nick. This is Marcus, my assistant.”

“My name is Petros. I am supervisor of border. How can I assist you?”

“We are investigating the massacre at Metéora and would like to enter Mount Athos to continue our investigation. We believe there is a connection between the monasteries.”

Petros sighed. “I was told of deaths at Metéora. It is a tragedy.”

“Eight monks lost their lives that night. I would like to prevent number nine.”

“Are our monks at risk?”

Dial nodded. “Until we catch the men who did this, all monks are at risk. That is why I’m here. To avoid another tragedy.”

Petros studied Dial’s eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a few seconds, he found the answer he was searching for. “If I could, I would let you through at once. But choice is not mine. Without a permit, I must get permission from governor in Karyes.”

“Can you try?”

“Yes, I can try. But . . .”

“But what?”

Petros leaned in closer and whispered. “I am told he is in bad mood today. He woke up early for important meeting, and his colleague never showed.”





65




Dial and Andropoulos sat in the customs office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.

Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.