“And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
In unison, the two of them headed toward the door. They made it halfway across the room before Theodore cleared his throat. Dial tried not to grin as he stopped in his tracks.
“Yes?” Dial said over his shoulder.
“Sometimes, more can be learned by what is missing than what is found.”
He refused to turn around. “Meaning?”
“Please have a seat,” the monk implored. “There is something I must show you.”
Andropoulos glanced at Dial, who nodded his approval. The two of them returned to their chairs while Theodore fetched a book from the back corner of the room, where some of the shelves were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of monks posing on the grounds. None of them smiling. Just standing there as if it were torture. Dial knew that feeling. A similar photo used to hang on his parents’ wall. It documented the day he graduated from college. It was a proud moment for his family, so he willingly stood there and let them take picture after picture to commemorate the occasion. But he sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it.
“Who are they?” Dial asked, pointing at the photographs. As far as he could see, it was the only section of the room that had any personal items.
Theodore replied as he carried a single book back to the desk. “They are monks who lived at Metéora. All have since moved on.”
“Moved on as in transferred, or moved on as in dead?”
“A little of both.”
“Why are the pictures kept in that corner section?”
“It’s where our historical records are stored. The photographs are part of our history.”
Dial nodded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
Theodore said nothing.
“So,” Dial continued, “what did you want us to see? Or not see, as the case may be?”
“The history of Holy Trinity,” said the monk as he carefully opened the book.
Its cover was hard ornamental leather, dark brown in color. An Orthodox cross had been embossed on the front. It stood a quarter-inch higher than the rest of the leather. Tiny brass studs had been inserted into all four corners of the front and back, which lifted the book off flat surfaces, protecting it from dust or spills. The spine was etched with rustic gold, the same color as the outer edge of the pages. They glistened under the light of the chandelier.
“Over the centuries,” he said as he turned the pages, “my brethren have documented every significant moment at Holy Trinity. This includes all new construction. Whenever the monastery expanded, so did this book.”
“And you’ve done this for every monastery?”
Theodore nodded. “We chronicle the past to enrich the future.”
“That’s very noble of you. But unless I’m missing something, your brethren weren’t very thorough. If they had been, they would’ve noticed the tunnel that I found.”
“It isn’t you who is missing something. It is this volume.” Theodore turned it toward Dial and Andropoulos so they could see it better. “Pages have been taken.”
Dial stood up. “How do you know?”
The monk ran his gloved finger down the center crease of the book. A section had been removed, obvious from the torn fragments that still remained. “I do not know who and I do not know when, but someone butchered this book as they butchered my brothers.”
Dial glanced at the monk and saw fire in his eyes. They were like two burning embers. Considering the lack of emotions that most of his brethren had shown, it was a surprising display of passion. Still, something about it seemed strange. Unless Dial was mistaken, the rage had surfaced over the mutilation of the book, not the execution of the monks. Which was eerily similar to Joseph’s reaction earlier in the day. He had practically spat venom when Dial cursed inside the katholikón, plus he had been emotional over the painting on the ceiling. However, he had barely blinked an eye over the death of the abbot or the caretaker of Holy Trinity-two men he knew.
Dial wasn’t sure why, but something was seriously wrong with their priorities.
Andropoulos asked, “Is this the only book that has been vandalized?”
The monk shrugged, visibly upset. “It is too early to tell. I will know more later.”
Dial nodded as he walked over to the corner where the historical records were kept. He wasn’t concerned about the books on the other shelves-the ones about grammar, alchemy, and religion. His main concern was the history of Metéora. If Holy Trinity had a secret tunnel, maybe the other monasteries did as well. Or something similar. “Did you check any of these?”
“They were the first ones I inspected.”
“And?”
“I found nothing wrong.”
Dial looked through the iron bars that protected this section. The bars were solid and the locks were unharmed. There was an open slot on the third shelf from the top. It was where Holy Trinity had been pulled by Theodore. All the surrounding titles were written in Greek, which prevented Dial from reading them. But he noticed all of them had been bound in the same ornamental leather as Holy Trinity. He counted twenty-three volumes. Twenty-four, if he included the one on the desk. That was the original number of monasteries at Metéora.
That meant none of the other journals had been stolen.
Frustrated, Dial looked at the other shelves, hoping to find anything that might help his case. His eyes were immediately drawn to one black-and-white photograph. It featured seven monks standing on the balcony of Holy Trinity. The distant valley could be seen behind them, although much of it was blocked by the tall caps that they wore. Focusing on their faces, Dial tried to imagine what they looked like behind their beards. Remarkably, all of the monks looked different, a diverse mix of facial features that could best be explained by geography.
Dial had traveled enough in his lifetime to recognize ethnic features in certain people. Whether it was the shape of their eyes, the slant of their brow, or the curve of their mouth, he was often able to guess where people were from. And these men were not from the same country. They looked too dissimilar to be from the same regional gene pool.
“Theodore,” Dial said, pointing, “may I see this photograph?”
The monk nodded and walked toward the corner shelf. With his key, he undid the latch and reached inside the case. The picture was displayed in a polished brass frame. He grabbed it and showed it to Dial. “That was taken decades ago. I would guess forty years or so.”
Dial did the math in his head and came up with a date. “Who were they?”
“I am not sure. That picture is older than I.”
Dial grunted. “I wish I could say the same.”
“I know I can,” Andropoulos said from his chair.
Dial sneered at the young cop. “I might be old, but at least I’m on my feet and working.”
Andropoulos got the hint and decided to search the library for clues.
Dial returned his attention to the picture. The moment he did, his eyes locked on the young monk in the middle of the back row. A wave of recognition swept over him. It was so strong that a gasp emerged from his lips. “Holy shit.”
Theodore frowned at the profanity.
“Sorry,” Dial said as he pointed at the picture. “But I know that man.”
Andropoulos heard the comment from across the room. “You know who?”