Chris Kuzneski - The Lost Throne

Not a lot to go on, but better than nothing.

The second message was recorded an hour later. And during that time, the static had worsened.

“Jon, I . . . early. I apologize . . . but . . . death. Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”

Payne frowned. “Is that my static or his?”

“Definitely his. Since you never answered the call, the message was recorded by the phone company on its server. So all the hissing and the dropped words are from his end.”

“Does that help us pinpoint his location?”

“Probably not,” Jones answered. “He could be calling from a rural area with poor coverage, or he could be in a major city with bad weather. Or he could be using a crappy cell phone. There are simply too many variables.”

Payne shrugged. He had figured as much.

“Play it again,” Jones said, “but concentrate on the second half.”

They listened to the message again. “Someone is . . . us. Hello? Can . . . hear me?”

Jones smiled. “Call me crazy, but I think he said someone is after us .”

Payne nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right. Of course, that leads us to the next question: Who is he with?”

“No way of knowing. Not from what we’ve heard.”

“So it could be his friend or wife.”

“Or kids.”

Payne frowned. “Great. Now we have to save an entire family.”

“Or maybe, just maybe, he’s alone. For all we know, this guy is delusional.”

Payne shrugged. “Either way, here’s the final message. It was left at 11:28, right after you fixed my phone. It’s the call I ignored at lunch.”

He pushed the button and listened to the caller.

Static was no longer a problem, yet somehow the call sounded distant. Muffled.

“Sorry, I had to switch phones. I’m using a pay phone now. Hopefully no one is listening. I will keep calling as long as I can, but I’m being watched. . . . Damn! Where are you? Your friend assured me that I could trust you. Please. We need your help.”

They listened to it twice more before commenting.

Jones said, “He used the word we, so we’re definitely dealing with more than one person. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if your friend, whoever that is, is part of the we. ”

“My guess is no. If my friend were there, he’d be calling me himself.”

“Unless he’s hurt. Or being held captive.”

“Great.”

“Any idea which friend?”

Payne shook his head. “Clueless. No idea at all.”

“Well, what time did-”

“Hold up,” Payne said, interrupting him. He clicked a few buttons on his phone until the first message was ready to play. “I’m not sure but he might’ve mentioned my friend in the first voice mail. It was garbled by static, but I think he did. Just listen.”

Payne hit Play, focusing on the second sentence.

“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.”

Jones smiled, filling in the holes. “I was given your number by blank . Something that ends with - er . Like Miller. Or Harper. Know anyone like that who would give out your number?”

“Nothing rings a bell.”

“That’s okay. No pressure. Give it some time. It’ll come to you. It always does.”

Payne nodded halfheartedly. He appreciated Jones’s confidence but realized time was of the essence. It had been ninety minutes since the last call, an eternity in a life-or-death situation.

For all he knew, he was already too late.

6

Nick Dial followed Andropoulos as he trudged down the dirt path from the main road. The hill was steep and the footing treacherous in the dying sunlight, yet Andropoulos navigated it with ease, never losing his balance despite his leather dress shoes.

“What are you?” Dial demanded as he stopped to catch his breath. “Part mountain goat?”

Andropoulos smiled. “I am all Greek. I was born in Kastraki, a small village to the east. I used to play in these hills as a boy. I know them quite well.”

“Is this the only path to Holy Trinity?”

“The only path, yes. The only way, no.”

Dial glanced around. He saw nothing but cliffs. “How else can you get there?”

“The monks have a cable-car system, meant to handle supplies. It is strong enough to carry a man. However, it is controlled from inside the monastery.”

“So it would require an accomplice.”

Andropoulos nodded. “That is why we are on this path. This is how the killers came.”

With that, he started walking again, weaving around boulders and bushes until he arrived at the bottom of the gorge, where he was greeted by a large blue sign. At the top in white letters in both Greek and English, it said: HOLY MONASTERY OF AGIA TRIAS. In gold letters underneath, it warned in four different languages that shorts and short-sleeved shirts were not permitted; neither were women in sleeveless dresses or pantaloons.

Dial read the warning and smiled. He hadn’t seen the word pantaloons in years.

Andropoulos asked, “Are you ready for the tough part? The footing gets worse from here.”

“Are you serious? How could it get worse?”

He turned on a flashlight and shined it forward. “You shall see.”

A steep trail rose before them. It meandered up the hillside past a small grove of Oriental plane trees, the most common tree in the valley, until it stopped at the bottom of a rocky crag, where a series of steps had been carved into the stone. Although he wasn’t afraid of heights, Dial dreaded the next part of their journey-especially at night. One misstep meant a nasty fall.

“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Dial said.

Andropoulos nodded, willing to do just about anything to impress his boss.

The Greek had been an officer for less than two years but hoped to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps something in Athens. Or maybe Interpol Headquarters in France. The truth is he would kill for a job in the Homicide Division, which is why he was wearing his father’s suit instead of his everyday uniform. He wanted to make a good first impression.

“Do you see something?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial shined the light against the surface of the cliff, surprised by what he saw. From a distance he figured the stone fingers were made of volcanic rock-cooled underground, then exposed to sunlight after millions of years of soil erosion-but on closer inspection he realized that wasn’t the case. The natural pillars were hardened sandstone, filled with tiny pebbles of many shapes and colors. The result was a geological mosaic that seemed to breathe and flow with the constant movement of the earth. A living sculpture that stretched toward the sky.

“Let me guess,” Dial said. “This region was once underwater.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Scientists say that Thessaly was a giant lake that emptied into the Aegean Sea when an earthquake split the mountains. However, according to Greek mythology, the flood was caused by Zeus, who hoped to bring fertile farmland to the region.”

Dial smiled at the myth and gazed across the valley one last time, trying to enjoy the landscape for a few more seconds before it was permanently disfigured in his mind. From this point on, he knew his memory of Metéora would forever be tarnished by the things he was about to see.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Andropoulos turned and started the steep climb to the monastery. Dial stayed close behind, using the flashlight to find the footholds that had been carved into the rock several decades before. He also searched for any evidence that might have been missed by the local police.