“I know? What the hell does that m-”
Payne hung up on him and slipped the phone into his pocket. As the soldiers approached, he casually put his left arm around Allison’s shoulder. “Play along,” he whispered.
“I’ll try,” she whispered back.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Extending his right arm upward, Payne pointed at the statue. Then in a much louder voice, he exclaimed, “I’m telling you, it’s made of brass!”
“Brass?” she said, quickly understanding his plan. “It’s made of bronze!”
The soldiers, all of them in their mid-twenties and looking rather serious, stood behind Payne and Allison, listening to their argument. The largest of the three, who was bigger than Payne and looked like a grizzly bear, tapped Payne on his shoulder, much harder than he needed to.
In a heavily accented voice, he said, “Papers.”
Payne lifted his arm off Allison and slowly turned around, completely under control. No sudden movements of any kind. Then, with a smile on his face, he said, “No problem.”
As he handed his papers to Grizzly, he prayed that Kaiser had hired the best damn counterfeiter in K-Town. Otherwise, things were going to get sticky in a hurry. Not only was Allison liable to turn the same shade of red as the patches on the Russian’s jacket if she was forced to lie, but Payne knew if he was frisked, they would find a loaded gun. Or two.
All things considered, the other St. Petersburg had been much more relaxing.
38
The library at Great Metéoron was rarely seen by anyone outside the monastic order. Its books and manuscripts, some of which were over a thousand years old, were far too valuable to be touched by the general public. In fact, many of the earliest volumes were so delicate they were accessible only to a chosen few.
One of those monks was Theodore. He had been trained in archival science and knew the proper way to handle ancient documents. Although a lack of funding prevented the monastery from building a climate-controlled facility, they took pride in their preservation techniques, locking away their most valuable books in a hidden room that was properly ventilated.
Joseph, the fair-haired monk, was not permitted to enter the library. He knocked five times on its thick wooden door and waited for it to be opened from the inside. A few minutes passed before anyone responded. The inner locks clicked, then Theodore pulled the door toward him using his body weight and momentum. Inch by inch, the portal swung open. As it did, the metal hinges squealed, echoing through the stone corridor like a woman’s scream.
“That will be all,” Theodore said.
Without saying a word, Joseph nodded. Then he turned and walked away.
“Please, come in.”
Dial went in first, followed by Andropoulos. Both of them glanced around the library, not sure what to expect. Neither of them was disappointed.
All the walls were lined with shelves, and all the shelves were lined with books. Hundreds of antique codices, manuscripts, and documents. All of them locked behind black metal bars. A carved wooden desk and three matching chairs sat in the middle of the floor. A simple chandelier hung above them, casting light in all directions.
“May I?” asked Dial as he gestured toward the shelves on the left.
“Of course.”
Theodore stepped aside. He was wearing the same cassock and cap as the day before, yet because of the bags under his eyes, he looked as though he had aged several years since Dial had seen him last. He had spent half the night doing research, hoping to learn more about the secret tunnel and the artwork at Holy Trinity.
“Our library is the finest in central Greece.”
Dial tilted his head to the side, trying to read some of the ancient titles. All of them were written in languages that he couldn’t decipher. “How did you acquire the books?”
“Great Metéoron was blessed by good fortune. A Serbian ruler named Simeon Uroš gave us a large endowment in the mid-fourteenth century. It allowed us to build the original katholikón and expand our cloisters. Eventually, his son, John Uroš, joined our order. He took the name Iosaph and ran our monastery for many years. His wealth and guidance helped us persevere.”
“And the books?”
“Some were donated. Some were bought. Some were written here.”
“Really? What type of books did your brethren write?”
Slipping a pair of gloves on to protect the ancient relics, Theodore walked to the front corner of the room. With a set of brass keys, he unlocked the metal cage and removed a single book. It was nearly six inches thick and covered in tan-colored goatskin. He carried it to the wooden desk and carefully laid it open. “This is one of our recent volumes. It is less than a century old. Yet it reveals the quality of our bookmaking.”
Dial and Andropoulos leaned closer, both of them anxious to inspect it.
Even though it was written in Greek, Dial was overwhelmed by its beauty. The pages were filled with the most elegant calligraphy he had ever seen. Words flowed into one another like waves on the sea. The margins were illustrated in bold, bright colors-images that were so detailed, so transcendent, that Dial was able to understand the story without reading it.
“The birth of Christ,” he said. “It’s magnificent.”
Theodore nodded. “Pride is discouraged by our order. Yet it is hard not to be proud.”
Dial gestured toward the shelves. “How many of these books were made here?”
“Many,” he said cryptically. “Centuries ago, every book of significance was either written in monasteries or protected by them. Our library has volumes on virtually every field: history, alchemy, philosophy, grammar, politics.”
“And religion. Don’t forget religion.”
Theodore nodded. “We never forget religion.”
Dial laughed as he walked to the right-hand side of the room. Andropoulos followed closely, browsing the bookcases for anything that looked out of place. As a native speaker, he was able to read most of the titles. Occasionally, for Dial’s benefit, he translated their names aloud. But nothing stood out to either of them. No volumes on war or weaponry-other than some Grecian classics that were available in most libraries. Books like the Odyssey and the Iliad.
“So,” Dial said when he was tired of browsing, “what did you learn about the tunnel?”
Theodore slid behind the desk and took a seat. He motioned for Dial and Andropoulos to sit in the two chairs across from him. “Regrettably, not much.”
“Really? With all these books, I figured you’d find something of value. Didn’t you say the entire history of Metéora was chronicled here?”
“Yes, I did.”
Dial shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that something as elaborate as that tunnel is not mentioned in any of these volumes. In fact, I’d be tempted to go one step further. I might even use the word unlikely.”
Theodore said nothing. He simply folded his hands on the desk in front of him and returned Dial’s stare. Unfortunately, because of the monk’s beard, Dial found it difficult to read his facial expressions. Was he smirking? Or grinning? Or gritting his teeth? Dial couldn’t tell. All he could do was study Theodore’s eyes, hoping to find a clue as to what he was thinking.
“Marcus,” Dial said, as he started to stand, “are you ready to go?”
Andropoulos glanced at him, temporarily confused. “We’re leaving?”
“The library, yes. The grounds, no. This monastery is filled with potential witnesses. Let’s go pester some.”
Andropoulos nodded in understanding. He knew what Dial was doing and was anxious to play along. “Should I call the station? I can get some reinforcements.”
“Let’s start with five. Make sure they bring dinner. We might be here awhile.”