The Lost Throne(128)

With a cigarette pressed between his lips, he pulled his lighter from his uniform pocket and flicked it with his thumb. A quick flash followed by a steady flame lit up his immediate surroundings. He slowly brought it toward his face when he realized something was wrong. Although it hadn’t rained in days, the path and the nearby trees glistened in the firelight.

“What in the world?” he mumbled in Greek.

Intrigued, he moved a few steps closer and extended his lighter in front of him.

Then, and only then, did he see the headless mule.





The lights were out in his hotel room, but Dial was wide awake.

He lay on his bed, furious, incensed over his investigation. He had wasted an entire day, and for what? To be jerked around by the community that he was trying to protect. In his line of work, he dealt with political bullshit all the time, but normally it involved two different countries fighting over evidence or the right to prosecute a case.

But this? This was something new.

Hell, it was so new he didn’t know how to work around it.

Dial’s seething continued until he heard a knock on his door. Actually, it was more than a knock. It was more like an urgent pounding.

“Open up,” said the voice in the hall. “It’s Petros.”

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 Metéora.”

“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 Néa 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?”

“Agíou Pávlou. 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.”