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the most.
    Why were the monks killed?
    Was this a hate crime against the Orthodox faith? A robbery gone bad? Or something more psychotic—perhaps an ex-monk getting revenge against his former brethren?
    The truth was he didn’t know and probably wouldn’t until he had a better grasp of the monastic way of life. In his mind, one of the biggest drawbacks of working for a worldwide organization like Interpol was how difficult it was to understand all the ideologies he encountered while traveling the globe. And since Dial had never visited this part of Greece, he knew he had a lot to learn about the local people and their customs.
    For him, the quickest way to shed some light on Metéora was to find somebody to talk to. Not another cop, who would be inclined to discuss the case, but someone who could help him understand the culture of the local monasteries. Preferably someone who still lived in one.
    With that in mind, Dial stopped looking for clues and started searching for a monk.
    Halfway across the complex, he saw a bright light shining under an ancient door. It was made of the same wood as the front gate but was not nearly as tall. Dial knocked on it gently and waited for a response. A few seconds passed before an old man opened it. He had a long gray beard and piercing eyes that sat deep in their sockets. A coarse robe hung off his frail frame like loose skin, as if it were a part of him. It was tied at the waist by a white cord that dangled to his knees.
    He stood there, silent, quietly studying Dial while Dial returned the favor.
    Two men sizing each other up.
    Finally, the old man spoke. His name was Nicolas. “On most days you would be asked to leave.” He reached his pale hand forward and tugged on the cuff of Dial’s short-sleeved shirt. “This is not appropriate for a house of God.”
    Dial lowered his eyes in shame. He had read the warning sign in the valley but had ignored it—mostly because he didn’t think anyone was alive to enforce the rules. Now he felt like a total ass. He hadn’t said a word, yet he had already offended the monk. “I can leave if you’d like.”
    “That won’t be necessary. There are more important things to worry about.”
    Dial introduced himself, then said, “Actually, I was kind of hoping that you could assist me with some of those things. As a foreigner, I don’t know much about Greek monasteries—as you can tell from my clothes.”
    Nicolas considered Dial’s request for several seconds before he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Let us walk. I’d like to show you something.”
    Without saying another word, he started the long journey across the complex. His gait was hobbled, a combination of his advanced age and the uneven surface of the stone courtyard, but he was determined to reach his destination without any help. This was most apparent when they reached the spiral staircase to the bell tower. It stood three stories high and was covered with a tiled roof. The monk grasped the handrail with one hand while lifting his robe with the other. Then he pulled himself to the top, one painful step at a time.
    “Do you know the story of Agia Triada?” asked the monk as he struggled with the stairs. “The hermits who built this place climbed to the top of the rock with their bare hands but weren’t strong enough to carry supplies. So one might wonder how they accomplished their goal.”
    Dial recalled what Andropoulos had said. “Didn’t they lift their equipment with ropes?”
    “They did, but how did they get the ropes to the top?”
    “On their backs?”
    Nicolas stopped walking. “Have you ever lifted two thousand feet of rope? Of course not. It would be far too heavy and cumbersome.”
    “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “So what did they do? How did they get the rope to the top?”
    Dial was adept at solving mysteries, but even he was stumped by this one. “I have no idea.”
    “Not even a guess?”
    “Nope. Not even a guess.”
    Nicolas