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far too tainted with corruption to serve as ourEcumenical 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 mentalnote 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.’
    ‘Open it, please.’
    Inside was not what Andreas expected, and from the abbot’s gasp, nor had he. The place was a mess. Bookstossed everywhere in a way suggesting they’d been skimmed before discarded, a mattress sliced to pieces, every drawer emptied, contents scattered across the floor.
    ‘Jesus - sorry,’ said Andreas.
    ‘I was thinking the same thing.’ The abbot shook his head. ‘How could someone get in without disturbing my seal?’
    Andreas didn’t answer right away. He stood studying the mess. ‘What’s missing?’
    ‘I have no way of knowing.’
    ‘Think hard. Think about the man, think about his life, think about what he valued, what he used. It might help you to remember something.’
    The abbot stared at the floor, then at the bed, and finally at the desk. ‘No, I’m sorry, he treasured his cross, it belonged to his grandfather, but other than that I can’t - wait a minute. Why, of course! His computer! It’s gone.’ The abbot