Prey on Patmos Read online

  “Christodoulos is as sharp as any of his predecessors. He’s kept this monastery out of trouble and away from scandal, despite the efforts of everyone with a microphone and news camera to bring Mount Athos’ problems here.

  “Look, I’m not a fan of the abbot, I know he’s the reason those bastards in the town hall won’t give me the permit I need to expand my business, but I’ve got to give him credit. Patmos and Mount Athos are linked together by the Book of Revelation—it’s the spiritual force behind much of what drives Mount Athos life. Some call Patmos the church’s ‘spiritual eye,’ and monks through the ages have come here from Mount Athos to be closer to it.

  “But, despite all that Patmos shares with Mount Athos, Abbot Christodoulos did not allow his monastery to share in its mistakes. Perhaps that’s because he’s a more astute politician or because his monastery exists in the midst of a cosmopolitan site filled with tourists, while Mount Athos remains virtually as it always has, accessible only by boat, and only to Eastern Orthodox men over eighteen given express permission to visit and the few non-Orthodox men approved for reasons of pilgrimage or study. Women are never allowed. And there’s no TV. I’m not even sure they have Internet yet.”

  He shook his head. “Do I have to tell you what that sort of life can lead to? Especially the no women part. Why, even here—”

  “Time to go.” Andreas pushed back his chair and stood up. No reason to let him get into that subject. “You’ve been great, and I really like your place. Thanks.” Andreas reached into his pocket to pay.

  Dimitri put up his hand and gestured stop. “Please, all you had was coffee. It’s on me.”

  Andreas knew it was a waste of time to argue. “I owe you.”

  “Great, you can tell that abbot when you see him to stop holding up my building permit.”

  Andreas smiled. “If he raises the subject I’ve got you covered.”

  As soon as they were out of Dimitri’s sight Kouros started to laugh. “I think he was serious about us raising his building permit with the abbot.”

  “I’m sure he was. But I get the impression that’s not a subject likely to endear us to the abbot.”

  They were on the far side of the piazza on steps leading up to a set of brown metal doors. “Yeah, like telling him we think one of his monks was assassinated will make us best buddies.”

  Andreas laughed and smacked Kouros lightly on the back of his head as they passed through the brown doors. A few paces later they stopped between two rectangular guard towers framing the entrance to the monastery, looked up, and stared.

  Brown-gray and medieval, the monastery’s soaring stone walls embraced a multi-level complex of courtyards, chapels, formal rooms, warrens of smaller rooms, and corridors, all arranged around the main church and built upon a once nearly inaccessible height. Its irregular exterior flowed with the land. At its greatest, the complex stood at 230 feet east-to-west, and 175 feet north-to-south.

  In an arch above the doorway an icon of the ever vigilant Saint John stood as spiritual protector of the monastery. Toward the top of the wall sat an opening once used to rain hot oil and molten metal down upon invaders threatening harm of the secular sort. Andreas wondered what kind of reception the abbot had in mind for them.

  He gave another quick glance toward the top of the wall, nodded to Kouros, and stepped inside.

  Chapter Three

  A gray-bearded monk met Andreas and Kouros just beyond the entrance and gestured for them to follow him, never bothering to ask who they were. He led them into the courtyard and with a quick turn to the left, into the main church. An elaborately carved, wooden iconostasis covered in icons separated the main part of the nine-hundred-year-old church from the altar area, and a large mural of the Second Coming seemed to grow up and out of the east wall. They passed through the main sanctuary into a small chapel lined with Byzantine paintings, then outside and down some steps to arrive at what seemed just around the corner from where they’d first entered the main church.

  Andreas wasn’t sure if the monk was taking them the quickest way, or one intended to impress them with the majesty of the place. As they followed the man up a flight of stone steps to a second floor, Kouros whispered, “Do you think we should drop some bread crumbs?”

  Andreas stifled a laugh.

  The monk turned right, stopped by a heavy wooden door, opened it, and gestured for them to enter. It was a large room with two windows. At the far end there looked to be more than enough chairs to seat every monk in the monastery. The monk pointed to two unadorned wooden chairs in front of a massive wooden desk, then left, leaving Andreas and Kouros alone. They sat and waited.

  Andreas was a cop, his father was a cop. He was not into art and never had been, but Lila was. They’d met when he called upon her knowledge of ancient Greek art for help in an investigation. It almost cost Lila her life, and Andreas swore never to involve her in another case. So they talked about other things, and she laughingly gave him lessons on her passion for all things ancient. He was far from expert, but thanks to Lila’s lessons, he realized this austere-looking abbot’s chamber was anything but. The discreetly displayed icons, objects, and ancient texts were priceless, intended to deliver an unmistakable message to any visitor in the know: here was a very old, very holy, and very rich bastion of church influence.

  The door swung open and a tall, lean man in traditional monk’s garb strode in. “Welcome, my sons.” He extended his hand.

  For most, the ancient silver and wood cross about the abbot’s neck would be the first thing noticed, but Andreas was drawn to his long, jet-black beard. The man was young, looked to be forty at most. Not that much older than Andreas.

  Andreas and Kouros immediately rose and kissed his hand. “Good afternoon, Your Holiness,” said Andreas.

  “Please, sit.” The abbot gestured with his right hand, then stepped behind his desk and sat in a tall-back Byzantine-era chair. “So, Chief Kaldis, how may I help you?” He was looking directly into Andreas’ eyes and smiling.

  “Thank you for seeing us. I know how busy you must be during Easter Week, and now, with all that’s happened…” Andreas shrugged.

  The abbot’s smile faded and he nodded. “Yes, Vassilis was one of my favorites, all of us loved him. He will be missed.” He drew in and let out a breath. “I cannot imagine who would have done such a thing.”

  “You anticipated my first question.”

  “It makes no sense. None at all.” He shook his head.

  “There must be something. Has to be.”

  The abbot gestured no. “I cannot think of a single person with whom he ever had even a cross word.”

  “What did he do at the monastery?”

  “Do?”

  “Yes, what were his duties?”

  The abbot smiled. “He was a scholar. Loved the library. When we started modernizing—digitizing texts for computers—Vassilis insisted on taking part, ‘so nothing went wrong,’ he used to say. He made himself computer literate and kept the younger monks on their toes.”

  “Was it unusual for him to be out of the monastery so early in the morning?”

  “Yes. I wish I knew why.”

  “So do I. Was something bothering him, was he complaining about anything?”

  “We live in a monastery, there’s always complaining. But Vassilis was one of the few who tried to discourage that sort of thing. He’d say, ‘Stay focused on the positive, let God deal with the negative.’”

  The abbot had an easygoing smile and way about him. He seemed of the unflappable sort that never quite allowed you to know what he was thinking. The perfect diplomat, the perfect churchman, thought Andreas.

  “Sounds like someone who liked to avoid controversy,” said Kouros.

  “Yes, I think that’s a fair way to describe him.”

  Andreas said, “Well, some things must have bothered him.”<
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  The abbot shrugged. “Not really. He even avoided discussions of politics. His sole focus was on the church and doing good.”

  Andreas decided he’d better ratchet up the rhetoric or they’d get nothing from the abbot but blessings. “With all due respect, Your Holiness, how could he be focused on the church for forty years and not discuss politics.”

  The abbot smiled again. “He was an unusual man.”

  “I see.” Andreas nodded. “Is the monastery filled with unusual men like Vassilis?”

  “I wish I could say that were so.”

  “Then I assume others talked politics.”

  The smile came, but not as quickly. “Some.”

  “So what sorts of things did they say that got Vassilis worked up enough to say, ‘Don’t focus on it, let God deal with it?’”

  “Nothing of consequence.”

  Andreas shook his head. “I don’t understand. You’re saying that this ‘unusual man’ who ‘liked to avoid controversy’ would get worked up over ‘nothing of consequence?’”

  The smile was gone. The abbot stood. “I have other appointments.”

  Andreas did not stand. “Your Holiness, I didn’t want to come to Patmos and, frankly, I’d prefer getting back to Athens. But somebody with enough clout to pressure my boss, the minister of public order, wants me here asking questions. So when I tell my boss it’s a waste of time because you won’t answer my questions, the worst that can happen to me is that I’m sent back to Athens to do what I want to do. I leave to your imagination what’s the worst that can happen to you.” Andreas left unsaid, from whatever son of a bitch is behind this.

  The abbot stared for a moment and sat back down. “Good point.” He smiled. “Our police captain warned me you could be persuasive.” He paused. “Mount Athos.”

  “Excuse me?” said Andreas.

  “Mount Athos. That’s what was bothering Vassilis. The scandal in that Mount Athos monastery was consuming him. He was convinced it would be the ruin of the church.”

  “I don’t understand. Claims of corruption in the church aren’t new. Vassilis had to know that. Besides, this is isolated to one monastery. How could he think it was going to bring down the church?”

  The abbot pointed to a framed map of Greece and Asia Minor on the wall to Andreas’ left. “In 1054, at the Great Schism, the church of the West was fixed in Rome, and the church of the East in Constantinople. Our church has had a presence in Constantinople since the city’s founding in the fourth century, and it has always been home to the Ecumenical Patriarch, the spiritual head of our church and my direct superior as abbot of this monastery.”

  The abbot leaned forward. “The occupiers of Constantinople have permitted our Ecumenical Patriarch to remain there, in what they call Istanbul. But there are requirements imposed by Turkey’s constitution. Most significantly, the Ecumenical Patriarch must be a Turkish citizen and have a degree from an authorized Turkish university. For many years there was no problem, because Greeks on lands conquered by the Turks could attend the Ecumenical Patriarch’s seminary, the Holy Theological School on the island of Halki in the Sea of Marmara.”

  Andreas started to fidget. Where the hell is he going with all this?

  “But in 1971, Turkey passed a law forbidding private universities and closed the Halki School. There is no longer an Eastern Orthodox theological seminary in Turkey. Our blessed Ecumenical Patriarch sits in Constantinople because he meets Turkey’s legal requirements, but after his time has passed…” The abbot shook his head, and looked up as if searching for a miracle. “Unless Turkey changes its constitution to accommodate Greece, I fear our next Ecumenical Patriarch must find a new home. Just think how the western world would react if Italy tried evicting the pope from Vatican City.”

  Everyone shrugged.

  “Okay, we know that’s never going to happen in Italy, but the situation in Constantinople is real, and a lot more than just the eleven million of us in Greece are worried about it.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Kouros, sparing Andreas the same observation.

  The abbot nodded, as if fielding a question from a visiting student. “The Russians have long claimed that the head of the Eastern Orthodox Church belonged in Russia. Russia and its former satellites have the most members of the faith, hundreds of millions. But for over nine hundred years our church has been linked to Constantinople, while for most of that time the Russian Church existed merely to appease the Russian masses. Under the tsars, the church was their servant. After the revolution, the only god allowed in Russia was the central government. That made Russia a highly unattractive alternative to Constantinople, yet the Russian Orthodox Church long has sought to undermine, and indeed directly challenge, our Ecumenical Patriarch.

  “The West also liked keeping the Ecumenical Patriarch isolated in Constantinople, removed from his resources and access to his followers. It minimized the risk of some powerful Eastern Orthodox leader emerging who might affect the western powers’ view of ‘world order.’” The abbot flashed his fingers for emphasis.

  “But things are different now. Or at least that’s what Moscow wants the world to think. Russia claims to have embraced the church anew, and that the sheer number of Orthodox followers within its borders entitles it to have the church headquartered there—when the Ecumenical Patriarch is forced out of Constantinople.”

  The abbot crossed himself. “Can you imagine our Ecumenical Patriarch driven out of Constantinople by the Turks and into the arms of Russian control and methods? Just think of the influence it would give the Russians over its former satellites. Forget about controlling their borders, Russia will control their peoples’ souls.”

  Andreas wondered if that was part of the Greek Orthodox Church’s pitch to the Eastern Orthodox community against the Russians. He also wondered how he could find the son of a bitch who got him into this mess.

  The abbot continued. “No one but Russia wants that. But what’s the alternative? Some have suggested Geneva, but the most obvious and natural choice is Mount Athos, a place holy and revered by all Eastern Orthodoxy. It is where the secrets of Byzantium remain safely hidden amid reclusive lives led much the same now as in the fourth century. Some say the entire Mount Athos scandal grew out of an effort by one monastery to establish itself as a world financial center in anticipation of an objection from Russia that Mount Athos was too unsophisticated and out of touch with modern times to be the physical center of our faith.”

  The abbot shrugged. “All I know for certain is that Moscow and Mount Athos are in competition to serve as our next Ecumenical Patriarch’s home. Vassilis knew that too, and he worried that the scandal, with all its allegations of fraudulent property transactions, made Mount Athos seem far too tainted with corruption to serve as our Ecumenical Patriarch’s home. Especially in light of all the real estate the Ecumenical Patriarch controls.”

  “As if Russia were any better.” Kouros snickered.

  The abbot nodded. “Yes, but Vassilis argued that corruption in a holy place is perceived as far more serious and sinful than corruption in a place of government or business.”

  “He had a point,” said Andreas.

  “What sort of property are we talking about?” asked Kouros.

  “A lot…and lots of rents. The Archbishop of Greece controls all Eastern Orthodox Church property on land Greece freed from the Turks in our 1821 War of Independence, while all Eastern Orthodox Church property on land obtained by Greece when our borders were redrawn after World War I—that’s most of northern Greece—is under the control of the Ecumenical Patriarch.”

  Andreas nodded, thinking that was some serious money. There looked to be a lot more than souls at stake here.

  For the next hour Andreas and Kouros pressed the abbot for every detail he could remember of the past week that touched upon Vassilis in any way, and for a list of anyone with even the
remotest contact with the murdered monk. They asked to see whatever files there were on Vassilis, but they proved useless. The background information was forty years old, everything else was praise, and the most recent entry was over twenty years old: a glowing accolade from the archbishop of Greece. Andreas figured whoever was charged with making entries felt there was nothing more to be said, and so no one bothered. Andreas made a mental note to have his secretary dig up what else she could on Vassilis’ past.

  “Yianni, start interviewing the people on His Holiness’ list.” Andreas looked at the abbot. “And, if you have no objection, I’d like to see Vassilis’ room.”

  “Certainly.” The abbot stood up and nodded goodbye to Kouros. “Follow me, please.”

  Vassilis’ cell was in a whitewashed building by a pebble and stone courtyard filled with flowers. The building stood on the south side of the monastery and, if his cell had a window on the outside wall, enjoyed a terrific view of the valley below. What Andreas first noticed was the silence. Only birds disturbed the mood.

  “His room is at the far end.” The abbot pointed. “It’s the one with the table in front.” A photograph of a young, smiling monk sat next to a single white lily on a tiny, square-top table. “As soon as I heard, I gave instructions for no one to enter Vassilis’ room until the police said it was allowed. We needed nothing from his room to prepare him.”

  “What time did you learn about the murder?”

  “A little before three-thirty this morning.”

  “Did the police find anything in his room?”

  “They haven’t asked to see it.”

  Figured. “Has anyone been inside?”

  The abbot looked at the door and pointed to a bit of wax running from above the lock onto the frame. “No, my seal is still on the door.”