The Kingdom

“What happened here?” Remi asked.

“A storm, I’m guessing,” said Sam. “Came off the ocean and ripped across the island like a chain saw. It’s a shame.”

Remi nodded solemnly. “On the bright side, it may make our job easier. We won’t technically be breaking into Mala’s mausoleum.”

“Good point. But there is one more hurdle,” Sam said to Remi.

“What?”

“Let’s look first. I don’t want to jinx us.”

They split up, Sam taking the east side and moving north, Remi taking the west side and moving north. Skipping grave markers, each headed for the nearest mausoleum, stopping only long enough to read the name engraved on the stone facade.

At last, Remi reached the graveyard’s northeast corner, near the jumble of pine logs. As she approached the last mausoleum in her line, it seemed to be the least damaged of the lot, with only a few cracks showing in the walls. It was also uniquely decorated, she realized, her heart skipping a beat.

She called, “Sam, I think we may have a wi

He walked over. “Why do you think so?”

“That’s the biggest cross I’ve seen. You?”

“Yes.”

The wall closest to them bore a four-by-five-foot Eastern Orthodox cross, with its three crossbars-two horizontal ones close together near the top and one near the bottom canted sideways.

“I’ve seen a lot of those, but none this big. I’m curious: why the slanted bottom crosspiece? I assume it’s symbolic of something?”

“Ah, the mysteries of religion,” said Sam.

They walked the last few feet to the mausoleum, then split up, each walking around a side to the front, which they found was surrounded by a calf-high wrought-iron fence. One side was smashed flat against the ground. At the bottom of three stone steps, the mausoleum door was open-or, to be more accurate, gone. Beyond that, the interior was dark.

Carved into the pediment beneath the mausoleum’s sloped roof were four letters: M A L A.

“Nice to finally find you, Your Eminence,” Sam murmured.

Sam stepped over the fence, followed by Remi, and descended the steps. They stopped before the opening; the stench of mildew filled their nostrils. Sam dug into his pocket and came out with his micro LED flashlight. They stepped onto the threshold, and Sam clicked on the light.

“Empty,” Remi murmured.

Sam pa

“No. That smell isn’t normal, Sam. It’s like . . .”

“Stagnant water.”

He clicked off the flashlight. They turned around and climbed the steps. Sam said, “Somebody took him somewhere. All the mausoleums I checked were also empty.”

“Mine too. Someone disinterred these people, Sam.”

Back on the monastery grounds, they spotted a man atop a wooden ladder leaning against the damaged belfry. He was middle-aged, stocky, and wearing a black bicycle-racing-style cap. They walked over.

“Excuse me,” Remi said in Albanian.

The man turned and looked down at them.

“A flisni anglisht?” Do you speak English?

The man shook his head. “Jo.”

“Damn,” Remi murmured, and pulled out her iPad.

The man called out, “Earta?”

A little blond girl scampered around the edge of the building and skidded to a stop before Sam and Remi. She smiled at them, then up at the man. “Po?”

He spoke to her in Albanian for a few seconds, then she nodded. To Sam and Remi she said, “Good afternoon. My name is Earta. I speak English.”

“And very well,” Sam said, then introduced himself and Remi.

“Very nice to meet you. You would like to ask my father a question?”

“Yes,” Remi said. “Is he the caretaker?”

Earta’s brows furrowed. “Care . . . taker? Caretaker? Oh, yes, he is the caretaker.”

“We were curious about the graveyard. We were just there, and-”

“A shame about what happened, yes?”

“Yes. What did happen?”

Earta put the question to her father, listened to his answer, then said: “Two months ago, a storm came in from the bay. Heavy winds. There was much damage. The next day, the sea rose and flooded the lagoon and part of this island. The graveyard was underwater. Much damage there too.”

Sam said, “What happened to the . . . occupants?”

Earta asked her father, then asked them, “Why do you ask?”

Remi replied, “I may have distant relatives from here. My aunt told me one of them was buried here.”

“Oh,” Earta said with some consternation. “I am sorry to hear that.” She spoke to her father again, who replied at length. Earta said to Remi, “About half of the graves were undamaged. The others . . . when the water receded, the people were no longer under the ground. My father, my sisters, and I were finding them for several days afterward.” Earta’s eyes brightened, and she smiled. “There was even a skull in a tree! Just sitting there. It was fu

Remi stared at the beaming girl for a moment. “Okay, then.”

“The government came and decided the bodies should be taken away until the cemetery can be . . . um . . . fixed. Is that the right word?”

Sam smiled. “Yes.”

“Come back next year. It will be much nicer then. Less stinky.”

“Where are the remains now?” said Remi.

Earta asked her father. She nodded at his explanation, then said to Sam and Remi, “Sazan Island.” She pointed toward the Bay of Vlore. “There is an old monastery there, older than this one even. The government took them all there.”

22

VLORE, ALBANIA

“Well, that’s a bit of bad luck,” Selma said a few minutes later when Sam and Remi shared the news. They were sitting on the hood of their Fiat in the parking lot. “Hang on, let me see what I can find out about Sazan Island.”

They heard thirty seconds’ worth of keyboard clicking, then Selma was back: “Here we go. Sazan Island, largest island in Albania at two square miles, strategically located between the Strait of Otranto and the Bay of Vlore in Albania. Unpopulated, as far as I can tell. The waters around the island are part of a National Marine Park. It’s changed hands a number of times throughout the centuries: Greece, Roman Empire, Ottoman Empire, Italy, Germany, then back to Albania. Looks like Italy put some fortifications on it during World War Two, and . . . Yes, here it is: they converted the Byzantine-era monastery into a fortress of some kind.” Selma paused. “Oh, well, this could be trouble. Looks like I was mistaken.”

“Caves,” Sam predicted.

“Swamps, alligators-oh, my,” Remi chimed in.

“No, about it being uninhabited. There’s a Park Rangers installation on the island. It’s home to three or four patrol boats and about three dozen Rangers.”

“Therefore, off-limits to civilians,” Remi added.

“I would imagine, Mrs. Fargo,” agreed Selma.

Sam and Remi were silent for a few moments. Neither had to ask the other about what came next. Sam simply said to Selma, “How do we get there without being sunk by Marine Park Rangers?”

After skipping Selma’s first and predictable suggestion of “Don’t get caught,” they began exploring their options. First, of course, they would need transportation, an easy enough task, Selma assured them.

Leaving Selma to her task, Sam and Remi drove the Fiat south back to Vlore, where they regrouped at their de facto headquarters: the outdoor cafe at the Hotel Bologna. From their seats they could see in the distance Sazan Island, a speck of land rising from the Adriatic’s blue waters.

Selma called an hour later. “How do you feel about kayaks?”

“As long as they’re nice to us,” Sam quipped.

Remi swatted Sam on the arm. “Go ahead, Selma.”

“On the northern tip of the peninsula there’s a recreation area: beaches, rock climbing, sea caves, coves for swimming, that sort of thing. From the tip of the peninsula to Sazan Island it’s just over two miles. Here’s the catch: they don’t allow motorized craft in the area, and it closes at dusk. I presume you would prefer to do your skullduggery at night?”