The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  And phone calls were something Jones wanted to prevent.

  While prepping for this mission, he had studied a map of the local terrain. He had memorized street names, bridges, and multiple escape routes. He had learned as much as he could as fast as he could, just in case something bad happened along the way. Something like this. Thankfully, his knowledge of the city gave him several choices. Instead of being trapped like a rat in a maze, he knew exactly where he wanted to go and what he hoped to accomplish when he got there.

  In this situation, there was one obvious solution: the Saint Petersburg Metro.

  A white sign with a blue letter “M” marked the entrance to the Nevsky Prospekt/Gostiny Dvor stations. Jones had never been inside, but he understood the basic layout of the system. Four lines, all assigned different colors, extended throughout the sprawling city and its suburbs. The blue Moskovsko-Petrogradskaya Line ran north and south. The green Nevsko-Vasileostrovskaya Line ran east and west. Both lines could be accessed from this central location, which happened to be the busiest terminal in the city.

  To Jones, the large crowds were a bonus. If he timed things right, he might be able to slip away in the chaos underground. He was also thrilled that he could leave the city in any direction. That made it tougher for his opponent to anticipate where he was headed next.

  In his mind, however, the best asset of the Metro system was the natural geology of the city. Because of potential flooding from all the rivers and canals in Saint Petersburg, the Metro is the deepest subway system in the world, buried under a thick layer of bedrock that prevents cell phone reception of any kind.

  And no phone calls meant no reinforcements.

  Kozlov smiled at the development. He had used the Metro several times in the past week, so he was familiar with all four lines, where they went, and which stations would be crowded.

  His immediate goal was to follow the black man wherever he went, hoping to generate as many leads as possible. But at some point, Kozlov knew, he would be forced to grab the bags that the black man carried—just in case they were filled with information about Byrd.

  And when Kozlov made his move, the black man would have to die.

  Jones slipped inside the station and studied the flow of people in front of him. A row of turnstiles prevented passengers from entering the subway without a card or token. In the corner of the lobby, he saw three small booths manned by women cashiers. Jones hopped into the shortest line while digging through his pockets for local currency. A moment later, he placed a fifty-ruble note on the counter and signaled for one subway token.

  She mumbled something in Russian, then gave him a bronze coin and a handful of change.

  His ticket to freedom cost him less than an American quarter.

  Jones hustled toward the turnstile, put the token in the slot, and pushed through the revolving bar. An arched hallway funneled all the passengers toward a long bank of escalators. Jones thought nothing of it until he reached the top step and had a chance to look down. The escalator was so long he couldn’t see the bottom, as though it were going all the way to Hell.

  The person behind him pushed him gently, urging him in Russian to keep moving.

  Jones nodded, stepped forward, and started his descent to the tunnels below.

  Suddenly, he found himself trapped for the next several hundred feet. He couldn’t run or hide or change directions. His options were blocked by a waterfall of people, all of them inching forward at the same pace. Frustrated, Jones looked at his watch, wondering how long this journey was going to take. When the woman in front of him pulled out a novel, he groaned.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said to himself.

  But there was nothing he could do about it.

  He was stuck until he reached the bottom.

  Earlier in the week, Kozlov had purchased a Metro card worth several subway trips. So there were no lines or delays for him. He walked through the turnstiles, barely breaking his stride.

  This helped him close the gap.

  Up ahead, he spotted the black man carrying the three bags. At no point did his target turn around and look for someone behind him.

  The guy was either crafty or clueless, Kozlov didn’t know which.

  But he would find out when they reached the labyrinth below.

  The trip took forever. At least it seemed that way to Jones.

  Finally, the people in front of him gathered their things and stepped off the escalator. One by one, they scattered in both directions toward the different tracks.

  The vaulted ceiling arched above him, lit by recessed lighting. The floor was made of polished stone. No trash or graffiti stained the terminal. The place was spotless. Jones stared at the sign on the wall in front of him. It was written in Russian. No translations of any kind.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  This was going to be tougher than he thought.

  Glancing to his left, he saw a neon sign with green Cyrillic text. To his right, one was written in blue. He couldn’t read any of the words, but he knew the blue trains went north and south. He remembered that fact by thinking of the map he had studied earlier in the day. In his mind, the north arrow pointed up toward the blue sky above.

  And north was the direction that he was supposed to go.

  Wasting no time, he hustled to his right and looked for another sign. The vaulted corridor stretched for a hundred feet before it branched again. This time both of his choices were written in blue. One was going north; the other was going south. He stood there in the intersection, calculating his options, as people streamed past him in both directions. The sound of screeching brakes echoed in his ears, followed by a whoosh of air and the heat of a surging train.

  Or maybe that was Kozlov breathing down his neck.

  44

  The leader of the Spartans was named Apollo. His name was derived from the ancient Laconian word apollymi, which meant “to destroy.” And that was how he viewed himself, as a destroyer. His entire life had been dedicated to the art of war. How to attack. How to defend. How to conquer. The lifestyle had been beaten into him when he was a boy, and now that he was in charge, he returned the favor to the next generation—just as his mentor had done for him.

  That was how his village had survived. They followed the code of their ancestors.

  When the police officers arrived, Apollo was waiting for them. He had watched their slow approach up the treacherous mountain road. It gave him more than enough time to tell the village to be on full alert. In this part of Greece, the local authorities rarely stopped by, and when they did, it was usually for a very specific reason. The last time was a month ago. The cops had been looking for two missing tourists who had gone camping in the Taygetos Mountains and hadn’t returned when they were supposed to. A couple of questions were asked, a flyer with their pictures was shown around, and the police departed soon after.

  The whole process had taken less than fifteen minutes.

  Apollo hoped for the same efficiency on their current visit.

  “Hello,” George Pappas said in Greek. He knew the villagers preferred Laconian, their native tongue, but he wasn’t able to speak it. Neither could Manos or Constantinou.

  Apollo wore sandals on his feet and a simple white tunic that hung to mid-thigh. He nodded at them but said nothing. He let his muscular physique and the coldness of his glare do his talking. One look from him stopped most men in their tracks.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Pappas said as he flashed his badge. “We were hoping you could help us with one of our cases.”

  Apollo shrugged, refusing to say a word. Instead, he stared with unblinking eyes.

  Somehow Pappas found the courage to return his stare. Not only did he have the backing of two armed officers, he was here on official Interpol business. That gave him the confidence he needed to stand up to this guy—even though he scared the hell out of Pappas.

  “Stefan,” he said to Manos, “hand me the picture.”

  Manos
took a step forward, gave Pappas the surveillance photo from Metéora, and then took a quick step back. Meanwhile, Constantinou kept his hand on his gun and his head on a swivel.

  Pappas studied the helmeted man in the photo and compared him with Apollo. No way were they the same person. Apollo was at least fifty pounds heavier with a much larger physique. Hell, his arms were nearly as thick as Pappas’s legs.

  Side by side, Pappas and Apollo looked as if they belonged to two different species.

  “We’re looking for the man in this picture. I’d appreciate if you could take a look.”

  Apollo grabbed the photo, expecting it to be another missing tourist. Instead, the suspect in the photo was one of the soldiers that had accompanied him to Metéora.

  This was not good. And very unexpected.

  Apollo didn’t show surprise—he was too disciplined for that—but his mind started racing. How did the police have a photo from the monastery? What other evidence did they possess? Normally, he didn’t give much thought to the outside world, but on the eve of such an important mission, he knew he couldn’t afford any type of police interference.

  He had to stop their inquiry before the cops had a chance to return to Spárti.

  “Yes,” he said in fluent Greek. “I know the man. He is a troublemaker in our village. What has he done now?”

  The response surprised Pappas. He was expecting to be stonewalled at every turn.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. Our investigation is still pending.”

  Apollo nodded in understanding. “How can I help you?”

  “Can you show us where he lives?”

  “I can do better than that. I can bring him to you.”

  Before Pappas could argue, Apollo called out to a few of his men who were lingering in the background, watching the proceedings unfold. When he spoke, his orders were in rapid Laconian. The language sounded similar to Greek, but there were enough differences that Pappas and the other officers weren’t sure what was being said, which made them uneasy.

  Pappas immediately asked, “What did you say to them?”

  “I said go get the troublemaker and bring him here.”

  Pappas frowned. He knew more had been said. “Does the troublemaker have a name?”

  “Of course. But you will need to ask him yourself. The code of my village prevents me from revealing his name. We have a code of silence.”

  “What about your name? Are you allowed to tell me that?”

  He nodded. “My name is Apollo. And yours?”

  “George.”

  “George,” he said with a smirk. “Such a simple name. One without significance.”

  Pappas shrugged off the insult. “We can’t all be named after gods.”

  Apollo nodded. Most people didn’t deserve to be named after gods, as he had been.

  “Tell me, George, what’s the worst pain you have ever felt in your life?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Before you arrived, my friends and I were discussing the worst pain we have ever felt. I was wondering what your answer might be.”

  Pappas glanced back at Manos and Constantinou, who were keeping a close eye on the perimeter. Because of the rocky terrain and the nearby trees, it was impossible to tell if anyone was out there. Just to be safe, the two officers unsnapped the straps that held their guns in their holsters. But not Pappas. He was being closely watched by Apollo, and he didn’t want to do anything that might be interpreted as aggressive behavior.

  “That’s an awfully strange question. One that might be misconstrued as a threat.”

  “A threat? That was not a threat,” he said with a laugh. “But this is a threat.” He moved one step closer. “We have you severely outnumbered. Lay down your weapons or you will have a new answer to my question about pain.”

  The color instantly drained from Pappas’s face. There was no way he was going to surrender his weapon—especially since the odds were currently three against one. Still, there was something about Apollo’s words that resonated with truth. Pappas knew it wasn’t a bluff. He realized the man standing across from him was fully capable of making good on his threat.

  Pappas said, “If I pull my gun, you’ll be the first to die.”

  Apollo glared at him and gave him a one-word retort: “If.”

  Before Pappas could react, Apollo slipped a small knife from the folds of his tunic and lunged forward. With a wicked slash, he sliced through the veins and tendons of Pappas’s right forearm, rendering his gun hand obsolete. Blood gushed from the open wound, spurting high into the air and splashing onto the dusty ground.

  It reminded Apollo of the eight monks he had killed at Metéora.

  Manos and Constantinou were stunned by the quick attack. They reached for their guns a second too late, as two Spartans crept up from behind. Each soldier carried a sword, and each sword hit its mark. The blade that struck Manos was raked across his back. The resulting wound started at his left scapula and ended at his right hip. Every muscle in between was severed, as were some of his ribs. He slumped to the dirt, gurgling, while his lungs filled with fluid.

  Death was imminent.

  But Constantinou wasn’t as lucky. The Spartan’s sword struck him flush above the elbow. A moment later, most of his arm fell to the ground beside him while he screamed out in agony. His fingers twitched for a few extra seconds like a spider that had been poisoned and was slowly waiting to die. He stared at it, disbelieving, unwilling to accept that his hand was no longer a part of him. As he stared, blood poured from the chunk of meat that hung below his shoulder.

  “Bind his wound,” Apollo ordered. Then he pointed to Pappas. “Same with his.”

  The Spartans disarmed the cops and tended to their wounds, making sure they didn’t die. At least not yet. Opportunities like this were rare, and Apollo wanted to take full advantage—just as he had done with the missing tourists he had found camping near the village.

  The best way to teach the boys was to give them a taste of blood.

  They would butcher the cops, piece by piece, until everyone had a turn.

  Like a lion teaching his young.

  45

  Jones lingered near the train platform, purposely standing still while he pretended to be confused. He turned around, pondered the blue sign above him, and then grimaced in frustration.

  It was a beautiful job of acting, one that accomplished several things.

  First of all, it stopped Kozlov in his tracks. There was no way the Russian was going to walk toward the blue line if Jones was still pondering the green. There was too great a risk of being spotted in the narrow hallway that connected the two platforms, or of being recognized later if Kozlov was forced to turn around and follow Jones back toward the other trains.

  Secondly, it allowed Jones to glance down the corridor to see if Kozlov was still there. And he was. But the Russian played it smoothly, strolling over to a vending machine where he bought a copy of the local newspaper. Then he leaned against the wall and pretended to read the headlines while dozens of people poured off the escalators in front of him.

  Finally, and most important, Jones’s acting bought him the extra time that he needed. The truth was that Jones did not want to take the train that had just pulled into the station. It had arrived too soon. For his plan to work, he needed to miss this train and catch the next one, which would be arriving in roughly five minutes.

  That was the only way that everything would be in place.

  So Jones kept acting like a tourist. He scratched his head in confusion, asked a few people if they spoke English, and listened to the train as it pulled out behind him. Once it was gone, he slipped into the blue station, where he waited to spring his trap.

  As far as Kozlov was concerned, there was no reason to hurry. He knew Jones couldn’t go very far. This wasn’t like the subway system in New York City, where vagrants were able to sneak into the tunnels for warmth or drugs. The local Metro had been built during the Cold War and had been designed to
double as a bomb shelter capable of saving thousands of lives.

  With that in mind, Saint Petersburg took its security very seriously. Heavy blast doors protected the exits. Tunnels were monitored via closed-circuit television. Photography was banned throughout the subway—in order to prevent advanced surveillance for terrorist attacks. And uniformed officers roamed the corridors, searching for trouble.

  So he wasn’t the least bit worried about Jones slipping away.

  Furthermore, Kozlov guessed that every camera in the tunnel was currently focused on Jones. Not because he was black, but because he was carrying three bags and fidgeting like a criminal. In fact, Kozlov was surprised that Jones hadn’t been stopped or questioned already.

  Because in Moscow, he probably would have been arrested.

  This wasn’t the first time that Jones had used this maneuver in a subway. From his experience, he knew the key was in the execution. If he timed things perfectly, he would walk away free. No doubt about it. Plus, his shadow wouldn’t even know what hit him.

  He glanced at his watch as he strolled along the concrete platform, passing several thick pillars that supported the roof above him. While waiting for the train, Jones made sure that he could be seen at all times. This wasn’t about hiding. This was about timing.

  Kozlov strolled into the terminal as the train roared into the station. The loud squeal of brakes reminded him of the tortured screams of some of his previous victims.

  Men, women, children—he didn’t care as long as the money was right.

  Several commuters stood behind a black line on the floor, waiting for the train to come to a complete stop. Kozlov eyed them suspiciously, searching for the man he was tracking. Then he saw him. Jones was waiting near the back of the pack, about halfway down the platform. A look of confusion filled his face, as if he was still unsure if this was the train that he wanted.