The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  Glancing through the mini-fridge, she realized they needed food. Lots of food. Payne and Jones were big guys who looked like they could eat a lot. So she took it upon herself to call room service. Two days of dining had made her familiar with her options. She ordered half the menu and told them to hurry, hoping brunch would arrive before Payne and Jones emerged from the guest wing. Their timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Jones heard the front door as he exited the bathroom. She assured him it was only room service, but he took no chances.

  He ordered Allison into the main bedroom, then closed the door behind her. Meanwhile, Payne emerged from the guest room and checked the peephole. He saw a waiter in his mid-fifties. No one else was in the hallway. Payne opened the door while Jones covered him from the back of the room. Everything went smoothly, and within five minutes, they were helping themselves to a huge Russian breakfast-boiled eggs, cheese, black rye bread, cold cuts, oatmeal, fruit, and a pot of Nescafé. Their favorite item, by far, was the blinis, yeast-leavened buckwheat pancakes served with sour cream, smoked salmon, caviar, and an assortment of fruit spreads. Jones went the American route, stuffing his with eggs, cheese, and cold cuts, while Payne and Allison opted for the more traditional Russian toppings.

  They ate their meal at the dining room table, anxious to learn more about each other.

  Payne said to Allison, “I’m glad you’re wearing the same clothes. That means you followed my advice and came straight here.”

  She nodded. “I did everything you told me. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  “That’s good to know. If you keep that up, you’ll be fine.”

  “About that,” she said, not quite sure how to word things, “don’t be mad at me, but I need to go back to the other hotel. Just for a minute or two.”

  Payne shook his head. “No way. You can buy new clothes.”

  “It’s not my clothes. I couldn’t care less about my clothes. It’s my research. All of my research is at the other hotel.”

  Jones put his hands in front of him, then moved them up and down like a giant scale. “Your research . . . your life. . . . Your research . . . your life. . . . Sorry. I’m with Jon on this one. Your research isn’t worth the risk.”

  “It is my life that I’m worried about. My name and personal information are all over my research. If someone finds it, they can find me.”

  “Shit,” Payne mumbled. “That changes things. We’ll have to get it for you.”

  Jones put his hands back out in front of him. “Her life . . . our lives. . . . Her life . . . our lives. . . . That’s lives with an s. This one’s a little tougher for me.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “See, the s makes it plural.”

  Payne ignored him. “Where were you staying?”

  “At the Astoria Hotel. It’s across the street from the Hermitage Museum.”

  “I know the place. One room? Two rooms? A suite?”

  “Definitely two,” she stressed. “I wasn’t staying with Richard.”

  “You weren’t a couple?”

  She scrunched her face and shook her head. “Not a chance. That guy was a player. Good-looking, lots of money, and lots of girlfriends. I know he was hoping for something extra on this trip, but I was here to work. Nothing else.”

  Payne nodded. “That’s a relief.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why? Because if you were a couple, a good assassin would be able to figure out your name in a heartbeat. All it would take is a single call to California, and he’d know everything about you. But since you weren’t together, I’m hoping you’ll get lost in the shuffle.”

  Allison turned pale as she set her fork down. “You think an assassin is after me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But . . .”

  Payne believed in being up-front with people. “From what we saw, a professional killed Byrd. Since we don’t know why, we don’t know if he’s looking for a second target. If Byrd owed someone money or screwed someone over, then you’ll be fine. This was a one-and-done, and you’ll never be bothered again. On the other hand, if the two of you saw something or did something that you weren’t supposed to, then that’s a different story. Then I’d be worried.”

  A moment passed before she spoke. “What do you mean you saw him killed?”

  “Good question,” Payne said. “To help you understand, let me explain who we are.”

  He gave her a brief rundown of their military careers. Nothing too in-depth. Nothing too personal. He didn’t even tell her their last names. But he explained that they were ex-Special Forces, they were close friends of Petr Ulster, and they had a wide network of government contacts. And one of those contacts provided them with security footage from the Peterhof.

  “You actually saw the killer?” she asked.

  Payne nodded. “Couldn’t see his face, though. We were kind of hoping you did.”

  She shook her head. “I was too far away.”

  “In that case,” Jones said, “we need to figure out why Byrd was killed.”

  “His name was Richard. Can you guys please call him Richard?”

  Jones corrected himself. “Sorry. Force of habit. Why Richard was killed.”

  She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes, afraid that she was going to get emotional again-which was something she didn’t want to do in front of Payne and Jones. They had flown halfway around the world to rescue her and weren’t looking for money or anything in return. The least she could do was keep it together when she was in their presence.

  Allison said, “For the past two days, I’ve thought about everything I’ve done in Saint Petersburg, and I don’t have any answers. I simply don’t know why Richard was killed.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Payne stated, “because you won’t be safe until we know.”

  32

  Taygetos Mountain Range (22 miles west of Spárti, Greece)

  The Taygetos Mountain Range extends for 65 miles across the Peloponnese in southern Greece. Not far from the ruins of Ancient Sparta, the mountains are home to several small villages that have little contact with the outside world. No electricity. No telephones. And no public schooling. Instead, education is handled by the community in any way that it sees fit.

  In some parts of the world, the Spartan way of life would be classified as barbaric.

  Here, they viewed it as necessary.

  Leon was only twelve years old, but he strode into the center of the ring with the swagger of someone twice his age. Confidence filled his face despite the welts and scars that covered his back. His schooling had started at the age of seven, the same as every other boy in the region. But he was unlike them in one way: this was his day to prove that he was ready for the next stage of training.

  This was his chance to become a man.

  He wore no shirt or shoes, for those were luxuries that had to be earned, much like food and water. He grasped a wooden sword in his right hand and a small metal shield in his left. Someday, if he survived his trials, he would carry real weapons like those used by his ancestors-warriors who were best known for their heroic stand in the Battle of Thermopylae. In 480 B.C., three hundred Spartans, led by his namesake King Leonidas, held off the invading Persian army. They killed more than twenty thousand men before they were outflanked, but only because the Persians were helped by a traitorous Greek.

  People around the globe had been made aware of these events in the movie 300. Yet he never saw it and never would. He had heard the true story from the time of his birth. It had been drilled into his head, over and over again, until he believed that the Spartan way was the only way to survive, that everyone else in the world was weak and corrupt, and that someday, when push came to shove, he would be ready to defend his family and his village with the tip of his blade.

  It was a philosophy shared by both men and women in his culture.

  In ancient times, before going to war Spartan soldiers were presented their shields by their wives or mothers.
They told the men to return home, “With this, or upon this.”

  That is, come home victorious or come home dead.

  Nothing else was acceptable.

  Rocks lined the perimeter of the circle. Dirt and stones filled the ground in between.

  Leon stood in the middle of the harsh terrain, staring at all the boys who surrounded him. For the time being, he considered them the enemy, unsure who would attack him first. Their ages varied from seven to seventeen. The youngest were given whips; others were given wooden swords. It all depended on their stage of training. The oldest boys, who had proven their worth long ago, could use nothing but their fists; otherwise they would overwhelm Leon in a matter of seconds. Still, if given the chance, they would gladly beat Leon to death with their bare hands.

  Leon’s father, familiar with the same proceedings that he had endured as a child, loomed in the background, anxious to see if his son was worthy of living. The only other adults present were the instructors who worked for the agoge-the local equivalent of a martial arts dojo-which had been in existence in one form or another for more than twenty-five hundred years.

  Simply put, this was where boys learned to be Spartans.

  Leon stood in a defensive position, waiting for the assault to begin. His left arm was tight against his chest, holding his small shield high. He slowly turned, always keeping his weight balanced on both feet. This allowed him to move and strike as soon as he sensed danger.

  As expected, the first blow came from behind. He heard the crunching of stones as someone lunged forward, followed by the snap of a whip. He tried to block it with his shield, but before he could, the leather nicked his thigh. Soon a rivulet of blood was running down his leg. A rush of adrenaline dulled the pain as he focused on the task at hand. He charged toward the nine-year-old boy, who had used the whip, and clubbed him across the forearm. The wooden sword didn’t slice skin, but it shattered the boy’s wrist.

  Despite the fracture, he didn’t scream or cry. He just stood there, whip at his feet, waiting for the exercise to end.

  Meanwhile, all the instructors beamed with pride over the actions of both of the kids.

  Leon inched backward toward the center of the ring, waiting for the next strike. This time it was someone his own age. He was armed with the same weapons as Leon: a small shield and a wooden sword. He crept forward quietly, hoping he wouldn’t be heard until after his first blow had landed. But it wasn’t a sound that gave him away, it was his shadow. Leon spotted it on the rocky ground and immediately turned toward his opponent.

  Two boys, both aged twelve, each hoping to bludgeon his peer.

  Their shields came together with a mighty clash, followed by the sweep of their swords. Leon blocked his opponent’s strike with the corner of his shield, and the reverberation forced the boy back on his heels. Using his body weight and momentum, Leon knocked the boy to the ground. Instinctively, the boy raised his shield to protect his face, so Leon aimed lower. He slammed the broad edge of his sword against the boy’s chest.

  The maneuver was a kill strike, one that guaranteed Leon’s victory.

  Disappointed, the defeated boy scrambled up from the ground and hustled to the edge of the ring, where one of his instructors was waiting for him. The teacher grabbed a whip from one of the youngsters and used it on the twelve-year-old’s back. Several lashes later, he pulled the boy aside and showed him what he had done wrong. It was a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

  Meanwhile, Leon had a final challenge to overcome, which would be the most difficult one of all. He would face off against an older boy. Someone unarmed but physically superior in every way. He would be quicker and stronger and outweigh Leon by several pounds.

  This battle would determine Leon’s fate.

  Leon glanced over his shoulder and spotted his opponent the moment he stepped into the ring. He was the biggest boy in the agoge, a seventeen-year-old man-child with large muscles bulging under his scarred skin. There would be no stealth with this assault. The teenager would come right at him, crunching over the rock-strewn ground, forcing Leon to counterattack.

  And Leon would be ready.

  He adjusted his stance, just as he had been taught to do, and waited for his opening. The large youth waited until he was five feet away, then lowered his shoulder and charged forward like an angry bull. Leon held firm for as long as possible, trying to remember the techniques his father had shown him long before his formal training had begun.

  At the last possible second, Leon dived to the ground, using his shield to help him spring back to his feet behind the older boy. Then, while his opponent whirled back around, Leon cocked his sword and thrust it forward with every ounce of strength he had. The sound of wood meeting skull was unlike any sound he had ever heard before. There was a loud crack, followed by an echo that he didn’t think was possible from the human head. A heartbeat later, the teenager dropped to both of his knees with a solid thump yet somehow remained upright. He swayed back and forth as though he was going to fall, as if a single gust of wind would knock him over.

  And Leon just stood there, sword in hand, watching his opponent teeter.

  It was an act of weakness that could not be tolerated.

  Leon’s enraged father pushed his way through the ring of kids. With a mighty wallop, he smacked his son across the face. The boy fell to the ground, spitting blood. He remained there for several seconds, which was a few seconds too long in the eyes of his father. Bubbling with rage, he grabbed Leon by the neck and yanked him to his feet. Then he shoved Leon toward the large teenager, who was still reeling from the earlier blow.

  His father screamed, “There is no mercy on the battlefield. Finish him now!”

  Leon nodded, picked up his sword, and did what Spartans were expected to do.

  He finished the job without mercy.

  33

  After breakfast they moved to the living room, where they would be more comfortable. Each of them sat in the same spot as the night before. Payne and Jones were on the couch, and Allison was on a chair. Once again, she held a pillow in her lap.

  Payne said, “In my experience, it’s much easier to solve a problem when you’re emotionally detached from the situation. It allows you to consider options that would otherwise be difficult. Part of our training as soldiers was to acquire that skill. We learned how to compartmentalize our emotions in the harshest of environments. We learned how to analyze data calmly despite the threat of death. Without that ability, we wouldn’t have been able to function.”

  “Makes sense,” said Allison, as she tucked her feet underneath her.

  “As you mentioned, you’ve spent the past two days racking your brain, trying to figure out why Richard was killed, yet you haven’t made any progress. If I had to guess, I’d say that has more to do with your emotional state than your knowledge of the situation.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  Payne leaned forward and smiled, hoping to connect with Allison. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you some questions about your time in Russia. We’ll try to sort through all your answers and come up with a logical explanation for Richard’s death.”

  Allison nodded. She wanted to solve the mystery as quickly as possible.

  Payne began. “You mentioned that Richard was fascinated with Ancient Greece. What does that have to do with Saint Petersburg?”

  “How much do you know about archaeology?”

  “I know a little,” Payne said, thinking back to their recent missions in Italy and Saudi Arabia. “But not as much as D.J. He’s something of a history buff.”

  “No, I’m not,” Jones argued. “I’m just naturally smart. I remember things that dumb people forget. . . . Remember, Jon?”

  Payne smirked but didn’t dignify the insult with one of his own.

  Allison glanced at Jones. “What do you know about Heinrich Schliemann?”

  Jones smiled at the mere mention of his name. “That guy was a c
haracter and a half.”

  She laughed at his remark like it was an inside joke-which, in this case, it was. Because Payne had no idea who Schliemann was or what he had to do with anything.

  “Time-out,” said Payne as he signaled for one. “Who is Heinrich Schliemann?”

  Jones answered. “He was a German businessman who hated his day job and decided he would much rather be a famous archaeologist. The guy had no formal training, but he took all his money and went searching for Greek treasures. Amazingly, he hit the jackpot on more than one occasion, finding the lost cities of Troy and Mycenae and a number of other sites.”

  “And?” Payne asked.

  Allison jumped in. “Rivals hated him for it. Since he lacked formal training, he didn’t know how to preserve a site or catalogue the artifacts. He was more interested in finding treasure and being famous than anything else. For every piece of gold he discovered, he ruined ten pieces of historical evidence that would have helped scholars understand these ancient cities. Newspapers praised him for his frequent discoveries. The public adored him for his golden treasures. But historians hated him, because they knew what he was destroying.”

  “Not only that,” Jones added, “he lied more often than a politician. People never knew what was real and what was bullshit.”

  “True,” Allison admitted. “But that was part of his charm. He lied about his methods. He lied about his treasures. He even lied in his own diary. He used to glue rewritten pages in his journals to change the facts of his life, so he would seem more important after he died. He talked about dining with presidents and surviving famous disasters, and none of it really happened. After a while, he started to believe his own stories, which made it even funnier. No one knew what he would do or say next. But people were captivated by his adventures.”

  Jones laughed. “Like I said, he was a character and a half.”