The Lost Throne

Careful not to contaminate the evidence, Dial lifted the tapestry and peered behind it. He hoped to find a message scrawled on the stone or something attached to the back of the Orthodox cross. But what he found was better. And much more surprising.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled to himself.

“What is it?” asked Andropoulos as he tried to peek over Dial’s shoulder.

“You’ll see in a minute. Go close the door.”

Andropoulos hustled across the room, glanced outside to make sure no one was coming, then quietly closed and locked the door. By the time he returned, Dial was standing in front of the tapestry, wondering how they could move it without damaging it. Eventually, he figured things out. The tapestry was hanging from two large hooks, one in each upper corner, that were drilled into the stone wall. All they had to do was remove the right corner from the right hook, fold the tapestry upon itself, and hang the right corner on top of the left corner. That way the tapestry would remain hanging, folded vertically, while dangling from the left-hand hook.

Working in unison, the two of them carefully lifted the tapestry so it wouldn’t drag across the floor and hung it as Dial suggested. Then they stepped back and stared at their discovery.

In the center of the stone wall there was a door.

A secret door.

One that looked hundreds of years old.

Dial didn’t know why it was there or where it might lead, but he knew they had stumbled onto something special. Not only because the monks had gone out of their way to conceal it, but also because the door itself was more glorious than any door he had ever seen before. Intricately carved by a master craftsman, it depicted dozens of Greek soldiers fighting a foreign horde on the battlefield. Some used spears. Others held swords. But all of them fought with honor.

Andropoulos moved closer to inspect the details, to appreciate the remarkable workmanship of his ancestors. He wanted to run his fingers across it, like a blind man reading Braille, just so he could touch a piece of history. That is, until he noticed the dried blood. It was just a small stain near the door’s handle, yet it brought him back to reality.

He wasn’t a tourist in a museum. He was a cop at a crime scene.

He said, “I found more blood. Just like the other door, it’s by the handle.”

Dial crouched down to study the stain. “Strange. Very strange.”

“How so?”

“There’s blood on both doors yet nothing in between. You don’t see that very often. Normally, you’d see a visible blood trail on the floor.”

Dial reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean tissue to open the door. He would have preferred latex gloves, but he was forced to improvise, since he didn’t have a pair.

“Any theories?” Dial asked.

“About what?”

“The source of the blood.”

Andropoulos shook his head. “Not really. What about you?”

“I always have a theory. If I’m right, we’ll know in three seconds.”

“What happens in three seconds?”

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically. “Are you ready? Three . . . two . . . one . . . breathe.”

Dial pushed the door forward and was instantly greeted by the stench of death. The smell, a mixture of blood and decaying flesh, caught Andropoulos completely off-guard. So much so, he started to gag the moment it hit his nostrils. But not Dial. He was expecting it. With the tissue, he covered his nose and mouth, then stepped inside the dark corridor.

“Mmmmm, death,” he said with a wry smile. “Do you have a light?”

Still coughing, Andropoulos handed him a tiny penlight that he kept clipped to his belt. Dial turned it on and shined the beam ahead, revealing a tunnel about ten feet long with a stone floor followed by a spiral staircase that faded downward from view. Creeping forward, Dial shined the light on the walls and the arched ceiling above him. Although it was made of stone, it was reinforced by several wooden planks-just like the one in the monk’s room.

“How often does Greece have earthquakes?”

Andropoulos cleared his throat. “Every year. They are small but very common.”

Dial nodded in understanding as he continued to explore. “That might explain the wood. The monks who built this place were probably worried about cave-ins. Miners used to do the same thing in the Old West. The boards kept their shafts from collapsing.”

“Where does it lead?”

Dial shrugged as he stopped at the edge of the steps. “We’ll find out shortly.”

He shined the light into the darkness below. The stairs curled to the right, then disappeared into the depths. Dial turned back and looked at the Greek. “Are you ready?”

Andropoulos coughed again. The sound echoed throughout the corridor. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then stop your goddamn coughing and let’s get moving.”

Dial eased down the staircase one step at a time, making sure each stair supported his weight before he moved on to the next one. Five steps. Then ten. Fifteen. Then twenty. Finally, after twenty-two steps, he reached the bottom. A few seconds later, he was joined by Andropoulos, who was no longer hacking-even though the stench was growing stronger.

“This is interesting,” Dial mumbled to himself.

The stone corridor opened into a rectangular chamber, approximately ten feet across and twenty feet long, with a slender archway in the back of the room. The left and right walls were lined with carved wooden shelves that were empty except for a pack of matches and a few cobwebs. The intricate craftsmanship of the shelves, which looked remarkably similar to the hidden door, suggested they had once been filled with something important. But neither of them knew what that might have been.

Hoping to find out, Dial walked deeper into the room.

Next to the shelves he spotted a decorative candleholder that resembled a menorah but only held five candles. It was made of metal and bolted securely to the left-hand wall.

“Do me a favor,” Dial said, pointing toward the matches. “Light those candles.”

Andropoulos did what he was told, and soon darkness was replaced with flickering light. On the opposite wall, he noticed a second candleholder, identical to the first, and lit those candles as well. Suddenly, the room was bright enough for Dial to turn off the penlight.

“What is this place?” Andropoulos asked after blowing out the match.

Dial shrugged. “It looks like a document archive. At least it was at one time.”

Andropoulos ran his finger along one of the shelves. It was coated with a thick layer of dust. “Whatever used to be here was taken long before the massacre.”

Dial nodded in agreement. “Speaking of the massacre . . .”

The phrase hung in the air as Dial crept through the archway in the back of the chamber. It led to a second room half the size of the archive but far more important. Not only because it contained a stone altar, but also because it was the source of the horrible smell.

24

The candlelight from the first room barely penetrated the sec ond, forcing Dial to turn on the penlight once again. He shone the narrow beam on the stone altar that stood against the rear wall. Seven sets of eyes stared back at him. All of them vacant. All of them human.

Dial recoiled at the sight, if only for an instant.

“Jesus,” he said to himself.

From the moment he had seen the blood on the hidden door, Dial expected to find the monks’ heads inside the tunnel, a theory that was supported by the stench of rotting flesh. But he hadn’t expected to find them like this. The heads were neatly stacked in a pyramid. Four in the bottom row, two in the middle, and one on top. Dried blood held it all together like papier-mâché.

Andropoulos walked into the room. “You called?”

Looking over Dial’s shoulder, Andropoulos saw the gruesome scene and instantly gagged. All the color rushed from his face, leaving his cheeks pale. Dry heaves were soon to follow.

Dial turned around to make sure the Greek was all right. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “For the record, I said ‘Jesus,’ not ‘Marcus.’”

Andropoulos kept coughing while trying to apologize. “Sorry . . . I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I gagged a little, too.”

The Greek leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Yes, but-”

“No buts. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Everyone has moments like this. And I mean everyone. Hell, I had several when I was a rookie. Trust me, I saw some things that could make a billy goat puke. . . . Not to say you’re going to puke. Because that would be bad.”

“No, sir, I won’t puke.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dial patted him on his back. “It smells bad enough already.”

Andropoulos smiled at the comment. Not a huge grin, but one that signaled he was going to be all right. Dial gave him a moment to regain his composure, then handed him a tissue.

“Wipe your eyes, blow your nose, or whatever you need to do. When you’re done, I’ll be back here, looking for more heads.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dial nodded and returned to work, focusing on the altar room instead of his assistant. Deep down inside, he knew that’s what Andropoulos needed. He didn’t need attention. He needed space. And Dial gave him plenty. He figured the young cop would return when he was ready. And if he didn’t return soon, he wasn’t nearly as tough as Dial thought he was.

But Andropoulos didn’t disappoint him. Less than five minutes later he was standing in the back room, right next to Dial. And this time there were no signs of discomfort. No coughing. No hacking. No dry heaves. The color had even returned to his face. Somehow the kid had steadied himself without stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. To Dial, that was more impressive than someone with an iron stomach who wouldn’t have gagged in the first place.

It showed that Andropoulos had character. That he could overcome setbacks. That he wouldn’t let his shortcomings keep him down.

And strangely, Dial felt a hint of paternal pride.

“Look over there,” he said as he pointed to several garbage bags in the corner. The interiors of the bags were covered in blood, as was the floor in front of the altar. “I’m guessing they stuffed the heads inside the bags and carried them down here for their little display.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To send a message. You don’t lug a bag of heads around if you aren’t sending a message.”

“To us?” Andropoulos asked.

“Definitely not. If they wanted us to find it, they would’ve left a blood trail.”

To prove his point, Dial walked through the archway and shined the light on the floor in front of the empty shelves. As expected, there was no sign of blood outside the altar room.

“No,” he surmised, “they used plastic bags to conceal this location. They wanted someone to find the heads-someone who knew about this place-but not us.”

“Someone like Nicolas?”

Dial shrugged. It was a fair question, but one he didn’t have an answer for quite yet. Not this early in the investigation. To change the topic, he said, “Any thoughts on the pyramid?”

“Actually, sir, I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

“I told you, I always have a theory. But I’m more concerned with yours.” Dial handed him the penlight and told him to take a closer look. “Let me know if you find anything.”

Andropoulos gulped and leaned closer to examine the heads. Although decomposition had started-which was the source of the horrible smell-they still had their hair and skin and looked remarkably lifelike. Expressions of horror were frozen on their faces like Hallow een masks, as if they still felt the sting of the Spartan’s sword. To Andropoulos, one head stood out among the others. It was someone he recognized the moment he set foot in the room.

“The man on top is the abbot,” he said.

“Really? What about the others?”

“Sorry. I don’t know the others. Just the abbot.”

Dial nodded, wondering if the order of the heads or their configuration had any meaning. “Refresh my memory. What’s the name of the local monastery with the bone collection?”

“Great Metéoron.”

“Do they stack their skulls like this?”

Andropoulos closed his eyes, trying to get a mental picture of the bone room. It had been many years since he had visited the site. “No, sir. They sit in six or seven rows, one row above another. But the skulls are not touching. They are separated by shelves.”

Dial pointed to the first chamber. “Do their shelves look like that?”

“No, sir. The shelves at Metéoron are simple boards. Not fancy at all.”

“What about the altar? Does it look familiar to you?”

Until that moment, Andropoulos hadn’t paid much attention to it. The sight and stench of the heads had been far too distracting. But now, under Dial’s watchful gaze, he had no choice. He had to narrow his focus. He had to concentrate on the stone altar.

Made out of white marble, it stood in the center of the rear wall and nearly came up to his waist. The heads rested on a rectangular slab that was smooth and ten inches thick. All four sides were adorned with carvings of Greek soldiers. Some of them marching, some of them fighting, all of them looking courageous. The slab itself was supported by four legs that resembled ancient swords. But unlike the blades used in the massacre, these were one-sided and topped with intricate handles that were designed for pageantry. The type of swords used by kings, not hoplites.

“Sorry, sir, I’ve never seen it before.”

“And you’ve been to all the local monasteries?”

Andropoulos nodded. “Yes, sir. All six of them.”

“Tell me about their artwork. Do they have any themes?”

“Themes, sir?”

“Does the art have anything in common? Like angels or whatever.”

“Most of the paintings are religious. Like scenes from the Bible.”

“In other words, typical church shit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing unusual?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “Not that I can remember.”

“Nothing predating Christ?”

“Sorry, sir, I don’t know much about art.”

Dial nodded in empathy. History and art weren’t his strengths, either. Still, it seemed pretty strange that the public frescoes in the local monasteries showcased religion while the hidden artwork at Holy Trinity-the door, the shelves, the stone altar-featured war.

What did warfare have to do with Metéora?

Furthermore, what did it have to do with the murdered monks?

Obviously, they were slaughtered for a reason. And in all likelihood their heads were severed to leave a message. But a message about what? About religion? About Greece?

Or, as he feared, something he knew nothing about?

Dial shook his head in frustration. How could he catch the killers if he couldn’t put the murders in a proper context? Without context, he couldn’t determine a motive. And without a motive, he couldn’t come up with a list of suspects-unless, of course, trace evidence discovered something unexpected. But at this stage of the game, he wasn’t counting on that.

No, if he wanted to solve this case, he realized he had to learn more about the hidden artwork. And why men of peace would worship war.

25

Kaiser sat on a bench underneath one of the chestnut trees in St. Martin’s Square. A newspaper lay next to him. His manner was calm, completely relaxed. Like someone enjoying the warm weather on his lunch break. As people strolled by, he occasionally smiled and nodded. Sometimes he even waved. Whatever helped him blend in with his surroundings.

Payne and Jones watched him from opposite ends of the square. They scanned all the faces around him, making sure nobody looked out of place. Not because they didn’t trust Kaiser, but because they were about to break the law in a very public place.

And getting arrested was the last thing they needed.

Once Jones was sure the plaza was clear, he signaled to Payne by crouching down and tying his shoe. It meant Payne could approach the bench with caution. From that point on, if Jones repeated the action, it meant trouble was coming and he needed to leave. Just to be safe, Kaiser had a signal as well. If he noticed anything suspicious, he would simply stand up and walk away.

But so far, everything looked fine.

Payne approached from the front just to make sure he didn’t startle Kaiser. For a large man Payne was incredibly light on his feet and had the innate ability to sneak up on people. His grandfather used to call it “walkin’ like an Indian.” Payne realized the expression was no longer politically correct, but “walkin’ like a Native American” didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Take a seat,” Kaiser said.

Payne sat on the bench and glanced across the square. Jones was standing near a bus stop, casually looking for danger. He saw none. “Any problems?”

“Nope. I got everything you needed. Passports and visas are inside the newspaper. They look wonderful. You’ll be impressed.”

“Weapons?”

“In a shopping bag under the bench. Ammo, too.”

“Boat?”

“A fishing boat out of Finland. It looks shitty, but it’ll do the job. Details are inside the newspaper. Word of warning: The captain is something of a character. He was paid for twenty-four hours of service. After that, he’s out of there-whether you’re aboard or not.”

Payne nodded. That’s how most mercenaries worked. “Money?”

“I checked my account. We’re cool. Your transfer went through.”

“Good. The second half will arrive shortly.”

“I know it will.”

Payne smiled. It had taken many years to earn that level of trust through a combination of keeping his promises and keeping his mouth shut. Those two skills went a long way in this business.

“Anything else?”

Kaiser nodded. “Now that you mention it, a couple of things are bothering me.”

Payne glanced at him but said nothing.

“I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds when I told you guys about Russia. I know race is a sensitive subject to some people, but I would’ve felt like an asshole if I hadn’t mentioned it.”

Payne shook his head. “Not to worry. You didn’t offend anyone. In fact, D.J. appreciated your candor. You know us. We hate surprises-especially overseas.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ve been worried about that since breakfast.”

“Well, stop your damn worrying. Things are cool on our end.”

“In that case, let’s talk about the second thing. I wasn’t going to bring this up if you guys were pissed at me about number one. But since you aren’t, I figured I’d ask.”

“Go on.”

Kaiser leaned closer. “I need your opinion on something. Your honest opinion. Lies will do me no good here. I need you to tell me the truth.”

Payne looked him and nodded. “I promise. I’ll tell you the truth.”

A few seconds passed before Kaiser broke into a wide grin. “Where do you stand on the links versus patties debate?”

Payne and Jones took a taxi back to Ramstein Air Base, arriving an hour before their flight to Finland. Unlike the first leg of their trip, when they rode in the belly of a cargo plane, their second flight would be far more pleasant-thanks to good fortune and a few favors.

A brigadier general by the name of Adamson was vacationing in Helsinki and needed to be picked up that evening for a military summit in Stockholm. The transport plane was a richly appointed private jet-equipped with leather seats, TV screens, and a wet bar-that was owned and operated by military lobbyists based in Kaiserslautern. The flight was scheduled to be empty on its journey north, except for four armed guards who were to accompany the general to Sweden. But all that changed when Payne called one of his contacts at the Pentagon.

Suddenly, six passengers would be making the trip.

There were two main airports in Helsinki. Vantaa was the largest in Finland and the fourth largest in the Nordic countries. It handled most of the commercial flights into the capital city and served as the hub for Finnair, Finland’s largest airline. The other airport, Malmi, was much smaller and handled most of the private traffic into Helsinki. So that was where they were headed. Located 7 miles from the city, Malmi was much more relaxed than Vantaa in terms of rules, regulations, and inspections. Once they were on the ground, Payne and Jones knew they could slip into the terminal unseen. From there, they could take a taxi to Helsinki Harbor, where they would meet the boat captain that Kaiser had hired.

Reclining in a leather seat, Payne stared out the window as the plane lifted off the runway. Within seconds, Germany disappeared from view, hidden by a bank of clouds that cast a shadow on the countryside below. Jones sat across from Payne, separated by a wooden table and a map of Saint Petersburg. As in their earlier flight, they would do most of their planning while they were in the air.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Jones as he tapped his pencil on the table. He’d known Payne long enough to recognize his moods. Especially his bad ones.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Payne sighed. “Sausage.”

Jones didn’t smile or laugh. It would only encourage Payne to joke around, as he was apt to do. “Seriously, what’s bothering you?”

Payne paused a few seconds before answering. “When I was growing up, I used to goof around with the same group of kids from my neighborhood. There were eight of us, all within two years of each other. A great bunch of guys. Every day after school we’d get together in this park near my house. Football, baseball, basketball, whatever. It didn’t really matter. If the weather was nice, you knew where to find us.”

Jones listened, unsure where this was going.

“Not surprisingly,” Payne continued, “I was the biggest kid on the block. Which, if you know anything about playground politics, meant I was the leader of the group. A real alpha dog.”

Payne laughed at the memory. It was a cherished part of his life.

“One day when I was nine, my best friend in the group-his name was Chad-couldn’t play because he had to rake his yard. We lived in this wooded stretch of Pittsburgh where the trees outnumbered the houses by about five hundred to one. I’m talking Sherwood Forest minus Robin Hood. Oak trees, maples, you name it. Everywhere you looked, nothing but falling leaves.”

Jones smiled in empathy. His town house was pretty close to where Payne grew up.

“Anyway, Chad was a clever kid. He tried to convince me to get all the guys to help him rake his yard so we’d have the same number of players for our afternoon game. Obviously, I laughed in his face. No way in hell I was going to rake someone else’s yard for free. I mean, I was nine years old. No one volunteers to do chores when they’re nine. That’s un-American.”

“Amen, brother.”

“So,” Payne said, “the seven of us go to the park to play football. I’m all-time quarterback, wearing my Steelers jersey, and we’re playing three on three. The sun goes down, the lights kick on, and we keep on playing well past dinnertime. This goes on for another hour or so. We’re covered in mud, having the time of our lives, laughing like there’s no tomorrow. Simply having a great day . . .”

Payne paused. “Until we heard the siren.”

Jones felt his stomach drop.

“We’re kids, right? And damn curious about life, so I grab the ball and run toward the noise. Soon another siren can be heard in the distance. And another. And another. We see the flashing lights and think it’s the coolest thing in the world. Something exciting is happening on our block! I’m leading the pack because I’m the fastest runner. The whole time I’ve got the ball under my arm, pretending I’m being chased by the Dallas Cowboys. I’m dodging mailboxes, jumping over curbs, acting like a total idiot. Without a care in the world. Until I saw Chad’s bike in the middle of the street. The damn thing was completely mangled.”

Payne cleared his throat, fighting back his emotions. “I skid to a stop and so do the other guys. There are seven of us, just standing there on the side of the road, growing up in the blink of an eye. None of us knew what to say or do. Finally, one of their parents-I can’t remember whose-ran over to us and made us turn away so we wouldn’t see the cops scrape Chad off the road. Sorry, too late. I had already seen more than I’d wanted to. . . . Lucky me, huh?”

Jones asked, “How did it happen?”

“My best guess is that he raked his yard until it was too dark to rake. After that, he knew we’d still be playing in the park under the lights, so he hopped on his bike and pedaled as fast as he could to join us. Some guy driving a truck didn’t see him, and, well, that was that.”

Payne paused before continuing. “That night, as you can probably imagine, I had trouble sleeping. My parents, who were still alive back then, came into my room in the middle of the night to make sure I was okay, but I wasn’t in there. They looked all over the house, but I was nowhere to be found. So now they start panicking. One kid had already died that night, now they’re worried about me. They call the cops. They call the neighbors. They call everyone they can think of. In less than an hour, a search party was formed and they’re out looking for me. I mean, my parents were freaking out. Totally sick with worry. Finally, after an hour or two, somebody spots me and tells my parents where I am.”

“Where were you hiding?”

“That’s the thing. I wasn’t hiding. I was in Chad’s yard, raking leaves.”

Jones smiled sadly. He had never heard this story before. “Do you remember why?”

Payne nodded. “I felt responsible for Chad’s death. In some ways, I still do. I mean, if I had helped him out with his chores, he’d still be alive today.”

“Jon-”

“I know! It’s completely irrational. But that’s the way I feel. That’s why I went to his yard in the middle of the night-to finish what he’d started. It’s the same reason I went back the next day and the day after that. I raked until that yard was clean. Until it was spotless.”

Payne shook his head and laughed at himself. “How messed up am I?”

Jones knew it was a rhetorical question. Instead of making an easy joke, he asked a question of his own. “What made you think of this? You rarely talk about your childhood.”

“Honestly? This mission reminds me of Chad.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Call me crazy, but if I had answered my damn phone, Richard Byrd would be alive today.”

“Jon-”

“Don’t even start with me,” Payne ordered. The tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t in the mood to argue. “I know it’s nuts, but that’s the way I feel. If I had answered my phone, if I had given him the help that he asked for, he’d still be alive today. . . . Pretty ironic, huh?”

“Ironic?”

“The reason I can’t sleep at night is because of Chad, and my parents, and all the bad shit we saw overseas. So what do I do? I take a sleeping pill to get some rest. Of course, in this case the sleeping pill is the reason I didn’t answer my phone to begin with, so a lot of good it did.”

“Wow,” Jones said, trying to lighten the mood. “You are fucked up.”

“For the record, I said messed up. But thanks for making me feel better about myself.”

“Hey! That’s what friends are for.”

Payne smiled, hoping to change the subject. “Anyway, enough about that crap. Let’s talk about the mission.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“No, we were talking about my demons.”

Jones shook his head. “No, we were talking about your motivation. That’s far more important than anything else.”

“How so?”

“Tell me, why are we going to Russia? Is it to rescue the girl, or is it to rake leaves?”

Payne grimaced. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jon. You know damn well what I’m talking about. Is saving Allison enough for you, or do you need more from this trip?”

“Like?”

“Finding out why Byrd was killed and completing his mission. If that’s the case, I’m completely cool with it. I really am. I’m willing to do whatever I can to help you sleep at night. But you have to come clean and tell me now so I can adjust our itinerary.”

“And you won’t be mad?”

“Mad? Not at all. In fact, I’m kind of curious.”

“About?”

“His death, the Archives, his search, and so on. It’s all very compelling.”

“Compelling, huh?” Payne thought about things for several seconds before he smiled. “Fine! If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll tag along with you. I mean, that’s what friends are for.”

26

While Andropoulos searched for Theodore, Dial stood outside the monk’s room, guarding the hidden door and the tunnel. Making sure it stayed his secret for as long as possible. To Dial, this was one of those times when the element of surprise was far more important than the collection of evidence. He couldn’t wait to spring his discovery on Theodore and witness the monk’s reaction. Would he stammer? Would he sweat? Would his pupils constrict? In the long run, that information would be far more helpful to Dial’s investigation than ten extra minutes of forensics.

It would help him decide if the monk could be trusted.

While Dial waited, his thoughts drifted back to the previous night, when he had met Nicolas at that very spot. It was a conversation that Dial wished he could do over.

In the past, Dial had always considered himself a great judge of character-whether it was interviewing suspects or making new friends. Yet for some reason his instincts had failed him with Nicolas. Dial wasn’t sure why, but he figured he must have let his guard down because Nicolas looked like a holy man, someone who could be trusted. If that was the case, Dial knew he had to alter his mind-set. Most of the people he’d be questioning in the coming days were monks, and if he didn’t view them as fallible human beings-men who were fully capable of murder and deceit and all the other bad stuff that went on in the outside world-there was a damn good chance that he wouldn’t get the information he needed to solve the homicides.

And that was completely unacceptable.

The first monk to be interviewed was Theodore. Dial wanted to look him in the eye and see if he was telling the truth. If not, Dial was determined to make an example out of him-if for no other reason than to get full cooperation from every other monk at Metéora.

He had to seize control of the case, and he had to do it now.

When Theodore finally came into view, Dial didn’t smile, or nod, or acknowledge the monk’s approach in any other way. He simply stared at him with unblinking eyes. Occasionally he clenched his jaw, causing his temples to pulse and his massive chin to jut forward.

His intensity was impossible to miss.

Theodore sensed the change in Dial from afar. This wasn’t the same man who had joked with him about stealing furniture less than an hour before. “You asked to see me?”

Andropoulos hovered behind the monk, hoping to unnerve him. It was a subtle technique that was usually quite effective.

Dial paused for a moment before answering. “I did.”

“Is there a problem?”

He nodded slowly. “There is.”

Now it was Theodore’s turn to wait, and he did so for several seconds. He stood in his black cassock and cap, with his brown thicket of a beard, staring right back at Dial. Not the least bit intimidated by his badge or his glare. Not even tempted to speak.

If monks were good at one thing, it was silence.

A wry smile crossed Dial’s lips. He wasn’t backing down, either.

Finally, Andropoulos spoke. “We found something we’d like you to explain.”

“Of course,” said Theodore, still staring at Dial. “Do you have the item with you?”

“No,” Dial answered. “I can’t bring it out here. It’s way too big for me to carry. We’ll have to go inside to check it out.”

The monk extended his right arm. “After you, Nick.”

Dial grinned, surprised the monk had remembered his name. “Thanks, Ted.”

With that, Dial opened the door and walked inside. Everything was exactly as he had left it. The tapestry dangled from a single hook. The hidden door was open. The tunnel was fully exposed. Dial quickly turned around to watch Theodore’s reaction as he entered the room.

A moment later, Dial was certain of one thing: the young monk knew nothing about the tunnel. That was obvious from his wide-eyed expression and the gasp that sprang from his lips.

“Go ahead,” Dial said. “Start explaining.”

Theodore staggered toward the passageway. “I can’t explain this.”

“Why? Are you sworn to secrecy or something?”

“Because I know nothing about it.” Confusion filled the monk’s face as he glanced back at Dial and Andropoulos. “How did you find this?”

Dial shrugged, keeping the details to himself.

Theodore turned back toward the tunnel. “Where does it go?”

“To the morgue,” Dial said bluntly. “We found your brethren in the basement. I’d let you see it yourself, but I don’t want you throwing up on your beard.”

The young monk blinked a few times as he absorbed the news. Then he mumbled a short prayer in Greek and made the sign of the cross, using only three digits-his thumb, index and middle fingers-instead of the five digits used by Western Christians.

Dial said, “Refresh my memory. How long have you been at Metéora?”

“Almost ten years.”

“And you’ve never heard rumors about a tunnel?”

Theodore shook his head. “Never.”

“What about monuments of war?”

“War? I don’t understand.”

Dial walked toward the hidden door, trailed closely by the monk. “Look at the carvings. Tell me what you see.”

“Greek soldiers.”

“Downstairs it’s the same thing. Soldiers and war, everywhere you look. That seems kind of strange for a monastery, don’t you think?”

Theodore nodded.

“And you know nothing about this?”

“Nothing. This is a shock to me.”

Dial pressed the issue. “Fine. Who would know about it?”

“The abbot might have known, but the abbot’s dead.”

“Who else?”

Theodore paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know.”

“See, I find that hard to believe. I mean, I know about the tunnel. And Marcus knows about the tunnel. Even the killers know about the tunnel. Yet you’re telling me no one at Metéora knows about it? Pardon me for being so blunt, but I think that’s bullshit.”

Theodore nodded in agreement, which surprised the hell out of Dial.

“Wait! What are you saying? Someone does know about the tunnel?”

But this time, Theodore was the one who didn’t answer. Instead he stared down the stone corridor, trying to figure out where it went and why it had been built. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see much in the darkness. Not the stairs or the empty shelves.

Noticing the monk’s curiosity, Dial was struck by a simple idea. He could use the tunnel as a bargaining chip, one that would encourage Theodore to provide some inside information.

“Sorry,” Dial said as he pulled the door shut, nearly catching Theodore’s beard in the process. “That’s a crime scene in there. I can’t let you see it at this time.”

Disappointment filled the monk’s eyes. Palpable disappointment.

“Earlier,” Dial said, “when we were talking about the ceiling, didn’t you say something about a library at Great Metéoron?”

“I did.”

“And it has a complete history of Metéora?”

“It does. It is filled with hundreds of manuscripts that document all the monasteries, including those that have been destroyed.”

“And you have access to this, right?”

The monk nodded in understanding. He knew where this was going long before Dial asked the question. “You would like me to research Holy Trinity and all of its artwork.”

“Indeed I would. It would be a huge help to our investigation.”

“And if I agree to your request?”

Dial smiled in victory. “I’d be happy to bend the rules and allow you inside the tunnel.”

27

Kauppatori Market Helsinki, Finland

Helsinki sits on the northern shore of the Gulf of Finland, the eastern arm of the Baltic Sea. Approximately 297 miles from Saint Petersburg, the capital city of Finland is flanked by thousands of small islands that protect its natural harbor. Sprawling for blocks along the scenic waterfront, the Kauppatori Market comes alive with tourists during the warmer months, attracting a wide variety of vendors who sell everything from fresh seafood to expensive jewelry.

Because of the chaos of the market and its proximity to the sea, it was the perfect spot for Payne and Jones to meet the boat captain who would be taking them to Russia. Details about him had been kept to a minimum-his name was Jarkko and he’d be waiting for them at a specific stall when the market closed. Other than that, they were told nothing. For his safety and theirs.

The cab dropped them off down the street from the Presidential Palace, which overlooked the market square from the northern side of the Esplanadi. Payne paid the driver as Jones walked toward a small sign on the edge of the marketplace. It was written in Finnish and English. The market opened at 6:30 A.M. and closed at 6 P.M. Jones glanced at his watch and nodded. They had an hour to kill before they met their contact.

“Where to?” Payne wondered as he caught up.

“Beats me. We’ll have to ask somebody.”

The two of them entered the square from the west, unsure where they were headed but determined to find out. They strolled along the cobblestone road, marveling at all the tents and stalls that seemed to go on forever. This section of the market specialized in fruits, vegetables, and other homegrown produce. Tables were filled with tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and more. Cartons overflowed with cloudberries, ling onberries, and several berries they didn’t recognize-an edible rainbow of shapes and colors. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air.

Payne stopped at a tiny booth and got directions from a woman who spoke perfect English. She told him that he was at the wrong end of the market, but if he kept walking east, he would eventually find the stall he was looking for. Payne thanked her by buying a small bag of her strawberries. Remarkably, they were sweeter than any he had ever eaten.

Jones said, “We’d better get more chow than that. I doubt our trip will be catered.”

Payne agreed. “You pick the place. I’ll buy the food.”

Five minutes later they came across several picnic tables that were nestled among a dozen food stalls. Most of the tables were filled with tourists. Some of whom were eating. Others were watching the boats in the harbor. The view was like a moving postcard.

Jones led the hunt, walking from stall to stall, searching for something tasty to eat. He saw shrimp, crayfish, seafood paella, salmon and potatoes, grilled Arctic char, herring, perch, and octopus. The only nonseafood items he found were french fries and onion rings. A little farther down, Payne stumbled across a booth that featured exotic local cuisine-everything from bear meat stew to moose salami. But one item in particular made him laugh: reindeer sausage.

He was half tempted to buy some for Kaiser.

Eventually, the duo decided to play it safe. They avoided anything fried or spicy before their long trip at sea and ordered grilled salmon, potatoes, and two loaves of Finnish bread.

After their meal, they casually strolled to the other end of the market. They passed tents filled with jewelry, furs, artwork, toys, and everything in between. Finally, at a few minutes to six, they hit the section of the market they were searching for. It was obvious in several ways. They heard seabirds screeching overhead, begging for scraps, and felt the temperature drop as they walked past huge blocks of ice. A variety of seafood was laid out in wooden crates. The stench of spoiled fish came from the garbage bins in back.

“Damn!” Jones exclaimed. “This place smells like Popeye.”

Payne laughed. “I’m not even sure what that means, but it sounds about right.”

“I probably shouldn’t mention that to Jarkko, huh?”

“Probably not.”

Jones looked around. Many fishermen were packing up their goods, preparing for the market to close at six. “Where are we meeting him?”

Payne pointed to a stall across the way. The name above it was long and Finnish. It was identical to the name on Kaiser’s paper. This was definitely the place they were looking for.

A burly man stood behind the counter. He did not look happy. He was wearing an oversized apron, the kind a butcher might wear to attack a cow. It was streaked with blood and guts and all kinds of filth. On his head, he wore a black knitted cap that covered half of his brow and the tops of his ears. His gnarled hands were hidden by thick rubber gloves that he tucked inside the sleeves of his waterproof jacket. A scowl was etched on his face.

Payne approached him with caution. “We’re looking for Jarkko.”

“Who are you?” said the man. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Finnish accent.

“We’re friends of Kaiser.”

The man considered this response. “Then I am Jarkko.”

He smiled and extended his right hand across the countertop. His glove was dripping with fish parts. Payne didn’t want to offend him so early in their partnership, so he ignored the goo and shook his hand. Jarkko smiled even wider. “You’re American, no?”

Payne shook his head. “We’re Canadian.”

“Canadian, my perse! You are American. Do not lie to Jarkko.”

Payne wasn’t sure what perse meant but assumed it was profane. “For this particular trip, we are Canadian.”

Jarkko shrugged. “As you wish.”

Jones stood a few feet behind Payne, listening to their conversation. He would have stepped closer, but he didn’t feel like getting slimed. Instead, he simply nodded his head.

Jarkko nodded back. “So why are you here? You are day early.”

“No, we’re not,” Payne assured him. “Our trip is today.”

“Impossible! Russia is closed today. There is no getting through.”

“Closed? What do you mean it’s closed?”

“Do you not understand Jarkko? My English is good. Russia is closed.”

Payne had visited enough places around the world and had dealt with enough shady characters to recognize a shakedown when he saw one. Sometimes the problem was solved with a few dollars. Other times it required a little finesse. But in his experience, there was always a workable solution. It was just a matter of figuring out what that was.

Jarkko picked up a hose from behind the counter and began spraying the ground in a slow, sweeping motion. A thin layer of grime floated toward the closest drain.

Payne spoke over the sound of gushing water. “Obviously, you’re the expert here. If you say Russia is closed, then Russia is closed. Who am I to doubt you?”

Jarkko continued to work as he considered Payne’s words. Finally, he turned off the hose. “That is all? No bribes? No threats? No promises to Jarkko?”

Payne shook his head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“But you did insult me. You lied to Jarkko, and Jarkko did not like. I am man of principle. A simple man. A fisherman. I work hard every day. I have no time for lies. Or men who tell them.”

“Really? So you expect me to believe that Russia is closed?”

“No! Russia is not closed. Do not be a molopää! How you close a country? Jarkko was lying to teach you lesson. You no lie to Jarkko, then Jarkko no lie to you!”

“Fine,” Payne said. “No more lies.”

“Good! Start with name. Not name on fake passport. Real name. It is my secret.”

Payne realized he didn’t have much of a choice. If he wanted a ride to Saint Petersburg, he had to get on Jarkko’s good side. “My name is Jon. That’s D.J.”

Jarkko studied Payne’s eyes. “Yes, I believe you. Our trip is not canceled.”

“Glad to hear it. We can’t wait to leave.”

“Soon,” Jarkko said as he peeled off his gloves. He laid them on the countertop and pulled out a large thermos from behind it. “First, we toast my new friends, Jon and D.J.”

Jones approached, no longer worried about being slimed. “What are we drinking?”

“It is drink I invent. I call it Kafka. I name it after famous writer.”

Jones grimaced, unsure why a Finnish fisherman would name a drink after Franz Kafka, a German-speaking author. “Are you a fan of his stories?”

Jarkko ignored the question, pouring the beverage into the top of his thermos. “Drink!”

Jones eyed the cup suspiciously, then took a small sip. He immediately scrunched his face in disgust. “Good Lord! My tongue went numb. What the hell is that stuff ?”

“I already tell you. It is Kafka.”

“But what’s in it?”

“You want recipe? It is coffee made with vodka. Cof-ka. Kafka!”

“No water?”

“Water? Why use water? I fish in water. I clean with water. I no drink water.” Jarkko pointed toward Payne. “Give cup to Jon. He must drink before we go.”

“With pleasure,” Jones said as he handed the cup to Payne. “Bottoms up!”

Not wanting to insult his host, Payne took a sip of the potent cocktail. It was more disgusting than he could have imagined. It was like drinking bile. Grimacing, he handed the cup back to the Finn. “Now that we’re done with that, it’s your turn to tell me the truth.”

“Okay. What you want to know?”

“What’s a molopää?”

Jarkko laughed as he gulped the rest of the Kafka. “It is Finnish word for penis head.”

Jones grinned at the insult. “Wait a second. You called him a penis head?”

“Never! I never insult my new friend. I say don’t be a molopää.”

“Actually, that’s good advice,” cracked Jones. “I tell him that all the time.”

Jarkko laughed even louder. “I like you, D.J.! Come, give Jarkko hug!”

Before Jones could jump out of the way, he found himself wrapped in a massive bear hug. He tried not to breathe while his face was buried in Jarkko’s bloody apron, but the Finn’s grip was so tight that Jones wasn’t able to push himself away before he was forced to inhale. In a flash, he knew what it smelled like inside the belly of a whale.

Jarkko released Jones, then said, “Okay. Now we go to boat and visit Russia!”

28

The Greek police were ecstatic about the recovery of the monks’ heads and the discovery of the secret tunnel at Holy Trinity. Dial realized it wouldn’t benefit his career in any way, so he told everyone at the crime scene that Marcus Andropoulos had found it by himself. It was Dial’s way of rewarding the young cop for his hard work during the past few days. It also freed him from the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow, time he could use on the investigation.

Before breaking the news, he photographed everything he could with a digital camera that he had borrowed from Andropoulos. The carved door. The stone walls. The wooden shelves. The stacked heads. The elaborate altar. And anything else that looked the least bit important. Experience had taught him the most significant clues often appeared in the smallest of details, so he took no chances. By the time he was done, he had taken more than a hundred photographs. Once Dial uploaded them to the Interpol server, Henri Toulon or anyone else with the proper clearance could examine them on their global network.

Awake since the crack of dawn, Dial knew he needed to catch his second wind. A nap was a possibility. So was a cup of coffee. But before he did anything else, he wanted to wash the stench of death off his skin. Borrowing the car from Andropoulos, he drove to his hotel in Kalampáka, where he was tempted to use the heated pool at the Divani Metéora. Unfortunately, he hadn’t packed his swimming trunks, so he opted for a shower instead. A long, soothing shower.

It relaxed his muscles and allowed him to think.

In Dial’s mind, the next twenty-four hours would be critical to his investigation-especially if Theodore lived up to his word and researched the history of Holy Trinity. If the monk found any information about the tunnel or the military artwork, Dial would finally have the historical context that he needed to extend his investigation. Without it, he knew he would keep spinning his wheels, unable to connect the secret of the passageway to the motive for the massacre.

As luck would have it, Great Metéoron was closed to the general public on Tuesdays, which meant Theodore could concentrate on his research for the next thirty-six hours without being disturbed by visitors. Except, of course, for Dial and Andropoulos, who would be stopping by on Tuesday morning for a private tour. Dial wanted to see the bone room and the manuscript library for himself, just in case there were some ancient clues or symbols that everyone was overlooking. He also wanted to interview some of the other monks about the murders, although he had been forewarned by Andropoulos that it would be an act of futility.

Most of the monks lived in silence, unwilling to mingle with the outside world.

At the very least, Dial figured his observations would give him a better understanding of the monastic way of life. He thought he had accomplished that goal the night before when he had the long conversation with Nicolas. Now he wasn’t even sure if Nicolas was a monk. He looked like a monk and acted like a monk-except for his nasty habit of lying. Other than that, Dial would have bet big money that Nicolas was a monk somewhere.

The only question was, where?

While uploading the crime-scene photos through an Internet connection in his hotel room, Dial got dressed in a nice shirt and slacks. He was scheduled to meet Andropoulos in town for an authentic Greek dinner. Whatever that meant. Dial had been to Athens on several occasions but had never visited central Greece. Based on the flocks of sheep he’d seen from his balcony, he was confident that lamb would be on the menu. In fact, he might have passed his entrée on his drive down the mountainside.

It was something he tried not to think about as he left his room.

A few minutes later, while Dial was walking toward the car, his cell phone started to vibrate. He checked the number on his screen. It was Henri Toulon.

Dial answered in French. “Bonjour, Henri.”

Toulon paused before speaking. “Who is this?”

“It’s Nick. Who do you think it is?”

“Oh,” Toulon teased, “I did not know you spoke French. Please, do it no more. Your accent is crude. You sound like a tourist.”

Dial grumbled. “You know, I was having a good hour until you called. Now it’s ruined. I’m tempted to hang up on you, but you’d just use that as an excuse to stop working.”

“Nick, I am always working. Just, sometimes, I am working on not working.”

Dial smiled at the remark. Despite their bickering, they actually did get along.

“So, Henri, what’s on your mind?”

“I promised you I would look at your Spartan photos again, after I had my coffee. Well, you know me, I really like coffee, so I am just calling now.”

“And?”

“I have nothing to add. I did a great job this morning.”

“Wonderful,” Dial said sarcastically. “Thanks for the update. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up. I’m not finished.”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

“Next, I pondered what you said to me. You asked if these killers could be Spartans. I laughed at you and told you no because Sparta is no more. But the more you argued, the less sure I became. They sounded like real Spartans to me. So I called Spárti-”

“Spárti? What’s Spárti?”

“It is city built on top of ancient Sparta. It is in the Peloponnese of southern Greece.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It is small, maybe twenty thousand people. It is located near the Eurotas River in Laconia.”

“If you say so. Currently I’m in a parking lot, nowhere near a map.”

“Well, trust me, Spárti is real. And the man I spoke with was quite helpful.”

“What man?”

“An NCB agent by the name of George Pappas. He has lived there for many years.”

“And?”

“You will not believe me, but he swore to me that Spartan soldiers still exist.”

“What are you talking about?”

Toulon laughed. “See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You never believe me.”

Dial ignored him. “Give me details.”

“First, you must understand the geography. The Peloponnese is a large peninsula separated from the rest of Greece by the Gulf of Corinth. If not for a narrow land bridge in the northeast corner, it would actually be an island, not a peninsula. Spárti sits at the bottom on the southern end of the Laconian plain. It is guarded by mountains on three sides, isolated from the rest of Greece by distance and geology. Ancient Sparta was settled there for that very reason. These were men of war. They built their city in a location that would be difficult to attack.”

“Got it,” Dial said. “I can picture it in my head. It’s south of the city of Olympia, about halfway to the island of Crete.”

“Good job, Nick! Someone did his homework on his flight to Athens.”

“They didn’t make me chief for nothing.”

“Well, we can talk about that some other time. For now, let’s stick to my point: Spárti is very isolated. And since it is, it is very different from mainland Greece.”

“In what way?”

“For one, some of the people-particularly those who live in the mountain villages-don’t speak Greek. They speak Tsakonian.”

“Tsakonian? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Let me make it simpler. They speak the language of Sparta.”

“Hold up! People still speak Spartan?”

“More or less. It comes from the language of Ancient Sparta, though it’s been updated through the years. Some experts classify Tsakonian as a dialect, but that’s incorrect. It is a separate Hellenic language, different from the branch of Ancient Athens, which eventually became Modern Greek. Tsakonian is Doric Greek, not Attic Greek. So it is different.”

Dial grimaced at the information. “Speaking of foreign languages, I didn’t understand half the shit you just said. But that’s okay. I’m kind of used to it. You speak English like a tourist.”

“That was funny, Nick. Perhaps I will tell you the rest of this en français.”

“Sorry. I didn’t understand that, either. We must have a bad connection.”

“Oui. Let us blame your ignorance on your cell phone.”

“And we’ll blame your English on your drinking.”

Toulon smiled. “Touché.”

“Anyway,” Dial said, trying to get the conversation back on track, “didn’t you say something about Spartan soldiers?”

“Oui. I was just getting there.” Toulon opened his desk drawer and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. “Some of these mountain towns, they are filled with people from a different era. They have no television. They have no electricity. They don’t even speak Greek. All they have is one another and the culture they have always known. The culture of Sparta.”

“Continue.”

“This morning, I told you about their ancestors. Spartan boys were bred for war. They lived for it. They died for it. It’s all they cared about. It was passed from fathers to sons for generations until it was so much a part of them that they could do nothing else. Some men are born farmers. Some men are born poets. And some men are born warriors. These are those men.”

Toulon pulled out a cigarette and held it under his nose like a glass of fine wine. “You have these men in America, no? They live in Montana with their kids and their dogs and they follow their own rules. What is it you call them?”

“Militia.”

“Oui! Like the Unabomber, Ted Kuzneski.”

“Kaczynski.”

“Whatever! You know the men I mean. Every country has them. Some are called rebels. Some are called guerrillas. Some are freedom fighters. But they are one and the same. They choose a cause and fight for it because that is who they are.”

Dial was quite familiar with militant types and the damage they could do. He had been assigned to the southwestern U.S. in 1993 when a religious sect called the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh, had faced off against the ATF and the FBI, 9 miles outside of Waco, Texas. The resulting fifty-one-day siege ended with the death of eighty-two church members, including twenty-one children.

Exactly two years later, to the day, Timothy McVeigh parked a Ryder truck, filled with 5,000 pounds of explosives, outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City and lit the fuse. The resulting blast killed 168 people and injured over 800 more. At the time, it was the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil-since surpassed by 9/11.

And in all these cases, Dial had been called in to help with the official investigation.

“So,” Dial asked, “the hills around Spárti are filled with these men?”

“Oui, but they are different from militia.”

“In what way?”

“They use no guns. They use no bombs. They fight with their hands and their blades.”

“Just like their ancestors.”

“Just like the Spartans.”

Dial considered this while staring at the natural rock pillars that loomed behind the hotel. They stood at attention like ancient soldiers whose sole job was to guard the monasteries from any force that meant them harm. Over the centuries, they had performed their duty admirably during times that were far more turbulent than these: times of war and revolution in Greece.

That’s why none of this made any sense.

What had brought on the sudden violence? And what did it have to do with Spartans? If, in fact, that’s who the killers were. What connection could they possibly have with a bunch of monks who lived several hundred miles away from Spárti?

“Let me ask you a question,” Dial said, racking his brain for potential links between the two groups. “Were the Spartans religious people?”

Toulon shrugged. “That is a tough question. I do not know.”

“Really?” Dial teased. “I thought you were an expert on Ancient Greece.”

“I am. But no one knows the answer to your question. As I’ve mentioned, the Spartans did not support the arts. This included the art of writing. According to Spartan law, historical records were not kept. Literature was not created. And laws were memorized, not recorded. That means everything we know about the Spartans comes from outside sources, written by men who never fully grasped the culture that they described.”

“Then how do we know they were great warriors?”

“Because everyone, even their most hated rivals, praised their skill as soldiers. That is the one thing that all of Greece agreed upon. Do not mess with the Spartans.”

“But all the other stuff-religion, politics, and so on-is just a guess by historians?”

“Oui. Just a wild guess. No one knows for sure.”

Dial nodded. “Which ultimately worked to the Spartans’ advantage.”

“In what way?”

“People fear what they don’t understand.”

“This is true.” Toulon lit his cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke into the air. He enjoyed the flavor and his civil disobedience. “That is why I fear nothing.”

Dial smiled at the comment as he pondered all the information he had been told. Unlike Toulon, who pretended to know everything, there were still several things that Dial didn’t understand about the case. “Do me a favor. Get ahold of that NCB agent from Spárti.”

“George Pappas.”

“Right. Get ahold of George and ask him to snoop around those mountain towns near Spárti. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

29

TUESDAY, MAY 20

Gulf of Finland

The 235-mile boat trip from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg was uneventful, just as Payne, Jones, and Jarkko had hoped. The Gulf of Finland was calm. The weather was unseasonably warm. And because of the northern latitude, the sun didn’t set until nearly 11 P.M. This allowed them to blend in with all the other fishermen who were taking advantage of the extra daylight. In Russia, the phenomenon is called Belye Nochi, or White Nights. During the summer months, the sun doesn’t drop low enough behind the horizon for the sky to grow completely dark. At times, day and night are often indistinguishable. In fact, it is so pronounced in late June and early July that the city of Saint Petersburg saved money by not turning on its streetlights.

Thankfully, the effect isn’t quite as severe in May because Payne and Jones preferred darkness for border crossings. Fewer witnesses. Fewer guards. More freedom to improvise.

As they approached the Russian coast, all three watched for patrol boats. They rarely bothered local fishermen, spending most of their time searching for drug runners and warships, but occasionally, when the soldiers were bored, they stopped boats for the hell of it. Just to be safe, Payne and Jones wore waders and waterproof jackets over their normal clothes. That way if their boat was stopped, they would look as if they belonged.

Jarkko asked, “Where you want to dock? You tell Jarkko, we go there.”

Jones had never been to this part of Russia, but he had spent enough time memorizing the layout of the city to know his best options. Located in the Neva River delta, Saint Petersburg is spread over 576 square miles, including 42 river islands, 60 river branches, and 20 major canals. Known as the Venice of the North, the city of nearly five million people is connected by over 300 bridges, some of which have been standing for centuries.

The main dockyards sit to the west of the city, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Areas like those are patrolled around the clock, so Jones wanted no part of them. The same went for anything inside the city proper. Even though it was bisected by a 20-mile stretch of the Neva River, a fishing boat would look somewhat out of place. Particularly at night. The last thing he wanted was to deal with the city police before they even set foot ashore.

“Maybe you can suggest a place around here,” Jones said as he pointed to a map of the coastline. “I’m looking for a small marina, preferably something that isn’t patrolled.”

“Yes! I know good dock. It is near bar that Jarkko go.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The Finn laughed as he changed his course. “Jarkko work hard. Jarkko get thirsty.”

“I bet you do.”

Payne overheard the conversation. “Have you always fished these waters?”

“When ice permits, I fish entire Baltic from Copenhagen to Oulu. I have since little boy. In winter, Jarkko try to stay warm. I visit Mediterranean near Spain. Ionian near Italy. Aegean near Greece. I like girls in Malta. They keep Jarkko warm.”

He unleashed a loud belly laugh, one that was contagious. Both Payne and Jones laughed as well, enjoying this portion of their trip much more than they could have imagined. If not for their mission, they would have been tempted to hire Jarkko for a week of fishing and drinking.

Payne said, “I’m guessing you use a different boat down south.”

“Last time Jarkko check, Europe is big chunk of land. Tough to drive boat through. Or has that changed? I do not have TV.”

“Nope. It’s still pretty big.”

Jarkko smiled as he guided his boat into the river channel that would take them to a private dock. “Then, yes, Jarkko have two boats. This one is old. She is rusty and smells like fish, but she never lets me down. I will keep her till she sinks.”

“And the other?”

“The other is yacht. It has no rust and smells like champagne. Pretty girls love her.”

Jones grinned at the image. “Are you serious? You really have a yacht?”

“Yes, Jarkko have yacht. She stays in Limnos. Why is this surprise?”

“Why? I didn’t know fishing paid that well.”

Jarkko laughed. “Fishing does not. But Americans do!”

As promised, Payne and Jones were put ashore on the outskirts of the city. The marina was deserted and had no surveillance. Jarkko would sleep aboard his boat until morning, then head back to the shallow waters of the Gulf. He would, at all times, stay close enough to the coast to guarantee cell phone reception. When Payne and Jones were ready to leave, they would phone him with a rendezvous point. If Jarkko didn’t hear from them within twenty-four hours, he would assume that his services were no longer needed and would return to Helsinki.

But they assured him that they would call. One way or another.

Because of the late hour of their arrival, they were unable to use most forms of public transportation-which was unfortunate, because Saint Petersburg has an extensive network of buses, trains, and streetcars. Not only did it have more streetcars than any other city in the world, it also had the deepest subway-designed to get under all the rivers and canals. But after 1 A.M., taxis were the only thing still running. So they walked to the nearest road and flagged down a yellow cab with a green light in the corner of its windshield. That meant it was available.

Jones opened the back door and asked, “Govorite li vy po angliyski?”

“Yes,” the driver answered. He spoke English.

“Good,” Jones said as he slid across the backseat. “Nevskij Palace Hotel.”

“Yes.”

Payne climbed in, not saying a word, and closed the door behind him. Both he and Jones knew from experience not to talk in close quarters. There was no reason to draw any extra attention to themselves, whether it was giving away an accent, a personality trait, or an accidental nugget of information. Their objective was to remain as anonymous as possible.

Plus, truth be told, they were too exhausted to talk. Two days before, they had been lounging near the beach in St. Petersburg, Florida. Now they were sneaking into Saint Petersburg, Russia. In between, they had lost eight hours on the clock and hadn’t slept lying down. Back in the MANIACs, that sort of trip was normal. They constantly pushed their bodies and their brains to the limit, enduring what other people could not.

It’s why they were considered the best of the best.

Although they were no longer on active duty, their years of training and experience were still a part of them. They knew what to do and when to do it-whether that was on the war-torn streets of Baghdad or in the jungles of Africa. Their formula for success was simple. Pinpoint their objective. Accomplish their goal. Then get the hell out.

Everything else was meaningless.

But as things stood, they had a problem. A major problem. Their objective was ill-defined. What started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else along the way. Something messy. Payne used to call it a potluck mission because it had a little bit of everything. Part fact-finding, part rescue, part mystery, part death. The problem was, they wouldn’t know what they were dealing with until they jumped into the fray. And that was dangerous.

Especially against an unknown opponent.

To make sure they didn’t do anything reckless, they would get a good night’s sleep in a nice hotel. They would shower, change, and eat a large breakfast. Maybe even go for a walk to clear their heads. After that, they would discuss everything they knew and make sure they were in total agreement on the mission’s parameters. If they were, they would get started right away, doing whatever was required. If not, they would hash things out until their goal was clearly defined. Until both of them were comfortable with the stakes.

With their lives on the line, they figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

But first, before they slept-before they were able to sleep-they had a promise to fulfill. One they had made to a scared stranger who was counting on them for survival.

Everything else could wait until morning. Everything except their pledge.

They had to rescue Allison Taylor.

30

Allison Taylor didn’t need to be rescued. She wasn’t the type.

She was a doctoral student at Stanford who had lived on her own since she was eighteen and knew how to fend for herself. She paid her own bills, had several jobs, and still found time to research her thesis-which she planned to finish if she got out of Russia alive.

But that was the problem. She was stuck in Saint Petersburg.

The murder of Richard Byrd had been a shock to her. It had shaken her to her very core, leaving her vulnerable for the first time in years. It was a feeling she despised. The tears, the grief, the displays of weakness. None of those things were a part of her life. Normally, she was the strong one. The rock in the raging storm. The one her friends clung to for support.

But this was different. Completely different.

What did she know about guns? Or assassins? Or sneaking through customs?

She was a student, not a spy. The rules of espionage were foreign to her.

A long time ago, when she was a little girl and her father was still alive, he used to say, “A smart person knows when they don’t know something.” For some reason, that expression had always resonated with her. It gave her the confidence to ask for help when she was confused or out of her element. It wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a sign of strength. It meant she was smart enough to recognize her limitations and secure enough to get assistance.

And this was one of those times.

She knew she needed help. And she hoped Jonathon could provide it.

In reality, she knew very little about him except his name. But what she had learned during her frantic phone call was enough to soothe her. At least for the time being.

Jonathon was confident, not arrogant. He had listened to her problem, then offered a sensible solution. Go to the American consulate. Get its protection. It was a simple answer, but one that revealed a lot about his character. He hadn’t suggested something dangerous or illegal. Instead, he had suggested the safest thing available: getting help from the American government.

Any other time, that would have been her first choice. But on this particular trip, she knew things weren’t that simple. There were other issues to worry about. Byrd had made sure of that. Otherwise, she would have left the Peterhof and gone directly to the consulate.

On the phone, when she had balked at Jonathon’s idea and said she couldn’t go, she had liked the way he had kept his composure. He hadn’t yelled or tried to change her mind. He had simply offered another solution. He had calmed her down, reassured her of his expertise, and then said he was coming to help. Before she could reject his offer or question his abilities, he was telling her what she needed to do and where she needed to go. And she followed his instructions like scripture.

She booked a suite at the Nevskij Palace Hotel, one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. She paid in cash, not by credit card. She registered under a false name. When the clerk asked to see her papers, she told him they had been stolen but replacements would be delivered within forty-eight hours. He was reluctant at first, until she asked for her money back and a cab ride to the Grand Hotel Europe, another five-star hotel in the area. Suddenly, he was willing to make an exception. She thanked him by giving him a large tip in American currency.

She had been told to sit tight after that. When she got hungry, she ordered room service. When she got lonely, she was supposed to talk to herself. No one else. Not friends. Not family. Not even the busboy. The lone exception was if Jonathon or his friend D.J. called her cell phone. Other than that, she was to remain silent, in her room, until they showed up at her door.

And if anyone else came knocking, she should fight for her life.

The knocking started at 2:37 A.M. It was soft but forceful.

She was wide awake, staring at the ceiling above her bed, when she heard it. Her heart instantly leapt into her throat. She was wearing an extra-long T-shirt and panties, just as she would at home. Now she regretted her choice. She Suddenly, felt vulnerable.

A chair was wedged under the door handle. Both locks were set. The safety chain was attached as well. If someone tried to break in, it would take a lot of effort and make a lot of noise. But not as much noise as her screaming. If necessary, she would wake the whole damn hotel.

Nervously, Allison stared through the peephole. Two men were standing in the hallway. One black, one white. Both of them looked muscular and lethal. “Yes?”

Payne answered, “I’m Jonathon. This is D.J. We’re here to help.”

“Just a minute,” she lied. “I’m getting my gun.”

“Great,” Jones mumbled. “I feel safer already.”

Allison hurried away from the door and grabbed her cell phone, the one that Byrd had given to her. It was programmed with only one number. She hustled back to the peephole before she placed the call. A few seconds passed before she got the response she was hoping for. Payne looked at his phone and smiled. Then he held it up to the door. It was vibrating in his hand.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s really me.”

“Just checking,” she said through the door. “Give me a minute. I have to get dressed.”

“Take your time.”

Jones leaned forward and whispered to Payne. “She’s smart, naked, and carrying a gun? She’s my kind of girl.”

“Keep it in your pants, soldier.”

“Good point. She’s scared enough already.”

A few minutes later, they saw the door rattle as she pulled the chair away. Then they heard the locks, one after the other. Finally, she opened the door and peeked through the crack.

She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. No shoes. No makeup. Yet she was stunning. Her hair was blond and hung to her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of sapphires. Payne offered his hand in greeting, and she grasped it firmly. Her skin was soft, but her grip was strong.

“I’m Jon.”

“Allison,” she said as she opened the door wider.

“Nice to meet you. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. But I’m glad you’re finally here.”

He smiled. The feeling was mutual. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she said, still holding the door.

“Thanks.” Payne brushed past her as he eased into the suite. He glanced around, making sure that she was alone. “That’s D.J. He’s harmless.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for the invitation.”

She laughed nervously. “Aren’t we a polite bunch?”

Payne gave Jones a nod, letting him know the place was clear. Only then did he come inside and lock the door. It was a simple precaution, but one that could save their lives.

“Nice suite,” Payne said as he roamed from the master bedroom to the sitting room. There was a couch, a few colorful chairs, and a glass coffee table. A plasma TV hung from the far wall. In the corner was a writing desk, right next to the entrance to the guest bedroom.

“It better be,” she said. “I spent all my money on it.”

“Don’t worry. I told you to come here, so it’s my treat.”

She didn’t argue. The room was expensive. “I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised you chose this place. Aren’t people supposed to hide out in seedy motels?”

“Dumb people do.”

“So do dead ones,” cracked Jones.

She grimaced. “I don’t follow.”

Payne sat on the couch and signaled for her to sit on one of the chairs. This way, he could study her as they spoke. He still had a lot to learn about her. Including her truthfulness.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Did you feel safe in the lobby?”

She nodded as she took her seat, folding her legs underneath her.

“Would you have in a seedy motel?”

“Probably not,” she admitted as she grabbed a pillow. She clutched it against her chest like a security blanket.

“So right off the bat there’s a problem. Not only would you have to worry about the guy who’s following you, but you’d have to worry about the crack dealer with the baseball bat.”

She smiled. “Good point.”

“How about security? Does a roach motel have top-notch security?”

“No.”

“Of course not. No security guards, no video surveillance, no key cards or deadbolts. Even worse, seedy motels are reluctant to call the police for any reason because they don’t want the cops snooping around. It’s bad for their side businesses, like drugs and prostitution.” He shook his head. “By comparison, this place is Fort Knox.”

“I have to admit, I never considered that.”

“That’s okay. That’s why you called us. For our expertise.”

“Speaking of which-”

“Uh-oh,” Jones teased as he sat on the couch. “This is when she asks for our résumé.”

She blushed slightly. “Not your résumé, but . . .”

“It’s okay,” Payne assured her. “You don’t know us. We don’t know you. All of us are tired and a little confused. What do you want to know?”

She gave it some thought. “How did you know Richard?”

Payne shook his head. “We didn’t.”

Allison clutched her pillow tighter. “Wait. I thought you were friends.”

“Nope, we never met the guy. Never heard his name until Sunday.”

“But he gave me your number. He said to call you if something happened.”

Payne nodded. “I know, but we never talked to him.”

“Then . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“How did he get my number? A friend named Petr Ulster. He runs a facility called-”

She interrupted him. “The Ulster Archives.”

He looked at her inquisitively. “Do you know Petr?”

“No, but I know the Archives. They’re legendary in my field.”

“Which is?”

“History. I’m a doctoral student at Stanford.”

She paused for a moment, waiting for the obligatory blonde joke that was sure to follow. Or a stupid question about her looks. How could someone so pretty be so smart? No matter where she went it was always the same. Especially with guys. For some reason, they were amazed that beauty and brains could exist in the same package. It was pathetic. And so predictable.

But Payne surprised her. “How’s your thesis going?”

The question made her smile.

“What?” he asked. “Did I miss something?”

“No. It’s just an interesting question. Slightly unexpected.” She bit her lower lip, trying to hide her reaction. “My research was going well until Sunday. Now, not so good.”

“Wait,” Jones said. “You were here for research? I thought Byrd was your boss.”

“Technically, he was. He hired me as a personal assistant for his trip to Russia. But since his project fell under my area of expertise, I’ve been working on my thesis as well.”

“Out of curiosity,” Payne asked, “what is your area of expertise?”

Her smile grew wider. “Ancient treasures.”

31

Payne and Jones were exhausted. Their bodies and brains craved a full night of sleep. But Allison’s answer piqued their interest enough to keep them awake a little while longer.

“Did you say treasures?” Jones asked with a mischievous grin.

“Yes,” she answered, “ancient treasures.”

“I like treasures.”

Allison smiled. “Most people do.”

Payne leaned forward. “What does that have to do with Byrd? What was his project?”

“Richard was fascinated with Ancient Greece. He spent half of his life looking for ancient relics. It was his obsession.”

“Was he successful?”

She shook her head. “He spent millions to find thousands.”

Jones said, “I’m pretty good with math, and, well, that sucks.”

Payne rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s tired. It’s been a long trip.”

“You know,” she admitted, “when we spoke, I never asked where you were.”

“Actually, you didn’t ask much.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry about that. I had just seen Richard . . . I think I was in shock.”

“There’s no need to apologize. You weren’t that bad. And you seem much better now.”

She shrugged. “I think it’s a different kind of shock. I’m no longer blubbering like I was on the phone, but I can’t believe this is happening. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me.”

“Really?” Jones said through a yawn. “Happens to us all the time.”

Payne shook his head at the comment. “D.J., it’s late. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I can’t,” he whined. “You’re on my bed. Unless you’re giving me the guest room.”

“Not a chance. I’m too tall for the couch.”

“Exactly. So get off my bed.”

Allison looked perplexed. “Wait a minute. You’re staying here?”

Payne nodded. “That’s why I told you to get a suite. So we can stand guard. You’ll be safer this way. I promise.”

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “I wasn’t really expecting . . .”

“Listen, if you’re not comfortable with us, we can get a room down the hall. But I assure you, we didn’t fly in from Florida to hurt you.”

“Wait. You were in Florida when I called?”

“Coincidentally, we were in St. Petersburg. Talk about a small world.”

She gaped in amazement. “You flew in from Florida to help me? Why would you do that?”

Payne shrugged at her surprise. “I made a promise.”

“Who does that?” she asked. “My friends promise me stuff all the time, and they never follow through. But you came here from Florida? They won’t even meet me at the mall.”

He laughed. “Maybe you need new friends.”

“Maybe I do.”

“On the other hand, maybe we’re just special.”

She smiled. “Maybe you are.”

“Maybe you need to get off my bed!” Jones growled.

Payne stood up. “Maybe he’s right.”

Allison laughed at their antics, which was a mini-miracle considering the violence she had seen at the Peterhof. She knew she should have been uncomfortable with two total strangers in her hotel suite, but for some reason, she wasn’t. In fact, she felt the opposite. After two days of being scared for her life, she felt strangely confident-as though everything would be all right.

“Fine,” she said. “You guys can stay the night, but I’m locking my door.”

Payne smiled and secretly pointed at Jones. “That’s fine. So am I.”

By five in the morning the suite was filled with sunlight, a byproduct of the White Nights. But it didn’t bother Jones, who was curled up on the beige couch. His guns sat next to him on the coffee table, and his shoes were on the floor. Other than that, he was fully dressed, ready to spring into action if someone breached the front door. Jones could nap on a mortar range and not even bat an eye, but a squeaking floorboard would pull him from the deepest REM sleep.

Thankfully, nothing woke him until nearly ten, when Allison wandered into the small kitchen. His left eye popped open and then his right. He glanced at her, looked at his watch, then decided he should wake up. They had a long day ahead of them, and a lot of decisions to make.

“Morning,” he said as he sat up. “How’d you sleep?”

“Not too bad. How about yourself ?”

“Better than Jon.”

“Really? Did you talk to him already?”

“No. But I always sleep better than Jon.”

He didn’t explain his comment as he trudged into the guest bathroom, carrying both of his guns and a black travel bag. Allison shook her head at the sight. Weapons had always made her uneasy, but Jones handled his like they were a part of his morning routine. Some people carried coffee and a bagel. He carried two semiautomatics and a toothbrush.

Who in the hell were these guys?

Allison needed to find out before they left the suite.

She was wearing the same clothes as the night before with one addition: a casual white blouse covered her T-shirt. It was the same outfit she had worn to the Peterhof; the same clothes she had worn for two straight days. Everything else-her suitcase, her personal items, her research-was at a different hotel, waiting for her return. After the shooting, she had been forced to leave everything behind, afraid that someone was watching her room, afraid that she might be murdered. So for two days, she made do with the clothes on her back and a hotel robe.

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 character 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.”

“That’s one of the reasons I chose Schliemann as the focus of my thesis. I thought the modern world should learn more about him.”

“I’d love to read it when you’re done. That guy was a classic.”

She smiled at Jones. “I refer to him as the P. T. Barnum of archaeology. In my opinion, he brought fun and entertainment to a field that used to be bone-dry. Pardon the pun.”

“Not a bad comparison,” Jones admitted. “They lived about the same time, right?”

“They actually died four months apart. Schliemann in 1890. Barnum in 1891.”

Payne listened to the conversation, trying to sort through all the details. Some facts were relevant; others were not. But he would allow them to keep rambling on the topic. Not only to get as much background information as possible-since it was obvious that Schliemann factored into the equation in some way. He also wanted to get a better sense of Allison’s personality. What made her tick? What was her role in this? Could she be trusted in a tough situation?

All those questions needed to be answered.

Then again, so did the question that got everything started.

“And,” Payne repeated, “what does this have to do with Saint Petersburg?”

Allison’s cheeks turned pink. “Sorry. I tend to get excited when I talk about Schliemann. I’ve been researching him for the past few years. Right now, he’s a major part of my life.”

“That’s quite all right. Now I feel like I know him, too.”

She smiled at the sentiment. “Schliemann was born in Germany. At the age of twenty-four he moved here to work for an import/export firm. He was very good at his job, and before long he was making a nice living. Four years later, he learned his brother Ludwig had died in California, where he had been a speculator during the height of the Gold Rush. Considering Schliemann’s lust for gold, he took it as his cue to move to Sacramento to settle his brother’s affairs. Within a year, he had started his own bank that specialized in buying and selling gold dust. Before long, he had made millions and decided to move back to Saint Petersburg, which was a whole lot safer than the Wild West. Especially since he was accused of ripping off his business partner in California and taking advantage of his customers. They used to hang people for that.”

Payne asked, “And that’s why you came here? To research Schliemann’s life?”

“Yes and no,” she answered cryptically. “The first half of his life was important to my thesis because it revealed his character as a young man. He was someone who took big chances to accumulate his fortune, but when things got rough, he ran for the hills. Meanwhile, Richard’s interest was completely different. He was fascinated with the second half of Schliemann’s life, the decades when he searched for treasures.”

She looked at Jones. “Earlier, you mentioned that Schliemann discovered the lost city of Troy. Do you know how he found it?”

Jones answered. “By reading the works of Homer.”

She nodded, impressed. “That’s right. As late as the nineteenth century, people actually believed that Troy was a mythical city, much like the lost city of Atlantis. This belief was even shared by educated Greeks. When they read about the Trojan War in the Iliad and the Odyssey, they assumed Troy had been created by Homer and was nothing more than a fictional landscape to base his riveting tales. But Schliemann was different. He used the epic poems as a treasure map, following their lyrics like a book of instructions to find the ruins in modern-day Turkey.”

She shook her head in amazement. “Think about it. The Iliad is the oldest surviving example of European literature. It was written in the ninth century B.C. and is considered a vital part of the Western canon. It has been studied by students all over the world for nearly three thousand years, yet Schliemann saw something that no else did. He saw an opportunity. Despite his lies, despite his flaws, despite his harshest critics, Schliemann was a visionary. A genius of epic proportions. At the time of his death, do you know how many languages he could speak? Twenty-two. Twenty-two languages.”

Jones whistled. “Now, that’s impressive. That’s twenty-one more than Jon.”

She smiled. “Do you know how Schliemann learned them? He used to memorize long passages of the same book, written in multiple languages. Then, if he couldn’t sleep at night, he used to shout the passages at the top of his lungs. No one knows why it worked, but it did. In the meantime, he was kicked out of multiple apartments because his neighbors hated him.”

Jones laughed. “I can understand why.”

Payne watched Allison as she spoke. The way her eyes danced with excitement. The way she used her hands to punctuate certain points. Her words were filled with such passion and enthusiasm, he barely had the heart to interrupt her. But he knew if he didn’t, she would keep talking about Schliemann, and they wouldn’t get any closer to solving Richard’s death.

“And,” he said again, “what does this have to do with Saint Petersburg?”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting there,” she said. “The treasure that Schliemann found on the site of Ancient Troy was nicknamed Priam’s Treasure. He named it after Priam, who was king of Troy in the story of the Iliad. This was a common theme with Schliemann. He named his treasures after characters in Homer even though he had no tangible evidence to support his claims.”

“Part of his showmanship,” Payne guessed.

“Exactly,” she said. “When he made this particular discovery, he and his wife, Sophia, wanted to keep Priam’s Treasure all to themselves. They lied to dozens of workers who were helping with their dig, telling them that it was Heinrich’s birthday. In honor of it, everyone was given a paid day off. An hour later, once everyone had left the site, Heinrich and Sophia wrapped the gold in her shawl and smuggled it out of the country.”

Jones laughed at the tale. “That’s classic Schliemann. The guy was slippery.”

“Remember, fortune was only a small part of the equation with Schliemann. He also wanted to be the world’s most famous antiquarian-that’s what’s archaeologists were called back then. So he photographed his wife wearing the fanciest items, which he dubbed the Jewels of Helen, and published her photograph next to a detailed description of his findings. He actually admitted in the media that he had smuggled everything out of the country. Well, let me tell you, it sparked a huge controversy. The Turkish government revoked his digging permits, they imprisoned some of his workers, and they sued him for their rightful share of the treasure. But Schliemann escaped to Greece before the Turks could arrest him.”

“And what happened to the treasure?” Payne wondered.

“The majority of it was acquired by the Imperial Museum of Berlin, which was Schliemann’s way of endearing himself to his native Germany. But during World War Two, it was looted from a hidden bunker located underneath the Berlin Zoo. For nearly fifty years, no one knew what happened to it. It was one of the greatest mysteries of the war. Then, one day in 1993, an exhibition opened at the Pushkin Museum in Moscow, displaying Priam’s Treasure.”

“It surfaced in Russia?” Payne asked. “How’d it get here?”

“The Russian army’s Trophy Brigade, as they were called back then, had seized it and lied about it for decades. Eventually, leaders in Moscow decided the treasure was too beautiful to hide, and they put it on display for the whole world to see. Which, of course, started another controversy. Despite multiple threats by Germany, the Russians refused to give it back, claiming it was compensation for the destruction of Russian cities by the Nazis. Not to mention Nazi looting. If you know anything about World War Two, it wasn’t a good time to own art.”

Payne and Jones nodded. They knew all about the spoils of war.

“Which brings us to Saint Petersburg,” she said as she glanced at Payne. “Sorry it took so long to get here. I felt you needed to hear the whole story to understand.”

“No problem. I learned a lot.”

“Since Schliemann lived in Saint Petersburg for several years, the Russian government decided that half of the treasure should be exhibited in the city. Since 1998, it has been on public display at the Hermitage.”

“And Richard wanted to study it?”

She shook her head. “Richard didn’t care about the treasures that Schliemann had found. He was more concerned with the treasures that had eluded him.”

34

Payne considered all the information he had been told and tried to figure out why Richard Byrd had been killed. But it was dif ficult. There were still pieces missing from the equation.

He knew Byrd was a treasure hunter who had an affinity for Heinrich Schliemann, an archaeologist who lived in Saint Petersburg during the nineteenth century. Allison was an expert on the subject, able to talk at length about every aspect of Schliemann’s life, including his passion for Greek treasures. What Payne didn’t know, though, was what role she served in Byrd’s latest project. Or, for that matter, what the project was.

“When we spoke to Petr Ulster,” Payne said, hoping to shift the focus of the conversation back to Allison, “he mentioned Richard’s taste for young assistants. From what we were told, their talents were less than helpful in the Archives.”

Allison agreed with the assessment. She was fully aware of Richard’s former employees and their sexual reputations. “Like I said, Richard was a player. He used his wealth and power to get what he wanted. And they, in return, traveled the globe.”

“Yet you were willing to work for him. How did that happen?”

“For two years I spent most of my free time in Stanford’s library, trying to learn everything I could about Heinrich Schliemann. The more I learned, the more I realized that my thesis was lacking an important element: firsthand experience. Unlike most archaeologists of his day, Schliemann didn’t live in a library. He lived in the field. He took his books and his shovels and started digging. How could I write a paper about him without experiencing the same things?”

Payne said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“One day my thesis adviser told me that Richard was looking for a new assistant, preferably a doctoral student with an extensive knowledge of Greek treasures. Not only was it a paid position, but most of the fieldwork would be done in Europe. Obviously, it sounded perfect to me, so I submitted a letter of interest and my résumé. In the meantime, I researched Richard and discovered several interesting things. He came from old money. Ironically, it was made in the same manner as Schliemann’s-gold and banking. Later I found out their connection was even stronger than that. Richard’s ancestors had actually worked with Schliemann during the Gold Rush. So Richard believed they were kindred spirits, destined to be linked forever.”

Jones said, “That explains his boat.”

She looked at him, confused. Not sure what he meant.

“We saw a picture of his boat. It was called the Odyssey.”

“Ah, yes. Richard’s yacht. A tribute to Homer and the journeys he hoped to make.”

“Journeys that included you,” Payne said, trying to keep her focused.

She nodded. “Richard called me a week later and asked me a number of questions about Schliemann and Greece. I must have passed his test, because he hired me sight unseen.”

Payne smiled at the comment. It said a lot about her personality. She wanted them to know that she had been hired for her brains, not her looks. Then again, Payne had known that within five minutes of talking to her. “When was that?”

“About a month ago.”

“A month? You’ve been here for a month?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve been here less than a week.”

“But you worked with him for a month. What were your duties?”

“At first, not much. He flew me to Berlin, where he spent most of his time at the local museums searching for information about Schliemann’s treasures. He talked to curators and experts in various fields. Meanwhile, I waited back at the hotel.”

“Why was that?” Payne asked.

“He didn’t trust me. In fact, he didn’t trust most people he met. In that way, he was just like Schliemann. He kept his plans to himself and only asked for help when he needed it.”

“What type of help?”

“He would summon me to his room, where I would be told to read a document or look at a picture. Then I would be asked for my opinion. Did I think this? Did I think that? It was very strange.”

“In what way?”

“It was always something different. One minute it was about Schliemann. The next about Zeus. Or the geology of Ancient Europe. There was never a consistent theme, like he was purposely trying to confuse me so I wouldn’t know what he was looking for.”

Payne furrowed his brow. “What was he looking for?”

“I have no idea. He never trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Come on. Don’t give me that. A smart gal like you, you must have a theory.”

She smiled. “I have a couple.”

“Such as?”

“As I mentioned, Richard didn’t care about the treasures that Schliemann found. He was more concerned with the ones he didn’t. So I focused my attention there, trying to figure out what Schliemann was hunting for in the latter stages of his life. Two days before he died, despite a horrible ear infection that had required several operations in the preceding weeks, Schliemann toured the ruins of Pompeii. As you probably know, the city was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in seventy-nine A.D. and wasn’t rediscovered until the mid-seventeen hundreds.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Payne said. “But isn’t Pompeii in Italy?”

She nodded. “Near Naples.”

“What does it have to do with Ancient Greece?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But Richard had an interest in the place, probably because of Schliemann. One day he showed me ancient maps of Pompeii, along with some artwork that survived the blast. Another time he asked me about Herculaneum, Pompeii’s wealthier sister city, which was also destroyed.”

Jones asked, “And you’re not sure why Schliemann was there?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Schliemann was consumed with Ancient Greece, not Ancient Rome. So it didn’t make sense to me. However, a week before we came to Russia, Richard left me in Berlin for a few days. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or when he was coming back, but my room was paid for, so I didn’t complain. I used the time to work on my thesis. When he returned, he summoned me to his room, where we did the same routine as before. I looked at pictures and offered my opinions. While this was going on, I noticed his suitcase sitting in the corner. It had an airport tag that read Aeroporto di Napoli. He had been to Naples.”

“Strange,” Jones admitted. “Very strange.”

“So was this trip to Saint Petersburg. We weren’t supposed to come here. We were supposed to go to Greece. At least that’s what I was told when I was hired. We’d be in Germany for a while, and then we were going to Greece. He changed our itinerary at the last minute.”

Payne nodded, realizing that Petr Ulster had mentioned the same thing on the phone. He had fully expected Byrd to be in Greece, not Russia. That meant either Byrd was playing a game, trying to deceive everyone who knew anything about his project, or something had altered his travel plans. If that was the case, it could be the reason he was killed.

“Out of curiosity,” Payne said, “how’d you get into Russia?”

“By plane.”

He shook his head. “Not to Russia, into Russia. This country requires a travel visa, which takes some time to acquire. Without it, you aren’t getting in. So how’d you get in?”

Allison blushed and lowered her eyes. Payne noticed it immediately. It was the first time during their conversation that she had looked away. The first time he sensed something was off.

“What is it?” Payne demanded.

She took a moment to gather her senses, to re-collect her cool. Then she looked at him. “Sorry. I’m just embarrassed. I normally don’t break the law.”

Payne stared at her, studying her every tic. Making sure that she was telling the truth.

She said, “We snuck into the country. I’m not proud of it, but we did. There wasn’t time to get a real visa, so Richard got us fake ones in Berlin. Fake names. Fake visas. Fake everything. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

Jones mumbled under his breath. “Fucking Kaiser.”

Payne nodded in agreement. Byrd had the cash, and Kaiser ran the underground in Germany. It was a match made in smuggler heaven. “That explains why you wouldn’t go to the American consulate.”

“How could I? I wasn’t supposed to be here. Richard told me I’d be arrested on the spot.”

“Not arrested, detained. But you still should’ve gone. It’s better than being shot.”

She conceded his point. “You’re right. You’re definitely right. And if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve gone to the consulate. I swear I would have.”

“Great,” Jones teased. “Now she’s blaming us.”

“What?” she said defensively. “I’m not blaming you. I’m thanking you. Without you guys, I would be dead or in prison. There’s no doubt in my mind. So thank you for coming here.”

“You’re welcome,” Jones said. “Glad we could help.”

Payne glanced at him. “Don’t go patting yourself on the back just yet. She’s still in Russia. She’s still in danger. And we still don’t know why.”

“True,” he admitted. “Very true. But I have a few theories on the topic-including a possible solution to her woe.”

“Did you just say ‘woe’?”

Jones smiled. “I did, my good man, I did. Shall I define it for you?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Good. Then I’ll get straight to my point.” Jones looked at Allison. “How long were you going to stay in Russia?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks.”

“So there’s a good chance your rooms are still paid for, right?”

“Definitely. At least for a few more days. Richard always paid ahead.”

Jones continued. “And since he was the private type, I’m sure he had a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging on his door the entire trip, right?”

She nodded.

“I’m also guessing that wasn’t good enough for him, so he probably locked his documents in his room safe-even when he used the bathroom.”

“Like clockwork.”

“No problem,” bragged Jones, who had picked many locks in his day. Not only in the Special Forces, but also as a private detective. “Hotel locks are easy. Give me five minutes and that safe is mine. Another two and I can collect your research. By the time I’m done, your room will be spotless. No one will even know you stayed there.”

“And then what?” Payne wondered.

“Then we come back here and look through Richard’s stuff. It’s obvious the guy was hiding something. Once we know what it was, we’ll be a whole lot closer to solving his murder.”

35

From the moment Nick Dial entered the grounds of Great Metéoron, he felt like an outsider.

Unlike Holy Trinity, which was filled with talkative cops, bloodstained floors, and severed heads, Great Metéoron was a working monastery. Everywhere Dial looked, he saw silent monks, manicured gardens, and religious icons. It was enough to make his skin crawl. If he wanted to walk around in peaceful harmony, he would have moved to Tibet. Or smoked a lot of pot.

As it was, he was investigating a murder. He didn’t have time to chant. Or inhale.

“I feel like I’m back in high school,” Dial said to Andropoulos as they made their way up the stone steps that led to the main courtyard, which was adorned with trees. Potted flowers lined most of the walls and walkways.

“Why is that?” Andropoulos wondered.

Dial passed two monks who gave him the evil eye, as if they had just caught him pissing on a church altar. Other monks had acted the same way. He didn’t know if it was due to his talking or because he was visiting the monastery on the one day it was supposed to be closed to the public. Whatever the reason, he felt the cold glares of the holy men everywhere he walked.

Dial said, “My father was an assistant football coach, which is one of the least stable jobs in America. When he succeeded, he was hired by better colleges. When he failed, he was fired and we were forced to move. Either way, it meant I was always the new kid at school. And the new kid was always treated like this.”

Andropoulos smiled. It was the first time Dial had opened up to him. Even at dinner the night before, the two of them had mostly talked about the case, not their private lives. “Don’t take it personally, sir. These men have chosen a life of solitude. They view us as a link to the outside world. A world that recently claimed eight of their own.”

“Don’t worry. I never take things personally. I didn’t back then, and I don’t now.”

Great Metéoron, also known as Megálo Metéoro, is the oldest and largest of the six local monasteries. Founded in 1340 by Saint Athana sios Meteorites, a scholar monk from Mount Athos, it had expanded several times over the years, housing as many as three hundred monks in the mid-sixteenth century. What started as a single building carved into the rock had expanded to a small town on top of it-more than two thousand feet above the valley below. There were four chapels, a cathedral, a tower, a refectory, a dormitory, a hospital, and several other structures.

Most of them made of stone. Most of them centuries old.

Dial soaked it all in as they followed the stone pathway between the buildings. Thankfully, Andropoulos knew where they were going, or Dial would have been forced to ask directions from one of the monks. A conversation that would have been, undoubtedly, one-sided.

A few minutes later, they met Joseph, a fair-haired monk and one of the youngest at Great Metéoron. Because of his low standing in the order, he had been assigned to be their tour guide while Theodore finished his research in the library. Joseph, who was so young he couldn’t even grow a decent beard, was waiting for them outside the monastery’s katholikón, an Eastern Orthodox term for cathedral. Dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ, it was often called the Church of the Metamorphosis. Built in 1544 to replace a smaller katholikón that still served as its sanctuary, it was the most important building in the entire complex.

“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”

Dial stepped inside the katholikón and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.

Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”

Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology-the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.

“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”

“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”

Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”

“What are you talking about?”

Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.

Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes-images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God-that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.

“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.

Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.

“Jesus,” Dial said as he angrily turned toward Andropoulos. “How did you forget about this? There’s a pile of fucking heads on the ceiling!”

Andropoulos was about to defend himself when he was saved by Joseph. The monk heard Dial’s vulgarity and charged toward him like an angry rhino protecting its young.

“This is a house of God!” he snarled. “You must show respect in here.”

“Sorry,” Dial apologized, quickly realizing his mistake. Embarrassed, he lowered his head to convey his shame. It was a technique he had learned while working in Japan. “Please forgive me. I forgot where I was. I’m truly sorry for my behavior.”

The young monk paused, as if he had been expecting a confrontation that never materialized. He was so surprised by this development that his anger melted away, replaced by mercy and forgiveness.

“This is our church,” Joseph said, his voice much kinder than a moment before. “Treat it as you would your own.”

Dial nodded, apologetically. “Speaking of churches,” he whispered in a reverential tone, “I was wondering about these paintings. They seem out of place in a house of worship.”

“Not to us.”

“I don’t follow.”

Joseph gazed at the ceiling, his eyes twinkling with awe and admiration. “In the Orthodox faith, one must ask himself what he would do if his beliefs were ever challenged. Would he display the courage and stamina that is necessary to overcome the pains of the flesh? Does he have the devotion in his heart that would lead him to martyrdom? Most people would crumble like ancient ruins, unwilling to fight for what they believed in. But some, like those brave souls honored above, were willing to die for their cause. And to them, we give our respect.”

Dial realized that Joseph was talking about Christianity. But given the circumstances of the massacre and all the connections that Dial had found to soldiers and war, he couldn’t help but wonder if the monks had died for a cause as well-something that had nothing to do with their Orthodox faith. That would explain why seven elderly monks, from different parts of the world, were secretly meeting at Holy Trinity. The odds were pretty damn good they weren’t debating religious doctrine. That type of conversation would be held during the day in a city like Athens, not in the middle of the night on top of a rocky plateau.

So what had they been discussing? What was worth dying for?

Andropoulos pointed at the ceiling. “What is the significance of the heads?”

The monk glanced upward. “Those are the heads of saints, the men we admire most. They gave their lives for their faith. . . . If you look closely, you will notice halos above them. It is our way of showing reverence to their sacrifice.”

In the dim church light, Dial strained to see the halos. On closer inspection, he noticed tiny gold loops above the severed heads. It was a strange twist to an already strange painting.

“Come,” Joseph said. “If you are interested in heads, I have a special treat.”

A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of a wooden door. It was spotted with black knots and cracked down the middle from centuries of rot. Yet it still hung on its hinges, protecting its occupants from the outside world. The smell of incense leaked from a foot-high arch that was cut in the door. Dial moved closer and saw candlelight flickering inside the room. As the flames danced, he saw death.

“This is the ossuary,” Joseph explained as he opened the door. “Some call it a bone room. Or a charnel house. This is where we keep our dead.”

Dial walked in first, not the least bit scared by what he saw. If anything, he was captivated by the morbidity. Seven rows of wooden shelves, all of them lined with skulls that stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He moved closer, marveling at their shapes, the curve of their craniums, the hollowness of their nasal cavities. Even in death, after years of rot and decay, he could imagine their faces. He could picture the way they had looked when they were alive.

“These are our founders,” Joseph whispered. “They remind us how short our life is on earth and how insignificant we truly are.”

Dial stared at the lowest shelf. Stacks of bones-femurs, tibias, ribs, and more-were wedged under and between the bottom row of skulls. Entire skeletons crammed into a tiny space like books in a library. None of it seemed respectful to Dial, who had seen burial traditions in many countries. But he realized different cultures believed in different things, so he wasn’t the least bit offended by the way they treated their dead. Just intrigued.

Turning to his right, he noticed a wooden cabinet standing next to the stone wall. He walked toward it, staring at the two framed photographs that sat on the top of the unit. Each one was a picture of a monk. They were dressed in their traditional black cassocks and caps, although the two men looked nothing alike. One was old and regal. His eyes filled with wisdom. His beard gray with age. Meanwhile, the other monk was younger than Dial. His cheeks were round and chubby. His smile full of life. Yet both pictures were displayed in the same manner. They were surrounded by several lit candles in metal trays and tiny gold lanterns filled with incense.

The scent was piney and pungent, like a forest fire.

Dial asked, “Who are they?”

Joseph answered, his voice vacant of any emotion. “That is the abbot and the caretaker of Holy Trinity. We honor their sacrifice and mourn our loss.”

Dial glanced back at the monk, who showed no signs of sadness. Normally, that would have raised a red flag with Dial, particularly in a community as small as Metéora, where everyone knew everybody else. But considering the skulls and images he had seen in the last twenty minutes, Dial realized the monks had a much different view of death from most people’s.

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. In 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 arm 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.

Joseph, the fair-haired monk, was not permitted to enter the library. He knocked five times on its thick wooden door and waited for it to be opened from the inside. A few minutes passed before anyone responded. The inner locks clicked, then Theodore pulled the door toward him using his body weight and momentum. Inch by inch, the portal swung open. As it did, the metal hinges squealed, echoing through the stone corridor like a woman’s scream.

“That will be all,” Theodore said.

Without saying a word, Joseph nodded. Then he turned and walked away.

“Please, come in.”

Dial went in first, followed by Andropoulos. Both of them glanced around the library, not sure what to expect. Neither of them was disappointed.

All the walls were lined with shelves, and all the shelves were lined with books. Hundreds of antique codices, manuscripts, and documents. All of them locked behind black metal bars. A carved wooden desk and three matching chairs sat in the middle of the floor. A simple chandelier hung above them, casting light in all directions.

“May I?” asked Dial as he gestured toward the shelves on the left.

“Of course.”

Theodore stepped aside. He was wearing the same cassock and cap as the day before, yet because of the bags under his eyes, he looked as though he had aged several years since Dial had seen him last. He had spent half the night doing research, hoping to learn more about the secret tunnel and the artwork at Holy Trinity.

“Our library is the finest in central Greece.”

Dial tilted his head to the side, trying to read some of the ancient titles. All of them were written in languages that he couldn’t decipher. “How did you acquire the books?”

“Great Metéoron was blessed by good fortune. A Serbian ruler named Simeon Uroš gave us a large endowment in the mid-fourteenth century. It allowed us to build the original katholikón and expand our cloisters. Eventually, his son, John Uroš, joined our order. He took the name Iosaph and ran our monastery for many years. His wealth and guidance helped us persevere.”

“And the books?”

“Some were donated. Some were bought. Some were written here.”

“Really? What type of books did your brethren write?”

Slipping a pair of gloves on to protect the ancient relics, Theodore walked to the front corner of the room. With a set of brass keys, he unlocked the metal cage and removed a single book. It was nearly six inches thick and covered in tan-colored goatskin. He carried it to the wooden desk and carefully laid it open. “This is one of our recent volumes. It is less than a century old. Yet it reveals the quality of our bookmaking.”

Dial and Andropoulos leaned closer, both of them anxious to inspect it.

Even though it was written in Greek, Dial was overwhelmed by its beauty. The pages were filled with the most elegant calligraphy he had ever seen. Words flowed into one another like waves on the sea. The margins were illustrated in bold, bright colors-images that were so detailed, so transcendent, that Dial was able to understand the story without reading it.

“The birth of Christ,” he said. “It’s magnificent.”

Theodore nodded. “Pride is discouraged by our order. Yet it is hard not to be proud.”

Dial gestured toward the shelves. “How many of these books were made here?”

“Many,” he said cryptically. “Centuries ago, every book of significance was either written in monasteries or protected by them. Our library has volumes on virtually every field: history, alchemy, philosophy, grammar, politics.”

“And religion. Don’t forget religion.”

Theodore nodded. “We never forget religion.”

Dial laughed as he walked to the right-hand side of the room. Andropoulos followed closely, browsing the bookcases for anything that looked out of place. As a native speaker, he was able to read most of the titles. Occasionally, for Dial’s benefit, he translated their names aloud. But nothing stood out to either of them. No volumes on war or weaponry-other than some Grecian classics that were available in most libraries. Books like the Odyssey and the Iliad.

“So,” Dial said when he was tired of browsing, “what did you learn about the tunnel?”

Theodore slid behind the desk and took a seat. He motioned for Dial and Andropoulos to sit in the two chairs across from him. “Regrettably, not much.”

“Really? With all these books, I figured you’d find something of value. Didn’t you say the entire history of Metéora was chronicled here?”

“Yes, I did.”

Dial shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that something as elaborate as that tunnel is not mentioned in any of these volumes. In fact, I’d be tempted to go one step further. I might even use the word unlikely.”

Theodore said nothing. He simply folded his hands on the desk in front of him and returned Dial’s stare. Unfortunately, because of the monk’s beard, Dial found it difficult to read his facial expressions. Was he smirking? Or grinning? Or gritting his teeth? Dial couldn’t tell. All he could do was study Theodore’s eyes, hoping to find a clue as to what he was thinking.

“Marcus,” Dial said, as he started to stand, “are you ready to go?”

Andropoulos glanced at him, temporarily confused. “We’re leaving?”

“The library, yes. The grounds, no. This monastery is filled with potential witnesses. Let’s go pester some.”

Andropoulos nodded in understanding. He knew what Dial was doing and was anxious to play along. “Should I call the station? I can get some reinforcements.”

“Let’s start with five. Make sure they bring dinner. We might be here awhile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

In unison, the two of them headed toward the door. They made it halfway across the room before Theodore cleared his throat. Dial tried not to grin as he stopped in his tracks.

“Yes?” Dial said over his shoulder.

“Sometimes, more can be learned by what is missing than what is found.”

He refused to turn around. “Meaning?”

“Please have a seat,” the monk implored. “There is something I must show you.”

Andropoulos glanced at Dial, who nodded his approval. The two of them returned to their chairs while Theodore fetched a book from the back corner of the room, where some of the shelves were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of monks posing on the grounds. None of them smiling. Just standing there as if it were torture. Dial knew that feeling. A similar photo used to hang on his parents’ wall. It documented the day he graduated from college. It was a proud moment for his family, so he willingly stood there and let them take picture after picture to commemorate the occasion. But he sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it.

“Who are they?” Dial asked, pointing at the photographs. As far as he could see, it was the only section of the room that had any personal items.

Theodore replied as he carried a single book back to the desk. “They are monks who lived at Metéora. All have since moved on.”

“Moved on as in transferred, or moved on as in dead?”

“A little of both.”

“Why are the pictures kept in that corner section?”

“It’s where our historical records are stored. The photographs are part of our history.”

Dial nodded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Theodore said nothing.

“So,” Dial continued, “what did you want us to see? Or not see, as the case may be?”

“The history of Holy Trinity,” said the monk as he carefully opened the book.

Its cover was hard ornamental leather, dark brown in color. An Orthodox cross had been embossed on the front. It stood a quarter-inch higher than the rest of the leather. Tiny brass studs had been inserted into all four corners of the front and back, which lifted the book off flat surfaces, protecting it from dust or spills. The spine was etched with rustic gold, the same color as the outer edge of the pages. They glistened under the light of the chandelier.

“Over the centuries,” he said as he turned the pages, “my brethren have documented every significant moment at Holy Trinity. This includes all new construction. Whenever the monastery expanded, so did this book.”

“And you’ve done this for every monastery?”

Theodore nodded. “We chronicle the past to enrich the future.”

“That’s very noble of you. But unless I’m missing something, your brethren weren’t very thorough. If they had been, they would’ve noticed the tunnel that I found.”

“It isn’t you who is missing something. It is this volume.” Theodore turned it toward Dial and Andropoulos so they could see it better. “Pages have been taken.”

Dial stood up. “How do you know?”

The monk ran his gloved finger down the center crease of the book. A section had been removed, obvious from the torn fragments that still remained. “I do not know who and I do not know when, but someone butchered this book as they butchered my brothers.”

Dial glanced at the monk and saw fire in his eyes. They were like two burning embers. Considering the lack of emotions that most of his brethren had shown, it was a surprising display of passion. Still, something about it seemed strange. Unless Dial was mistaken, the rage had surfaced over the mutilation of the book, not the execution of the monks. Which was eerily similar to Joseph’s reaction earlier in the day. He had practically spat venom when Dial cursed inside the katholikón, plus he had been emotional over the painting on the ceiling. However, he had barely blinked an eye over the death of the abbot or the caretaker of Holy Trinity-two men he knew.

Dial wasn’t sure why, but something was seriously wrong with their priorities.

Andropoulos asked, “Is this the only book that has been vandalized?”

The monk shrugged, visibly upset. “It is too early to tell. I will know more later.”

Dial nodded as he walked over to the corner where the historical records were kept. He wasn’t concerned about the books on the other shelves-the ones about grammar, alchemy, and religion. His main concern was the history of Metéora. If Holy Trinity had a secret tunnel, maybe the other monasteries did as well. Or something similar. “Did you check any of these?”

“They were the first ones I inspected.”

“And?”

“I found nothing wrong.”

Dial looked through the iron bars that protected this section. The bars were solid and the locks were unharmed. There was an open slot on the third shelf from the top. It was where Holy Trinity had been pulled by Theodore. All the surrounding titles were written in Greek, which prevented Dial from reading them. But he noticed all of them had been bound in the same ornamental leather as Holy Trinity. He counted twenty-three volumes. Twenty-four, if he included the one on the desk. That was the original number of monasteries at Metéora.

That meant none of the other journals had been stolen.

Frustrated, Dial looked at the other shelves, hoping to find anything that might help his case. His eyes were immediately drawn to one black-and-white photograph. It featured seven monks standing on the balcony of Holy Trinity. The distant valley could be seen behind them, although much of it was blocked by the tall caps that they wore. Focusing on their faces, Dial tried to imagine what they looked like behind their beards. Remarkably, all of the monks looked different, a diverse mix of facial features that could best be explained by geography.

Dial had traveled enough in his lifetime to recognize ethnic features in certain people. Whether it was the shape of their eyes, the slant of their brow, or the curve of their mouth, he was often able to guess where people were from. And these men were not from the same country. They looked too dissimilar to be from the same regional gene pool.

“Theodore,” Dial said, pointing, “may I see this photograph?”

The monk nodded and walked toward the corner shelf. With his key, he undid the latch and reached inside the case. The picture was displayed in a polished brass frame. He grabbed it and showed it to Dial. “That was taken decades ago. I would guess forty years or so.”

Dial did the math in his head and came up with a date. “Who were they?”

“I am not sure. That picture is older than I.”

Dial grunted. “I wish I could say the same.”

“I know I can,” Andropoulos said from his chair.

Dial sneered at the young cop. “I might be old, but at least I’m on my feet and working.”

Andropoulos got the hint and decided to search the library for clues.

Dial returned his attention to the picture. The moment he did, his eyes locked on the young monk in the middle of the back row. A wave of recognition swept over him. It was so strong that a gasp emerged from his lips. “Holy shit.”

Theodore frowned at the profanity.

“Sorry,” Dial said as he pointed at the picture. “But I know that man.”

Andropoulos heard the comment from across the room. “You know who?”

Dial tapped on the picture’s glass. “He’s several years younger, but I’d recognize him anywhere. That’s Nicolas, the old monk from Holy Trinity.”

“You’re sure of this?” asked Theodore.

“I’m positive.”

Theodore considered this information as he walked toward the desk. With the picture in his gloved hands, he carefully removed the bottom of the brass frame and pulled the photograph out. He flipped it over and laid it flat on the desk. Dial and Andropoulos leaned forward as the monk silently translated the caption on the back. It was written in light pencil.

“You are right,” the monk said. “His name is Nicolas. He once lived at Holy Trinity.”

“And the others? Who are they?”

“I can tell you their names, but they mean nothing to me. That is, except one.”

Dial raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Theodore flipped the photograph over and pointed to the tall man on the far left. Other than Nicolas, he was the youngest man in the picture. All the other monks ranged in age from thirty to seventy. “This was our abbot. The one who was killed.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. He had met the abbot a few times.

“And neither of you recognize anyone else in the photo?” Dial asked.

Both men shook their heads. The other monks were from a different generation.

“Is there anyone-maybe an older monk in the monastery-who might know them?”

“Probably not,” Theodore admitted. “Ours is a younger community. After a certain age, most of our older members move on to Mount Athos to continue their spiritual growth.”

“Mount Athos?” Dial asked, unfamiliar with the name.

Theodore nodded. “Catholic priests have the Vatican. We have Mount Athos.”

39

While in the MANIACs, Jones had been forced to make life-or-death decisions on nearly every mission. Communication could rarely be counted on in the desolate outposts where they operated, so his men had relied on him to read Payne’s mind anytime their unit was separated.

It was a skill that had saved them from friendly fire on more than one occasion.

Their strange psychic ability continued in their everyday lives. Payne and Jones spent so much time together that they could read each other like identical twins-twins who happened to look nothing alike. Whether it was reaching for the phone just before the other called or finishing each other’s sentences, they knew what the other was thinking most of the time. And in this situation, Jones had no doubt that Payne wanted him to search Byrd’s room.

So that’s what he set out to do. As quickly as possible.

Unlike Allison’s single room facing the inner courtyard, Byrd’s was a large suite on an upper floor that overlooked St. Isaac’s Square. Jones knew elevators were dangerous places, often equipped with video cameras and full of witnesses who had nothing better to do than stare at one another, so he opted to take the stairs instead. He climbed the steps two at a time, hoping to reach Byrd’s window before anything bad happened between Payne and the soldiers.

In a worst-case scenario, Jones was willing to fire a few shots into the air just to make the Russians reevaluate their priorities. What’s more important: a man and woman sightseeing in the plaza or someone firing shots in a nearby hotel? Not only would the soldiers come running, but Payne and Allison could escape in the resulting chaos.

The hallway was deserted when Jones reached Byrd’s suite. The “do not disturb” sign, written in Russian, still hung from the doorknob. Wasting no time, Jones pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Less than thirty seconds later he was slipping into the room.

“Hello,” he called softly. “Is anyone in here? The door was wide open.”

He waited for a response. Hearing nothing, he closed and locked the door, put on the security chain, and then set Allison’s book bag and computer on the parquet floor.

Allison had briefed him on the basic layout of the corner suite, so he had a pretty good idea where everything was. With gun in hand, he crept from room to room, making sure that he was alone, before he went to the bank of windows in the main sitting area. The white curtains were drawn, filling the suite with diffused light. He parted them and carefully peeked outside. He had a glorious view of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, its gilded dome glistening high above the city below, but was unable to see the monument to Nicholas I.

“Shit!” he swore as he hurried toward the next room. He passed through a set of French doors, hoping he would have a different angle from the bedroom, but quickly realized that it shared the same outer wall as the sitting room. “Shit, shit, shit!”

His last hope was the bathroom. It was on the far side of the bedroom, away from the massive cathedral. He knew it had a small frosted window-he’d noticed it when he checked the bathroom for trouble-but wasn’t sure what direction it faced. Heart pounding, he undid the lock and threw the window open. Glancing outside, he realized it was angled perfectly, overlooking the equestrian monument that towered above the square. And in front of it, he saw Payne, Allison, and three uniformed soldiers. None of whom looked happy.

Grizzly snatched Payne’s papers then studied them intently, searching for anything that might be missing or incorrect. Meanwhile, the other two soldiers ogled Allison as though she were dancing on stage at a local strip club. They whispered obscene remarks to each other, describing what they would like to do with her if they ever got her alone. One even made a slurping sound. Neither Payne nor Allison could understand Russian, but they had a pretty good idea what the soldiers were saying and who they were talking about.

And it sure as hell wasn’t Payne.

Remarkably, he managed to keep his cool. If the same situation had presented itself in an anonymous tavern, Payne would have fought the soldiers and anyone who tried to intervene. And the odds were pretty good that Payne would have won. His fighting skills were that extraordinary. But as things stood, he had nothing to gain by being aggressive. The last thing he wanted to do was bring any attention to himself, so he casually put his arm around Allison’s waist and pulled her close. It was his way of marking his territory.

“You no look Canada,” Grizzly declared without lifting his gaze from Payne’s paperwork. His accent was thick and slurred. His face was scarred. “You look Poland.”

Payne’s paternal ancestors were actually from a small town outside Warsaw. When his great-grandfather came to America, the guards at Ellis Island had been unable to pronounce his surname, which was Paynewski. So they gave him two choices: either shorten his name to Payne or get back on the boat and return to Europe. His family name had been Payne ever since.

But he wasn’t going to tell Grizzly that. The less the Russian knew, the better.

“Canadian, born and raised,” Payne claimed.

“What city?”

“Toronto.”

Grizzly glanced at Payne. He studied his face as intently as he had studied his paperwork. The two of them were roughly the same height, so Grizzly was able to look Payne directly in the eye. Man to man. After an uncomfortable silence, he asked, “You like the hockey?”

Payne nodded. “I’m Canadian. I love hockey.”

“You know Evgeni Malkin?”

“Of course I do. He’s a great NHL player. He’s Russian, right?”

“Da.” Grizzly paused for a moment, still holding Payne’s documents in his meaty grip. Then, with a hint of bravado, he claimed, “I play Malkin in Magnitogorsk.”

“Really? You must be pretty good. How did you do?”

Grizzly sneered, crinkling his oversized brow. “He win.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

He handed the papers back to Payne, then turned his attention to Allison. “Who is this?”

“That’s my girlfriend,” he said, trying to talk for her as much as possible. “She’s a big fan of history, so I wanted her to see Saint Petersburg. She loves the place.”

Grizzly stared at her with lust in his eyes. Starting with her legs, he slowly moved his gaze upward, lingering in all the inappropriate places, until he finally stopped on her face. “She does not look smart to me.”

Allison’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink.

“But she is,” Payne claimed. “At least most of the time. She thinks this horse monument is made of bronze.”

Grizzly looked at the horse and grinned. “Da.”

“Really?” Payne said. “I guess I was wrong. I could’ve sworn it was made of brass.”

Allison managed a smile but said nothing in return. Not even a friendly retort.

And Grizzly found that unusual. Especially for a couple on vacation. “Papers.”

The order frazzled Allison; she wasn’t used to this type of deceit.

Payne encouraged her by patting her on her hip. “Give him your papers, honey.”

She did as she was told but still said nothing. Too scared to speak.

Grizzly flipped through her passport and visa, studying all the signatures. Finally, after several anxious seconds, he said, “You no look Canada. You look California.”

Whoosh! Allison’s face turned bright red. Somehow the Russian had figured out where she was from. Instantly, her heart started throbbing twice as hard. She could feel it pounding in her rib cage like someone playing a bass drum. And Payne felt it, too. His arm was draped around her back, but he felt the intense thumping in her chest. Panic was setting in.

In a flash, he knew he had to cover for her.

“Look!” he said as he pointed at her cheeks. “You made her blush! She always gets that way when people compare her to a beach bunny. I tease her all the time. It’s hilarious.”

“She no talk? Why she no talk?”

Payne shrugged. “She’s just a little shy. That’s all.”

“I no like shy when I ask question.”

Grizzly stepped forward, invading her personal space. Standing close, he loomed over her the way the monument loomed over the square, only the Russian seemed much more dangerous.

Threatened by the soldier’s proximity, Allison reached her arm around Payne and clung to him for support. As she did, she felt the handgun tucked in the rear of his belt. Until that moment, she had completely forgotten about Payne’s weapon and the threat of violence, but the cold touch of his gun made her flash back to the Peterhof. It made her remember the pink mist when Richard’s brains were splattered into the fountain. It made her think of death.

Grizzly glared at her. “He say you like history. Say something smart.”

“Smart?” she asked, meekly. It was her first word since he started questioning them.

“Tell me about city. Something I not know.”

Allison racked her brain, trying to remember one of the stories she had learned about Saint Petersburg since her arrival. For the past hour, she hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut, spouting random facts like a knowledgeable tour guide. But now that she needed one to save her life, she was drawing a complete blank. Which made her even more anxious.

Payne noticed the fear in her eyes and started to speak for her again. “We went drinking last night, and she told me-”

Grizzly interrupted him. “I no care what she say then. I care what she say now.”

“Tell him, honey.”

As luck would have it, Payne’s comment about drinking actually helped her remember one of the best stories she had heard about the city’s history. That wasn’t his intent-she hadn’t shared the story in their time together-but it triggered her memory.

“Did you know,” she said, her voice cracking, “that Peter the Great opened the first museum in Saint Petersburg?” She took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure as the soldiers continued staring at her. “He wanted to bring culture to the city that he created and figured a museum would be a great way to start. Once it was built, though, he was worried that no one would use it, so he promised everyone a free shot of vodka when they reached the museum’s exit. To this day, the residents of Saint Petersburg love their culture almost as much as free vodka.”

Grizzly’s English wasn’t great, but he knew enough to grasp the meaning of her words. Handing back her passport, he said, “This is good story.”

“Thanks,” she said, relieved. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He stepped back and patted Payne on his shoulder. “You are correct. She is smart beach bunny. You are lucky man.”

Payne nodded. “I know.”

“Keep eye on her. Other soldiers not friendly like me.”

With that, Grizzly walked away, followed closely by the other two soldiers. They cut across the busy square, conducting more random searches in the heart of the city.

Payne waited a few seconds as Allison trembled against him. Then he asked, “Are you all right? I thought you were going to have a stroke.”

“I still might,” she mumbled, burying her face against his chest.

Payne smiled. He thought back to the video of her at the Peterhof. She had broken down for about a minute, and then found the courage to sneak away. “I have to admit, you started out shitty, but you finished strong. You’re tougher than you think.”

“Well, I think I’m going to vomit.”

Payne laughed. Early in his career, he had often felt the same way at the end of a mission. “If you have to puke, do it on the giant horse. Not me.”

40

Alexei Kozlov used to work for the Federal Security Service (FSB) of the Russian Federation, the organization that has handled domestic security in Russia since the KGB was disbanded in 1995. Over the years, several FSB officers had been removed from service because of criminal misconduct-mostly extortion, human-rights violations, and payoffs from the Russian Mafia.

Kozlov had been fired for all three. And more.

Nowadays, he used the skills he had learned and the connections he had made while in the FSB to become one of the best-paid assassins in Russia.

Not only was he highly trained, he also had a taste for blood.

His latest victim was a man named Richard Byrd. An American entrepreneur. Kozlov had put a bullet in his brain at the Peterhof, and then casually slipped away.

Normally, that would have been the end of things. The contract would have been complete, and Kozlov could have gone home. But in this case, he still had more work to do.

When Kozlov was hired, his employer didn’t know where Byrd was headed but guessed he would surface in Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Probably at one of the major museums. Other than that, Kozlov wasn’t given much information. He was told to locate Byrd, determine what he was looking for, and then kill him before he had a chance to leave the country.

It sounded simple enough for a man like Kozlov.

Since he lived in Moscow, he had started his search there, staking out the Pushkin State Museum and the cultural facilities near Red Square. His employer wanted him to keep his manhunt highly confidential, which meant he wasn’t able to show Byrd’s picture around the city or hire additional personnel to locate the target. Instead, he used the FSB database to search hotel reservations, track credit card purchases, and monitor phone logs.

For someone with little experience in countersurveillance, Byrd did a remarkable job of staying off the grid. He used cash and fake IDs, and he never called his family or friends in California. After wasting several days in Moscow-on foot and online-Kozlov switched his operations to Saint Petersburg, a place he rarely visited.

As in the capital city, many of the museums in Saint Petersburg had been built in a central location. Kozlov set up shop near one of the rivers. It allowed him to watch the Hermitage, the Academy of Fine Arts, the Marble Palace, and the smaller art collections scattered in cathedrals and buildings near Nevsky Prospekt. Occasionally he strayed to other parts of the sprawling city, yet he spent most of his time near the Winter Palace, scanning faces in the crowd.

His hard work paid off on May 18. He was keeping watch on the Hermitage, as he had done several times before, when he bumped into Byrd in the main entrance. Literally bumped into him, as he was leaving through the same door that Kozlov was entering. Kozlov tried to play it off as an accident-which, of course, it was-but the look of recognition in his eyes could not be concealed. He stared at Byrd like he was a winning lottery ticket.

And Byrd picked up on it.

Over the next several hours, they played an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse in a city that neither of them had mastered. A game that would have ended in less than a minute if Kozlov’s mission was to assassinate Byrd. But that wasn’t the task that he had been given. He was told to find Byrd, figure out what he was searching for, and then kill him. That required a lot more tact than going up to Byrd in a crowded plaza and slicing his throat.

Instead, Kozlov was forced to lie back, to track him from a distance, to make him feel safe. He needed Byrd to think he had somehow managed to escape. That he was too smart to be caught or cornered. It was the only way Byrd would feel secure enough to go back to his hotel or wherever he was staying. From there, Kozlov could follow him day after day, tracing his path through the city, trying to figure out what the American was looking for.

And then, when Byrd was finally ready to leave the country, Kozlov would make sure it was in a coffin.

As the soldiers walked away from Payne and Allison, Jones closed the bathroom window and breathed a sigh of relief. He had watched their confrontation from his vantage point at the Astoria Hotel. Now that he knew they were all right, he could get back to the business at hand.

Allison had told him about Byrd’s most important papers. They were kept in a room safe that was bolted to the floor inside his bedroom closet. But Jones wasn’t concerned. She had described the safe to him in very specific terms, and he knew he could crack the lock. With lock picks in hand, he opened the closet door and studied his opponent. It was just as she had described. The safe was guarded by a simple warded lock, one of the easiest types to manipulate.

“Piece of cake,” he said to himself.

And Jones was correct. It took less than a minute to open the safe.

Inside he found a number of documents in an expandable binder. There was also a small pouch filled with fake IDs, foreign currency, and credit cards registered to several phony names. It explained why no one had found his hotel room. Byrd must have paid a fortune to preserve his anonymity. That meant whatever Byrd’s mission had been, he didn’t want to be followed.

But Byrd had been followed. For several hours on Sunday, he ducked in and out of buildings, trying to lose Kozlov in the tourist-filled crowds. On more than one occasion, Byrd thought he had slipped away, only to spot the cagey Russian in the distance.

This forced Byrd into a direction he didn’t want to go.

He needed to leave Saint Petersburg at once.

While riding in a taxi, Byrd called Allison and told her to get to the Peterhof as quickly as possible. He said something was wrong and they needed to leave the country. Don’t pack. Don’t check out. Just run. The fastest way to get there was on a boat called the Meteor. It was docked on the Neva River behind the Winter Palace. In the meantime, he would figure out how to cross the border. Just look for him on the rear patio of the Peterhof, and they would escape together.

Unfortunately, it was the last time they spoke to each other.

Kozlov didn’t want to kill Byrd at the Peterhof. But he didn’t have much choice.

There was no doubt in his mind that Byrd was fleeing the country. The Summer Palace was on the Gulf of Finland, an extension of the Baltic Sea. If Byrd had a boat, there was no way that Kozlov could follow him. The bastard would get away and wouldn’t come back.

That wasn’t the sort of thing Kozlov wanted on his résumé.

So he made a gutsy choice. Instead of doing things as ordered, he decided to shoot Byrd before he had a chance to get away. That meant, no matter what, Kozlov had fulfilled two requirements of his contract: he had found Byrd and killed him before he left Russia.

The last step, figuring out why Byrd was there, would have to be postmortem.

Jones gathered the documents from Byrd’s safe and put them in a bag by the door. Then he returned to the bedroom to make sure he wasn’t missing anything important.

He searched under the bed, in the nightstand, in the dresser, even in the air-conditioning vents. Then he continued with Byrd’s belongings. He checked clothes and shoes, suitcases and toiletries, and a stack of books that sat in the corner of the room. From there, he moved his search to the other parts of the suite. There weren’t a lot of hiding places, and considering Byrd’s paranoia, Jones figured he wouldn’t find anything of value sitting out in the open.

And he was right. After several minutes of searching, Jones was ready to pack up.

It took two days for Kozlov to pick up Byrd’s scent. Two days of sitting on his ass in his hotel room, sifting through mountains of information in the FSB’s database. Two days of crunching numbers and making educated guesses before he noticed a pattern.

Of course, there is always a pattern. People are creatures of habit.

By studying old credit card statements, Kozlov determined that Byrd, a man of great wealth, always went first-class when he ventured around the globe. At least he did when he traveled as Richard Byrd. And since old habits were difficult to break, Kozlov predicted that Byrd would follow the same pattern when he was traveling under an alias.

The best hotels, the best restaurants, the best of everything.

In a city as large as Saint Petersburg, Kozlov knew he had to limit the scope of his search, so he decided to concentrate on one thing: luxury hotels. Particularly those close to Nevsky Prospekt. Not only was it the ritziest part of the city, but the avenue ran past several museums, including the Hermitage, which was where he had bumped into his target to begin with.