“Yes.”
“Then lock your hands behind your head and sit up slowly.”
Dial did as he was told, sitting up despite the pain that emerged in his ribs and back. With all the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten he had just been in a bike wreck.
Meanwhile, the shooter waited until Dial was in an upright position. Now, for the first time, he would be able to see the cop’s face in the beam of the headlight. Moving quietly, he walked around to the front and stared at the man whose life he had just saved.
And he was stunned by the sight.
Payne couldn’t believe his eyes. “Nick?”
Dial flinched at the mention of his name. With one hand, he shielded the bright headlight of the motorcycle and focused on the man in front of him. He was just as shocked as Payne. “Jon?”
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
Dial slumped to the ground in utter relief. “Holy shit, you gave me a heart attack. I thought you were going to kill me.”
“Kill you? I just saved you.”
“I know,” he said, laughing to himself. “But it’s been a strange night.”
Dial had met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars amp; Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they had kept in touch ever since-occasionally bumping into each other in the strang est places. Once at an airport in Italy. Another time at a bookstore in London. But this, by far, took the prize for their most auspicious meeting ever.
Payne helped his friend to his feet and was greeted with a friendly hug.
“Nice shooting,” Dial said as he patted Payne on the back.
Payne smiled. “Glad I could help.”
Jones watched the embrace from afar. “Guys? This is the Holy Mountain, not Brokeback Mountain.”
Dial laughed at the comment. “I should’ve known. Where there’s Payne, there’s Jones.”
Jones stepped forward and shook his hand. “Nick fuckin’ Dial. I knew I recognized that big-ass chin of yours. What in the hell are you doing here?”
Dial grinned. “Jon asked me the same damn thing.”
“And I’m still waiting for an answer,” Payne reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it in a moment. First, how are Marcus and Petros?”
Jones grimaced. “Which is which?”
“Marcus is the kid.”
Jones answered. “The kid’s fine. The other one, not so much.”
Dial, who hadn’t seen Petros’s death, needed to have things explained. Andropoulos filled him in the best he could, including how Jones had saved his life by shooting the other attacker.
“Speaking of which,” Payne wondered, “who are those guys?”
Jones added, “So far, we’ve killed four of them.”
“Only four?” asked Dial, who was quite familiar with their Special Forces backgrounds. “I’m guessing there are a lot more than that.”
He took a few minutes to describe the Spartans, the murdered monks, and the missing cops. He didn’t have time to go into all the specifics of the case, but he told them enough so they would understand what was going on. “We still aren’t sure what the Spartans are looking for. But whatever it is, it must be big. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have risked this type of exposure.”
Jones glanced at Payne but said nothing.
And Dial happened to notice. “What?”
Payne grimaced. “Nick, let’s take a walk.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to talk.”
The two moved away from Andropoulos, so the young Greek couldn’t hear what was about to be said. And Jones made sure of it by keeping an eye on him. Over the years, Payne and Dial had shared confidential information to help each other with various missions and assignments. And this was one of those times when they needed to speak in private, for both of their sakes.
“What’s up?” Dial asked.
“I want to tell you why we’re here. But only if it’s off-the-record.”
Dial stared at him, wondering where this was going. “Fine.”
“I think I know what the Spartans are looking for. It’s probably the same thing we’re looking for.”
“Which is?”
Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the treasure map. “A colleague of mine recently called me from Russia and asked for my help. By the time I responded, it was too late. Someone had killed him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Payne shrugged it off. “D.J. and I poked around a little bit and figured out why he was murdered. He was looking for this.”
Dial took the map from Payne and studied it in the beam of the headlight. He instantly recognized the geography of Mount Athos. “Is this a treasure map?”
Payne nodded. “The man who killed my colleague was a hit man who used to work for the FSB. When I questioned him, he said he’d been hired by someone with a Mediterranean accent. We assumed he might be Greek, but we don’t know that for sure.”
“Why Greek?”
“Because the treasure is Greek. That is, if it even exists.”
Payne gave him a quick summary of the story of Richard Byrd, Heinrich Schliemann, and the possible existence of the lost throne. In addition, he filled him in on all the other treasures that could have been removed from Constantinople before the fire, everything from gold relics to ancient manuscripts.
“I think you’re right,” Dial said. “Our two matters are probably related.”