The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  Whether those views would help or hinder his investigation, he wasn’t sure.

  But he would keep it in mind when he talked to Theodore in the library.

  36

  Nevsky Prospekt, a bustling avenue that cuts through the heart of the city, is the most famous street in Saint Petersburg. Planned by the renowned French architect Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Le Blond, it honors Alexander Nevsky, a national hero who defeated the Swedish and German armies in the thirteenth century and was later canonized as Saint Alexander.

  More important to David Jones, it gave him an easy route to Allison’s hotel.

  Glancing at his watch, Jones left the Palace Hotel and turned west on Nevsky. The sidewalks were filled with a lunchtime crowd, a mixture of tourists and locals. Jones had his fake passport in one pocket and his lock picks in another. His gun was covered by his un-tucked shirt.

  Five minutes later, Payne and Allison left the hotel, using a different exit. They walked to the nearest intersection and waited for the light to change. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. Six lanes of cars, taxis, and buses. All of them rushing to get somewhere. When the traffic stopped, they crossed to the northern side of Nevsky and turned west.

  They would shadow Jones from the opposite side of the street.

  During the past week, Allison had spent several hours in nearby museums and libraries, doing research while Richard Byrd roamed the city. By foot, the Astoria Hotel was only twenty minutes away. It was near the Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, and the Mariinsky Theater. Tourists would be everywhere. Eating their lunches. Standing in lines. Enjoying the spring weather in the nearby plaza. It was a good spot to wait while Jones broke into Byrd’s room.

  Payne wanted to be close in case there was trouble.

  In a perfect world, Payne wouldn’t have brought Allison with him. He would have left her in their suite at the Palace Hotel until they returned a few hours later. But somehow she had talked him into it, convincing him it was worth the risk. She could take him to the dock for the Meteor, the boat she rode into the Peterhof. She could point out the Hermitage Museum, where Schliemann’s treasure was kept.

  Payne didn’t know where clues existed, so he wanted to see everything.

  On their side of the street, they passed a large trade house, which was adorned with multiple stained-glass windows and several patina-coated statues, the same color as the Statue of Liberty. In sharp contrast, the building sat next to an Adidas clothing outlet and a discount record and video store. New and old sharing the same neighborhood.

  Back across Nevsky, Payne noticed an elaborate building that seemed to stretch for an entire block. People of all ages streamed in and out of the front entrance.

  “What’s that?” he asked as they kept walking west.

  “The Russian National Library. It’s one of the largest in the world. It has over thirty million items. Since 1811, it has received one copy of every book published in Russia.”

  Payne shook his head. “You’re as bad as D.J. He’s always spouting facts like that.”

  She smiled. “Richard took me there when we first got into town. He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for, so I roamed the aisles on my own. I read that fact in a pamphlet.”

  As they continued, his focus remained on the opposite side of the street. He noticed a pillared Greek temple called the Portik Rusca that used to be the entrance to a long arcade of shops. It sat next to an eight-story clock tower, which was topped by a two-story antenna that used to receive optical telegraphs in the 1800s. He had read about such devices—they were eventually made obsolete by the electric telegraph—but he had never seen one.

  “So,” Payne said, shifting his attention back to Allison, “what’s your take on Richard?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you trust the guy?”

  Her cheeks turned pink, her standard reaction anytime she was embarrassed. In the world of poker, it would be a horrible tell. “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s dead. What good would it do to criticize him?”

  “I’m not asking you to make fun of him. I want to know if you trusted him.”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  Payne glanced to his right and saw St. Catherine’s Armenian Church. Its façade was painted turquoise, a color that sparkled among the grays and beiges of the surrounding buildings.

  “Was he a criminal?”

  Her face registered surprise. “What? Why would you ask me that?”

  “Why? Because he was killed by a professional. It seems like a legitimate question.”

  She remained silent while she sorted through all the thoughts that had plagued her during the past two days. And Payne didn’t press her. He just kept walking, taking in the architecture, keeping an eye on all the people who filed past them on the busy sidewalk. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being followed. He did this casually, using his peripheral vision or looking at the reflections in store windows.

  Up ahead he saw the Grand Hotel Europe. Adorned with gold letters and stylish maroon awnings, it looked far more luxurious than where they were staying. At least from a distance. A black Mercedes limousine was parked in front, while a chauffeur waited nearby. If they’d had more time, Payne would have glanced inside the lobby—just to see what it looked like. For some reason, he had always been fascinated by fancy hotels, especially in foreign countries.

  “Yes,” Allison said out of the blue.

  Payne glanced at her. “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I think he might have been a criminal.”

  Payne stopped on the busy sidewalk. Chagrin filled his face. He gently grabbed her elbow and guided her through the crowd until they were up against the wall of the closest building, out of the way of all the people who continued to surge past. “What kind of criminal?”

  “I don’t know. A smuggler, a thief, I’m not really sure. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve had.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he was shot.” Her cheeks were redder than Payne had ever seen them, as if she had been running a marathon. “For the last two days, I’ve been sitting in my hotel room, thinking about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff: the secret meetings, the change in travel plans, the unexpected trips, the fake IDs. Either he was breaking the law or he was onto something big. Something worth all the trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugged in frustration. “I honestly don’t know. If I did, I would tell you.”

  Payne felt his cell phone start to vibrate. It was a brand-new device he had purchased in K-Town when he was shopping. One for him and one for Jones. They had left their other phones, Jones’s computer, and their personal effects in a locker at Ramstein Air Base. One of the easiest ways to be compromised on a mission was to carry personal information of any kind—whether that was a credit card, a hard drive, or a BlackBerry with an address book. Payne’s new cell phone had no names or numbers. If he needed to make a call, he had to do it by memory. However, all of the calls placed to his old phone were forwarded to his new one, so he was able to stay in touch with the outside world without fear of being traced.

  Payne answered it, expecting a call from Jones. “Hello.”

  “I’m at the Astoria. I’m pretty sure I’m clean. Am I clear to go?”

  “Hold on.” He covered the mic and asked Allison, “How far are we from the hotel?”

  “Ten minutes or so.”

  Payne returned his attention to Jones. “We’re ten minutes out. Can you hold?”

  Jones glanced around the square. It was filled with dozens of people. All of them white. “I don’t know. I’m feeling slightly conspicuous here. Jackie Robinson comes to mind.”

  Payne smiled as he started walking again. “It’s your call.”

  “In that case, I’m going in.”

  Turning from the plaza, Jones strolled toward the entrance of the hotel. I
n his experience, people were less likely to stop someone who was talking on a cell phone. Sometimes, if necessary, he pretended to be on a call even when he wasn’t. “I have her room key, so I’ll grab her research first. That will buy you some time before I hit Byrd’s room. That’s more likely to be hot.”

  “Good idea. But if anything feels off, get the hell out of there.”

  “Trust me, I will.”

  “Then call me with an update.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll see me. I’ll be the black guy running toward Finland.”

  37

  Located in St. Isaac’s Square, the Astoria Hotel first opened in 1912 and was renovated in 1991. Complete with parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, and a world-class caviar bar, it was one of the fanciest hotels that Jones had ever broken into.

  Smiling and nodding like he belonged, Jones cut across the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor, where Allison’s room faced the inner courtyard. Wasting no time, he put the key in the lock and slipped inside. Everything was as she’d described it. The room was small but tastefully decorated with Russian linens and fabrics. The bed sat on the right, facing a built-in wardrobe, where she kept most of her clothes and all of her research. Just to be safe, he peeked into the bathroom and glanced under the bed, making sure he was alone.

  As far as Jones could tell, nothing in the room had been disturbed.

  It was a positive sign—one that meant Allison was probably in the clear.

  If her research had been missing or her room had been tossed, the odds were pretty good that she had been linked to Byrd. It also meant Byrd had been killed for something other than a personal vendetta. Possibly his secret mission—whatever the hell that was. But at first glance, Jones was fairly confident that the killer didn’t know about Allison. Or didn’t care.

  According to Allison, Byrd had gotten spooked on Sunday when he left the Hermitage Museum. He thought someone was following him, so instead of going back to the Astoria Hotel, he led the guy on a wild-goose chase for several hours. Ducking into churches and stores, changing cabs and trolleys, he did everything he could to lose his tail. But nothing worked. During his journey, he called Payne every half hour, hoping to get advice on how to get away. When that failed, he phoned Allison and told her to get to the Peterhof as fast as she could so they could leave Saint Petersburg together.

  Unfortunately, he had been killed before they left the city.

  Working quickly, Jones gathered her research and stuffed it into a book bag he found. He removed the identification tags from her suitcases and made sure no personal items—wallets, prescription drugs, monogrammed jewelry—were left behind. He even went through her trash, looking for receipts and old airline tickets. When he thought the room was clean, he unplugged her computer and put everything by the door.

  Then he searched her room again. Just in case.

  Her clothes were too bulky to carry, so they would have to stay. The same thing with her shoes, toiletries, and nonessential items. But he grabbed her iPod—in case it was loaded with personal photos or contact information—and slipped it into her computer bag.

  Now he was positive the place was clean.

  Payne and Allison stood in the middle of St. Isaac’s Square, near the equestrian monument that honored Nicholas I, the former emperor of Russia. The twenty-foot-long bronze statue, which sat atop a three-tiered ornamental pedestal across the plaza from the Astoria Hotel, depicted Nicholas riding into battle while wearing his grandest military outfit.

  Allison stared at the statue while Payne glanced around the square.

  She said, “See how the horse is rearing back on its hind hooves? It was the first equestrian statue ever with only two support points. It was hailed as an architectural marvel.”

  Payne turned around and looked at the monument. Until that instant it had never dawned on him that this massive chunk of bronze was balancing on two thin legs. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  “Even the Communists, who destroyed royal statues all over Russia, left this one alone.”

  “I can see why.”

  “Strangely,” she continued, “the person who had the most trouble with it was Nicholas’s daughter, the grand duchess. It made her quite uncomfortable.”

  Payne refocused on the plaza, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. “Why’s that?”

  Allison pointed to the south side of St. Isaac’s Square. A large building made of reddish-brown sandstone stretched for more than a block. “That’s the Mariinsky Palace, where the grand duchess used to live. If you look closely, you’ll notice she has a unique view of the statue. Instead of gazing at her father’s face, she was forced to stare at the horse’s ass.”

  Payne laughed at the remark. It was completely unexpected.

  “So you were listening,” she teased. “I wasn’t so sure.”

  “Don’t worry. I can do several things at once.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  He glanced at her, unsure what she meant by that. From the tone of her voice, it almost sounded as if she was flirting was him. Which, considering the circumstances, would have been even more surprising than her remark about the horse. Not that Payne hadn’t noticed Allison’s beauty and intelligence. Those traits were obvious from the first time they’d met in the wee hours of the morning. But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about—like his best friend breaking into a dead man’s hotel room and their getting out of the country alive.

  If not for those things, Payne would’ve been tempted to flirt back.

  “Do you get to travel a lot?” she asked.

  Payne was about to respond when his phone started to vibrate.

  “Hold that thought,” he said to Allison as he answered his phone. “Hello.”

  It was Jones. “I’m ready to leave her room. Can you put her on the line?”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine. Just put her on the line.”

  Payne handed the phone to Allison. “D.J. has a question for you.”

  “For me?” she said, intrigued. “Hello.”

  “I forgot to ask you something before. Are any of your clothes personalized?”

  “Personalized?”

  “Initials on your jeans, tags on your shirt, names on your underwear. I don’t want to dig through your pantie drawer if I don’t have to.”

  She blushed. “No, my panties are safe. But thanks for checking.”

  Payne grimaced. He couldn’t imagine what Jones had asked that had produced such a response, but he’d definitely question him later.

  She handed the phone back to Payne. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “What is it?” Payne asked.

  “I’m heading up to Byrd’s room. Am I clear to go?”

  “As far as I can tell.” Payne turned and glanced in all directions. “Wait.”

  “What?” Jones demanded.

  “Jon,” Allison whispered. She noticed the problem, too.

  Three Russian soldiers, dressed in full uniforms and carrying guns, were walking toward the monument of Nicholas I. Normally, that wouldn’t have concerned Payne, who was used to seeing soldiers and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by them. But as these soldiers approached, they weren’t focused on the statue. They were staring at Allison.

  “Hang on,” Payne said to Jones. “I might’ve spoken too soon.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some soldiers are coming straight toward us.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Jones assured him. “You’re white.”

  Payne played it cool, casually glancing away. “I don’t know. They look determined.”

  “Jon,” she said again. Her voice was filled with nervous energy.

  Jones asked, “What should I do?”

  “You know. I gotta go.”

  “I know? What the hell does that m—”

  Payne hung up on him and slipped the phone into his pocket. As the soldiers approached, he casually put his left ar
m around Allison’s shoulder. “Play along,” he whispered.

  “I’ll try,” she whispered back.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Extending his right arm upward, Payne pointed at the statue. Then in a much louder voice, he exclaimed, “I’m telling you, it’s made of brass!”

  “Brass?” she said, quickly understanding his plan. “It’s made of bronze!”

  The soldiers, all of them in their mid-twenties and looking rather serious, stood behind Payne and Allison, listening to their argument. The largest of the three, who was bigger than Payne and looked like a grizzly bear, tapped Payne on his shoulder, much harder than he needed to.

  In a heavily accented voice, he said, “Papers.”

  Payne lifted his arm off Allison and slowly turned around, completely under control. No sudden movements of any kind. Then, with a smile on his face, he said, “No problem.”

  As he handed his papers to Grizzly, he prayed that Kaiser had hired the best damn counterfeiter in K-Town. Otherwise, things were going to get sticky in a hurry. Not only was Allison liable to turn the same shade of red as the patches on the Russian’s jacket if she was forced to lie, but Payne knew if he was frisked, they would find a loaded gun. Or two.

  All things considered, the other St. Petersburg had been much more relaxing.

  38

  The library at Great Metéoron was rarely seen by anyone outside the monastic order. Its books and manuscripts, some of which were over a thousand years old, were far too valuable to be touched by the general public. In fact, many of the earliest volumes were so delicate they were accessible only to a chosen few.

  One of those monks was Theodore. He had been trained in archival science and knew the proper way to handle ancient documents. Although a lack of funding prevented the monastery from building a climate-controlled facility, they took pride in their preservation techniques, locking away their most valuable books in a hidden room that was properly ventilated.