The Lost Throne(13)
“How long have you lived here?”
Nicolas shook his head. “I haven’t lived here for many years. Not since the decision.”
“The decision?”
“Holy Trinity was a working monastery for several centuries. Now it is a haven for tourists, and we are nothing but tour guides. Do you know how many monks live here?”
Dial guessed. “Twenty.”
“One,” said the monk. “And he is now dead.”
“Only one? What about the other victims?”
“What about them?”
“If they weren’t residents, why were they here in the middle of the night?”
Nicolas shrugged. “I have not been told.”
Dial paused for a moment, trying to think things through. He had been under the impression that the killers had broken into the monastery and slaughtered all the monks who lived here. Now he knew that wasn’t the case. With the exception of one monk, all the other monks were late-night visitors. And the reason for their visit had been kept a secret. Suddenly, Dial realized that if he could figure out that reason, then he would be a whole lot closer to catching the killers.
“So,” Dial asked, “who’s in charge of all the monasteries at Metéora?”
“That would be the hegumen, the abbot.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Unfortunately, that is not possible.”
“Why? Is it against the rules?”
Nicolas shook his head.
“In that case, where can I find him?”
“That depends. Where do you take the dead?”
Dial groaned, completely mortified. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”
The monk remained silent as he stared into the distance.
“When will a replacement be named?”
“Once we have all the answers. There are still many questions that need to be asked.”
Dial knew the feeling. “In the meantime, who’s in charge of Holy Trinity?”
Nicolas turned toward Dial and pointed to himself. “I am here, so I am in charge. I will tend to this place until a successor is named.”
“As luck should have it, I’m in charge, too.” Dial paused for a moment, thinking. “If you’re interested, maybe we can help each other out. I can answer some of your questions if you can answer some of mine.”
The monk smiled for the first time that night. “Yes. I would like that very much.”
9
Jones had spent several minutes analyzing the phone logs, focusing his attention on the coded sixth column while overlooking the simplest approach of all: dialing the number.
“You know,” Payne joked. “For the smartest guy I know, you’re pretty stupid.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I did! I’ve been calling you stupid for years.”
Jones sneered. “I meant about the phone.”
“Honestly? I got caught up in all your excitement.”
“In other words, you just thought of it yourself.”
Payne shrugged. “Maybe.”
“When you call,” Jones said, trying to shift the focus from himself, “remember to use the international code for Russia. It’s zero, one, one, seven.”
Payne turned on the speakerphone and dialed the number that had placed fifteen of the seventeen calls. There was a slight delay before his call went through, followed by the unfamiliar sound of a foreign ring. Much different from the sound in America. More like a windup phone from yesteryear. It rang once. Then again. Then a third time. Yet no one picked up.
A fourth ring. Then a fifth. Then a sixth.
Finally, after the seventh ring, the ringing stopped and someone answered.
“Da?” said the voice in Russian.
Payne and Jones looked at each other, confused. Not only didn’t they speak much Russian—although they knew that da meant “yes”—they realized this wasn’t the same man who had left three messages for Payne. This voice was younger. More tentative.
“Hello,” Payne said, not sure what to say. “Do you speak English?”
“Nyet.”
Payne grimaced. The guy claimed he couldn’t speak English, yet he knew enough about the language to understand the question. “Are you sure?”
“Da!”
Payne covered the mic on his phone. “I think he’s retarded.”
Jones tried not to laugh. “Let me try.”
“Help yourself.”
He took a deep breath then spoke phonetically, mumbling one of the few phrases he knew. “Govorite li vy po angliyski?”
Payne stared at Jones, surprised. “What the hell did you say?”
Jones signaled for him to shut up, hoping the Russian would respond. When he didn’t, Jones repeated one word. “Angliyski?”