Toulon smiled at the metaphor. “That is a good line. May I use it?”
“Use whatever you want. But first, tell me what you’re talking about!”
Dial was fully aware of the political tension between Greece and Turkey. It had existed long before Greece declared its independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1821 and had been fueled over the years by several wars. There were many reasons for their disagreements, but Dial knew the fundamental difference between the two countries was religion. In simple terms, most Greeks were Christians and most Turks were Muslims. Which is why Dial found it so hard to believe that Mount Athos was run from Istanbul, a city with more than two thousand mosques.
Toulon asked, “Are you familiar with Constantine the Great?”
“Of course I am. He was Emperor of Rome.”
“Constantine was more than just an emperor. He was the emperor when it comes to Christianity. In the fourth century, he made the controversial decision to shift the capital city of the Christian world from Rome to Byzantium, a small city that was unstained by Roman politics and much closer to the lands of the East. Over a period of ten years, he expanded his city in hopes of expanding his empire. He built streets, sewers, aqueducts, and more. Then he decorated it with the finest treasures from Greece and Rome. In some cases, he actually disassembled temples, column by column, and reassembled them in Byzantium. Nothing was too good for Nova Roma, or New Rome, which officially became the capital in 330 A.D.”
“Great,” Dial said sarcastically. “You only have seventeen hundred years to go.”
Toulon smiled. “Eventually, the city became known as Constantinople, in honor of the emperor. It stayed that way until the last century, when the Turks officially named it Istanbul.”
“And that helps me how?”
“It explains why Mount Athos is run from Turkey. At one time, the entire Christian world was ruled from Constantinople. So it makes sense that the Ecumenical Patriarchate, an organization that is several hundred years old and provides spiritual leadership to the Greek Orthodox Church, would exist in that city-despite the presence of Islam.”
Dial nodded in understanding. Sometimes Toulon took longer to make a point than Dial would have liked, but the Frenchman always got there eventually.
“Okay,” Dial said, as he thought things through. “Turkey is a member country, too. So pick up the phone, call the Patriarchate, and ask them for a permit. I need to get to Mount Athos.”
Toulon shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Nick. The Patriarchate provides spiritual guidance to Mount Athos, helping them with religious decisions. Meanwhile, the Holy Mountain is governed on a day-to-day basis by a different body, known as Holy Administration. It is made up of representatives of the twenty ruling monasteries and an elected governor.”
Dial growled in frustration. He didn’t care about the details. He just wanted an answer. “Let me make this simple. Who is in charge of permits?”
“It is a joint decision. Every application is reviewed and thoroughly debated. This isn’t a rubber-stamp procedure. The committee evaluates a candidate’s worth and grants access only to those who qualify. From what I hear, they are very strict.”
“So what are you saying? I don’t qualify?”
“I am not sure. I will have to review their entry requirements. However, even if you qualify, these decisions are made weeks in advance. Permits must be granted. Sponsors must be found. It is all very complicated. There is no way I can accomplish this in an hour.”
“Fine! I’ll give you two hours. But I’ll need twice as many permits. One for me and one for my translator. His name is Marcus Andropoulos.”
Toulon cursed in French. He had worked with Dial long enough to know that he was serious. “You are asking for a miracle.”
“Come on, Henri. You’re always bragging about how intelligent you are. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll come up with something.”
“Oui, it is true. I am very smart.”
“I know you are. So do me a favor and use all that brainpower to help me out. Get me access to Mount Athos and I’ll give you a long weekend off.”
Toulon paused. “In that case, I will see what I can do.”
48
The blow to his head had left Kozlov dazed. It dulled his ability to think. To focus. To perceive the world around him. And that left him in a dangerous place, one where he was no longer the hunter. Suddenly, he was the target, trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.
Ironically, he had made his living in places like this, luring his victims to the nether regions of Moscow where he killed them in isolation. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, he would finish a job in public, but he preferred the solitude of the woods, where his victims could beg and plead as loudly as they wanted before he silenced them forever. He loved that feeling of absolute power, the ability to turn someone off like a light switch.
The rush was better than sex or anything else he had ever felt.
It made him feel like God.
Kozlov walked across the Metro parking lot and turned down a wooded path that led to his hotel. It was the same route he had taken several times during the past week, a scenic trail that ran along the banks of the Chernaya Rechka. Strolling along the water’s edge, he rubbed the back of his skull and felt the large lump that had started to form. It was tender to the touch, yet the pain was welcomed. It was like a whiff of smelling salts, helping him regain his faculties.
It helped him sense trouble before it struck.
The first time he heard the sound he assumed it was an animal. Maybe a rabbit or a fox looking for a meal. He turned slowly around and glanced at the path behind him, but saw nothing. So he kept moving forward, anxious to get to his room and his bottle of vodka.
The next time he heard the noise, it was much closer. Maybe thirty feet to his right. He stopped abruptly and scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sound. A quiet snap could have been dismissed as a furry creature scampering through the underbrush. But this noise was louder, heavier. Like a bear. Or a wolf prowling for meat.
Instinctively, Kozlov reached for his shoulder holster.
To his surprise, it was empty.
“Looking for this?” Payne asked from the middle of the path.
Kozlov whipped his head around and spotted the man from the train. Somehow he was standing in front of him, holding the gun that should have been in Kozlov’s holster.
Payne smiled. “I found it on the Metro. I think it belongs to you.”
Kozlov studied the weapon but said nothing. It was definitely his.
Next, Payne pulled out Kozlov’s wallet and his badge. “When you fall down, you need to be more careful with your stuff. Otherwise it could end up in the wrong hands.”
A surge of adrenaline cleared the remaining haze from Kozlov’s brain. Suddenly, the events at Nevsky Prospekt started to make sense. The man with his gun was working with the black man. They had worked together to guarantee the black man’s escape from the train. Kozlov had no idea who they were or how they were connected to Byrd, but it was obvious they were professionals.
Their level of precision required years of fieldwork.
“By the way,” Payne said as he tossed Kozlov’s pistol into the river. He was much more comfortable with his own gun, so he pulled it from his belt and aimed it at the Russian. “I know you can understand me. I glanced through your wallet and saw some business cards that were written in English. No way you would have kept those if you didn’t speak my language.”