“Anyway,” Dial said, trying to get the conversation back on track, “didn’t you say something about Spartan soldiers?”
“Oui. I was just getting there.” Toulon opened his desk drawer and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. “Some of these mountain towns, they are filled with people from a different era. They have no television. They have no electricity. They don’t even speak Greek. All they have is one another and the culture they have always known. The culture of Sparta.”
“Continue.”
“This morning, I told you about their ancestors. Spartan boys were bred for war. They lived for it. They died for it. It’s all they cared about. It was passed from fathers to sons for generations until it was so much a part of them that they could do nothing else. Some men are born farmers. Some men are born poets. And some men are born warriors. These are those men.”
Toulon pulled out a cigarette and held it under his nose like a glass of fine wine. “You have these men in America, no? They live in Montana with their kids and their dogs and they follow their own rules. What is it you call them?”
“Militia.”
“Oui! Like the Unabomber, Ted Kuzneski.”
“Kaczynski.”
“Whatever! You know the men I mean. Every country has them. Some are called rebels. Some are called guerrillas. Some are freedom fighters. But they are one and the same. They choose a cause and fight for it because that is who they are.”
Dial was quite familiar with militant types and the damage they could do. He had been assigned to the southwestern U.S. in 1993 when a religious sect called the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh, had faced off against the ATF and the FBI, 9 miles outside of Waco, Texas. The resulting fifty-one-day siege ended with the death of eighty-two church members, including twenty-one children.
Exactly two years later, to the day, Timothy McVeigh parked a Ryder truck, filled with 5,000 pounds of explosives, outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City and lit the fuse. The resulting blast killed 168 people and injured over 800 more. At the time, it was the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil-since surpassed by 9/11.
And in all these cases, Dial had been called in to help with the official investigation.
“So,” Dial asked, “the hills around Spárti are filled with these men?”
“Oui, but they are different from militia.”
“In what way?”
“They use no guns. They use no bombs. They fight with their hands and their blades.”
“Just like their ancestors.”
“Just like the Spartans.”
Dial considered this while staring at the natural rock pillars that loomed behind the hotel. They stood at attention like ancient soldiers whose sole job was to guard the monasteries from any force that meant them harm. Over the centuries, they had performed their duty admirably during times that were far more turbulent than these: times of war and revolution in Greece.
That’s why none of this made any sense.
What had brought on the sudden violence? And what did it have to do with Spartans? If, in fact, that’s who the killers were. What connection could they possibly have with a bunch of monks who lived several hundred miles away from Spárti?
“Let me ask you a question,” Dial said, racking his brain for potential links between the two groups. “Were the Spartans religious people?”
Toulon shrugged. “That is a tough question. I do not know.”
“Really?” Dial teased. “I thought you were an expert on Ancient Greece.”
“I am. But no one knows the answer to your question. As I’ve mentioned, the Spartans did not support the arts. This included the art of writing. According to Spartan law, historical records were not kept. Literature was not created. And laws were memorized, not recorded. That means everything we know about the Spartans comes from outside sources, written by men who never fully grasped the culture that they described.”
“Then how do we know they were great warriors?”
“Because everyone, even their most hated rivals, praised their skill as soldiers. That is the one thing that all of Greece agreed upon. Do not mess with the Spartans.”
“But all the other stuff-religion, politics, and so on-is just a guess by historians?”
“Oui. Just a wild guess. No one knows for sure.”
Dial nodded. “Which ultimately worked to the Spartans’ advantage.”
“In what way?”
“People fear what they don’t understand.”
“This is true.” Toulon lit his cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke into the air. He enjoyed the flavor and his civil disobedience. “That is why I fear nothing.”
Dial smiled at the comment as he pondered all the information he had been told. Unlike Toulon, who pretended to know everything, there were still several things that Dial didn’t understand about the case. “Do me a favor. Get ahold of that NCB agent from Spárti.”
“George Pappas.”
“Right. Get ahold of George and ask him to snoop around those mountain towns near Spárti. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
29
TUESDAY, MAY 20
Gulf of Finland
The 235-mile boat trip from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg was uneventful, just as Payne, Jones, and Jarkko had hoped. The Gulf of Finland was calm. The weather was unseasonably warm. And because of the northern latitude, the sun didn’t set until nearly 11 P.M. This allowed them to blend in with all the other fishermen who were taking advantage of the extra daylight. In Russia, the phenomenon is called Belye Nochi, or White Nights. During the summer months, the sun doesn’t drop low enough behind the horizon for the sky to grow completely dark. At times, day and night are often indistinguishable. In fact, it is so pronounced in late June and early July that the city of Saint Petersburg saved money by not turning on its streetlights.
Thankfully, the effect isn’t quite as severe in May because Payne and Jones preferred darkness for border crossings. Fewer witnesses. Fewer guards. More freedom to improvise.
As they approached the Russian coast, all three watched for patrol boats. They rarely bothered local fishermen, spending most of their time searching for drug runners and warships, but occasionally, when the soldiers were bored, they stopped boats for the hell of it. Just to be safe, Payne and Jones wore waders and waterproof jackets over their normal clothes. That way if their boat was stopped, they would look as if they belonged.
Jarkko asked, “Where you want to dock? You tell Jarkko, we go there.”
Jones had never been to this part of Russia, but he had spent enough time memorizing the layout of the city to know his best options. Located in the Neva River delta, Saint Petersburg is spread over 576 square miles, including 42 river islands, 60 river branches, and 20 major canals. Known as the Venice of the North, the city of nearly five million people is connected by over 300 bridges, some of which have been standing for centuries.
The main dockyards sit to the west of the city, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Areas like those are patrolled around the clock, so Jones wanted no part of them. The same went for anything inside the city proper. Even though it was bisected by a 20-mile stretch of the Neva River, a fishing boat would look somewhat out of place. Particularly at night. The last thing he wanted was to deal with the city police before they even set foot ashore.
“Maybe you can suggest a place around here,” Jones said as he pointed to a map of the coastline. “I’m looking for a small marina, preferably something that isn’t patrolled.”
“Yes! I know good dock. It is near bar that Jarkko go.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
The Finn laughed as he changed his course. “Jarkko work hard. Jarkko get thirsty.”