The Lost Throne (32 page)

Unfortunately, there were still some facts that Payne didn’t know, like who had hired the Russian and what was the real reason that Byrd had been killed. But Payne figured those answers would be tougher to acquire. They would require a little more finesse.

“So,” Payne said as he stepped closer, “how much were you paid?”

“Nothing. I have not been paid.”

“Not even a deposit? That sounds like bad business to me. I mean, you’ve already killed Byrd, yet you haven’t made a cent? That’s pretty damn foolish.”

“You no worry about me. Money will be paid when job is done.”

“Tell me, what happens to your money if you never finish the job?”

Kozlov sneered at him. “Are you threatening me?”

“Threatening you?” Payne laughed as he lowered his gun to his side. “I was thinking about
hiring
you. A man of your skills might come in handy during my search.”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve got millions of dollars missing—money I won’t be able to find without some help. I know Byrd stashed it somewhere, but I need a Russian to help me track a few leads. Someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”

Kozlov stared at Payne, considering his words. “How much you pay me?”

“I was thinking a flat percentage. Let’s say, one percent.”

“One percent? I no work for one.”

“I’m talking millions of dollars here. If we find ten, you’d make a hundred grand. I know damn well you didn’t make that much to kill Byrd.”

“And if we find one million, I make ten thousand. I worth more than that.”

“Touché. Maybe you are a businessman after all.”

Kozlov nodded. He doubted that Payne was telling the truth about any of this, but on the off chance that he was serious, Kozlov wanted to hear as many details as possible—if for no other reason than to lure his opponent even closer.

Right now they were seven feet apart. A few more feet and Kozlov could strike.

Payne continued. “I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. One percent with a guaranteed minimum of twenty-five thousand. That way, no matter what, you’ll be paid for your time.”

“Minimum of twenty-five? For helping you with search? This is tempting.”

“I thought it would be. Of course for that kind of cash, I need some up-front information. Right here, right now. No bullshit.”

“What information you need?”

“Who hired you to kill Byrd?”

Kozlov smirked. “This is big question.”

“This is big money.”

He nodded. “This is true. How I know you will pay me?”

“The same way I’ll know if you’re telling the truth. Just trust your instincts.”

Kozlov considered this. “In Russia, there is better way. Look man in eye as shake his hand. This is more valuable than promise. This is contract.”

“Fine,” Payne said, only happy to oblige. He moved his gun into his left hand while staring at the Russian. “Let’s shake on it.”

Kozlov nodded and took a tentative step forward.

Payne followed his lead and did the same.

The two of them were four feet apart, just out of each other’s grasp.

As Kozlov stretched his right hand forward, he inched his left hand toward his belt. Made out of black leather, it was held in place by an elaborate silver buckle. Though it looked decorative, the buckle was actually the handle of a sharp dagger. The blade itself was tucked into the leather like a sheath. One simple flick of his wrist, and the weapon would be free of its constraints.

Payne kept his finger on the trigger even though his gun was pointed toward the ground. He reached his right arm toward Kozlov and grabbed his hand with a firm grip. The two men shook, while staring into each other’s eyes. Neither man trusted the other.

Kozlov moved first, extracting his blade with speed and precision. One moment it was in his belt, the next he was thrusting it under Payne’s arm toward his gut.

But Payne had anticipated the maneuver. Using all his strength, he pulled Kozlov’s right hand down and outside, which turned the Russian at a forty-five-degree angle and prevented his knife from striking. Suddenly, Kozlov found himself off-balance and facing away from his opponent. Thinking quickly, he swung his blade behind him, hoping to catch Payne in the ribs or his exposed left shoulder. Instead, the Russian felt his right knee explode as Payne used all his weight to drive his knee into the side of Kozlov’s leg.

The popping sound was so loud that both men could hear it.

Kozlov dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a writhing wave of agony. The pain was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, including the time he was shot.

Cartilage, tendons, and kneecap—all destroyed with a pinpoint strike.

Kozlov wanted to scream, but before a sound could leave his lips, it was stifled by the taste of metal in his mouth. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on the gun that would soon end his life. It rested in the hands of the man he had just tried to stab.

Suddenly, Payne was in complete control.

And he would milk it for everything it was worth.

“You know,” he said as he knelt on Kozlov’s chest, making it tough for the Russian to breathe. “Back when I was in the Special Forces, I developed a nasty reputation. Among all the other officers, I was known as a
closer.
Does that translate into Russian?”

Kozlov tried to nod his head. The gun in his mouth made it difficult.

Payne glared at him. “I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I have the ability to read people. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a gift that I can use in so many ways. In situations like this, I love looking into the enemy’s eyes and figuring out what scares him more than anything else in the world. Then I take that information and I use it against him.”

While Payne was training for the MANIACs, he had learned that one of the most effective ways to get information from a prisoner wasn’t through torture but rather the
insinuation
of torture—the act of planting a psychological seed in someone’s head and then waiting for panic to set in. If it was done correctly, some people would literally piss their pants long before they were touched.

“So far, I’ve disarmed you, given you a concussion, and shattered your knee
without
using any weapons. Imagine what I can do to you when I start getting serious.”

Payne leaned to his left and grabbed Kozlov’s dagger off the ground. It was razor sharp. “Wow. This is a really nice knife. And I should know. I’m great with a blade. Hell, you should see me in the kitchen. I’m like one of those gourmet chefs. Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop! I’m particularly good with cuts of meat. Give me a chicken and I can debone that cock in two seconds.” Payne tapped the knife on Kozlov’s groin. “Does
cock
translate into Russian?”

Kozlov’s eyes got even wider—so wide his eyebrows looked like they might pop off.

“Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. A few minutes ago, I asked you a simple question that you promised you would answer. Instead, you tried to stab me. That made me pretty mad. That’s why my gun is in your mouth and your knife is in my hand.”

Payne glanced around. They were still alone. He could take as long as he wanted.

“Since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you another chance. I’m going to ask you the same question again. If you lie to me, I’m going to get really angry. And if that happens, you’ll find out why my platoon mates were scared of me.”

Payne inched the gun from Kozlov’s mouth. Before he pulled it the whole way out, he rattled it back and forth against the Russian’s teeth. It sounded like he was shaking dice.

“Okay, Boris. Answer my fucking question. Who hired you to kill Richard Byrd?”

M
ost operatives would have been spooked by the events on Nevsky Prospekt. They would have assumed that their cover was blown and a new hideout needed to be found. But not David Jones. Even though he had been followed from the Astoria Hotel, he was confident that they were now clean. He kept a watchful eye on the street as he and Allison made their way back to their suite. They took a circuitous route, one that allowed Jones to search for shadows. They walked a few blocks, took a cab, and then walked some more. After thirty minutes, they entered the Palace Hotel through a back entrance, staying clear of the lobby and the main bank of elevators.

The back stairs led them to their room. Jones went in first and looked around. Everything was how they had left it. He waved Allison inside and brought the bags in from the hallway. After carrying them for more than an hour, he never wanted to see them again. Yet Jones knew if they had any hope of solving the mystery of Byrd’s murder, the answers would be found in his belongings.

“Where do you want these?” Jones asked.

“By the table,” she replied from across the room.

Jones dropped the bags and noticed her standing near the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. . . . It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. What is it?”

“Sorry,” she said as she stared at Richard’s bag. “I feel kind of strange going through his papers. He was so protective of his stuff. It makes me feel like a vulture.”

Jones leaned against the edge of the table. “Allison, come over here and sit down. We need to discuss a few things.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Just come and sit down.”

She nodded and did what she was told.

“Listen,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ve known you less than a day, so I won’t even pretend to know what you’re thinking or feeling. Everyone handles death and fear in different ways. Your way is different from my way and so on. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“That being said, you need to get something through your head. And the sooner you do, the better it will be for all of us.”

“Okay,” she said tentatively. “What is it?”

“Richard Byrd was a selfish prick.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was an
asshole
.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Why? Because you’re showing the guy way too much respect. He treated you like shit. He refused to tell you what he was searching for, and he put your life in danger. That sounds like an asshole to me.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

Jones unzipped Byrd’s bag and pulled out the stack of fake IDs and credit cards that he recovered from Byrd’s safe. He scattered them on the table for effect. “Go ahead. Take a look. What did he have? Five fake names? Ten? And those are just the ones I found. Who knows how many he has back in California. I’m telling you, the guy was bad news.”

As she glanced through the items, disappointment filled her face. She was aware of one fake identity—the one he had used to enter Russia. All the others were a surprise. “Why did he have so many?”

Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”

She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.

Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault.
He
dragged you into this mess.
He
put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”

A
llison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.

“Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote his appointments. Maybe we can figure out what he’s been up to.”

“Good idea,” said Jones as he passed her the journal.

It was bound in black leather. Byrd’s initials were embossed in fancy script on the front cover. A gold ribbon, glued to the binding of the book, marked the current week. Allison flipped to that page and studied the schedule for Sunday, May 18—the day that Byrd was killed.

“One entry,” she said. “There’s a man’s name and a phone number. Nothing else.”

“What’s the name?”

She tried to read Byrd’s handwriting. It was barely legible. “Ivan Borodin.”

“Ring any bells?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

“Local number?”

She nodded. “Should we call it?”

“Not yet. First, look back a day or two. See if anything else stands out.”

Allison flipped back a page. “That’s strange. The same name and number. Only it’s been scratched out.”

Jones walked behind her for a better view. “Go back one more page.”

The same name appeared, also crossed off. “Ivan Borodin.”

“You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”

“Positive. Richard never told me anything.”

“Flip back some more. Find the first time Ivan is mentioned.”

Allison turned the pages slowly, trying to decipher Byrd’s scribbles. Some of his entries made sense, particularly the appointments that involved her in some way—a lunch meeting, a trip to the library, and so on. But most of his notes were nonsense. They were either written in code or simply illegible. “As far as I can tell, Ivan’s name first appeared on the eighth. There’s even a star written next to it.”

“The eighth? I thought you were in Germany on the eighth?”

She nodded. “We were. We flew to Russia on the tenth.”

Jones considered this information. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. See if this makes sense. He calls Ivan on the eighth. They talk about
whatever
and set up a meeting in Saint Petersburg. The only problem is that Richard can’t get into Russia without a fake visa. So he takes a day or two to get the phony paperwork and arrange a flight. Bing, bang, boom. Next thing you know, your plans to Greece get canceled because he needs to meet with Ivan.”