And the best part of all?
Kozlov didn’t realize that anything was missing.
The Chernaya Rechka River flows through the northwest corner of Saint Petersburg. It is a minor tributary of the Bolshaya Neva, which is the largest armlet of the historic Neva.
In the grand scheme of things, the Chernaya Rechka isn’t much of a river. It is 3 miles long and less than 80 feet across at its widest point. The water is cold and murky and only a few feet deep. Some Russians consider it a stream. Others view it as a nuisance. Nothing more than a barrier that they have to cross when driving into the city.
A watery pain in the ass.
To alleviate bridge traffic and to encourage northern expansion, the city built the Chernaya Rechka station near the banks of the waterway. The goal was to lure industry to the area by providing an efficient mass transit system for potential employees. Unfortunately, while the city waited for companies to build new factories, the Metro station was less popular than the river it was named after. After all, it was in the middle of nowhere.
That’s why it was perfect for Kozlov’s home base. He wanted to be seen as little as possible, yet he needed quick and easy access to the city. So when he first came into town, he booked a room at a cheap hotel near the station and had used the Metro ever since.
And it had worked out fine until the incident at Nevsky Prospekt.
His ears were still ringing from the collision.
The doors sprang open at Chernaya Rechka, and Kozlov stepped off the train. The last ten minutes had been filled with major disappointment. The black man had slipped out of his grasp and so had the things he had taken from Byrd’s room. Kozlov hated to think what might have been lost. For all he knew, it might have solved the mystery behind Byrd’s trip to Saint Petersburg and allowed him to head back to Moscow to collect his hefty paycheck.
Instead, he was stuck here for a few more days. If not longer.
The thought of it did not make him happy.
For the time being, all he wanted to do was go to his room and pour himself a tall glass of vodka. Perhaps that would dull the throbbing in his head. Then, once his senses returned, he would go back to the Astoria Hotel and check both of Byrd’s rooms for any scraps that might have been left behind. He would also slip some rubles to the hotel staff and find out all he could about the black man who had eluded him on the train.
Maybe he was working for Byrd.
Maybe he could provide some answers, if he could only be found.
Kozlov pondered these things as he walked across the deserted platform, temporarily unaware that Payne was lurking behind him, waiting for his opportunity to strike.
But the Russian would find out soon enough.
47
When Dial and Andropoulos left the library at Great Metéoron, they decided to explore the grounds. Neither man said much as they strolled among the pink and white flowers and the manicured shrubs that lined the walkways. For them, it was a time of reflection, not discovery-a chance to ponder all the information they had learned before they returned to Kalampáka.
Many things stood out from their meeting with Theodore, including the missing pages in the history of Holy Trinity and the way the monk had fumed about it. But nothing mattered more than the black-and-white photograph of Nicolas. His connection to the abbot, which had lasted more than forty years, struck a chord with Dial.
Somehow he knew their relationship was vital to his case.
Finding a picturesque spot, Dial sat on a wooden bench that faced the valley below. His view was unobstructed except for a thin railing made out of crisscrossed logs. Andropoulos sat next to him, unwilling to speak until spoken to. He hadn’t known Dial for very long, yet he understood the dynamics of their relationship. Sometimes Dial just wanted to think.
A few minutes passed before Dial asked, “Have you ever been to Mount Athos?”
Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. Not many outsiders have. Visitors must have special permission from the Orthodox Church.”
“Why is that?”
“The Church likes its privacy.”
Ironically, Theodore was the one who had brought up Mount Athos, saying it was where older monks went to continue their spiritual growth. Then he had instantly regretted mentioning it. When Dial had tried to get more information about the place, Theodore had been reluctant to answer, claiming he had never been there, so he didn’t want to speak out of turn. Dial hadn’t pressed the issue, not wanting to sour their relationship after a very helpful conversation. Yet Theodore’s reluctance piqued Dial’s curiosity, as did the possibility that Nicolas might be recognized there.
“Is Mount Athos far from here?” Dial wondered.
“A few hundred kilometers. It sits to the east, surrounded by the Aegean.”
“It’s an island?”
Andropoulos shook his head. “It is a mountain on the tip of a peninsula. Greeks call it the Holy Mountain. It stretches from the water to the sky above.”
Dial tried to visualize it. Other than Hawaii and a few other islands that were formed by volcanic explosions, he had never seen a mountain surrounded by water. “It sounds scenic.”
Andropoulos nodded. “It is quite beautiful. I have seen many pictures.”
“Would you like to take some yourself?”
“Sir?” he asked, confused.
Dial glanced at the young officer. “I get the feeling that we’ve learned all that we’re going to learn around here. That leaves us with two choices. We can go back inside and help Theodore look through his old books, or we can go to Mount Athos and interview some old monks.”
“Just so you know, the drive would take all day.”
“No, it won’t. I have access to a helicopter. If we left now, we could reach Mount Athos by mid-afternoon. That is, if you’re interested in going.”
“Yes, sir! I would like that very much.”
Dial grimaced at his enthusiasm. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t a date. I need an interpreter just in case the monks don’t speak English.”
“And some won’t,” Andropoulos assured him. “But . . .”
“What?”
“As I mentioned, visitors aren’t admitted without clearance. How will we get in?”
“Please!” Dial sneered. He was insulted by the question. “I’m in charge of the Homicide Division at Interpol. My credentials can get us anywhere.”
Henri Toulon burst out laughing when he heard Dial’s request. “You must be joking! I can’t get you access to Mount Athos.”
“Why not?” Dial growled into his cell phone. He stood up from the bench and walked away from Andropoulos so the young cop couldn’t hear. “This is for my investigation.”
“They will not care. They do not recognize our authority.”
“Why the hell not? Greece is one of our member states!”
Toulon nodded, sitting at his desk. “True, but Mount Athos is not a part of Greece.”
Dial paused, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Its official name is the Holy Community of the Holy Mountain. It is a self-governed state and has been for more than a thousand years. As my boss, you should know this.”
Dial wasn’t in the mood for insults. He wanted clarification. “What are you saying? It’s a separate country, like Vatican City?”
“Technically, no. Mount Athos is a part of Greece, but Greece doesn’t govern it. It is controlled by the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople.”
“Which is what?”
“A church council located in Istanbul.”
Dial shook his head, trying to absorb the information. “Mount Athos is run from Turkey? That doesn’t make any sense. That’s like Mecca being run from Rome.”