Jarkko released Jones, then said, “Okay. Now we go to boat and visit Russia!”
28
The Greek police were ecstatic about the recovery of the monks’ heads and the discovery of the secret tunnel at Holy Trinity. Dial realized it wouldn’t benefit his career in any way, so he told everyone at the crime scene that Marcus Andropoulos had found it by himself. It was Dial’s way of rewarding the young cop for his hard work during the past few days. It also freed him from the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow, time he could use on the investigation.
Before breaking the news, he photographed everything he could with a digital camera that he had borrowed from Andropoulos. The carved door. The stone walls. The wooden shelves. The stacked heads. The elaborate altar. And anything else that looked the least bit important. Experience had taught him the most significant clues often appeared in the smallest of details, so he took no chances. By the time he was done, he had taken more than a hundred photographs. Once Dial uploaded them to the Interpol server, Henri Toulon or anyone else with the proper clearance could examine them on their global network.
Awake since the crack of dawn, Dial knew he needed to catch his second wind. A nap was a possibility. So was a cup of coffee. But before he did anything else, he wanted to wash the stench of death off his skin. Borrowing the car from Andropoulos, he drove to his hotel in Kalampáka, where he was tempted to use the heated pool at the Divani Metéora. Unfortunately, he hadn’t packed his swimming trunks, so he opted for a shower instead. A long, soothing shower.
It relaxed his muscles and allowed him to think.
In Dial’s mind, the next twenty-four hours would be critical to his investigation—especially if Theodore lived up to his word and researched the history of Holy Trinity. If the monk found any information about the tunnel or the military artwork, Dial would finally have the historical context that he needed to extend his investigation. Without it, he knew he would keep spinning his wheels, unable to connect the secret of the passageway to the motive for the massacre.
As luck would have it, Great Metéoron was closed to the general public on Tuesdays, which meant Theodore could concentrate on his research for the next thirty-six hours without being disturbed by visitors. Except, of course, for Dial and Andropoulos, who would be stopping by on Tuesday morning for a private tour. Dial wanted to see the bone room and the manuscript library for himself, just in case there were some ancient clues or symbols that everyone was overlooking. He also wanted to interview some of the other monks about the murders, although he had been forewarned by Andropoulos that it would be an act of futility.
Most of the monks lived in silence, unwilling to mingle with the outside world.
At the very least, Dial figured his observations would give him a better understanding of the monastic way of life. He thought he had accomplished that goal the night before when he had the long conversation with Nicolas. Now he wasn’t even sure if Nicolas was a monk. He looked like a monk and acted like a monk—except for his nasty habit of lying. Other than that, Dial would have bet big money that Nicolas was a monk somewhere.
The only question was, where?
While uploading the crime-scene photos through an Internet connection in his hotel room, Dial got dressed in a nice shirt and slacks. He was scheduled to meet Andropoulos in town for an authentic Greek dinner. Whatever that meant. Dial had been to Athens on several occasions but had never visited central Greece. Based on the flocks of sheep he’d seen from his balcony, he was confident that lamb would be on the menu. In fact, he might have passed his entrée on his drive down the mountainside.
It was something he tried not to think about as he left his room.
A few minutes later, while Dial was walking toward the car, his cell phone started to vibrate. He checked the number on his screen. It was Henri Toulon.
Dial answered in French. “Bonjour, Henri.”
Toulon paused before speaking. “Who is this?”
“It’s Nick. Who do you think it is?”
“Oh,” Toulon teased, “I did not know you spoke French. Please, do it no more. Your accent is crude. You sound like a tourist.”
Dial grumbled. “You know, I was having a good hour until you called. Now it’s ruined. I’m tempted to hang up on you, but you’d just use that as an excuse to stop working.”
“Nick, I am always working. Just, sometimes, I am working on not working.”
Dial smiled at the remark. Despite their bickering, they actually did get along.
“So, Henri, what’s on your mind?”
“I promised you I would look at your Spartan photos again, after I had my coffee. Well, you know me, I really like coffee, so I am just calling now.”