The Lost Throne(34)

“Never been there. Why?”

“Well, it’s gotten worse for some people. A lot worse.”

“How so?” Jones wondered.

Kaiser grimaced. “I have a black friend who just got back from Moscow. Nice guy, clean-cut, about your age. He was invited by the Russian government to speak at an economic summit. Didn’t matter, though. He got stopped by soldiers every ten feet. He was frisked. He was followed. He was called ‘monkey’ to his face. He swore to me he’d never go back.”

“What about Saint Pete? Is it better than Moscow?” Payne asked.

“Things tend to be more liberal there, but I honestly don’t know. I can’t speak from experience.” Kaiser paused, not sure what else to say. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Jones nodded, appreciative of the information. “Don’t worry, Kaiser. I can handle it. I get the same reaction when I go to a country-western bar.”

“And if things get too bad,” Payne assured him, “we’ll just shoot the bastards.”





20




The words hit Dial like a sucker punch. Their impact was so unexpected, he actually had a physical reaction. His cheeks flushed. His chest tightened. Acid gurgled in his gut.

“What do you mean he wasn’t a monk? Who the hell was he?”

Theodore ignored the profanity. “That is a question I cannot answer, for I do not know.”

Dial took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the thought of being duped by an impostor got his blood boiling. “You’re sure you don’t know him? Old guy. Walks with a limp.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dial—”

“Nick. Call me Nick.”

Theodore nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have lived at Metéora for nearly a decade, but I don’t know the man you describe.”

Dial grimaced as he replayed the previous night in his head. He remembered seeing the light under the door. He’d knocked. Nicolas had answered and closed the door behind him. Then they had walked to the bell tower, where Nicolas had regaled him with stories of the monastic life. At no point had Dial found anything about their conversation suspicious. In fact, he had been thrilled to talk to someone as knowledgeable as Nicolas. So much so, he had thought he was a godsend.

Now he didn’t know what to think.

If Nicolas wasn’t a monk, what was he? And what had he been doing at Metéora?

Could his presence have anything to do with the bloodstain on the door?

That possibility bothered Dial. It was something he needed to find out.

He said, “Please forgive me. Where are my manners? There you are holding a box, and here I am standing in your way. Please let me help.”

Theodore nodded as Dial grabbed the box. It was crammed with books, toiletries, and a few personal items. Sitting on top was a large key ring, filled with the type of keys that a dungeon master might have used in the Middle Ages. They were old and long and made out of brass. Theodore picked up the ring and searched for the correct key. It took several seconds to find it.

Dial filled the silence with small talk. “Sorry about your abbot. When did you hear?”

“This morning during breakfast. All of us were saddened by the news.”

“Us?”

“The brothers of Great Metéoron. It is the largest of the six monasteries. It sits in the hills above Kastraki. Perhaps you saw it on your drive to Holy Trinity.”

Dial shook his head. “With the abbot gone, who selected you to come here?”

“Nobody. I volunteered.”

“That’s awfully noble of you.”

Theodore said nothing, concentrating on the keys instead. He finally found the one he was looking for and put it in the old lock. It turned with a loud click. Pushing the door forward, he stepped inside, then turned on the light. Dial followed him in, hoping to figure out why Nicolas had been in there the night before. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to examine.

The ceiling was supported by dozens of ancient beams, far more than necessary. There were so many planks up there, angled in so many different directions, it looked like a wooden spiderweb. Fascinated by the haphazard design, Dial studied it with two things in mind. First, he hoped to spot another nanny cam somewhere in the rafters—just like the one they had found in the gift shop. But the only wires he saw were for the iron chandelier that lit the windowless room. Second, Dial wanted to figure out why the monks had killed half a forest to hold up such a small ceiling.

There had to be a rational explanation, didn’t there?

Theodore anticipated the question. “No one knows why it was built in that manner.”

“Really? It just seems so odd. Like an abstract painting.”