The Lost Throne

3

The Columbia Restaurant is the world’s largest Spanish restau rant. Opened in 1905 in Ybor City, a historic district in Tampa where hand-rolled cigars and Cuban mojitos are ubiquitous, the Columbia has fifteen dining rooms and enough seating for 1,700 people. Throw in the kitchens and the wine cellar, and the restaurant occupies 52,000 square feet, filling an entire city block.

Payne and Jones had eaten there on many occasions — it was practically a requirement anytime they visited MacDill AFB — and had been tempted to drive there for brunch. That was before they learned the Columbia had opened a St. Petersburg location within walking distance of their hotel. Built on the fourth floor of the Pier, an inverted five-story pyramid filled with shops at the end of a quarter-mile turnaround, the restaurant had the same menu as the original, while offering 360-degree waterfront views.

The duo took their seats next to a massive window overlooking the bay and the airfield. Within seconds, water was poured and freshly baked Cuban bread was placed on the table. Jones wasted no time, tearing the flaky crust with his hands and stuffing a chunk into his mouth.

Payne laughed at the sight. “Hungry?”

“Famished. I’ve been up since dawn. Damn seagulls woke me up.”

“Seagulls? I’ve seen you sleep through enemy fire.”

Jones shrugged. “Have you ever heard those relaxation tapes where they play New Age music over whales humping and birds singing? Those things freak me out. No way in hell I could fall asleep to that. I’d lie there all night, counting grunts and squeaks. But give me the rumble of a turbine or the gentle patter of gunfire, and I’m out like a light.”

Payne smiled. “You’re one messed-up dude.”

“Me? Look who’s talking! What time did you fall asleep? Or haven’t you yet?”

“Actually, last night wasn’t too bad. It would’ve been perfect if it wasn’t for the damn phone. Woke me up in the middle of the night.”

“Anything important?”

“Who knows? They hung up before I could answer.”

“No caller ID?”

Payne shook his head. “It was the hotel phone. At least I think it was. I was groggy.”

“Did you check your cell?”

“I tried, but I had a slight problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Both pieces of it. “I was hoping you could fix it.”

Jones put down his bread and studied the device. He had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and was a whiz with electronics. “How’d you manage this?”

“I think I knocked it off the nightstand. But I’m not sure. I was sleeping.”

“No big deal. It’s just the battery. Unfortunately, something is jamming the slot.”

“I know. That’s why I brought it to the wizard. I figured you could work your magic.”

Jones grabbed a butter knife and went to work. Five minutes later, it was fixed. He pushed the power button just to be sure, then put it on the table in front of Payne. “Good as new.”

“Thanks! You just saved me a hundred bucks.”

“Not really,” he assured him. “I’m gonna eat more than that, and you’re paying.”

Jones flipped through his menu, searching for some of his favorite dishes: roasted pork loin à la Cubana, sliced eye round of beef stuffed with chorizo, and paella à la Valencia — a mixture of clams, chicken, pork, shrimp, scallops, and rice. Meanwhile, Payne looked for lighter fare, settling on a pressed Cuban sandwich with a cup of Spanish bean soup.

The waiter came over to take their orders, but before they could speak, Payne’s phone started to buzz. All three of them stared as it vibrated wildly, bumping against an empty plate, which made a loud pinging sound. It was so loud that other diners turned and stared.

“Sorry about that,” Payne apologized. Bad cell-phone manners were a pet peeve of his, and he had just violated one of his major commandments. No cell phones in restaurants.

Without looking at the screen, he turned off the power and put it in his pocket.

And that’s where it stayed for the next few hours as precious time ticked away.

Payne gave it no thought until their return trip to the hotel. Hoping to kill time while Jones left a donation inside Little St. Mary’s, Payne turned on his phone and waited for it to get a signal.

Several hungry pelicans sat on a nearby railing, begging for hand-outs from the dozen fishermen who fished off the pier. A young boy felt sorry for the birds and tossed them some bait. Within seconds, five more pelicans swooped out of the sky and landed by their friends. All of them squawking for attention.

Smiling at the scene, Payne glanced at his screen and was surprised by the summary.

Seventeen missed calls. Three voice mails. One text message.

Damn. Something was wrong.

All of his friends knew he was a reluctant cell phone user, only carrying it for emergencies. Therefore getting seventeen calls was a big deal. Especially in one day.

Worried, he clicked through his options until he reached the list of missed calls. He scrolled through the numbers, looking for the source, but the same message appeared over and over.

Restricted.

Seventeen calls, seventeen restricted numbers.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, realizing what that meant. It was probably the government.

They were the masters of the blocked call. Always trying to conceal their identity.

The only question was, who? Payne had done consulting work for the Pentagon and every branch of the armed service, not to mention the FBI, CIA, and NSA. Of course, if those agencies were trying to reach him, they wouldn’t call seventeen times. They’d stalk him quietly and throw him into the back of a white van.

No, if he had to guess, he would have said the Air Force.

Not only was MacDill an Air Force base, it had also paid for his trip to Florida. Maybe the generals wanted to get one more lecture out of him before he returned home.

“What’s up?” Jones asked as he left the restroom. “Did your phone break again?”

“I wish. I had seventeen missed calls. All of them blocked.”

“Fucking government.”

“What about you? Any calls?”

Jones checked his phone. “Nope. Nada.”

“That’s strange.”

“Tell me about it. I’m used to booty calls, day and night.”

He laughed. “I was referring to MacDill, not McLovin.”

“What time did they start?”

Payne scrolled through his screen. “Let’s see. First call was 3:59 A.M. Damn. Maybe my cell phone woke me after all. I could’ve sworn it was the room phone.”

“Any messages?”

He nodded. “Three voice, one text.”

“Start with the text. You can read it now.”

The device looked tiny in his massive hands, yet somehow Payne clicked the appropriate buttons, dancing from screen to screen. The text was tough to read in the Florida sun, forcing him to shield the glare. But in time, he was able to read the message.

It was straightforward and unsigned.

The type of message that no one wants to receive.

This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.