Chris Kuzneski - The Lost Throne

If he did that, all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Then again, in a brutal case like this, was justice even feasible?

Iapologize for my behavior. I should have recognized your name,” Andropoulos said. His face was bright red from embarrassment. “I didn’t expect anyone from France so soon.”

“Well,” Dial said, “I was on the continent, so I thought I’d drop by.”

Although he meant it as a joke, his comment was accurate. Dial had started the day on the other side of Europe, where he had been awakened by news of the massacre. He had taken the first flight from France to Athens, then had flown by helicopter to Metéora, which was in the central district of Thessaly. In reality, he rarely took trips like that on a moment’s notice, but how often were a bunch of monks slaughtered in the middle of the night?

“If you had called,” Andropoulos said, “I would have been ready for you.”

Dial stopped. “What are you saying? You only work hard when your boss is watching?”

His face got redder. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Andropoulos stammered. “I, just, I would have been more ready for your visit.”

Dial tried not to smile. He was just busting the kid’s balls and would continue to do so until he learned more about him. Until then, he would have some fun at the young agent’s expense. “Speaking of my visit, I need somewhere to stay. Somewhere nice. And close. But not too close. I don’t want any dead monks falling on me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll find something for you in Kalampáka. It’s the city over the hill.”

Dial nodded but didn’t say a word.

Andropoulos stared at him, waiting, not sure what to do.

Finally, after several painful seconds, Dial shooed him away. “Go!”

The kid sprinted up the hill like he was being chased by wolves. Only then did Dial start to laugh, remembering how he had been treated by senior officers when he was a rookie cop-how they used to call him Nikki and made him feel like a piece of shit but later admitted that they were just trying to toughen him up. Dial wasn’t nearly as mean as they had been, but he still used some of their tactics. After all, their methods must have worked, because a quarter-century later Dial was the first American to run a division at Interpol.

It was an unbelievable honor from the European agency. But one he completely deserved.

Few investigators had the success that Dial had.

Anticipating the rugged terrain, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was equipped with a special antenna that allowed him to get a signal just about anywhere, which was necessary in his line of work. He needed to be reachable at all times from any country in the world. Not only to make decisions but also to be briefed on the latest details of his case.

After punching in his office number, Dial lifted his phone and rested it on his chin. His massive, movie-star chin. Although he was in his mid-forties, he had a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. Clean lines, thick cheekbones, green eyes. Short black hair with just a hint of gray. Five o’clock shadow that arrived before noon. Not overly handsome, yet manly as hell. The type of guy who could star in an action movie or a Marlboro commercial.

A woman in one hand, a horse in the other, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Except he didn’t smoke, didn’t have time to date, and liked his animals medium-rare.

Other than that, he sure as hell looked the part-thanks to his world-class chin.

“Hello,” said a French voice on the other end of Dial’s phone. “I’m not in right now because my boss is out of town. When he gets back, I’ll get back. And not a moment before. . . .”

Dial smiled at the greeting. Henri Toulon was the assistant director of the Homicide Division and a notorious slacker. A wine-loving Frenchman who practically lived at the office yet spent half of the day avoiding work, Toulon was still an invaluable member of his Interpol team, mostly because he was the smartest person Dial worked with. Toulon had the ability to speak at length on every subject under the sun-whether it was history, sports, politics, or pop culture. Unfortunately, sometimes he talked for hours just to avoid his other responsibilities.

“Hey, Henri, it’s Nick. I’m still waiting for your background information on Metéora. So give me a call when you wake up from your nap. Oh, and if you’re sleeping in my office, make sure you open a window. Last time I came back, the whole place smelled of booze.”

Dial laughed and hung up the phone.

If that didn’t light a fire under Toulon’s ass, nothing would.

5

Payne read the text message several times, not sure what to make of it. Normally, he would’ve dismissed it as a joke-despite claims to the contrary-but for some reason it didn’t feel like one. Seventeen calls that started in the middle of the night screamed of urgency, not hilarity.

Without saying a word, he handed the phone to Jones and waited for his opinion.

Jones read it once. Then again. Then aloud. “This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.” He paused for a moment, giving it some thought. “What the hell?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Jones clicked a few buttons, hoping to get additional information. “It was sent from a restricted number. Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell if the message came from the same phone as all the calls. It probably did, but we can’t tell for sure. At least not from your phone.”

“Meaning?”

“If I access the phone company’s server, I can locate the number. Even if it’s blocked.”

“Can you do that from Florida?”

Jones nodded. “With a computer and an Internet connection, I can do just about anything.”

“Well, that might not be necessary. I still haven’t listened to my voice mail.”

“Hold on. Before you do I want to check something.” Jones scrolled to a different screen and studied the time of each missed call. He quickly noticed a pattern. “Thirty minutes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whoever it was called you every half hour. First call was 3:59 A.M. Next call was 4:30. Then 5:01. Then 5:29. And so on. All the way until 11:28.”

Payne grabbed the phone and looked at the times. It was true-the calls came approximately thirty minutes apart, except for an extra call at 9:14 A.M. “Who would call that often?”

“Someone desperate.”

Payne glanced at the clock. It was nearly 1:00 p.m. Nothing for the last ninety minutes.

One phrase echoed in his brain.

Life or death.

He prayed that wasn’t the reason the calls had stopped.

They spotted an empty bench near Little St. Mary’s where they could listen to the messages without any distractions. Jones had a pen in one hand and a windshield flier he had grabbed off a parked car in the other, ready to write names, numbers, or anything else he deemed important.

Payne turned on his speakerphone and hit play.

The first message was filled with static.

“Jon, my . . . ame is . . . I was . . . your number by . . . er. He told . . . you . . . help. I am call . . . you . . . phone. I don’t know the . . . I’ll have to . . . back. Please, it’s urgent.”

Payne hit the save button so they could listen to it over and over. Unfortunately, the quality of the sound didn’t improve during multiple attempts. Still, they learned some basic facts. The caller was a male with no detectable accent. He mentioned Payne by name, which meant it wasn’t a wrong number. And he stressed the urgency of the matter.