“According to this journal, Schliemann was taken to the police station while they tried to establish his identity. At one point, despite being incoherent, he started talking in his sleep.”
“Were you aware of that?”
“Not at all. But rumors have circulated for years about Schliemann’s final days, including his quest to find the largest treasure of all time. Most academics assumed it was part of the hype that he had created during his lifetime. I mean, this was a man who funded the construction of his own mausoleum and paid for the inscription to read, ‘To the Hero Schliemann.’ ”
Jones laughed. “The guy wasn’t modest.”
“No, he wasn’t. That much is certain. But little else is. When it comes to Schliemann’s life, there is always a fuzzy line between fact and fiction.”
“Tell us more about the journal,” Payne said.
“At first glance, I thought it was written by an idiot. Every other word is badly misspelled or abbreviated. I could tell that right away, and I don’t even speak Italian.” She picked up the legal tablet and showed it to Payne. The top page was divided into several different categories. “Then I found this. Richard had gone through the journal and translated everything into English.”
“What’s with the columns?” Payne asked.
“Each column represents a different language.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember, Schliemann wasn’t an Italian. He was a German who had lived all over the world. A man who could speak twenty-two languages. From what I can tell, he used several of those languages on his deathbed. The officer did the best he could to write the words phonetically. It was the only way he could keep track of what was being said.”
She ran her finger down the first column. The word ENGLISH was written at the top. Next were columns for GERMAN, GREEK, RUSSIAN, ITALIAN, and FRENCH. Then she flipped the page. Six more columns appeared. They were labeled SPANISH, PORTUGUESE, DUTCH, and so on. Some of the columns were filled with words; others were nearly empty.
“Richard went through the journal and placed words in corresponding columns. Then he translated each of those words and tried to figure out what Schliemann was saying.”
“And?” Jones asked, excited by the possibilities.
“Unfortunately, Richard came up with gibberish.”
“Damn!”
She glanced back at Jones, who was looking over her shoulder. She was thrilled that he cared enough to curse. “Don’t worry. There’s still hope. I have plenty of information to work with. Give me some time and I might be able to figure it out.”
“Or maybe not. I’ve seen a few people die. They didn’t always make sense at the end. In fact, some of them were pretty damn delusional.”
“Well,” she said, trying not to think about it, “I’ll do my best.”
Payne asked, “At first glance, does anything stand out?”
She nodded. “One word is repeated over and over in many different languages. Il trono. Le trône. El trono. And so forth.”
“I’m hoping el trono means ‘the coat.’ ”
She smiled. “Actually, it means ‘the throne.’ But Richard does mention ‘the coat’ on the final page of his translation.”
She pointed to the words that filled the bottom of the last page. They had been written in big capital letters, and then the message had been circled. A giant star was drawn to the left of the note, stressing how important it was. It read: THE COAT = THE KEY
53
As the black helicopter touched down in an open field on the outskirts of Kalampáka, dirt and dust swirled into the air like a cyclone. Andropoulos, who had never ridden in a chopper before, watched with childlike wonder from inside his car. His vehicle rattled from the whooshing of the powerful blades until the pilot flipped a switch and stopped the turbines.
“This is going to be awesome!” Andropoulos gushed. “Thanks for bringing me along.”
Dial rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm. For him, air travel had lost its luster a long time ago. “You aren’t onboard yet. Keep it up, and I’ll hire the pilot to be my translator.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize. Make yourself useful. Grab our bags from the trunk.”
Andropoulos scurried off to complete his task while Dial cracked a smile. No matter how helpful the young Greek was-and so far he had exceeded Dial’s expectations-Dial planned on busting the kid’s balls every chance he got. He was a veteran member of the law enforcement community, and it was his God-given right and duty to toughen the youngster up.
Plus, it was a hell of a lot of fun.
Dial was about to step out of the car when his phone started to vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was Henri Toulon from Interpol. “Hola, Henri.”
“Spanish?” he growled. “I tell you not to speak French, so you speak Spanish?”
“What can I say? I’m an equal-opportunity linguist.”
“Oui. You mangle all languages the same amount.”
Dial smirked. “From the insolent tone of your voice, I’m assuming you have good news about my permits to Mount Athos. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so rude.”
“I have good news. I also have bad news. Which would you like first?”
“Not this shit again,” he muttered, remembering that Toulon had played the same game when telling him about the Spartans. “Just tell me all the news, Henri.”
“Now who is rude? People say we French are rude, but no one ever talks about Americans. And you know why we do not mention you? Because your country has the most bombs. If that was not so, people would say Americans are rude rather than the French!”
Toulon was obviously frustrated about something, so Dial responded in a calm voice.
“What’s wrong, Henri? What’s the bad news?”
“I have let you down.”
“How so?”
“I try and I try but you cannot visit Mount Athos today.”
Dial groaned. They were ready to take off. “Why not?”
“Because the monks are very strict. And you are arriving late.”
He glanced at his watch. It was mid-afternoon in Greece. “Late? I’ll be there by dinner.”
“Which is too late for them. The monks live regimented lives. They work together. They pray together. They eat together. Your arrival will interrupt that schedule. After a certain time each day, the guards will not allow anyone to enter Mount Athos-even those with permits. As I say, they are very strict.”