The Lost Throne paj-7

by Chris Kuzneski

  “No problem,” Payne assured him. “If the cops are called, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “I’m serious, Jon. I don’t want to be the black Yuri Gagarin.”

  “What in the hell does that mean? You don’t want to be a cosmonaut?”

  “No, I don’t want to be a guinea pig. There’s no telling what tests they’ll run on my black ass if I get caught. Not to mention everything else that’s done to a man’s ass in prison.”

  Payne laughed, knowing full well that Jones was joking about Russia. In fact, just about the only time race was mentioned by either of them was when they were joking around.

  And it had been that way from the very beginning.

  They had met a decade earlier when they were handpicked to run the MANIACs. After a rocky start-mostly because Payne attended Annapolis and Jones attended the Air Force Academy-they became good friends. That bond had strengthened over time, a common occurrence when two soldiers watched each other’s back in countries all over the globe. Eventually, it evolved into something stronger than friendship. They became brothers.

  A few years ago, Payne’s grandfather passed away, giving him the controlling interest in the family business. It had grown from a one-man shop near the Ohio River into a multinational corporation called Payne Industries. At the time, Payne hadn’t been ready to leave the service, but out of love and respect for the man who raised him, he retired from the military and moved back home to fulfill his familial duties.

  To help with his adjustment to civilian life, Payne convinced Jones to retire and move to Pittsburgh. He sweetened the deal by giving Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and lending him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not? After the death of Grandpa Payne, Jones was the only family that Payne had left.

  Not surprisingly, the pace of their life had slowed significantly in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they went out on their own.

  And truth be told, even though they hated the circumstances of this particular adventure-namely, the death of Richard Byrd-both of them loved the adrenaline rush of a freelance mission. Not only did it get their juices flowing, it helped them stay sharp in case the government ever needed their talents for a special operation.

  Sitting in the belly of the cargo plane, Jones couldn’t plug his computer into a phone line, which meant he wasn’t able to do the research he required. Since they were cruising 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, the odds of getting a wireless connection were pretty damn slim.

  One of the most important skills in the Special Forces was the ability to adapt. Whether it was hand-to-hand combat or the planning of a mission, a soldier had to make the best of a bad situation or he wouldn’t survive very long. Knowing how much work needed to be done before they landed in Germany, Jones decided to contact one of the few people he could count on.

  “Research,” said his friend as he answered his phone at the Pentagon.

  “Hey, Randy. How’s life?”

  Raskin groaned. “It would be much easier if you and Jon forgot my number.”

  Jones smiled while adjusting his bulky headset. Without it, he couldn’t hear anything in the back of the noisy plane. “Truth be told, I didn’t even dial your number. I simply asked the pilot to patch me through to the smartest guy at the Pentagon, and you answered the phone.”

  “The smartest guy at the Pentagon, huh? Talk about faint praise.”

  “At least it was a compliment. When Jon calls you, he insults you for ten minutes.”

  “That’s a very good point. I’m in counseling because of him.” Raskin laughed at his own joke. “So what do you need from me now? Does your Russian friend need more help?”

  “Actually,” Jones said in a serious tone, “we think he’s dead.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. We never met the guy. He was more of a friend of a friend.”

  “Even so, I’m sorry for the loss. What can I do to help?”

  “At this point we’re looking for confirmation of his death. As you know, he was calling us from Saint Petersburg, but we never talked to him. According to one source, he was shot and killed in some kind of fountain. Can you check to see if anything matches that description?”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Richard Byrd. Although he might have been using an alias.”

  Raskin went to work on his keyboard, quickly searching the main criminal database in Russia. Insiders called it Kremlin.com because its real name was written in Cyrillic and impossible to pronounce. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “No luck?”

  “Just the opposite. I found something that matches your description. White male, mid to late forties, discovered in one of the Peterhof fountains. Single shot to the head.”

  “Damn,” Jones muttered. He glanced at Payne and made a slashing motion across his neck. Payne nodded in understanding. “Was he identified?”

  “Not according to this. Then again, that could mean a number of things. Maybe they’re holding his identity until they notify his family. Or maybe the killer took his wallet. The truth is I have no way of knowing without calling them myself.”

  “Which is something we don’t want you to do. We need to keep a low profile on this.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Next question. Can you check on Byrd’s movement during the past few months?”

  “Hold on. Different database.” Twenty seconds passed before Raskin spoke again. “No visas listed for Russia, but he visited Greece, Italy, Germany, and several other countries in Europe. I can send you a list if you want.”

  “Go ahead. But I won’t have access until we land.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Ramstein.”

  “Then what?”

  “A rendezvous in Russia.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “I wish.”

  “In that case, you should tell Jon how you really feel.”

  Jones laughed. “Damn, Randy! For you, that was pretty funny.”

  “Thanks. Wait. What did you mean by that?”

  “I’ll tell you later. First, I have one more question. I need some background information on an American named Allison Taylor. Middle name and hometown unknown. Current employer is believed to be Richard Byrd. At least until a few hours ago.”

  “Hold on. That’s another database.”

  Jones figured it would be. “Out of curiosity, how many databases do you have?”

  “Let me put it to you this way: I have a database to keep track of my databases.”

  Jones whistled, impressed. “Seriously, Randy, I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty simple. I’m the smartest guy in the Pentagon, remember?”

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  Raskin smiled as he continued to type. A few seconds later, he found the information he was looking for. “Okay, here you go. Allison Renée Taylor . . . Born in California . . . Graduated from Stanford . . . Single . . . Valid driver’s license . . . Hot as hell! Seriously, you should see her photo. She even looks great on her ID.”

  “Send it to me. The highest resolution possible.”

  “Done.”

  “What about employment? Any connection to Byrd?”

  “Duh! That’s how I found her so fast. He filed a single document with the IRS. A personal-services contract. Whatever that means.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I can find. Then again, I can’t stop staring at her picture. It’s really strange. No matter where I move, it’s like her eyes are following me.”

  Jones laughed. “Damn! How much caffeine have you had today?”

  “Define today.”

  He laughed again. “Another all-nighter?”
>
  “Another all-weeker. You know me, I never leave my desk.”

  “That’s one of the reasons we love you: your dedication to your country.”

  “That and the fact I do your dirty work for free.”

  Jones nodded in agreement. “Yep. That too.”

  “Okay, chief, I gotta jet. But send me a postcard from Siberia.”

  “Not funny,” Jones said. “Not funny at all.”

  17

  MONDAY, MAY 19

  Kalampáka, Greece

  The phone rang at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour before Nick Dial planned to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over in the hotel bed, and checked his caller ID. It was Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division, calling from Interpol Headquarters in France.

  If it had been anyone else, Dial would have let it go to voice mail. But since he had been trying to reach Toulon for the better part of a day, he decided to answer the call.

  “Hello,” Dial said with sleep in his throat.

  Toulon spoke with a French accent. “Bonjour, Mr. Boss-Man. Did I wake you?”

  “You know you did.”

  “Oui, I know. That is why I called. Just to wake you. My entire day revolves around Nick. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour!”

  Dial grinned at the sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re mad about yesterday’s message.”

  “Message? You left me a message?” Toulon put a cigarette in his mouth and desperately wanted to light it. “Sorry, I heard no message from you. I was too busy taking a nap and drinking wine in your office. Then I ate some stinky cheese, just to improve the smell.”

  “Wow. You’re really pissy today. Do you want to talk later?”

  “No,” Toulon said. “I want to talk now. I want to get this over with.”

  Dial grimaced, not sure if Toulon was mad at him or not. Then again, it was too early in the morning to actually care. “Did you get my e-mail? I sent it from my phone.”

  “One moment. Let me check.”

  While Toulon checked his computer, Dial climbed out of bed and walked across the tiled floor of his spacious suite. Somehow Andropoulos had booked him a great room in the Divani Metéora, a luxury hotel in Kalampáka. It was so close to the monastery, he could stare at the towering cliffs from his private balcony.

  “Oui. I found it. Give me a moment to read it.”

  “Take your time,” Dial said as he wandered into the bathroom.

  Toulon spoke again a few minutes later. He was staring at his computer screen, trying to make sense of the two images that Dial had sent to him. “What am I looking at?”

  “Pictures of the killers.”

  “You are teasing, no? How did you get these?”

  “The monks had a nanny cam.”

  Toulon spat out his cigarette in disgust. “I hate those damn things! I have been caught with too many nannies.”

  Dial laughed, realizing that Toulon wasn’t joking. “Sorry to hear that, Henri. But in this case, we really lucked out. It’s the biggest break we’ve had.”

  “This is quite helpful. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am an expert on Ancient Greece.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re an expert on everything.”

  “Oui, this is true. I am quite good.” Toulon ran his fingers over his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He certainly didn’t look the part of an Interpol officer. But his brilliance more than made up for his attitude and attire. “What do you want to know?”

  Dial picked up hard copies of the two photos. “Let’s start with the sword.”

  Toulon clicked on the first image, then enlarged it until the sword filled the screen. He focused on the details, searching for the nuances that would define the weapon. It didn’t take long for him to reach a conclusion. “This is a xiphos. It was used by a hoplite.”

  “A what?”

  “A hoplite. An infantryman from Ancient Greece.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Toulon sneered. “Do not insult me! I can tell with a single look because I am an expert. If a doctor said to you, ‘Nick, you are dying of a brain tumor,’ would you say, ‘How can you tell?’”

  “Definitely.”

  Toulon paused. “Yes, you are right. I would ask him, too. That is a bad example.”

  “Come on, Henri. Stop goofing around.”

  “Fine! I will just tell you.” He mumbled a few curse words in French before he continued his lecture. “Look at the style of this sword. It is simple. It is plain. No fancy hilts. No fancy pommels. This is the blade of a soldier. Not an officer.”

  Dial scribbled some key phrases on a piece of paper. “Go on.”

  “Now look at its length. It is a short sword. Maybe one meter long. It is perfect for close combat. Very sharp. Very strong. The kind they used in the phalanx.”

  “The phalanx?”

  “The wall of soldiers at the front of an attack. The hoplites.”

  Toulon leaned back and put the cigarette in his mouth. He still needed his morning fix. With a cautious eye, he glanced around the office, searching for anyone who outranked him. When he saw no one, he decided to light up. Rules be damned.

  Dial said, “I know it’s just a picture, but can you give me a time period?”

  “Maybe if I held the blade, but not from this photo.”

  “Come on, Henri, take a wild guess. Are we talking Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans?”

  Toulon blew smoke into the air. “We are talking Nick Dial in Clueless.”

  “Be nice,” Dial warned him, “or I’ll fine you for smoking.”

  Toulon coughed, practically swallowing his cigarette in the process. How did Dial know he was smoking? He looked around again. Maybe the sneaky bastard had a nanny cam.

  “That is insulting,” Toulon said. “I would do no such thing.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Now answer my question. How old are we talking?”

  “The second one. Harry Hamlin.”

  Dial smiled. He loved making Toulon think in American terms. It was one of the simple joys in his life. “But this weapon is a replica, right?”

  “Tell me, Nick. Do you know when Ancient Greece flourished?”

  “Before Christ.”

  “Several centuries before Christ. Now look at this picture. Does this sword look that old to you? Of course not. Therefore this sword is a replica.”

  “Yet real enough to kill someone.”

  “Oui. In that way, it is quite real.”

  Dial nodded, thinking back to the blood at the crime scene. For a blade to pass through the bones and tendons of someone’s neck, it had to be remarkably strong. Probably some type of high-grade steel, he figured. Just to be sure, he made a note to ask a local blacksmith.

  “Okay. What about the other picture? Anything helpful?”

  Still puffing away, Toulon switched images on his screen and zoomed in on the photograph of the warrior. He studied his uniform, focusing on the intricacies of his armor, the shape of his full-size helmet, the way he held his sword. All of it looked authentic.

  “Well,” Toulon said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Good news first.”

  “If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Toulon took a long drag on his cigarette, enjoying the flavor before he blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a cranky French dragon. “Notice the design of his headgear. No patterns. No decorations. No fancy flourishes. This is a helmet, not a work of art. If it had been Corinthian or Trojan or even Athenian, it would have been far more ornate, since those cultures supported the arts. The Spartan culture did not.”

  He paused, taking another drag.

  “Now look at the cuirass-the bronze armor that protects his chest and back. It is plain, too, except for the ridges of the rib cage and stomach. This is a design used by the Spartan
s. The muscular contours were meant to scare the enemy. And trust me, they did.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That is all for now. I’ll look some more once I drink my coffee.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Dial finished his notes and was about to hang up when Toulon cleared his throat quite loudly. “What now?”

  “You are forgetting something, no?”

  “I said thanks.”

  “No. It is not that. You still haven’t heard my bad news.”

  “Crap, that’s right. What’s the bad news?”

  Toulon smiled, eager to show off his knowledge. “The bad news is identical to the good news. If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

  The comment puzzled Dial. “What’s your point?”

  “Tell me, Nick, what do you know about the Spartans?”

  “Not very much. They came from Sparta and they liked to fight.”

  Toulon shook his head. “That is the understatement of the year.”

  “How so?”

  “How so?” he echoed, as he leaned back in his chair. “Since the dawn of man, there has never been a culture like the Spartans. From the moment of their birth until the time of their death, all Spartans were consumed by one thing: the art of war.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Oui, I can give you thousands.”

  “Great. But let’s start with one.”

  Toulon took another puff. “Let’s start at birth. When a baby was born, the child’s father took it to a group of elders who decided, right then and there, whether the child was worthy of Sparta. If it was small or weak, it was immediately taken to Mount Taygetus, also known as the place of rejection, where it was thrown off the mountain.”

  “They killed their own babies?”

  “Oui. They killed their own babies.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “That is simply the beginning. When a Spartan boy reached the age of seven, he was enrolled in the agoge. It was like a military boarding school except far more brutal. The boys were stripped, beaten, and underfed, all in the hope of toughening them up. This went on for ten years, until they were ready for the crypteia, a secret initiation where their most promising youths proved their worth. These teenage boys were abandoned in the countryside with simple instructions: kill any Helots they saw and steal anything they needed to survive.”