The Lost Throne(96)
Randy Raskin answered. “Research.”
Jones glanced at his watch. It was still early in America. “Damn! Do you ever sleep?”
“There’s no need. That’s why God invented caffeine.”
“Good point.”
“By the way, I have to commend you on your trickiness.”
“My trickiness? What are you talking about?”
“You called me from a different number. You’re lucky, too. If I had known it was you, I probably wouldn’t have answered.”
Jones smiled. He peered into the other room, just to make sure Allison wasn’t listening. “And if you hadn’t picked up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about your future girlfriend.”
“My future girlfriend?” It took a moment for the comment to register, but when it finally did, Raskin’s voice went up an octave. “Hold up! You mean that blonde from California? You actually found her?”
“Not only that, she wants you to do her a favor.”
Drool practically dripped from Raskin’s mouth. He and his computer lived a lonely life in the Pentagon basement. “Anything she wants. And I mean anything. With a touch of a button, I can name a battleship after her.”
“Ahhhhhh! How romantic! What a sweet and totally inappropriate gesture.”
“Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”
“Thankfully, her idea of a favor is a little smaller than that. She needs information on a man named Ivan Borodin. I have a phone number, if that will help.”
“Of course it will help.”
Jones read it to him. “I’m pretty sure it’s in Saint Petersburg.”
Raskin waited for the details to flash on his screen. “You are correct. Ivan Sergei Borodin lives in Saint Petersburg on some street I can’t pronounce. I can spell it for you, though.”
Jones wrote down the address. “Anything else?”
“From what I can tell, the dude is pretty old. He’s eighty-eight.”
“Eighty-eight? That can’t be right. Does he have a son of something?”
“Hold on. Different database.” The sound of typing filled the line until Raskin spoke again. “Nope. No kids listed. His wife is deceased. His brother is deceased. His sisters are deceased. Surprisingly, his parents are still alive.”
“What!”
“Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were listening.”
Jones smiled. “What about employment history?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s retired.”
“From where?”
“Hold on. . . .”
“I know. Different database.”
“Okay,” Raskin said. “Last known employer was the State Hermitage Museum. I can get you the address if you need it.”
“No, thanks. I’m familiar with the place. Do you know what position he held?”
“I sure do. Until eight years ago, Ivan Borodin was the director of the museum.”
50
While Dial made the arrangements for their trip to Mount Athos, Andropoulos drove him to his hotel in Kalampáka. It took nearly thirty minutes from Great Metéoron.
“We have some time to kill before the helicopter arrives,” Dial said when they reached the hotel parking lot. “I’d like to show you something.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.”
Dial led the way to his hotel room. A “do not disturb” sign hung from the knob. He unlocked the door and walked inside. A large bulletin board was sitting on a table, leaning against the far wall. The board was covered with handwritten notes on index cards and several photographs from the crime scene.
Andropoulos stared at it with a mixture of confusion and wonder. “Sir, what is all of this?”
“It’s my way of organizing a case.” Dial had assembled it the night before while trying to digest his authentic Greek dinner. His project was finished long before his indigestion had disappeared. “Some people prefer computers. But not me. I’m old-school when it comes to investigations. I like seeing everything in front of me all at once. I like having the freedom to shift things around as the pieces fall into place. It helps me see the big picture.”
Andropoulos pointed at the board. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”
Dial nodded. “If you’re going to be my translator at Mount Athos, I need to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“In that case, you’d better walk me through everything.”
Dial started with the index card at the top of the board. On it he had written the numbers one through seven, followed by the names of the monks who had been identified by the police. “So far we know about four monks, not including the one who kept his head. Each of them is from a different country, right?”