The Lost Throne

45

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because in Moscow, he probably would have been arrested.

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

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

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

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

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

This made Kozlov leery. Maybe Jones wasn’t going to board the blue line after all.

The mechanical doors sprang open, and a few passengers stepped out. All of them walked in an orderly fashion along the edge of the platform, staying clear of the waiting commuters. It was Russian discipline at its finest, remnants of the Soviet days, when citizens had been forced to stand in lines for just about everything. Once the passengers had cleared the area, all the commuters entered the train en masse.

Everyone except two people.

Jones and Kozlov.

Both of them stood there, trying to decide what to do.

Suddenly, Kozlov had no choice. He had to enter the train. That didn’t mean he had to stay on it, but he had to leave the platform or else Jones would spot him — if he hadn’t already.

Cursing to himself, Kozlov stepped aboard. He didn’t sit down as all the other passengers did. Instead, he lingered inside the doorway, watching Jones out of the corner of his eye, trying to see what he was going to do before the train pulled away. If Jones entered the train, Kozlov would take a seat and try to blend in with all the other commuters who filled the car; if not, Kozlov would have to jump off the train — even if it blew his cover.

Of course, Jones knew this. He knew he was forcing Kozlov’s hand, which is exactly what he wanted to do. He had lured Kozlov onto the train. Now he had to keep him there.

And the way he would do it was ingenious.

Jones stepped across the black line on the floor and tentatively approached the train, as if he were still making a decision. The bags he carried were starting to get heavy. They weighed him down and limited his mobility. The doors were about to close, so he climbed aboard.

One car ahead, Kozlov grinned with satisfaction. He had been watching Jones through the window and felt a huge sense of relief when he got on the train. If Jones had remained on the platform, there was no doubt in Kozlov’s mind that he would have been spotted. Now, he didn’t have to worry about that until he was ready to make his move. He could follow Jones to the northern suburbs, steal his three bags, and silence him forever.

But Jones wasn’t about to let that happen. He waited inside the doors until a recorded voice blared over the train’s speaker system. The announcement was in Russian, but Jones knew what it meant: the train was getting ready to leave the station. He had heard the exact same announcement five minutes earlier while he was waiting for the previous train to depart.

The message came first, followed by the closing doors, and then the train pulled away.

The announcement was the sign he had been waiting for.

Jones took a giant step backward onto the platform. His stride was long enough that he left the train in one quick motion. At the exact same moment, a loud voice could be heard from the corridor that led back to the escalators. Someone was yelling in English.

“Wait! Hold the train!” the voice demanded.

Suddenly, Kozlov didn’t know what to do. He had watched Jones slip off of the train, but the shouting made him think, if only for a second, that the police were coming after the man he was following. And that momentary delay cost him. Once it dawned on him that it wasn’t the cops, he tried stepping off the train. But before he could set one foot on the platform, he spotted a giant blur heading straight for him. A tall, muscular man sprinted full-speed toward the door that Kozlov was exiting.

“Watch out!” the man screamed as he dipped his shoulder and bar reled into Kozlov, knocking him backward with the force of a small car. Kozlov slammed into the back wall, clanging his head against a metal support before he slumped to the floor.

Meanwhile, Payne towered above him, trying not to smile.

Leaning forward, he looked into Kozlov’s dazed eyes. “Man, I am so sorry! I was trying to catch the train. Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

The doors closed behind him with a clang, followed by the roar of the engine as they pulled away from the station. Payne glanced over his shoulder and spotted his best friend on the platform. Allison was back there, too, waiting for Jones to escort her to safety.

“Seriously,” Payne continued, “I feel like such an idiot. First I went over to the green line, then I ran back to the blue—”

Kozlov blinked a few times, trying to shake out the cobwebs.

“Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear any of this.” Payne grabbed the Russian by his suit and tried to help him up. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

Kozlov cursed loudly at Payne and tried to push him away, but he wasn’t strong enough to budge him very far. It was like trying to shove an oak tree.

The surrounding passengers stared with amusement.

Stuff like this rarely happened on the Metro.

Payne shook his head in mock disgust. He had no idea what the Russian had said to him but knew it wasn’t pleasant. “Fine! I can take a hint. You don’t want my help. But you didn’t have to be rude about it. What did I ever do to you?”