Free The Lost Throne by Chris Kuzneski Page A

That’s pretty rare in a case like this.”
    Andropoulos breathed a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess up?”
    Dial laughed. “Let’s walk outside. I want to discuss the crime scene.”

    D ial didn’t speak again until they were outside, far away from the other officers. At this stage of the game, he still wasn’t allowed to investigate the scene—since he lacked proof that multiple member states were involved—and would be forced to leave if he overstepped his bounds. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Turf wars were common in his business, one where egos were easily bruised and jurisdictions were guarded like jealous lovers.
    For the time being, the local police were in charge of the monastery. Things would stay that way until the Greek government decided the locals couldn’t handle it—or
shouldn’t
handle it—and the inspector general for northern Greece showed up with a team of national experts from the Forensic Division and the Special Violent Crime Squad. After that, it was only a matter of time before Dial was thanked for his interest in the case and driven to the airport. Then again, Dial wouldn’t blame the inspector. If Dial were in charge of the case, he wouldn’t want an outsider lurking around, either. Especially someone who wanted to take control of things.
    “So,” Dial asked Andropoulos, hoping to bond with his liaison, “where did you learn English? Other than a slight accent, you speak it better than most Americans.”
    The Greek beamed with pride. “I learned English when I was very young. My parents owned a small café in Kastraki, and I worked there as a child. Half our customers were tourists who could not speak Greek. If I did not know English, I could not do my job.”
    “And where did your parents learn it?”
    “From James Bond.”
    Dial grimaced. “James Bond?”
    “You know, 007.”
    “Yeah,” Dial assured him, “I know all about James Bond. I just don’t understand your comment. How did he teach them English?”
    “You do not know? They filmed
For Your Eyes Only
in Metéora. The cast and crew were in Kalampáka and Kastraki for weeks. This was in 1981, before I was born, but Roger Moore ate in my parents’ café on many nights. My mother said he was a very nice man and so good-looking. I am told my father was very jealous, but he said nothing, since Roger Moore has a license to kill.” Andropoulos laughed at his own joke. “I think that is why I joined the police. I wanted to carry a gun so I could impress my father.”
    “Hold up,” Dial ordered. He was a James Bond fan but couldn’t think of any scenes that took place in a monastery. “Refresh my memory. What was the plot of that movie?”
    “James Bond was searching for a weapon that was stolen by a Greek villain. Holy Trinity was his secret lair, and Bond had to climb up the cliff to kill him.”
    Dial nodded. “Okay.
Now
I remember it. No wonder I had a sense of déjà vu when I first arrived. I had seen Metéora on the big screen.”
    “I love American films. I watch them all the time. They help me with my English.”
    “What about your French?”
    Andropoulos shook his head. “No. They do not help me with my French.”
    Dial rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Marcus, I know they don’t help you with your French. I’m asking if you
know
any French.”
    “Only a few words. Why do you ask?”
    “Because Interpol is located in France. It might be helpful if you spoke the language.”
    “What are you saying? You think I might be good for headquarters?”
    “Not with that haircut, I don’t. Or with that suit.” Dial tried not to smile or it would ruin his hazing. “What happened? Did you grow a foot since this morning?”
    Andropoulos was about to defend himself when Dial cut him off.
    “On the other hand, I have been impressed with your work. If you keep this up, I might be willing to pass your name to someone in Lyon. No promises, though.”
    “Yes,” he said excitedly,