Chris Kuzneski - The Lost Throne

Payne nodded. It was a good point. “Now what? Should we call the pay phone?”

“It’s worth a try. Who knows? Maybe he’s standing next to it, waiting for our call.”

Somehow Payne doubted it. More than two hours had passed since the caller’s last message and he sounded way too spooked to stay in one place for long. But what other options did they have? They had no more leads, and Russia was several thousand miles away.

“Here goes nothing,” Payne said as he dialed the number.

The same foreign ring emerged from the phone-more of a buzzing than an actual ringing. But unlike before, no one answered. It just rang and rang and rang.

“It was worth a shot,” he said as he hung up. “I’ll try again later.”

Jones nodded as he stared at the phone list. Something about it didn’t seem right.

“What’s wrong?” Payne asked.

“I don’t know. I get the feeling we’re missing something.”

“Like what?”

Jones ignored the question as he counted the phone calls. “Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . wait! How many phone calls did you say you missed?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s what I thought. But there are only sixteen on this list.”

Payne picked up his copy of the printout and counted the calls. “You’re right. Sixteen.”

“Check your phone again. Count the missed calls.”

Payne did what he was told. “Seventeen.”

“So we’re missing a call.”

He nodded. “And I know which one. The guy called every half hour except for one instance around nine this morning.” He scrolled through his phone. “Nine-fourteen to be exact.”

Jones double-checked his list. “Bingo! That’s the one.”

“Why wasn’t it listed?”

“I have no idea. Let me check the original file again.” Jones hit a few buttons on his laptop and studied the document. Several seconds passed before he noticed the problem. “For some reason my printer only printed the first page of the phone log. Hold on. Let me print page two. It looks like this call came in from a different country code, so it was listed on a different sheet.”

Both men stared at the printer as it sprang to life.

A moment later it was spitting out a sheet of paper that was nearly blank. One line for the header. One line for the phone call. Then nothing but empty white.

Still, the missing page gave them their biggest break yet.

A phone number that they recognized.

10

Andropoulos hustled from room to room, searching for his boss. He finally spotted Dial in the main courtyard, where he and an elderly monk were leaving the bell tower. Andropoulos stopped in his tracks, not sure if he should approach, until Dial waved him over.

“Nicolas,” Dial said as an introduction, “this is Marcus, my squire.”

The old man nodded but said nothing.

“Where have you been hiding?” Dial wondered.

“Sir,” Andropoulos whispered, “we need to speak.”

“That’s right. I promised you a chance to impress me. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. It’s something else.”

“Such as?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s confidential.”

Dial glanced at Nicolas, half-embarrassed. He had spent the past several minutes trying to convince the monk that he would be kept in the loop on everything, hoping to establish a level of trust that rarely existed between church and state. Now the first thing out of Andropoulos’s mouth was that he had a secret. Talk about shitty timing.

“Don’t worry. I understand,” Nicolas said. “Some things are not meant to be shared.”

“Talk tomorrow?” Dial asked.

The old monk nodded, then hobbled out of sight.

Dial waited until Nicolas was completely out of earshot before he turned his attention to Andropoulos. “This better be good.”

“It is,” the young cop assured him. “Potentially great.”

“How great are we talking?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’d like to show you something and get your opinion.”

“Oh goody. Show-and-tell!” Dial said sarcastically. “Please, lead the way.”

The two of them walked across the monastery toward the small annex that had been built behind the main chapel. It was an unremarkable building with several windows that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Andropoulos opened the narrow door and ducked inside the stuffy room. Originally it had been used for meditation; now it served as a gift shop.

Dial stepped inside and stared at the cheap trinkets on the tables. Suddenly, snippets of his conversation with Nicolas sprang to mind.

The old monk was right. Agia Triada had become a haven for tourists.

“Don’t tell me,” Dial said. “You want me to buy you a T-shirt.”

Andropoulos ignored the comment. He was far too excited about his discovery. “Earlier you said the difference between a good investigator and a bad one was the ability to examine a scene. Well, as far as I know, I’m the first one to notice this.”

Dial glanced around the room, confused. “Notice what?”

Andropoulos pointed toward a chest of drawers that rested along the rear wall. The cabinet was carved out of local wood and stained a dark brown. On top sat a metal box where the monastery kept the money from any gift purchases.

Dial walked over and examined it. He was less than impressed.

“You brought me here for this?”

The Greek shook his head. “Look above you.”

Dial did as he was told. The ceiling was held up by ancient beams that were cracked and splintered. Most had been there for hundreds of years and looked as if they might give way. Suddenly, Dial didn’t feel very safe. In fact, he was about to ask for a hard hat when he noticed something that was out of place. It was a flat piece of glass, roughly the size of a coin.

“Wait. What is that? Is that a camera?”

Andropoulos nodded as he approached the cabinet. “The wire runs on top of the wood and drops down behind the stone. Then it comes out of the wall and goes into this.”

He opened the right-hand drawer, revealing a small video recorder.

Dial stared at the device. “I’ll be damned. The monks have a nanny cam. Seems kind of strange in a place that teaches love and trust.”

“A nanny cam?”

“Sorry. It’s an American term. It means a hidden video camera. Sometimes parents set it up when they aren’t at home to spy on their babysitters.”

“Ah, yes! I have heard of this. We have something similar in Greece.”

“Really? What’s it called?”

“A neighbor.”

Dial laughed. Sometimes old-fashioned methods worked just as well.

“So,” Andropoulos asked, “did I do good?”

“Yes,” Dial admitted, “this was good work on your part. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, the viewing angle won’t give us any video of the killers. Unless, of course, they came in here to pick out a souvenir.”

“Yes, I agree. That camera is no good for our needs. But it made me think. If they put a camera in here, maybe they put a camera out there.”

“Maybe.”

Andropoulos continued. “Then I remembered that many local monasteries keep a tin box in the chapel so people can donate money. Do you have this in America?”

“Some churches do.”

“Well, do you know where the chapel is from here?”

Dial smiled in understanding. “On the other side of this wall.”

“Yes,” said the Greek as he opened the left-hand drawer. Inside was a second video system that was identical to the first. “On the other side of that wall.”

Even though Dial used to be one of the top investigators in the world, his current job with Interpol was mostly administrative. He was allowed to make suggestions and give advice to NCB agents in the field, but when it came to gathering evidence, that was strictly the duty of local officers, since they were responsible for the chain of custody in local courts.