The Lost Throne (30 page)

“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?”

D
espite being free of his shadow, Jones knew there was more work to be done. He and Allison were still several blocks away from their suite at the Palace Hotel, and there was always a chance that Kozlov wasn’t working alone. Jones also realized they had to steer clear of all the cops and soldiers who might want to chat with the black man and the gorgeous blonde.

Other than that, they were home free.

“Take this,” Jones whispered as he handed Allison her computer. “It will look better if we’re both carrying bags.”

She slung the thick strap over her shoulder. “Where to now?”

“Back to the hotel. You need to look through Byrd’s things.”

“What about Jon?” she asked, concerned.

“Don’t worry about Jon. He can take care of himself. My job is to worry about you.”

They turned down the central corridor, which was getting more and more crowded. Rush hour would be starting soon, and when it did, the Metro would be packed with people.

Moving through the crowds, Jones kept his head on a swivel, watching everyone around him. He searched for faces that looked the least bit familiar and stares that lasted a little too long. As they walked, he noticed several security cameras along the ceiling. He had seen the same thing in the lobby and near the train platform. But so far, no one had pestered him about his race. It was a pleasant surprise. He was expecting to be hassled everywhere he went.

Maybe Russia wasn’t so racist after all.

When they reached the escalators, Allison stepped on first, followed by Jones. For the next few minutes, he would have a chance to question her.

“When we were outside, did Jon point out my shadow?”

She nodded. “Back near the square.”

“Did the guy make any phone calls or talk to anyone on the street?”

“Not that I could see. He never stopped moving.”

“Good.”

Jones glanced over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers. The person behind him was listening to loud music through headphones. Farther back there was an older couple who didn’t look as if they could hear each other, let alone Jones.

“What did the soldiers want?”

She blushed slightly. “I think they wanted me.”

“You? What did they want with you?”

Her face turned even brighter.

“Ohhhhh!” he said in understanding. “They
wanted
you. I know exactly how you feel. Women constantly treat me like a piece of meat. It’s disgusting.”

She smiled at his claim. “It must get pretty hard for you.”

“See! That’s
exactly
what I mean. Raunchy comments like that.”

“Wait!” she blurted, realizing her double entendre. “I meant
tough
for you. Not hard.”

Jones laughed at her discomfort. “Relax, I’m just teasing. I knew what you meant. I just wanted to see how red I could make your face. It’s kind of fun. Like coloring without a crayon.”

She shrugged in resignation. “Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always been that way. Even as a little girl they used to tease me. I have fair skin, so the red comes shining through.”

Jones pointed to his face. “I have the exact same problem.”

She smiled, amazed that Jones was so relaxed despite his narrow escape.

His confidence gave her confidence.

“Back to my shadow for a moment. Did he look familiar to you?”

“Jon asked me the same thing.”

“And?”

“I honestly don’t know. He was too far away to see.”

“Not to worry. If he killed Richard, we’ll find out shortly.”

“We will?”

Jones nodded. “Of course we will. Jon is very good at his job.”

“What do you mean? Jon is
talking
to him?”

“Talking? I guess you could call it that.”

A look of discomfort crossed her face. One that Jones instantly recognized. He had seen it many times before when civilians listened to stories about life in the military. They freaked out over tales of brutality, not able to understand that violence was often done to ensure peace.

“Listen,” he said, “if we had simply wanted to lose my shadow, we would have handled things differently. But the truth is that we have to question him. The sooner, the better.”

“I don’t get it. Why do you have to talk to him?”

Jones groaned. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to stay calm?”

“To hell with calm. I want the truth.”

“Simply put, we’re doing it for your safety.”

“My safety?”

“Think about it. The guy knew where Richard was staying. How long would it take him to figure out that Richard paid for two rooms, not one? Hell, he probably knows already.”

“But I thought you cleaned my room?”

“I did. But I didn’t have a chance to erase the video surveillance from the lobby. For all we know, he bribed a security guard and has your picture in his pocket right now.”

She gulped at the thought.

“Hey, you wanted the truth.”

“I know I did, but . . .”

“Listen,” Jones said, trying to reassure her. “I swear to you, Jon is great at what he does. He’ll have a pleasant conversation with the guy and find out what he knows. After that, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

C
oncrete whizzed by as the train roared through the tunnels underneath Saint Petersburg. Every few minutes a recorded voice would make an announcement in Russian, and the train would slow to a stop. People would get on and people would get off, but Payne never moved. He kept staring out the window at the concrete, refusing to make eye contact with any of his fellow passengers—including the assassin at the other end of the car.

The initial plan was for Payne to block Kozlov’s path, trapping him on the train while Jones slipped away. That was how they had done the maneuver in the past, and it had always worked. But the more Payne thought about it on the long ride down the escalator, the more he realized that his current objective was different from the previous times. This wasn’t about escape. This was about leveling the playing field with an experienced professional.

That’s when Payne decided to run the bastard over.

Not only did it leave Kozlov dazed, it also left him defenseless.

When Payne was five years old, his grandfather bought him a deck of cards and showed him some simple tricks. Payne was so amazed that he became hooked for life. Over the years his grandfather encouraged him to read books about famous magicians. By the time Payne was a teenager, he had mastered the art of prestidigitation. He could pull coins out of thin air, make small objects disappear, and dazzle his toughest critics—including Jones.

One of Payne’s best skills was his ability to pick pockets.

He was smoother than a hungry Gypsy.

If he bumped into someone, he could steal just about anything he wanted. A watch. A ring. Or a set of keys. And the victim would be none the wiser.

That’s why Payne decided to get rough with Kozlov. He had to distract him for as long as possible while he took everything he could. His wallet, his badge, even his gun.

And the best part of all?

Kozlov didn’t realize that anything was missing.

T
he Chernaya Rechka River flows through the northwest corner of Saint Petersburg. It is a minor tributary of the Bolshaya Neva, which is the largest armlet of the historic Neva.

In the grand scheme of things, the Chernaya Rechka isn’t much of a river. It is 3 miles long and less than 80 feet across at its widest point. The water is cold and murky and only a few feet deep. Some Russians consider it a stream. Others view it as a nuisance. Nothing more than a barrier that they have to cross when driving into the city.

A watery pain in the ass.

To alleviate bridge traffic and to encourage northern expansion, the city built the Chernaya Rechka station near the banks of the waterway. The goal was to lure industry to the area by providing an efficient mass transit system for potential employees. Unfortunately, while the city waited for companies to build new factories, the Metro station was less popular than the river it was named after. After all, it was in the middle of nowhere.

That’s why it was perfect for Kozlov’s home base. He wanted to be seen as little as possible, yet he needed quick and easy access to the city. So when he first came into town, he booked a room at a cheap hotel near the station and had used the Metro ever since.

And it had worked out fine until the incident at Nevsky Prospekt.

His ears were still ringing from the collision.

The doors sprang open at Chernaya Rechka, and Kozlov stepped off the train. The last ten minutes had been filled with major disappointment. The black man had slipped out of his grasp and so had the things he had taken from Byrd’s room. Kozlov hated to think what might have been lost. For all he knew, it might have solved the mystery behind Byrd’s trip to Saint Petersburg and allowed him to head back to Moscow to collect his hefty paycheck.

Instead, he was stuck here for a few more days. If not longer.

The thought of it did not make him happy.

For the time being, all he wanted to do was go to his room and pour himself a tall glass of vodka. Perhaps that would dull the throbbing in his head. Then, once his senses returned, he would go back to the Astoria Hotel and check both of Byrd’s rooms for any scraps that might have been left behind. He would also slip some rubles to the hotel staff and find out all he could about the black man who had eluded him on the train.

Maybe he was working for Byrd.

Maybe he could provide some answers, if he could only be found.

Kozlov pondered these things as he walked across the deserted platform, temporarily unaware that Payne was lurking behind him, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

But the Russian would find out soon enough.

W
hen Dial and Andropoulos left the library at Great Metéoron, they decided to explore the grounds. Neither man said much as they strolled among the pink and white flowers and the manicured shrubs that lined the walkways. For them, it was a time of reflection, not discovery—a chance to ponder all the information they had learned before they returned to Kalampáka.

Many things stood out from their meeting with Theodore, including the missing pages in the history of Holy Trinity and the way the monk had fumed about it. But nothing mattered more than the black-and-white photograph of Nicolas. His connection to the abbot, which had lasted more than forty years, struck a chord with Dial.

Somehow he knew their relationship was vital to his case.

Finding a picturesque spot, Dial sat on a wooden bench that faced the valley below. His view was unobstructed except for a thin railing made out of crisscrossed logs. Andropoulos sat next to him, unwilling to speak until spoken to. He hadn’t known Dial for very long, yet he understood the dynamics of their relationship. Sometimes Dial just wanted to think.

A few minutes passed before Dial asked, “Have you ever been to Mount Athos?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. Not many outsiders have. Visitors must have special permission from the Orthodox Church.”

“Why is that?”

“The Church likes its privacy.”

Ironically, Theodore was the one who had brought up Mount Athos, saying it was where older monks went to continue their spiritual growth. Then he had instantly regretted mentioning it. When Dial had tried to get more information about the place, Theodore had been reluctant to answer, claiming he had never been there, so he didn’t want to speak out of turn. Dial hadn’t pressed the issue, not wanting to sour their relationship after a very helpful conversation. Yet Theodore’s reluctance piqued Dial’s curiosity, as did the possibility that Nicolas might be recognized there.

“Is Mount Athos far from here?” Dial wondered.

“A few hundred kilometers. It sits to the east, surrounded by the Aegean.”

“It’s an island?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “It is a mountain on the tip of a peninsula. Greeks call it the Holy Mountain. It stretches from the water to the sky above.”

Dial tried to visualize it. Other than Hawaii and a few other islands that were formed by volcanic explosions, he had never seen a mountain surrounded by water. “It sounds scenic.”

Andropoulos nodded. “It is quite beautiful. I have seen many pictures.”

“Would you like to take some yourself?”

“Sir?” he asked, confused.

Dial glanced at the young officer. “I get the feeling that we’ve learned all that we’re going to learn around here. That leaves us with two choices. We can go back inside and help Theodore look through his old books, or we can go to Mount Athos and interview some old monks.”