“What are you thinking about, sir?”
“The reason. What was the reason they started meeting at Holy Trinity?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I’m glad,” Dial teased. “It will give me a chance to earn my big paycheck.”
Andropoulos smiled and was about to say something else until he noticed the faraway look in Dial’s eye. He was no longer paying attention to the young cop. Instead, he was focused on the bulletin board, crunching all the data in his head, trying to figure out the answer to the question that he had just asked. Why were they meeting at Holy Trinity?
A few minutes passed before Dial spoke again. When he did, he spoke with clarity.
“The tunnel. This whole thing is about the goddamn tunnel.”
“The tunnel?”
“More specifically, what used to be in the tunnel.”
To make his point, Dial tapped on a photo of the stone altar that they had found underneath Holy Trinity. “Look at the craftsmanship of that thing. That altar used to hold something important. I’m not sure what, but it was important. Same with all those empty shelves we found. Something important used to be down there.”
Andropoulos nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m assuming that’s why the Spartans took the time to leave the heads on the altar. They wanted somebody to know that they had found their secret tunnel and weren’t going to stop killing people until they found what they were looking for.”
“Wanted who to know?”
“Maybe Nicolas. Maybe they wanted him to know for some reason. Maybe that’s why he showed up, to see the message for himself.”
Andropoulos glanced at the bulletin board, focusing on the card that said Nicolas. As he did, a question popped into his head. “Sir, if your theory is correct about succession, why wasn’t Nicolas killed? I mean, shouldn’t he have been here for the meeting? He was in that picture from forty years ago, the one with the abbot.”
“I was wondering when you were going to mention that. That question has been plaguing me, too. Maybe death wasn’t the end of a monk’s term. Maybe there was an age limit. Maybe that’s the reason he wasn’t there when the rest of the monks were killed. Being old might have saved his life.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Nicolas did something to get thrown out of the group.”
Dial nodded. “Trust me. That thought had crossed my mind, too.”
51
Jones was excited about the news. He walked into the other room to share it with Allison, who was going through Byrd’s papers. “I found Ivan Borodin. He lives here in Saint Petersburg.”
“That’s great. Now all we have to do is figure out who he is.”
“I found that out, too. He used to be the director of the State Hermitage Museum.”
“Wow,” she said as she considered what that meant. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Richard never liked wasting time with peons. He always went straight to the top.”
“Maybe so, but Borodin retired eight years ago. Why talk to him now?”
“Remember what I told you last night? The Hermitage launched its Schliemann exhibit in 1998. That means Borodin was the man who brought it here. Imagine what information he has! He would know, better than anyone, what items aren’t on display.”
Jones nodded. “Petr Ulster once told me that eighty-five percent of all artifacts are never shown to the general public. That’s a lot of stuff that Richard might have been interested in.”
“I’ll keep looking through his notes. Maybe I can figure out what he wanted to see.”
“Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use your computer. I want to get some background information on Borodin. The more we know about him, the better.”
“Help yourself. It’s fully charged.”
Jones grabbed the laptop bag and carried it to the writing desk near the guest bedroom. He was about to turn on the computer when he felt his cell phone vibrate. “Hello?”
It was Payne, calling from the back entrance to the hotel. “I’m on my way up.”
“Already?”
“Do me a favor. Run interference for me. I need to take a shower.”
“No problem.”
Jones knew not to ask any questions. Payne would talk about his confrontation with Kozlov when he was ready. Depending on what had happened, it might be five minutes or an hour. In the meantime he didn’t want to be bothered. Not by Jones or anyone else.
This was standard protocol for Payne. He needed time to decompress.
“Hey, Allison,” Jones said as he hung up his phone. “I need to let Jon in. Just to be safe, hang out in the bedroom for a few minutes.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Of course it is. I’m just being cautious.”
She nodded, too occupied with Byrd’s journal to challenge Jones’s request. Taking the book with her, she went into the bedroom and closed the door.
A short time later, Payne entered the suite. His clothes were dirty and slightly damp-as though he had been working all day in the hot sun. His eyes were intense and focused. He patted Jones on the shoulder as he walked toward the guest wing. His gesture was a simple one, but it let Jones know that everything had been taken care of and he was all right.
Then, without saying a single word, Payne closed and locked the guest room door.
The sound of running water soon filled the hallway.
Forty minutes later, Payne emerged a new man. He had showered and changed his clothes. A smile was on his face, and his stomach was growling. He strolled into the kitchen looking for something to eat, finding nothing but a bowl of fruit left over from breakfast. He grabbed an apple and walked toward the dining room table, where Jones and Allison were working.
“What have we learned?” Payne wondered.
Jones answered. “We went through Byrd’s planner and one name stood out: Ivan Borodin, the former director of the Hermitage Museum. We don’t know what they were discussing, but we assume it was Schliemann. Ivan was in charge of the Schliemann exhibit before he retired.”
Payne pondered the information. “Is that why Byrd came to town, to meet with Ivan?”
“That would be my guess, but we don’t know for sure. It fits the time line, though.”
“What do we know about him?”
“We have his home phone and address. Oh, and the guy is eighty-eight years old.”
“Damn. How long ago did he retire?”
“Only eight years.”
“He retired at eighty? That explains why Byrd wanted to talk to him. He must know the location of the fountain of youth.”
Jones smiled. “You might be onto something. I searched the Internet and came up with several articles about his career. Ivan devoted most of his life to the Hermitage. He worked there for over sixty years, starting out as a tour guide and working his way up through the ranks. You rarely see that type of dedication anymore.”
“Sixty years in one place? That’s plenty of time to learn a lot of secrets.”
“We were thinking the same thing.”
“How many times did they meet?”
Allison entered the conversation. “We don’t know. Ivan’s name and number appeared several times in Richard’s planner, but he never mentioned his name to me.”
“We have his number, right? Why don’t we give him a call?”
Jones nodded. “We planned on it. I was just waiting to get your approval.”
On the surface, it seemed like a straightforward comment. But Payne knew otherwise. He had worked with Jones long enough to know he wasn’t requesting permission to make a phone call. He was asking Payne if he wanted to continue their investigation. As things stood, Byrd’s killer had been taken care of and Allison was temporarily safe. One quick call to Jarkko and the thirsty Finn would have them drinking Kafka in international waters in less than an hour.
For the time being, that option didn’t interest Payne. Not until they solved the mystery of Byrd’s
death. What was Byrd looking for that was so important?
Payne needed to know before he was willing to leave Russia.
“Make the call,” Payne said, “but have Allison do the talking.”
“What?” she stammered. “Why me?”
“Because you were Byrd’s assistant. Maybe he didn’t tell you about Ivan, but he might have told Ivan about you. Besides, your voice is slightly less threatening than ours.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Allison,” he said, not in the mood to argue, “you’re making the call.”
Before she did, Payne and Jones coached her on what to say, anticipating the questions about Richard that were sure to come. If possible, they wanted to meet with Ivan immediately. With the Russian’s advanced age, they figured he probably wouldn’t have a hectic social calendar. In fact, he might even welcome some company. The goal, though, was to meet with him face-to-face, whether that was at his home or at the museum. And the sooner the better.
Allison turned on the speakerphone so Payne and Jones could listen in. Ringing filled their suite until Ivan answered.
“Da?” he said.
“Hello? Is this Ivan Borodin?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Allison. I’m Richard’s assistant.”
“Richard Byrd?”
Allison exhaled. She was glad that Byrd had used his real name, not one of his fake identities. That would make things so much easier. “Yes, sir. I’m his assistant.”
“I was expecting him on Sunday. He never showed up.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He was called away on business. He asked me to apologize.”
“I see.” Ivan’s voice was weak, as one might expect from an eighty-eight-year-old. It was also tinged with a Russian accent, which made it difficult to read his emotions over the phone. “I assumed he was no longer interested in the coat.”
Allison whispered to Payne and Jones. “The coat?”
They shrugged. They had no idea what Ivan was talking about.
Jones whispered back. “Say you’re interested.”
“No, sir. We’re still interested. Could I stop by today?”
Ivan paused, longer than he should have to answer such a simple question. Eventually, he cleared his throat and replied. “Tomorrow would be better. Is ten o’clock too early?”
Allison grinned. “Ten o’clock is perfect. Should I come to you?”
“Yes. That would be best. I don’t move around like I used to.”
Jones took the phone from Allison and shook her hand. “Well played, my lady.”
“Wow,” she remarked. “That was kind of fun. Who can I call now?”
Payne glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon. No way would they be ready to leave before their deadline. He needed to call Jarkko to make new arrangements.
“Nice job,” he said to Allison. “But now comes the hard part. You have to figure out what Ivan was talking about. What is ‘the coat’ that he referred to?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. And I knew more about Schliemann than Richard ever did.”
“Maybe it has nothing to do with Schliemann,” Jones suggested.
She shrugged. “Maybe so. But now that I know what to look for, I should be able to find something in Richard’s notes. At least I hope I can.”
“I’ll help you search. Four eyes are better than two.”
Payne nodded at Jones. “I have to make some calls. As soon as I’m done, I’ll help as well. In the meantime, why don’t you guys order some dinner? It’s going to be a long night.”
52
Jarkko was more than happy to stay an extra night in Saint Peters burg. He was getting paid to drink on his boat, an activity that he normally did for free.
Once the arrangements had been made, Payne asked Jones to join him in the guest room. They still needed to discuss the information learned from Kozlov. It was a conversation they didn’t want to have in front of Allison. For the time being, she was focused on Byrd’s documents, and consumed with Ivan Borodin and his mysterious coat.
Distracting her with death and violence would be counterproductive.
Jones entered and closed the door behind him. Two chairs and a small table filled the right corner of the room. He grabbed one of the chairs and turned it backward, allowing him to prop his arms in front of him. Meanwhile, Payne sat on the foot of the bed.
“Who was he?” Jones asked.
“His name was Alexei Kozlov. He was ex-FSB.” Payne handed him Kozlov’s badge. It was gold with Cyrillic lettering. “He assured me it was fake.”
Jones recognized the emblem. “It damn well better be or we need to leave now. We don’t want to tangle with the FSB.”
“Don’t worry. I’m confident he was telling the truth.”
Jones nodded. He trusted Payne’s judgment. “What else did you learn?”
“He killed Byrd. Never got paid, though. Kozlov worked through an intermediary with the Russian Mafia. They gave him a phone number to call. He talked to the man who hired him but never knew his name. He was told to find Byrd, figure out what he was doing, and then kill him before he left town.”
“Anything else?”
“His boss spoke with a Mediterranean accent. Couldn’t tell if it was Greek, Turkish, or Italian. But definitely Mediterranean.”
Jones fiddled with the badge. “This sure looks real to me.”
“At one time, it probably was. But killing pays better than government work.”
“It always does.” He handed it back to Payne. “Should we be worried about the Mafia?”
Payne shook his head. “He wasn’t in the Mafia. This was a contract job, plain and simple.”
“Which means Allison is safe.”
“She is from Kozlov. I can guarantee that.”
No explanation was necessary. He knew what Payne meant.
“Changing subjects,” Jones said. “Any theories on Byrd?”
“Not yet. I’ve been kind of busy. What about you?”
“I found a stack of phony passports and foreign currency. Either Byrd was on the run, or he was expecting to be.”
“Then why come to Russia? And why bring Allison with him?”
“Those are two good questions, especially since he didn’t take her to Italy.”
“Hell,” Payne said, “he didn’t even tell her he went to Italy. If she hadn’t seen the airport tags on his suitcase, she wouldn’t have known.”
“Exactly. So why bring her to Saint Petersburg and not take her to Naples?”
“Only one reason to do that. He needed her here for something.”
Jones nodded. He was thinking the exact same thing. “If I had to guess, this has to do with Schliemann. According to her, she knew a lot more about Schliemann than Byrd ever did. That has to be the reason he brought her here. To help him with Schliemann.”
Guys!” Allison called from the dining room. “I might have found something important!”
Payne and Jones left the guest room and joined her at the table. A small journal, yellowed with age, was open in front of her. Next to it sat a modern-day legal tablet. It was filled with crisp white pages and several columns of information. The words were written in blue ink.
Jones studied the top page. “Someone’s been busy.”
“Not me,” she assured him. “This is Richard’s notebook. I found it in his files.”
“And what is that?” Payne asked, pointing at the journal.
“That is the reason I’m so excited. I think I know why Richard went to Italy.”
Payne and Jones glanced at each other, amused. They had just been discussing that topic in the other room. Intrigued, Jones slid out of his chair and moved behind her. He wanted a better view of the book, which looked more than a century old.
Allison continued. “Remember what I told you last night? When Richard returned from Naples, he asked me all kinds of questions about Pompeii and Herculaneum, the two cities that were destroyed by the eruption from Mount V
esuvius. Schliemann had toured that area prior to his death, and I assumed that Richard went there to figure out what he had been looking for.”
“A fair assumption,” Jones remarked.
“Well, I was wrong. That might have been a smoke screen. I’m pretty sure Richard went to Naples to buy this.” She tapped the journal for emphasis. “Do you know what this is?”
“If we did,” Payne said, “we wouldn’t be staring at you.”
“It’s a transcript of Heinrich Schliemann’s final words, recorded by one of the police officers who found him unconscious on the street. I think Richard bought it in Naples.”
Jones leaned closer to inspect the journal. “How could it be a transcript? If he was unconscious, how did he talk?”
“According to this journal, Schliemann was taken to the police station while they tried to establish his identity. At one point, despite being incoherent, he started talking in his sleep.”
“Were you aware of that?”
“Not at all. But rumors have circulated for years about Schliemann’s final days, including his quest to find the largest treasure of all time. Most academics assumed it was part of the hype that he had created during his lifetime. I mean, this was a man who funded the construction of his own mausoleum and paid for the inscription to read, ‘To the Hero Schliemann.’ ”
Jones laughed. “The guy wasn’t modest.”
“No, he wasn’t. That much is certain. But little else is. When it comes to Schliemann’s life, there is always a fuzzy line between fact and fiction.”
“Tell us more about the journal,” Payne said.
“At first glance, I thought it was written by an idiot. Every other word is badly misspelled or abbreviated. I could tell that right away, and I don’t even speak Italian.” She picked up the legal tablet and showed it to Payne. The top page was divided into several different categories. “Then I found this. Richard had gone through the journal and translated everything into English.”
“What’s with the columns?” Payne asked.
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