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“What else have you been able to discover?” asked Sam.
“At the time of their deaths, both Besim Mala and Arnost Deniv had risen to the rank of Bishop and were highly respected in their communities. Both had helped found churches and schools and hospitals throughout their home countries.”
“Which suggests their burial sites could be more elaborate than a six-foot-deep rectangle in the earth,” Karna said.
“I found no mention of the particulars, but I can’t fault your reasoning,” replied Selma. “In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the EOC—”
“The what?” asked Remi.
“Eastern Orthodox Church. The EOC—especially those based in the Balkans and southern Russia—tended to make a big deal of such deaths. Crypts and mausoleums appear to be the customary method of interment.”
“The question is,” Karna said, “where exactly were they laid to rest?”
“Still working on Deniv, but Church records state that Bishop Besim Mala’s final posting was in Vlorë, Albania.”
With time to kill until Selma could give them a more specific target area, Sam and Remi spent an hour touring Vlorë, marveling at its beautifully blended architecture that felt at once Greek, Italian, and medieval. Shortly before noon, they pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Bologna, overlooking the blue waters of the harbor, and took a seat in a palm tree–lined outdoor café.
Sam’s satellite phone trilled. It was Selma. Sam put the phone on Speaker.
“I have Jack here as well,” Selma said. “We have—”
“If this is going to a bad news/good news call, Selma, just give it to us,” Remi said. “We’re too tired to choose.”
“Actually, this is an all good news call—or potentially good news, that is.”
“Shoot,” said Sam.
Jack Karna said, “The Sentinel disk is genuine, I believe. I can’t be one hundred percent sure until I can check it against the wall maps I mentioned, but I’m optimistic.”
Selma said, “As for the final resting place of Besim Mala, I can narrow your search grid to about a half mile square.”
“Is it underwater?” Sam asked, skeptical.
“No.”
“An alligator-infested swamp?” Remi chimed in.
“No.”
“Let me guess,” Sam said. “A cave. It’s in a cave.”
Karna said, “Strike three, to appropriate an American phrase. Based on our research, we believe Bishop Mala was laid to rest in the graveyard of the Monastery of Saint Mary on Zvernec Island.”
“Which is where?” asked Remi.
“Six miles north, up the coast. Find a Wi-Fi hot spot, and I’ll download the particulars to your iPad, Mrs. Fargo.”
They took a short time to relax in the hotel’s café. Sam and Remi ordered a flavorsome Albanian lunch of ground lamb meatballs scented with mint and cinnamon, baked dough with spiced spinach, and grape juice enhanced with sugar and mustard. As luck would have it, the café had free Wi-Fi, so between bites of a delicious lunch they perused their travel packet, as Selma called it. Predictably, it was exhaustive, with driving instructions, local history, and a map of the grounds of the monastery. The only detail she could not find was the actual location of Bishop Mala’s grave site.
After paying the bill, Sam and Remi pointed the Fiat’s hood north. After ten miles, they pulled into the village of Zvernec and followed a lone sign to Narta Lagoon. The lagoon was large, nearly twelve square miles.
Upon turning onto the dirt road encircling the lagoon, Sam drove north until they came to a gravel parking lot on a patch of land jutting into the lagoon. The lot was empty.
Sam and Remi got out and stretched. The weather was unseasonably warm, seventy degrees, and sunny, with only a few billowy clouds inland.
“I take it that’s our destination,” Remi said, pointing.
At the shore, a narrow pedestrian bridge led to Zvernec Island, eight hundred feet away, that was home to St. Mary Monastery, a collection of four medieval-style church buildings occupying a two-acre triangle of grass on the shoreline.
