“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”
Dial stepped inside the katholikón and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.
Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”
Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology-the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.
“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”
“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”
Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”
“What are you talking about?”
Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.
Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes-images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God-that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.
“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.
Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.
“Jesus,” Dial said as he angrily turned toward Andropoulos. “How did you forget about this? There’s a pile of fucking heads on the ceiling!”
Andropoulos was about to defend himself when he was saved by Joseph. The monk heard Dial’s vulgarity and charged toward him like an angry rhino protecting its young.
“This is a house of God!” he snarled. “You must show respect in here.”
“Sorry,” Dial apologized, quickly realizing his mistake. Embarrassed, he lowered his head to convey his shame. It was a technique he had learned while working in Japan. “Please forgive me. I forgot where I was. I’m truly sorry for my behavior.”
The young monk paused, as if he had been expecting a confrontation that never materialized. He was so surprised by this development that his anger melted away, replaced by mercy and forgiveness.
“This is our church,” Joseph said, his voice much kinder than a moment before. “Treat it as you would your own.”
Dial nodded, apologetically. “Speaking of churches,” he whispered in a reverential tone, “I was wondering about these paintings. They seem out of place in a house of worship.”
“Not to us.”
“I don’t follow.”
Joseph gazed at the ceiling, his eyes twinkling with awe and admiration. “In the Orthodox faith, one must ask himself what he would do if his beliefs were ever challenged. Would he display the courage and stamina that is necessary to overcome the pains of the flesh? Does he have the devotion in his heart that would lead him to martyrdom? Most people would crumble like ancient ruins, unwilling to fight for what they believed in. But some, like those brave souls honored above, were willing to die for their cause. And to them, we give our respect.”
Dial realized that Joseph was talking about Christianity. But given the circumstances of the massacre and all the connections that Dial had found to soldiers and war, he couldn’t help but wonder if the monks had died for a cause as well-something that had nothing to do with their Orthodox faith. That would explain why seven elderly monks, from different parts of the world, were secretly meeting at Holy Trinity. The odds were pretty damn good they weren’t debating religious doctrine. That type of conversation would be held during the day in a city like Athens, not in the middle of the night on top of a rocky plateau.
So what had they been discussing? What was worth dying for?
Andropoulos pointed at the ceiling. “What is the significance of the heads?”
The monk glanced upward. “Those are the heads of saints, the men we admire most. They gave their lives for their faith. . . . If you look closely, you will notice halos above them. It is our way of showing reverence to their sacrifice.”
In the dim church light, Dial strained to see the halos. On closer inspection, he noticed tiny gold loops above the severed heads. It was a strange twist to an already strange painting.
“Come,” Joseph said. “If you are interested in heads, I have a special treat.”
A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of a wooden door. It was spotted with black knots and cracked down the middle from centuries of rot. Yet it still hung on its hinges, protecting its occupants from the outside world. The smell of incense leaked from a foot-high arch that was cut in the door. Dial moved closer and saw candlelight flickering inside the room. As the flames danced, he saw death.
“This is the ossuary,” Joseph explained as he opened the door. “Some call it a bone room. Or a charnel house. This is where we keep our dead.”
Dial walked in first, not the least bit scared by what he saw. If anything, he was captivated by the morbidity. Seven rows of wooden shelves, all of them lined with skulls that stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He moved closer, marveling at their shapes, the curve of their craniums, the hollowness of their nasal cavities. Even in death, after years of rot and decay, he could imagine their faces. He could picture the way they had looked when they were alive.
“These are our founders,” Joseph whispered. “They remind us how short our life is on earth and how insignificant we truly are.”
Dial stared at the lowest shelf. Stacks of bones-femurs, tibias, ribs, and more-were wedged under and between the bottom row of skulls. Entire skeletons crammed into a tiny space like books in a library. None of it seemed respectful to Dial, who had seen burial traditions in many countries. But he realized different cultures believed in different things, so he wasn’t the least bit offended by the way they treated their dead. Just intrigued.
Turning to his right, he noticed a wooden cabinet standing next to the stone wall. He walked toward it, staring at the two framed photographs that sat on the top of the unit. Each one was a picture of a monk. They were dressed in their traditional black cassocks and caps, although the two men looked nothing alike. One was old and regal. His eyes filled with wisdom. His beard gray with age. Meanwhile, the other monk was younger than Dial. His cheeks were round and chubby. His smile full of life. Yet both pictures were displayed in the same manner. They were surrounded by several lit candles in metal trays and tiny gold lanterns filled with incense.
The scent was piney and pungent, like a forest fire.
Dial asked, “Who are they?”
Joseph answered, his voice vacant of any emotion. “That is the abbot and the caretaker of Holy Trinity. We honor their sacrifice and mourn our loss.”
Dial glanced back at the monk, who showed no signs of sadness. Normally, that would have raised a red flag with Dial, particularly in a community as small as Metéora, where everyone knew everybody else. But considering the skulls and images he had seen in the last twenty minutes, Dial realized the monks had a much different view of death from most people’s.
Whether those views would help or hinder his investigation, he wasn’t sure.
But he would keep it in mind when he talked to Theodore in the library.
36
Nevsky Prospekt, a bustling avenue that cuts through the heart of the city, is the most famous street in Saint Petersburg. Planned by the renowned French architect Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Le Blond, it honors Alexander Nevsky, a national hero who defeated the Swedish and German armies in the thirteenth century and was later canonized as Saint Alexander.
More important to David Jones, it gave him an easy route to Allison’s hotel.
Glancing at his watch, Jones left the Palace Hotel and turned west on Nevsky. The sidewalks were filled with a lunchtime crowd, a mixture of tourists and locals. Jones had his fake passport in one pocket and his lock picks in another. His gun was covered by his un-tucked shirt.
Five minutes later, Payne and Allison left the hotel, using a different exit. They walked to the nearest intersection and waited for the light to change. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. Six lanes of cars, taxis, and buses. All of them rushing to get somewhere. When the traffic stopped, they crossed to the northern side of Nevsky and turned west.
They would shadow Jones from the opposite side of the street.
During the past week, Allison had spent several hours in nearby museums and libraries, doing research while Richard Byrd roamed the city. By foot, the Astoria Hotel was only twenty minutes away. It was near the Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, and the Mariinsky Theater. Tourists would be everywhere. Eating their lunches. Standing in lines. Enjoying the spring weather in the nearby plaza. It was a good spot to wait while Jones broke into Byrd’s room.
Payne wanted to be close in case there was trouble.