As they approached the Russian coast, all three watched for patrol boats. They rarely bothered local fishermen, spending most of their time searching for drug runners and warships, but occasionally, when the soldiers were bored, they stopped boats for the hell of it. Just to be safe, Payne and Jones wore waders and waterproof jackets over their normal clothes. That way if their boat was stopped, they would look as if they belonged.
Jarkko asked, “Where you want to dock? You tell Jarkko, we go there.”
Jones had never been to this part of Russia, but he had spent enough time memorizing the layout of the city to know his best options. Located in the Neva River delta, Saint Petersburg is spread over 576 square miles, including 42 river islands, 60 river branches, and 20 major canals. Known as the Venice of the North, the city of nearly five million people is connected by over 300 bridges, some of which have been standing for centuries.
The main dockyards sit to the west of the city, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Areas like those are patrolled around the clock, so Jones wanted no part of them. The same went for anything inside the city proper. Even though it was bisected by a 20-mile stretch of the Neva River, a fishing boat would look somewhat out of place. Particularly at night. The last thing he wanted was to deal with the city police before they even set foot ashore.
“Maybe you can suggest a place around here,” Jones said as he pointed to a map of the coastline. “I’m looking for a small marina, preferably something that isn’t patrolled.”
“Yes! I know good dock. It is near bar that Jarkko go.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
The Finn laughed as he changed his course. “Jarkko work hard. Jarkko get thirsty.”
“I bet you do.”
Payne overheard the conversation. “Have you always fished these waters?”
“When ice permits, I fish entire Baltic from Copenhagen to Oulu. I have since little boy. In winter, Jarkko try to stay warm. I visit Mediterranean near Spain. Ionian near Italy. Aegean near Greece. I like girls in Malta. They keep Jarkko warm.”
He unleashed a loud belly laugh, one that was contagious. Both Payne and Jones laughed as well, enjoying this portion of their trip much more than they could have imagined. If not for their mission, they would have been tempted to hire Jarkko for a week of fishing and drinking.
Payne said, “I’m guessing you use a different boat down south.”
“Last time Jarkko check, Europe is big chunk of land. Tough to drive boat through. Or has that changed? I do not have TV.”
“Nope. It’s still pretty big.”
Jarkko smiled as he guided his boat into the river channel that would take them to a private dock. “Then, yes, Jarkko have two boats. This one is old. She is rusty and smells like fish, but she never lets me down. I will keep her till she sinks.”
“And the other?”
“The other is yacht. It has no rust and smells like champagne. Pretty girls love her.”
Jones grinned at the image. “Are you serious? You really have a yacht?”
“Yes, Jarkko have yacht. She stays in Limnos. Why is this surprise?”
“Why? I didn’t know fishing paid that well.”
Jarkko laughed. “Fishing does not. But Americans do!”
As promised, Payne and Jones were put ashore on the outskirts of the city. The marina was deserted and had no surveillance. Jarkko would sleep aboard his boat until morning, then head back to the shallow waters of the Gulf. He would, at all times, stay close enough to the coast to guarantee cell phone reception. When Payne and Jones were ready to leave, they would phone him with a rendezvous point. If Jarkko didn’t hear from them within twenty-four hours, he would assume that his services were no longer needed and would return to Helsinki.
But they assured him that they would call. One way or another.
Because of the late hour of their arrival, they were unable to use most forms of public transportation—which was unfortunate, because Saint Petersburg has an extensive network of buses, trains, and streetcars. Not only did it have more streetcars than any other city in the world, it also had the deepest subway—designed to get under all the rivers and canals. But after 1 A.M., taxis were the only thing still running. So they walked to the nearest road and flagged down a yellow cab with a green light in the corner of its windshield. That meant it was available.
Jones opened the back door and asked, “Govorite li vy po angliyski?”
“Yes,” the driver answered. He spoke English.
“Good,” Jones said as he slid across the backseat. “Nevskij Palace Hotel.”
“Yes.”
Payne climbed in, not saying a word, and closed the door behind him. Both he and Jones knew from experience not to talk in close quarters. There was no reason to draw any extra attention to themselves, whether it was giving away an accent, a personality trait, or an accidental nugget of information. Their objective was to remain as anonymous as possible.
Plus, truth be told, they were too exhausted to talk. Two days before, they had been lounging near the beach in St. Petersburg, Florida. Now they were sneaking into Saint Petersburg, Russia. In between, they had lost eight hours on the clock and hadn’t slept lying down. Back in the MANIACs, that sort of trip was normal. They constantly pushed their bodies and their brains to the limit, enduring what other people could not.
It’s why they were considered the best of the best.
Although they were no longer on active duty, their years of training and experience were still a part of them. They knew what to do and when to do it—whether that was on the war-torn streets of Baghdad or in the jungles of Africa. Their formula for success was simple. Pinpoint their objective. Accomplish their goal. Then get the hell out.
Everything else was meaningless.
But as things stood, they had a problem. A major problem. Their objective was ill-defined. What started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else along the way. Something messy. Payne used to call it a potluck mission because it had a little bit of everything. Part fact-finding, part rescue, part mystery, part death. The problem was, they wouldn’t know what they were dealing with until they jumped into the fray. And that was dangerous.
Especially against an unknown opponent.
To make sure they didn’t do anything reckless, they would get a good night’s sleep in a nice hotel. They would shower, change, and eat a large breakfast. Maybe even go for a walk to clear their heads. After that, they would discuss everything they knew and make sure they were in total agreement on the mission’s parameters. If they were, they would get started right away, doing whatever was required. If not, they would hash things out until their goal was clearly defined. Until both of them were comfortable with the stakes.
With their lives on the line, they figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
But first, before they slept—before they were able to sleep—they had a promise to fulfill. One they had made to a scared stranger who was counting on them for survival.
Everything else could wait until morning. Everything except their pledge.
They had to rescue Allison Taylor.
30
Allison Taylor didn’t need to be rescued. She wasn’t the type.
She was a doctoral student at Stanford who had lived on her own since she was eighteen and knew how to fend for herself. She paid her own bills, had several jobs, and still found time to research her thesis—which she planned to finish if she got out of Russia alive.
But that was the problem. She was stuck in Saint Petersburg.
The murder of Richard Byrd had been a shock to her. It had shaken her to her very core, leaving her vulnerable for the first time in years. It was a feeling she despised. The tears, the grief, the displays of weakness. None of those things were a part of her life. Normally, she was the strong one. The rock in the raging storm. The one her friends clung to for support.
But this was different. Completely different.
What did
she know about guns? Or assassins? Or sneaking through customs?
She was a student, not a spy. The rules of espionage were foreign to her.
A long time ago, when she was a little girl and her father was still alive, he used to say, “A smart person knows when they don’t know something.” For some reason, that expression had always resonated with her. It gave her the confidence to ask for help when she was confused or out of her element. It wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a sign of strength. It meant she was smart enough to recognize her limitations and secure enough to get assistance.
And this was one of those times.
She knew she needed help. And she hoped Jonathon could provide it.
In reality, she knew very little about him except his name. But what she had learned during her frantic phone call was enough to soothe her. At least for the time being.
Jonathon was confident, not arrogant. He had listened to her problem, then offered a sensible solution. Go to the American consulate. Get its protection. It was a simple answer, but one that revealed a lot about his character. He hadn’t suggested something dangerous or illegal. Instead, he had suggested the safest thing available: getting help from the American government.
Any other time, that would have been her first choice. But on this particular trip, she knew things weren’t that simple. There were other issues to worry about. Byrd had made sure of that. Otherwise, she would have left the Peterhof and gone directly to the consulate.
On the phone, when she had balked at Jonathon’s idea and said she couldn’t go, she had liked the way he had kept his composure. He hadn’t yelled or tried to change her mind. He had simply offered another solution. He had calmed her down, reassured her of his expertise, and then said he was coming to help. Before she could reject his offer or question his abilities, he was telling her what she needed to do and where she needed to go. And she followed his instructions like scripture.
She booked a suite at the Nevskij Palace Hotel, one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. She paid in cash, not by credit card. She registered under a false name. When the clerk asked to see her papers, she told him they had been stolen but replacements would be delivered within forty-eight hours. He was reluctant at first, until she asked for her money back and a cab ride to the Grand Hotel Europe, another five-star hotel in the area. Suddenly, he was willing to make an exception. She thanked him by giving him a large tip in American currency.
She had been told to sit tight after that. When she got hungry, she ordered room service. When she got lonely, she was supposed to talk to herself. No one else. Not friends. Not family. Not even the busboy. The lone exception was if Jonathon or his friend D.J. called her cell phone. Other than that, she was to remain silent, in her room, until they showed up at her door.
And if anyone else came knocking, she should fight for her life.
The knocking started at 2:37 A.M. It was soft but forceful.
She was wide awake, staring at the ceiling above her bed, when she heard it. Her heart instantly leapt into her throat. She was wearing an extra-long T-shirt and panties, just as she would at home. Now she regretted her choice. She Suddenly, felt vulnerable.
A chair was wedged under the door handle. Both locks were set. The safety chain was attached as well. If someone tried to break in, it would take a lot of effort and make a lot of noise. But not as much noise as her screaming. If necessary, she would wake the whole damn hotel.
Nervously, Allison stared through the peephole. Two men were standing in the hallway. One black, one white. Both of them looked muscular and lethal. “Yes?”
Payne answered, “I’m Jonathon. This is D.J. We’re here to help.”
“Just a minute,” she lied. “I’m getting my gun.”
“Great,” Jones mumbled. “I feel safer already.”
Allison hurried away from the door and grabbed her cell phone, the one that Byrd had given to her. It was programmed with only one number. She hustled back to the peephole before she placed the call. A few seconds passed before she got the response she was hoping for. Payne looked at his phone and smiled. Then he held it up to the door. It was vibrating in his hand.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s really me.”
“Just checking,” she said through the door. “Give me a minute. I have to get dressed.”
“Take your time.”
Jones leaned forward and whispered to Payne. “She’s smart, naked, and carrying a gun? She’s my kind of girl.”
“Keep it in your pants, soldier.”
“Good point. She’s scared enough already.”
A few minutes later, they saw the door rattle as she pulled the chair away. Then they heard the locks, one after the other. Finally, she opened the door and peeked through the crack.
She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. No shoes. No makeup. Yet she was stunning. Her hair was blond and hung to her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of sapphires. Payne offered his hand in greeting, and she grasped it firmly. Her skin was soft, but her grip was strong.
“I’m Jon.”
“Allison,” she said as she opened the door wider.
“Nice to meet you. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. But I’m glad you’re finally here.”
He smiled. The feeling was mutual. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” she said, still holding the door.
“Thanks.” Payne brushed past her as he eased into the suite. He glanced around, making sure that she was alone. “That’s D.J. He’s harmless.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for the invitation.”
She laughed nervously. “Aren’t we a polite bunch?”
Payne gave Jones a nod, letting him know the place was clear. Only then did he come inside and lock the door. It was a simple precaution, but one that could save their lives.
“Nice suite,” Payne said as he roamed from the master bedroom to the sitting room. There was a couch, a few colorful chairs, and a glass coffee table. A plasma TV hung from the far wall. In the corner was a writing desk, right next to the entrance to the guest bedroom.
“It better be,” she said. “I spent all my money on it.”
“Don’t worry. I told you to come here, so it’s my treat.”
She didn’t argue. The room was expensive. “I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised you chose this place. Aren’t people supposed to hide out in seedy motels?”
“Dumb people do.”
“So do dead ones,” cracked Jones.
She grimaced. “I don’t follow.”
Payne sat on the couch and signaled for her to sit on one of the chairs. This way, he could study her as they spoke. He still had a lot to learn about her. Including her truthfulness.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Did you feel safe in the lobby?”
She nodded as she took her seat, folding her legs underneath her.
“Would you have in a seedy motel?”
“Probably not,” she admitted as she grabbed a pillow. She clutched it against her chest like a security blanket.
“So right off the bat there’s a problem. Not only would you have to worry about the guy who’s following you, but you’d have to worry about the crack dealer with the baseball bat.”
She smiled. “Good point.”
“How about security? Does a roach motel have top-notch security?”
“No.”
“Of course not. No security guards, no video surveillance, no key cards or deadbolts. Even worse, seedy motels are reluctant to call the police for any reason because they don’t want the cops snooping around. It’s bad for their side businesses, like drugs and prostitution.” He shook his head. “By comparison, this place is Fort Knox.”
“I have to admit, I never considered that.”
“That’s okay. That’s why you called us. For our expertise.”
“Speaking of which—”
“Uh-oh,” Jones teased as he sat on the c
ouch. “This is when she asks for our résumé.”
She blushed slightly. “Not your résumé, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” Payne assured her. “You don’t know us. We don’t know you. All of us are tired and a little confused. What do you want to know?”
She gave it some thought. “How did you know Richard?”
Payne shook his head. “We didn’t.”
Allison clutched her pillow tighter. “Wait. I thought you were friends.”
“Nope, we never met the guy. Never heard his name until Sunday.”
“But he gave me your number. He said to call you if something happened.”
Payne nodded. “I know, but we never talked to him.”
“Then . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“How did he get my number? A friend named Petr Ulster. He runs a facility called—”
She interrupted him. “The Ulster Archives.”
He looked at her inquisitively. “Do you know Petr?”
“No, but I know the Archives. They’re legendary in my field.”
“Which is?”
“History. I’m a doctoral student at Stanford.”
She paused for a moment, waiting for the obligatory blonde joke that was sure to follow. Or a stupid question about her looks. How could someone so pretty be so smart? No matter where she went it was always the same. Especially with guys. For some reason, they were amazed that beauty and brains could exist in the same package. It was pathetic. And so predictable.
But Payne surprised her. “How’s your thesis going?”
The question made her smile.
“What?” he asked. “Did I miss something?”
“No. It’s just an interesting question. Slightly unexpected.” She bit her lower lip, trying to hide her reaction. “My research was going well until Sunday. Now, not so good.”
“Wait,” Jones said. “You were here for research? I thought Byrd was your boss.”
“Technically, he was. He hired me as a personal assistant for his trip to Russia. But since his project fell under my area of expertise, I’ve been working on my thesis as well.”
The Lost Throne Page 15
