The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  She found an empty row in the back of the crowded hydrofoil. It gave her a great view of her fellow passengers as they glided down the Neva River through the southwest corner of the city. In forty minutes they would reach the Gulf of Finland, an important arm of the Baltic Sea. It separated Russia from Scandinavia and Allison from her freedom.

  At least that’s what she had been told.

  Seventeen miles later, the Meteor arrived at the lower park of the Peterhof. Dozens of tourists stood near the water’s edge, patiently waiting for their return trip to Saint Petersburg. Allison eyed them suspiciously before she left the boat and walked across the long pier toward the wooded shore. She was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a white blouse, a simple outfit that would help her blend in with all the people in the park. It would be closing shortly, and when it did, she hoped to disappear into the crowd.

  Known as the Russian Versailles for its similarities to the château in France, the Peterhof was a series of palaces, fountains, and gardens that had been built as the summer residence of Peter the Great. Designed in 1714, the most remarkable feature of the sprawling grounds was the central role of water-whether it was the sea that bordered half the complex or the massive canal that bisected it. Allison had seen pictures of the Peterhof when she was in junior high and had marveled at its opulence, but nothing had prepared her for the things she was about to see.

  Her first glimpse of the grounds came from the boat platform near the Meteor. She was walking across a concrete bridge when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Paranoid, she glanced in that direction and saw a large pair of geysers spouting water on both sides of the channel that ran from the palace to the edge of the bay. Behind them was another pair of fountains. And another. And another. In fact, there were so many fountains blending in with one another that she was unable to count them from where she was standing.

  Of course, none of that mattered when she spotted the Grand Palace. It was painted bright yellow and sat on top of a small hill that appeared to hover above the fountains. From where she was standing, the hill seemed to be moving, as if the ground itself was caving under the weight of the building. Intrigued, she walked closer, taking the path on the right-hand side of the wide canal. A thick wall of pine trees blocked her view of the fountains, but she heard their constant trickling. The sound was soft and reassuring, somehow calming her nerves.

  When Allison emerged from the grove, she was surprised by the sight. The section of hill that she thought was swaying was not a hill at all. Instead, it was the Grand Cascade, a series of seven water steps flanking both sides of a large grotto with water flowing from one level to the next. Each of the platforms was decorated by low-relief sculptures, gilded statues, and waterspouts-all of them facing the Samson Fountain that dominated the foreground. The gold statue in the center depicted Samson ripping open the jaws of a lion, symbolizing Russia’s victory over Sweden in the Great Northern War. A geyser from the lion’s mouth shot water sixty-five feet into the air.

  Remarkably, none of the Peterhof fountains were operated by mechanical pumps. Peter the Great chose this location for his palace because of several spring-fed reservoirs to the south. In 1721 a canal system was built so water could flow by gravity to large storage pools. When the pressure was released, water rushed through the pipes with so much force that it erupted through the spouts, feeding the dozens of fountains all over the grounds.

  Allison watched the flight of the water as it left the lion’s mouth. It sailed high above the balustrade and fell back to its circular basin. The resulting mist, carried by the light breeze that blew in from the bay, drifted toward the spacious patio at the rear of the palace.

  And that’s where she spotted him.

  He was standing next to a decorative vase perched above the grotto. Just standing there, staring at her, waiting for her arrival. The instant she saw him she wanted to wave, but knew it was too dangerous. No need to attract attention-someone might be watching. Instead, she studied her surroundings, searching all the nearby faces for anyone who looked suspicious.

  After several seconds, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

  The grounds extended in all directions, a labyrinth of sidewalks, gardens, and culs-de-sac. Without a map, she didn’t know which way to go, so she waited for him to decide.

  It was a decision that would never happen.

  Despite the distance, she saw the gun before the trigger was pulled. It emerged out of nowhere like a magic trick. One moment it wasn’t there, and the next it was.

  But the barrel wasn’t pointed at her. It was aimed at the man she was there to meet.

  Before Allison could react, his head exploded in a burst of pink mist. The roar of gunfire was muffled by a silencer. The first sound she heard was the loud splash as the man tumbled over the railing and landed in the upper fountain. He was dead before he hit the water.

  It took a moment for things to sink in. But once they did, chaos erupted at the Peterhof.

  Parents were screaming. Children were crying. Tourists were running everywhere.

  And Allison wanted to join them. She wanted to sprint toward the exit and forget everything that had happened-like a bad dream that faded away when she woke up. Yet her legs refused to move. So she sank to her knees and tried to breathe as she stared at the waterfall.

  Seconds later, the trickling water turned blood red from the corpse of Richard Byrd.

  13

  After Ulster’s lecture on smuggling, Payne felt like a total hypocrite. He had always viewed smugglers as modern-day pirates, hardened criminals with rusty boats and no morals. Ruthless men who rarely shaved and reeked of sweat. The real scum of the earth.

  Yet according to Ulster’s definition, Payne was a smuggler himself.

  Excluding his stint in the military-when he and Jones had frequently shipped men, weapons, and supplies across enemy lines-Payne had been involved in two recent smuggling operations, although he hadn’t viewed himself as a smuggler at the time of the incidents.

  The first occurred shortly after he met Ulster. Payne and Jones uncovered a plot to rewrite the history of Jesus Christ, and in the process they recovered several religious artifacts that had no rightful owner. Since they didn’t want the relics locked away in the Vatican basement, they had smuggled them out of Italy and delivered them to the Ulster Archives.

  The second had been even more dramatic. Payne and Jones sneaked into the Muslim-only city of Mecca to thwart a terrorist attack and ended up rescuing an American archaeologist who had discovered an Islamic treasure the Saudi government knew nothing about. Worried that the Arabs would claim it for themselves, Payne and Jones had smuggled it out of the Middle East and donated it to Ulster’s facility, where it could be examined by experts in that field.

  Ultimately, that’s one of the reasons Payne never viewed himself as a smuggler.

  He never stole anything. He never sold the treasures. And most important, he always donated them to academia instead of keeping them for himself.

  “You know,” Jones said after their call to Ulster, “we aren’t exactly angels.”

  “I never claimed to be.”

  Jones smiled. “Yet you want to be perceived that way.”

  Payne shrugged. Deep down inside, he knew Jones was right. From the moment in the eighth grade when he lost his parents to a drunk driver, Payne had always craved the approval of others. It was his way of making up for the love and attention he had been denied. His paternal grandfather did a wonderful job of raising him after the accident, yet because of his duties as the founder and CEO of Payne Industries, he simply wasn’t around as often as Payne would have liked.

  Instead of sulking or rebelling as teenagers are apt to do, Payne had poured his energy into every talent he had-academics, athletics, martial arts, and eventually the military-hoping his accomplishments would get him the positive attention he needed.

  In the end, it made him a b
etter person.

  “So,” Jones wondered, “how do you want to handle this?”

  “Not much we can do from here. Not until Byrd calls back.”

  “And then?”

  “Then it depends on him. If he seems legitimate, I say we bail him out. I mean, a friend of Petr’s is a friend of ours. On the other hand, if he seems shady in any way, I say we wish him well but tell him we’re on vacation.”

  Jones nodded. “Agreed.”

  “In the meantime, why don’t you dig up some background on him.”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” He turned his laptop toward Payne and pointed at the screen. “As soon as Petr mentioned his name, I ran an Internet search and came up with a few articles. It seems the two of you have something in common.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “You both come from money.”

  Payne sat at the hotel desk and studied the image on the screen.

  Richard Byrd was a handsome man in his late forties. He had sandy brown hair that was gray at the temples and a deep California tan. In the picture he was standing on the deck of his yacht, the Odyssey, while Catalina Island loomed in the distance. He looked cool, confident, and in total control-the exact opposite of how he had sounded on the phone.

  Underneath there was a short biography, detailing his academic and professional careers. He had graduated from Stanford with a degree in history but never worked in that field. Instead, he had taken control of his family’s fortune, which had been amassed during the gold rush of the 1800s, and multiplied it many times over in the banking business. According to this website, he had retired a few years ago to pursue outside interests, although none were listed.

  “Let me guess,” Payne said. “His hobbies include traveling, antiques, and Greece.”

  “Is it just me, or does he look like a catalogue model?”

  Payne smiled and handed the computer back to Jones. “Enough with the fluff. Why don’t you get some dirt on this guy? Anything that might suggest criminal activities. I want to know as much as possible before he calls again.”

  As if on cue, Payne’s phone started to ring on the nearby table.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “Don’t answer it,” Jones shouted as he scrambled for his laptop bag. He quickly unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a short black cord that he plugged into the back of his computer. “Give me your phone.”

  Payne did as he was told and watched Jones attach it to the cord. This would allow them to listen through the laptop’s speakers while recording the call as a digital file.

  Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. Three rings, then four.

  “Are we good?” Payne asked.

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  Payne took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hello?”

  A loud blast of static filled the room. Jones leaned forward and lowered the volume on his computer. It helped with the sound level but didn’t help with the clarity. Static still filled the line.

  “Hello?” Payne repeated.

  There was a two-second pause before they heard a response.

  “Hello,” said the voice. It was soft and meek and feminine.

  Payne glanced at the number. It was restricted, just as before. “Who is this?”

  She ignored his question. After another pause, she said, “Is this Jonathon?”

  “Yes. This is Jon. Who is this?”

  Static filled the line for a few seconds. Followed by a gasp and a sob.

  “Are you all right?” Payne asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible.

  “Is this Jonathon?” she repeated.

  “Yes. This is Jonathon. Who is this?”

  A slight delay, then an answer: “This is Allison.”

  “Allison who?”

  “Taylor.”

  Payne looked at Jones, who shrugged. Neither of them knew who she was.

  “Allison, where are you calling from?”

  A few seconds of static. “Russia. I’m calling from Russia.”

  “Are you with Richard?”

  She let out a soft wail. No talking, just crying.

  “Allison, where’s Richard?”

  A slight pause, then a thunderbolt. “Richard’s dead.”

  “What?” Payne said, stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “They killed him. They killed Richard.”

  “Who is they?”

  “I don’t know. But they killed him.”

  Payne paused, not sure what to ask. “Allison, how did you know Richard?”

  Static for a few seconds. “I was helping him.”

  “With what?”

  “His trip.”

  “And you’re sure he’s dead?”

  “They shot him in the head. He fell in the fountain.”

  “Allison, where are you in Russia?”

  “Saint Petersburg.”

  “Are you an American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s good. Then I want you to go to the consulate. There’s an American consulate in Saint Petersburg. If you go there, they’ll protect you.”

  She sobbed. “I can’t. Richard said we couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. But he said we couldn’t go there. He said if anything happened to him that I was supposed to call. He bought me a phone just so I could call you. He programmed your number into the phone. It’s the only number I’ve got.”

  Payne swore under his breath, not sure what to do. Byrd was dead. Allison was freaking out. And she refused to go to the only safe place he could think of. Back in the day, he used to know several places around the city where operatives could hide in an emergency, but he hadn’t been to any of them in years. So there was no way of knowing if they were still in play.

  “Jon,” Jones whispered, “if they killed Byrd, Petr could be in trouble.”

  Payne covered the phone. “Explain.”

  “Byrd went to the Ulster Archives on several occasions to do research. Who knows what he found there. If these people are thorough, they might go there next.”

  Payne nodded in understanding. Suddenly, they had little choice in the matter. They had to get involved to protect their friend.

  “Allison,” he said with a firm voice, “listen to me. Everything is going to be fine. Do you believe me when I say that?”

  “They killed him,” she said meekly.

  “I know that, Allison. It must be tough for you. But let me tell you a secret. Do you know why Richard told you to call me? He knew if you needed my help, I would give it to you. And trust me when I say this, I’m a very helpful guy.”

  Static filled the line. Several seconds’ worth.

  “Allison? Are you still there?”

  Another lengthy pause. Finally, she asked, “How can you help me?”

  “It’s pretty simple. I’m coming to get you out.”

  14

  While Andropoulos sealed the videotapes in evidence bags, Dial strolled into the main chapel and searched for the second camera. He spotted it in the rear of the church, right above the donation box.

  Trying not to draw attention to himself, Dial casually leaned against the back wall and glanced upward. The wire was attached to a wooden beam in the same fashion as in the gift shop. Except in this case, the viewing angle was slightly more favorable.

  With a little luck, they might actually have footage of the killers.

  Ideally, Dial would have viewed the videos right away, but considering their current location, that was an impossibility. Instead, they would have to wait until they drove to the station house in Kalampáka or got to a secondary location like Dial’s hotel. The truth was Dial didn’t care where he watched it, as long as he got to see the recordings as soon as possible.

  A few minutes later, Andropoulos walked into the church and approached a uniformed officer who looked even younger than he did. The kid snapped to attention and listened intently as Andropoulos handed him the tapes and gave him a series of o
rders in Greek. When their conversation ended, the kid hustled through the same door Andropoulos had entered.

  Dial smiled, watching all of this from afar. “Marcus!”

  He spotted Dial near the back table and walked toward him. “Yes, sir?”

  “What was that all about?”

  Andropoulos blushed. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “That depends. What in the hell did you just do?”

  “I thought someone should view the tapes immediately. And since I can’t leave here yet, I asked another officer to look at them.”

  “That’s what I thought you did.”

  “Did I mess up?”

  Dial shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, that’s the most impressive thing you’ve done all night. You just put justice ahead of your own ambition. That’s pretty rare in a case like this.”

  Andropoulos breathed a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess up?”

  Dial laughed. “Let’s walk outside. I want to discuss the crime scene.”

  Dial didn’t speak again until they were outside, far away from the other officers. At this stage of the game, he still wasn’t allowed to investigate the scene-since he lacked proof that multiple member states were involved-and would be forced to leave if he overstepped his bounds. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Turf wars were common in his business, one where egos were easily bruised and jurisdictions were guarded like jealous lovers.

  For the time being, the local police were in charge of the monastery. Things would stay that way until the Greek government decided the locals couldn’t handle it-or shouldn’t handle it-and the inspector general for northern Greece showed up with a team of national experts from the Forensic Division and the Special Violent Crime Squad. After that, it was only a matter of time before Dial was thanked for his interest in the case and driven to the airport. Then again, Dial wouldn’t blame the inspector. If Dial were in charge of the case, he wouldn’t want an outsider lurking around, either. Especially someone who wanted to take control of things.