The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  The popping sound was so loud that both men could hear it.

  Kozlov dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a writhing wave of agony. The pain was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, including the time he was shot.

  Cartilage, tendons, and kneecap—all destroyed with a pinpoint strike.

  Kozlov wanted to scream, but before a sound could leave his lips, it was stifled by the taste of metal in his mouth. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on the gun that would soon end his life. It rested in the hands of the man he had just tried to stab.

  Suddenly, Payne was in complete control.

  And he would milk it for everything it was worth.

  “You know,” he said as he knelt on Kozlov’s chest, making it tough for the Russian to breathe. “Back when I was in the Special Forces, I developed a nasty reputation. Among all the other officers, I was known as a closer. Does that translate into Russian?”

  Kozlov tried to nod his head. The gun in his mouth made it difficult.

  Payne glared at him. “I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I have the ability to read people. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a gift that I can use in so many ways. In situations like this, I love looking into the enemy’s eyes and figuring out what scares him more than anything else in the world. Then I take that information and I use it against him.”

  While Payne was training for the MANIACs, he had learned that one of the most effective ways to get information from a prisoner wasn’t through torture but rather the insinuation of torture—the act of planting a psychological seed in someone’s head and then waiting for panic to set in. If it was done correctly, some people would literally piss their pants long before they were touched.

  “So far, I’ve disarmed you, given you a concussion, and shattered your knee without using any weapons. Imagine what I can do to you when I start getting serious.”

  Payne leaned to his left and grabbed Kozlov’s dagger off the ground. It was razor sharp. “Wow. This is a really nice knife. And I should know. I’m great with a blade. Hell, you should see me in the kitchen. I’m like one of those gourmet chefs. Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop! I’m particularly good with cuts of meat. Give me a chicken and I can debone that cock in two seconds.” Payne tapped the knife on Kozlov’s groin. “Does cock translate into Russian?”

  Kozlov’s eyes got even wider—so wide his eyebrows looked like they might pop off.

  “Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. A few minutes ago, I asked you a simple question that you promised you would answer. Instead, you tried to stab me. That made me pretty mad. That’s why my gun is in your mouth and your knife is in my hand.”

  Payne glanced around. They were still alone. He could take as long as he wanted.

  “Since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you another chance. I’m going to ask you the same question again. If you lie to me, I’m going to get really angry. And if that happens, you’ll find out why my platoon mates were scared of me.”

  Payne inched the gun from Kozlov’s mouth. Before he pulled it the whole way out, he rattled it back and forth against the Russian’s teeth. It sounded like he was shaking dice.

  “Okay, Boris. Answer my fucking question. Who hired you to kill Richard Byrd?”

  49

  Most operatives would have been spooked by the events on Nevsky Prospekt. They would have assumed that their cover was blown and a new hideout needed to be found. But not David Jones. Even though he had been followed from the Astoria Hotel, he was confident that they were now clean. He kept a watchful eye on the street as he and Allison made their way back to their suite. They took a circuitous route, one that allowed Jones to search for shadows. They walked a few blocks, took a cab, and then walked some more. After thirty minutes, they entered the Palace Hotel through a back entrance, staying clear of the lobby and the main bank of elevators.

  The back stairs led them to their room. Jones went in first and looked around. Everything was how they had left it. He waved Allison inside and brought the bags in from the hallway. After carrying them for more than an hour, he never wanted to see them again. Yet Jones knew if they had any hope of solving the mystery of Byrd’s murder, the answers would be found in his belongings.

  “Where do you want these?” Jones asked.

  “By the table,” she replied from across the room.

  Jones dropped the bags and noticed her standing near the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. . . . It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that. What is it?”

  “Sorry,” she said as she stared at Richard’s bag. “I feel kind of strange going through his papers. He was so protective of his stuff. It makes me feel like a vulture.”

  Jones leaned against the edge of the table. “Allison, come over here and sit down. We need to discuss a few things.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Just come and sit down.”

  She nodded and did what she was told.

  “Listen,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ve known you less than a day, so I won’t even pretend to know what you’re thinking or feeling. Everyone handles death and fear in different ways. Your way is different from my way and so on. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “That being said, you need to get something through your head. And the sooner you do, the better it will be for all of us.”

  “Okay,” she said tentatively. “What is it?”

  “Richard Byrd was a selfish prick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was an asshole.”

  “Why are you saying that?”

  “Why? Because you’re showing the guy way too much respect. He treated you like shit. He refused to tell you what he was searching for, and he put your life in danger. That sounds like an asshole to me.”

  “He wasn’t that bad.”

  Jones unzipped Byrd’s bag and pulled out the stack of fake IDs and credit cards that he recovered from Byrd’s safe. He scattered them on the table for effect. “Go ahead. Take a look. What did he have? Five fake names? Ten? And those are just the ones I found. Who knows how many he has back in California. I’m telling you, the guy was bad news.”

  As she glanced through the items, disappointment filled her face. She was aware of one fake identity—the one he had used to enter Russia. All the others were a surprise. “Why did he have so many?”

  Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”

  She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.

  Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault. He dragged you into this mess. He put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”

  Allison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.

  “Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote his appointments. Maybe we can figure out what he’s been up to.”

  “Good idea,” said Jones as he passed her the journal.

  It was bound in black leather. Byrd’s initials were embossed in fancy script on the front cover. A gold ribbon, glued to the binding of the book, marked the cur
rent week. Allison flipped to that page and studied the schedule for Sunday, May 18—the day that Byrd was killed.

  “One entry,” she said. “There’s a man’s name and a phone number. Nothing else.”

  “What’s the name?”

  She tried to read Byrd’s handwriting. It was barely legible. “Ivan Borodin.”

  “Ring any bells?”

  “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  “Local number?”

  She nodded. “Should we call it?”

  “Not yet. First, look back a day or two. See if anything else stands out.”

  Allison flipped back a page. “That’s strange. The same name and number. Only it’s been scratched out.”

  Jones walked behind her for a better view. “Go back one more page.”

  The same name appeared, also crossed off. “Ivan Borodin.”

  “You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”

  “Positive. Richard never told me anything.”

  “Flip back some more. Find the first time Ivan is mentioned.”

  Allison turned the pages slowly, trying to decipher Byrd’s scribbles. Some of his entries made sense, particularly the appointments that involved her in some way—a lunch meeting, a trip to the library, and so on. But most of his notes were nonsense. They were either written in code or simply illegible. “As far as I can tell, Ivan’s name first appeared on the eighth. There’s even a star written next to it.”

  “The eighth? I thought you were in Germany on the eighth?”

  She nodded. “We were. We flew to Russia on the tenth.”

  Jones considered this information. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. See if this makes sense. He calls Ivan on the eighth. They talk about whatever and set up a meeting in Saint Petersburg. The only problem is that Richard can’t get into Russia without a fake visa. So he takes a day or two to get the phony paperwork and arrange a flight. Bing, bang, boom. Next thing you know, your plans to Greece get canceled because he needs to meet with Ivan.”

  She smiled. “Bing, bang, boom?”

  “What? You’ve never heard that expression?”

  “Of course I have. I simply prefer, ‘yada yada yada.’ It’s classier.”

  “Oh my goodness! You made a joke. I can’t wait to tell Jon.”

  Allison blushed slightly. “Just so you know, I do have a personality.”

  “I know you do. I’m just glad to see you finally using it.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Anyway,” Jones said, feeling guilty about teasing her, “if my theory is correct, that means Ivan has something that Richard needed. Any ideas on what it was?”

  She shook her head. “No clue. But the answer might be among his paperwork.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” He wrote Ivan’s number down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Why don’t you start looking through this stuff? Meanwhile, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with.”

  Jones walked into the guest bedroom and partially closed the door. He didn’t want to disturb her or leave her unattended. For the time being, she was his responsibility. Using the cell phone that Payne had bought for him, Jones dialed a number that he knew by heart. A few seconds passed before the phone started ringing at the Pentagon.

  Randy Raskin answered. “Research.”

  Jones glanced at his watch. It was still early in America. “Damn! Do you ever sleep?”

  “There’s no need. That’s why God invented caffeine.”

  “Good point.”

  “By the way, I have to commend you on your trickiness.”

  “My trickiness? What are you talking about?”

  “You called me from a different number. You’re lucky, too. If I had known it was you, I probably wouldn’t have answered.”

  Jones smiled. He peered into the other room, just to make sure Allison wasn’t listening. “And if you hadn’t picked up, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about your future girlfriend.”

  “My future girlfriend?” It took a moment for the comment to register, but when it finally did, Raskin’s voice went up an octave. “Hold up! You mean that blonde from California? You actually found her?”

  “Not only that, she wants you to do her a favor.”

  Drool practically dripped from Raskin’s mouth. He and his computer lived a lonely life in the Pentagon basement. “Anything she wants. And I mean anything. With a touch of a button, I can name a battleship after her.”

  “Ahhhhhh! How romantic! What a sweet and totally inappropriate gesture.”

  “Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”

  “Thankfully, her idea of a favor is a little smaller than that. She needs information on a man named Ivan Borodin. I have a phone number, if that will help.”

  “Of course it will help.”

  Jones read it to him. “I’m pretty sure it’s in Saint Petersburg.”

  Raskin waited for the details to flash on his screen. “You are correct. Ivan Sergei Borodin lives in Saint Petersburg on some street I can’t pronounce. I can spell it for you, though.”

  Jones wrote down the address. “Anything else?”

  “From what I can tell, the dude is pretty old. He’s eighty-eight.”

  “Eighty-eight? That can’t be right. Does he have a son of something?”

  “Hold on. Different database.” The sound of typing filled the line until Raskin spoke again. “Nope. No kids listed. His wife is deceased. His brother is deceased. His sisters are deceased. Surprisingly, his parents are still alive.”

  “What!”

  “Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were listening.”

  Jones smiled. “What about employment history?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s retired.”

  “From where?”

  “Hold on. . . .”

  “I know. Different database.”

  “Okay,” Raskin said. “Last known employer was the State Hermitage Museum. I can get you the address if you need it.”

  “No, thanks. I’m familiar with the place. Do you know what position he held?”

  “I sure do. Until eight years ago, Ivan Borodin was the director of the museum.”

  50

  While Dial made the arrangements for their trip to Mount Athos, Andropoulos drove him to his hotel in Kalampáka. It took nearly thirty minutes from Great Metéoron.

  “We have some time to kill before the helicopter arrives,” Dial said when they reached the hotel parking lot. “I’d like to show you something.”

  “Of course, sir. Whatever you want.”

  Dial led the way to his hotel room. A “do not disturb” sign hung from the knob. He unlocked the door and walked inside. A large bulletin board was sitting on a table, leaning against the far wall. The board was covered with handwritten notes on index cards and several photographs from the crime scene.

  Andropoulos stared at it with a mixture of confusion and wonder. “Sir, what is all of this?”

  “It’s my way of organizing a case.” Dial had assembled it the night before while trying to digest his authentic Greek dinner. His project was finished long before his indigestion had disappeared. “Some people prefer computers. But not me. I’m old-school when it comes to investigations. I like seeing everything in front of me all at once. I like having the freedom to shift things around as the pieces fall into place. It helps me see the big picture.”

  Andropoulos pointed at the board. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

  Dial nodded. “If you’re going to be my translator at Mount Athos, I need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “In that case, you’d better walk me through everything.”

  Dial started with the index card at the top of the board. On it he had written the numbers one through seven, followed by the names of the monks who had been identified by the police. “So far we know about four monks, not including the one who kept his head. Each of them is from a different country, right?”

  “That i
s correct. Russia, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Greece.”

  “Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? That monks from four different countries were having a secret meeting in the middle of the night in a place as isolated as Metéora.”

  “Very strange.”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to get even stranger. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you that the remaining three monks are from different countries as well.”

  “Countries with ties to the Orthodox Church.”

  Dial smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Yet you don’t think this meeting was about religion.”

  “My gut tells me no. And after talking to my colleague at Interpol, I’m even more confident than before.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  Dial pointed to a small map that was thumbtacked to the bottom of his board. It showed the geography of Greece and several surrounding countries. “Originally, I had assumed that the seat of the Greek Orthodox Church would be in Greece. Nope, stupid me. It turns out the Ecumenical Patriarchate is located in Istanbul.”

  “The Patriarchate is in Turkey? I thought it was in Athens.”

  “That’s what I assumed, too. But it’s not.”

  Andropoulos stared at the map. “And why is that important?”

  “If this diverse group of monks was having an official meeting about church doctrine, where would it be held?”

  “In Istanbul.”

  “And if they were having an unofficial meeting, where would they go?”

  “Probably Athens.”

  Dial nodded. “Makes sense to me. Major airport. Centrally located. A very solid choice.”

  “But they chose here instead.”

  “Exactly. Which makes no sense at all. Why arrange a meeting in the middle of the night on top of a mountain unless you had a specific reason to do it?”

  “Such as?”

  Dial tapped Andropoulos on his chest. “See, that’s a question right there that needs to be answered. Once we figure that out, all of this other stuff will start to fall into place.”