Dial shook the man’s hand. “Please call me Nick. This is Marcus, my assistant.”
“My name is Petros. I am supervisor of border. How can I assist you?”
“We are investigating the massacre at Metéora and would like to enter Mount Athos to continue our investigation. We believe there is a connection between the monasteries.”
Petros sighed. “I was told of deaths at Metéora. It is a tragedy.”
“Eight monks lost their lives that night. I would like to prevent number nine.”
“Are our monks at risk?”
Dial nodded. “Until we catch the men who did this, all monks are at risk. That is why I’m here. To avoid another tragedy.”
Petros studied Dial’s eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a few seconds, he found the answer he was searching for. “If I could, I would let you through at once. But choice is not mine. Without a permit, I must get permission from governor in Karyes.”
“Can you try?”
“Yes, I can try. But . . .”
“But what?”
Petros leaned in closer and whispered. “I am told he is in bad mood today. He woke up early for important meeting, and his colleague never showed.”
65
Dial and Andropoulos sat in the customs office for over two hours as Petros pleaded their case. First on the phone, and then he went to Karyes to see the governor in person. Unfortunately, the governor wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He would reconsider their request in the morning. In the meantime, no permit was granted.
Karyes was a tiny medieval town sitting on the crest of the hill, a fifteen-minute drive from Dáfni. The only public transport was a shuttle van that zigzagged up and down the unpaved road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. It looked out of place in this simple world, where monks preferred to walk and supplies were carried by pack mules.
When Petros returned, he broke the news to Dial. “I am sorry, Nick. There is nothing more I can do. Not until morning.”
Dial took it in stride. “Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best.”
“I did, and so did your colleague. He called the governor twice while I was there.”
Dial was pleased by the thought of Toulon groveling.
“If you like, you can spend night in Dáfni.”
“Where? In here?”
Petros laughed. “Not in this office, across courtyard. We have small hotel, market, and restaurant. You are not the first traveler who has been denied entry.”
“I don’t know,” Dial said as he considered his alternatives. “What are the odds that the governor will let me through tomorrow morning?”
“I am not sure. It depends on his mood. But if he says no, I have other options.”
“Such as?”
“Each monastery has one abbot. If he extends a personal invitation, you may enter grounds with special permit. Twenty monasteries mean twenty chances.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Most people do not. It is customs secret.”
“But if I can’t come in, how can I plead my case?”
“You cannot. But I can,” Petros said. “And most abbots are nicer than the governor.”
As the plane touched down in Limnos, Payne stared at the Venetian castle that was perched above the island’s main harbor. Built in the thirteenth century, its gray stone walls contrasted sharply with the red-tiled roofs that lined the sandy beaches.
Jarkko beamed with pride. “Is beautiful, no?”
Payne nodded. “Very. I’ve never been to this part of Greece before.”
“My yacht is in marina. We will be there soon.”
“How far are we from Mount Athos?”
“You shall see shortly.”
Payne wasn’t sure what Jarkko meant until they stepped out of the plane. Even though they were more than 50 miles away from the mountain, Payne could see the snowcapped peak in the distance. It towered over the Aegean as Mount Fuji towered above Japan.
Jarkko patted him on the back. “I hope you bring coat!”
The Spartans lingered a few miles offshore until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they eased their boat into the southwest corner of the peninsula and dropped anchor.
One by one, they jumped into the waist-deep water and made their way to the shore. Ten of them in total, all of them dressed in battle gear. Breastplates and greaves protected their bodies and shins, and helmets protected their heads. They carried shields on one arm. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs, and daggers hung from their hips. One Spartan looked different-it was Apollo, the leader of the group, who had a plume of red horsehair topping his helmet, which signified his rank.
He would set the pace. He would give the orders.
He would tell them when to kill.
And soon, their swords would be bathed in blood.
Dial paced back and forth like a caged tiger. When he looked out the window of his cramped hotel room in Dáfni, he could see the grounds of Mount Athos. He was literally a foot away from being inside. But because of his job title, he couldn’t risk breaking the glass or breaking the rules.
“Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself as he replayed the day’s events in his head.
Three cops were missing, and so were all the Spartans.
The governor was being a total prick, and time was ticking away.
Dial wondered how things could get any worse. Then the phone rang.
“Nick,” Toulon said in a soft voice, “the police in Spárti brought in some dogs, and they found a lot of blood.”