At the very least, Dial figured his observations would give him a better understanding of the monastic way of life. He thought he had accomplished that goal the night before when he had the long conversation with Nicolas. Now he wasn’t even sure if Nicolas was a monk. He looked like a monk and acted like a monk-except for his nasty habit of lying. Other than that, Dial would have bet big money that Nicolas was a monk somewhere.
The only question was, where?
While uploading the crime-scene photos through an Internet connection in his hotel room, Dial got dressed in a nice shirt and slacks. He was scheduled to meet Andropoulos in town for an authentic Greek dinner. Whatever that meant. Dial had been to Athens on several occasions but had never visited central Greece. Based on the flocks of sheep he’d seen from his balcony, he was confident that lamb would be on the menu. In fact, he might have passed his entrée on his drive down the mountainside.
It was something he tried not to think about as he left his room.
A few minutes later, while Dial was walking toward the car, his cell phone started to vibrate. He checked the number on his screen. It was Henri Toulon.
Dial answered in French. “Bonjour, Henri.”
Toulon paused before speaking. “Who is this?”
“It’s Nick. Who do you think it is?”
“Oh,” Toulon teased, “I did not know you spoke French. Please, do it no more. Your accent is crude. You sound like a tourist.”
Dial grumbled. “You know, I was having a good hour until you called. Now it’s ruined. I’m tempted to hang up on you, but you’d just use that as an excuse to stop working.”
“Nick, I am always working. Just, sometimes, I am working on not working.”
Dial smiled at the remark. Despite their bickering, they actually did get along.
“So, Henri, what’s on your mind?”
“I promised you I would look at your Spartan photos again, after I had my coffee. Well, you know me, I really like coffee, so I am just calling now.”
“And?”
“I have nothing to add. I did a great job this morning.”
“Wonderful,” Dial said sarcastically. “Thanks for the update. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up. I’m not finished.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“Next, I pondered what you said to me. You asked if these killers could be Spartans. I laughed at you and told you no because Sparta is no more. But the more you argued, the less sure I became. They sounded like real Spartans to me. So I called Spárti-”
“Spárti? What’s Spárti?”
“It is city built on top of ancient Sparta. It is in the Peloponnese of southern Greece.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It is small, maybe twenty thousand people. It is located near the Eurotas River in Laconia.”
“If you say so. Currently I’m in a parking lot, nowhere near a map.”
“Well, trust me, Spárti is real. And the man I spoke with was quite helpful.”
“What man?”
“An NCB agent by the name of George Pappas. He has lived there for many years.”
“And?”
“You will not believe me, but he swore to me that Spartan soldiers still exist.”
“What are you talking about?”
Toulon laughed. “See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You never believe me.”
Dial ignored him. “Give me details.”
“First, you must understand the geography. The Peloponnese is a large peninsula separated from the rest of Greece by the Gulf of Corinth. If not for a narrow land bridge in the northeast corner, it would actually be an island, not a peninsula. Spárti sits at the bottom on the southern end of the Laconian plain. It is guarded by mountains on three sides, isolated from the rest of Greece by distance and geology. Ancient Sparta was settled there for that very reason. These were men of war. They built their city in a location that would be difficult to attack.”
“Got it,” Dial said. “I can picture it in my head. It’s south of the city of Olympia, about halfway to the island of Crete.”
“Good job, Nick! Someone did his homework on his flight to Athens.”
“They didn’t make me chief for nothing.”
“Well, we can talk about that some other time. For now, let’s stick to my point: Spárti is very isolated. And since it is, it is very different from mainland Greece.”
“In what way?”
“For one, some of the people-particularly those who live in the mountain villages-don’t speak Greek. They speak Tsakonian.”
“Tsakonian? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Let me make it simpler. They speak the language of Sparta.”
“Hold up! People still speak Spartan?”
“More or less. It comes from the language of Ancient Sparta, though it’s been updated through the years. Some experts classify Tsakonian as a dialect, but that’s incorrect. It is a separate Hellenic language, different from the branch of Ancient Athens, which eventually became Modern Greek. Tsakonian is Doric Greek, not Attic Greek. So it is different.”
Dial grimaced at the information. “Speaking of foreign languages, I didn’t understand half the shit you just said. But that’s okay. I’m kind of used to it. You speak English like a tourist.”
“That was funny, Nick. Perhaps I will tell you the rest of this en français.”
“Sorry. I didn’t understand that, either. We must have a bad connection.”
“Oui. Let us blame your ignorance on your cell phone.”
“And we’ll blame your English on your drinking.”