This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.
4
The stranger stood on the edge of the cliff and gasped at what he saw. Massive rock pillars sprang out of the earth like giant stone fingers, each of them rising several hundred feet from the valley below. Yet somehow the natural beauty of the scenery paled in comparison with the architectural wonder of Metéora, a site that hovered in the heavens like the throne of God.
He heard footsteps behind him but refused to shift his gaze from the Monastery of the Holy Trinity as the sun slipped behind the Pindus Mountains to the west.
Marcus Andropoulos, the man who approached, spoke with a local accent. “The monks who built this place climbed the rock with their bare hands, then refused to leave until construction was finished. They stayed on top for many months, lifting supplies by rope during the day and sleeping in a cave at night.”
The stranger said nothing, still admiring the view.
Andropoulos stepped closer, tentative. “Eventually, they built retractable wooden ladders that reached the crops they had planted in the fields below. Grapes, corn, potatoes. They even had sheep and cattle.”
The stranger tried to picture the ladders. They must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said the Greek. “My name is Marcus Andropoulos.”
“Nick Dial,” he said over his shoulder.
“You’re an American, no? Are you a tourist?”
Dial shook his head. “What does Metéora mean?”
“It is a local word. It means ‘suspended in air.’ Originally there were twenty-four monasteries on the surrounding peaks. Many were destroyed during World War Two. Now only six remain.”
“How old is this one?”
“Fifteenth-century,” he answered, still trying to figure out who Dial was and why he was there. “Are you with the media?”
Dial laughed. “Definitely not. I can’t stand those guys.”
Andropoulos paused, thinking things through. If Dial wasn’t a journalist, how did he get past all the officers on the main road? “In that case, I think you need to leave.”
“Because I hate the media? That seems kind of harsh.”
“No, because this area is restricted. Didn’t you see the signs?”
Dial turned and stared at the man who was trying to throw him out.
Andropoulos was young and lanky, dressed in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. His hands and wrists hung three inches beyond his sleeves—as though he had recently grown and didn’t have enough money to get a new wardrobe. Or visit a tailor. Or get a haircut. Because his head was covered with dark curly hair that went over his ears and the back of his neck. Like a Greek Afro.
Dial said, “You seem to know a lot about this place. Are you a tour guide or something?”
Andropoulos reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “I am definitely something. I am the NCB agent assigned to this case. In fact, I am in charge of the investigation.”
Dial smirked, then refocused his attention on the monastery. In this light its beige walls appeared to be glowing. Almost like amber. It was truly a remarkable sight.
“Please, Nick. Don’t make me tell you again. It’s time to leave.”
But Dial wasn’t ready. He picked up a pebble and tossed it over the edge. It fell for several seconds yet never made a sound, swallowed by the chasm below. He whistled, impressed.
In all his years, he had never worked in such a difficult location.
Simply put, this crime scene was going to be a bitch.
Dial picked up a second pebble, slightly larger than the first, and leaned back to throw it. He hoped to test a theory about the valley. But before he could, the young officer grabbed his arm.
“I wouldn’t throw that if I were you.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because I’m in charge and I said so.”
Dial grinned. This was going to be fun. “And if I were you, I’d let go of my arm.”
“Really? Why is that?”
He yanked his arm free and whipped out his identification. “Because I’m your boss.”
Nick Dial ran the Homicide Division at Interpol, the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, which meant he dealt with death all over the globe. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments anytime a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told, he was in charge of 186 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.
One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents to investigate a case. Instead they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their territory and reported pertinent information to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. From there, facts were entered into a central database that could be accessed via Interpol’s computer network.