The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  “Yes, sir! I would like that very much.”

  Dial grimaced at his enthusiasm. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t a date. I need an interpreter just in case the monks don’t speak English.”

  “And some won’t,” Andropoulos assured him. “But . . .”

  “What?”

  “As I mentioned, visitors aren’t admitted without clearance. How will we get in?”

  “Please!” Dial sneered. He was insulted by the question. “I’m in charge of the Homicide Division at Interpol. My credentials can get us anywhere.”

  Henri Toulon burst out laughing when he heard Dial’s request. “You must be joking! I can’t get you access to Mount Athos.”

  “Why not?” Dial growled into his cell phone. He stood up from the bench and walked away from Andropoulos so the young cop couldn’t hear. “This is for my investigation.”

  “They will not care. They do not recognize our authority.”

  “Why the hell not? Greece is one of our member states!”

  Toulon nodded, sitting at his desk. “True, but Mount Athos is not a part of Greece.”

  Dial paused, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Its official name is the Holy Community of the Holy Mountain. It is a self-governed state and has been for more than a thousand years. As my boss, you should know this.”

  Dial wasn’t in the mood for insults. He wanted clarification. “What are you saying? It’s a separate country, like Vatican City?”

  “Technically, no. Mount Athos is a part of Greece, but Greece doesn’t govern it. It is controlled by the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A church council located in Istanbul.”

  Dial shook his head, trying to absorb the information. “Mount Athos is run from Turkey? That doesn’t make any sense. That’s like Mecca being run from Rome.”

  Toulon smiled at the metaphor. “That is a good line. May I use it?”

  “Use whatever you want. But first, tell me what you’re talking about!”

  Dial was fully aware of the political tension between Greece and Turkey. It had existed long before Greece declared its independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1821 and had been fueled over the years by several wars. There were many reasons for their disagreements, but Dial knew the fundamental difference between the two countries was religion. In simple terms, most Greeks were Christians and most Turks were Muslims. Which is why Dial found it so hard to believe that Mount Athos was run from Istanbul, a city with more than two thousand mosques.

  Toulon asked, “Are you familiar with Constantine the Great?”

  “Of course I am. He was Emperor of Rome.”

  “Constantine was more than just an emperor. He was the emperor when it comes to Christianity. In the fourth century, he made the controversial decision to shift the capital city of the Christian world from Rome to Byzantium, a small city that was unstained by Roman politics and much closer to the lands of the East. Over a period of ten years, he expanded his city in hopes of expanding his empire. He built streets, sewers, aqueducts, and more. Then he decorated it with the finest treasures from Greece and Rome. In some cases, he actually disassembled temples, column by column, and reassembled them in Byzantium. Nothing was too good for Nova Roma, or New Rome, which officially became the capital in 330 A.D.”

  “Great,” Dial said sarcastically. “You only have seventeen hundred years to go.”

  Toulon smiled. “Eventually, the city became known as Constantinople, in honor of the emperor. It stayed that way until the last century, when the Turks officially named it Istanbul.”

  “And that helps me how?”

  “It explains why Mount Athos is run from Turkey. At one time, the entire Christian world was ruled from Constantinople. So it makes sense that the Ecumenical Patriarchate, an organization that is several hundred years old and provides spiritual leadership to the Greek Orthodox Church, would exist in that city—despite the presence of Islam.”

  Dial nodded in understanding. Sometimes Toulon took longer to make a point than Dial would have liked, but the Frenchman always got there eventually.

  “Okay,” Dial said, as he thought things through. “Turkey is a member country, too. So pick up the phone, call the Patriarchate, and ask them for a permit. I need to get to Mount Athos.”

  Toulon shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Nick. The Patriarchate provides spiritual guidance to Mount Athos, helping them with religious decisions. Meanwhile, the Holy Mountain is governed on a day-to-day basis by a different body, known as Holy Administration. It is made up of representatives of the twenty ruling monasteries and an elected governor.”

  Dial growled in frustration. He didn’t care about the details. He just wanted an answer. “Let me make this simple. Who is in charge of permits?”

  “It is a joint decision. Every application is reviewed and thoroughly debated. This isn’t a rubber-stamp procedure. The committee evaluates a candidate’s worth and grants access only to those who qualify. From what I hear, they are very strict.”

  “So what are you saying? I don’t qualify?”

  “I am not sure. I will have to review their entry requirements. However, even if you qualify, these decisions are made weeks in advance. Permits must be granted. Sponsors must be found. It is all very complicated. There is no way I can accomplish this in an hour.”

  “Fine! I’ll give you two hours. But I’ll need twice as many permits. One for me and one for my translator. His name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

  Toulon cursed in French. He had worked with Dial long enough to know that he was serious. “You are asking for a miracle.”

  “Come on, Henri. You’re always bragging about how intelligent you are. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll come up with something.”

  “Oui, it is true. I am very smart.”

  “I know you are. So do me a favor and use all that brainpower to help me out. Get me access to Mount Athos and I’ll give you a long weekend off.”

  Toulon paused. “In that case, I will see what I can do.”

  48

  The blow to his head had left Kozlov dazed. It dulled his ability to think. To focus. To perceive the world around him. And that left him in a dangerous place, one where he was no longer the hunter. Suddenly, he was the target, trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.

  Ironically, he had made his living in places like this, luring his victims to the nether regions of Moscow where he killed them in isolation. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, he would finish a job in public, but he preferred the solitude of the woods, where his victims could beg and plead as loudly as they wanted before he silenced them forever. He loved that feeling of absolute power, the ability to turn someone off like a light switch.

  The rush was better than sex or anything else he had ever felt.

  It made him feel like God.

  Kozlov walked across the Metro parking lot and turned down a wooded path that led to his hotel. It was the same route he had taken several times during the past week, a scenic trail that ran along the banks of the Chernaya Rechka. Strolling along the water’s edge, he rubbed the back of his skull and felt the large lump that had started to form. It was tender to the touch, yet the pain was welcomed. It was like a whiff of smelling salts, helping him regain his faculties.

  It helped him sense trouble before it struck.

  The first time he heard the sound he assumed it was an animal. Maybe a rabbit or a fox looking for a meal. He turned slowly around and glanced at the path behind him, but saw nothing. So he kept moving forward, anxious to get to his room and his bottle of vodka.

  The next time he heard the noise, it was much closer. Maybe thirty feet to his right. He stopped abruptly and scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sound. A quiet snap could have been dismissed as a furry creature scampering through the underbrush. But this noise was louder, heavier. Like a bear. Or a wolf prowling for meat.
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  Instinctively, Kozlov reached for his shoulder holster.

  To his surprise, it was empty.

  “Looking for this?” Payne asked from the middle of the path.

  Kozlov whipped his head around and spotted the man from the train. Somehow he was standing in front of him, holding the gun that should have been in Kozlov’s holster.

  Payne smiled. “I found it on the Metro. I think it belongs to you.”

  Kozlov studied the weapon but said nothing. It was definitely his.

  Next, Payne pulled out Kozlov’s wallet and his badge. “When you fall down, you need to be more careful with your stuff. Otherwise it could end up in the wrong hands.”

  A surge of adrenaline cleared the remaining haze from Kozlov’s brain. Suddenly, the events at Nevsky Prospekt started to make sense. The man with his gun was working with the black man. They had worked together to guarantee the black man’s escape from the train. Kozlov had no idea who they were or how they were connected to Byrd, but it was obvious they were professionals.

  Their level of precision required years of fieldwork.

  “By the way,” Payne said as he tossed Kozlov’s pistol into the river. He was much more comfortable with his own gun, so he pulled it from his belt and aimed it at the Russian. “I know you can understand me. I glanced through your wallet and saw some business cards that were written in English. No way you would have kept those if you didn’t speak my language.”

  Kozlov remained silent. Not willing to confirm or deny anything. At least not yet.

  Payne continued as he walked forward. “How’s that bump on your head? I’m guessing it’s a mild concussion. Probably the reason you didn’t notice that your gun was missing. A healthy hit man would’ve noticed that sort of thing.”

  “What is hit man? I am businessman.”

  “A businessman who killed Richard Byrd.” Payne had no idea if Kozlov was actually the killer, but he hoped to trick him into admitting his guilt. “I saw surveillance footage of you from the Peterhof. I have to admit, I was impressed by your skills. That was a textbook shooting—except for the getting-caught-on-video part. You really should have smiled more.”

  “I know nothing about shooting. I am businessman.”

  Payne added more details to strengthen his claim. “I particularly liked the way you tossed your gun into the fountain at the exact same moment the body hit the water. It takes a lot of balls to shoot someone in the head and then drop your weapon. Huge fucking balls.”

  Kozlov beamed with pride. “You have killed before, yes?”

  Payne shrugged as he moved closer. “What do you think?”

  “I think you are like me. A man with taste for blood.”

  “I am nothing like you. For one, I’m not dumb enough to say I’m a businessman when I’m carrying a gun and a fake shield.” Payne recognized the FSB emblem on the badge but assumed it was fake. No way this guy was on active duty. Not without a partner or a radio. “Where I’m from, we call your organization KGB Lite. It’s the KGB minus all that Soviet bullshit.”

  Kozlov smiled. It made him look like a rat. “Who is we? CIA?”

  “Not a chance. I’m just a tourist.”

  “And I am businessman.”

  Payne narrowed their distance to ten feet, hoping to read the Russian’s eyes. “In some ways, you are a businessman. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that you got paid a lot of money to kill Byrd. My only regret is that you killed him before I had a chance to chat with him.”

  Kozlov considered Payne’s statement. “He was known to you.”

  “Of course I knew him. That asshole robbed me blind.” Payne was lying, trying to get extra information from Kozlov. “Same thing with the other investors. He stole millions of dollars from us and hid the money somewhere in Russia. Now, thanks to you, it’s probably lost forever.”

  “You say millions?”

  “Damn! How hard did I crack your head? Yes, Boris, or whatever your name is. I said millions. Many, many millions. And we don’t know if it’s here, in Moscow, or Siberia.”

  Payne glanced over his shoulder, making sure that they were still alone. As far as he could see, the only things moving were the swaying trees and the flowing river.

  “Is that why Byrd was killed? Revenge for money?”

  “Why are you asking me? You killed the asshole.”

  Deep down inside, Kozlov knew only one of them was going to survive this conversation. He knew he had to do something to lure Payne closer. It was the only way he stood a chance, the only way he could use the weapon that Payne hadn’t stolen. In the meantime, if he had to tell Payne the truth about a few things so he would drop his guard, then so be it.

  One of them would soon be dead. So what did it really matter?

  Kozlov said, “I was told nothing. Find Byrd, kill Byrd. I not know why.”

  Payne nodded. “You were paid to kill him and nothing else.”

  “Yes, nothing else.”

  “If that’s the case,” Payne said as he aimed his weapon, “why did you follow my friend? If your job was to kill Byrd, why are you still hanging around?”

  Kozlov grimaced. He preferred being on the other side of the gun. “I was paid to follow Byrd. To learn why he was here. I went to room to learn.”

  “Two days after you killed him? No way you waited that long to search his room. You should have jumped on it at once—before the real cops arrived.”

  “He use fake name. I find room only today. That is why I follow friend. I see him leave. I see him carry bags. I follow him to learn of Byrd.”

  Payne nodded. Everything the Russian said fit the facts of the case. Byrd had been using a fake name. Kozlov did spot Jones when he was leaving Byrd’s suite. And he had followed Jones to see where he was going. All of that made perfect sense.

  Unfortunately, there were still some facts that Payne didn’t know, like who had hired the Russian and what was the real reason that Byrd had been killed. But Payne figured those answers would be tougher to acquire. They would require a little more finesse.

  “So,” Payne said as he stepped closer, “how much were you paid?”

  “Nothing. I have not been paid.”

  “Not even a deposit? That sounds like bad business to me. I mean, you’ve already killed Byrd, yet you haven’t made a cent? That’s pretty damn foolish.”

  “You no worry about me. Money will be paid when job is done.”

  “Tell me, what happens to your money if you never finish the job?”

  Kozlov sneered at him. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Threatening you?” Payne laughed as he lowered his gun to his side. “I was thinking about hiring you. A man of your skills might come in handy during my search.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve got millions of dollars missing—money I won’t be able to find without some help. I know Byrd stashed it somewhere, but I need a Russian to help me track a few leads. Someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”

  Kozlov stared at Payne, considering his words. “How much you pay me?”

  “I was thinking a flat percentage. Let’s say, one percent.”

  “One percent? I no work for one.”

  “I’m talking millions of dollars here. If we find ten, you’d make a hundred grand. I know damn well you didn’t make that much to kill Byrd.”

  “And if we find one million, I make ten thousand. I worth more than that.”

  “Touché. Maybe you are a businessman after all.”

  Kozlov nodded. He doubted that Payne was telling the truth about any of this, but on the off chance that he was serious, Kozlov wanted to hear as many details as possible—if for no other reason than to lure his opponent even closer.

  Right now they were seven feet apart. A few more feet and Kozlov could strike.

  Payne continued. “I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. One percent with a guaranteed minimum of twenty-five thousand. That way, no matter what
, you’ll be paid for your time.”

  “Minimum of twenty-five? For helping you with search? This is tempting.”

  “I thought it would be. Of course for that kind of cash, I need some up-front information. Right here, right now. No bullshit.”

  “What information you need?”

  “Who hired you to kill Byrd?”

  Kozlov smirked. “This is big question.”

  “This is big money.”

  He nodded. “This is true. How I know you will pay me?”

  “The same way I’ll know if you’re telling the truth. Just trust your instincts.”

  Kozlov considered this. “In Russia, there is better way. Look man in eye as shake his hand. This is more valuable than promise. This is contract.”

  “Fine,” Payne said, only happy to oblige. He moved his gun into his left hand while staring at the Russian. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Kozlov nodded and took a tentative step forward.

  Payne followed his lead and did the same.

  The two of them were four feet apart, just out of each other’s grasp.

  As Kozlov stretched his right hand forward, he inched his left hand toward his belt. Made out of black leather, it was held in place by an elaborate silver buckle. Though it looked decorative, the buckle was actually the handle of a sharp dagger. The blade itself was tucked into the leather like a sheath. One simple flick of his wrist, and the weapon would be free of its constraints.

  Payne kept his finger on the trigger even though his gun was pointed toward the ground. He reached his right arm toward Kozlov and grabbed his hand with a firm grip. The two men shook, while staring into each other’s eyes. Neither man trusted the other.

  Kozlov moved first, extracting his blade with speed and precision. One moment it was in his belt, the next he was thrusting it under Payne’s arm toward his gut.

  But Payne had anticipated the maneuver. Using all his strength, he pulled Kozlov’s right hand down and outside, which turned the Russian at a forty-five-degree angle and prevented his knife from striking. Suddenly, Kozlov found himself off-balance and facing away from his opponent. Thinking quickly, he swung his blade behind him, hoping to catch Payne in the ribs or his exposed left shoulder. Instead, the Russian felt his right knee explode as Payne used all his weight to drive his knee into the side of Kozlov’s leg.