The Lost Throne (38 page)

U
nfortunately, the police would not find anything of value in Little Sparta.

Shortly after the young Spartans had finished killing Pappas, Manos, and Constantinou, Apollo ordered them to dispose of all the bodies on the other side of the valley, far away from any roads or trails. He knew the wolves that roamed the hills at night would feast on the dead cops long before a search party was assembled in Spárti.

Meanwhile, Apollo and his men handled the evidence in the village. The blood puddles were covered with dirt and rocks. The murder weapons—more than fifteen in total—were cleaned and sharpened. And Pappas’s vehicle was used to transport several Spartans to Leonidi, a small town on the Aegean Sea, where they would launch the final phase of their mission.

If everything went as planned, the Spartans would return home in a few days and continue living the way they had lived for more than two millennia.

If not, they would die protecting their most treasured possession.

The legacy of their ancestors.

T
he Spartans’ mission had started several weeks earlier when a foreigner arrived at their village. Unlike the police, who only caused problems, this man wanted to solve one.

Apollo wasn’t the trusting type, especially when it came to outsiders. After all, it was a traitorous Greek who had helped Xerxes and the invading Persian army to defeat the Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae. But this foreigner seemed different. Although he spoke with a funny accent, he knew more about the history of the Spartans than any of the village elders. Plus he had in his possession the type of historical evidence that was tough for Apollo to ignore—an ancient document that was written long before any of the villagers were born.

If his parchment was correct, a Greek holy man by the name of Cydonius had spent his life compiling the true history of Ancient Greece. Written in the second century B.C., the book used information from some of the best-known Athenian historians and orators—Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Plato, and Aristotle—and combined it with data from lesser-known historians from the other city-states. This helped to eliminate the pro-Athenian bias that has always slanted the modern view of Ancient Greece. By utilizing writers with different backgrounds, Cydonius was able to paint a more accurate picture of the events of that time.

And according to the foreigner, the Spartans were portrayed in a negative light.

They weren’t described as heroes. They were depicted as dim witted barbarians.

Even their legendary stand at the Battle of Thermopylae was called into question.

Obviously, the existence of such a book infuriated Apollo. His life and that of the village were based on a core of Spartan values in the same way some cultures are based on religion. Therefore, in his mind, anything that threatened his beliefs needed to be found and destroyed before it could do irreparable damage to the memory of his ancestors and his way of life.

Thankfully, the foreigner had inside knowledge about the men who protected the book and several other relics from Ancient Greece. They were called the Brotherhood, and they met once a year at a secret location. Desperate to find these men, Apollo was willing to cut a deal. He would help the foreigner, and in return, he would be allowed to burn the book before it was made public.

It was a win-win situation for both parties involved.

As promised, the foreigner pointed the Spartans in the right direction. They stormed the gates of Holy Trinity and killed the members of the Brotherhood, one by one, until one of the monks finally cracked. Not only did the monk reveal the location of the secret tunnel that used to house the book but he also described where it had been moved several years before. It was now kept in the same place as all the other treasures that the Brotherhood had sworn to protect.

To thank the monk for his helpful information, he was beheaded like all the others. Then their heads were stacked on the stone altar that used to hold the book. It was Apollo’s way of taunting his opponents, just as his ancestors had done in ancient times.

Now that the Spartans knew where the book was kept, they were coming for it.

And they dared anyone to get in their way.

P
ayne barely slept that night. His mind was far too busy to get any rest. By the time morning came, he had made a decision that affected them all. They would keep their meeting with Ivan Borodin, but they would push it forward one hour. That way, if Ivan had tipped off the police, they could slip away before the cops showed up.

Payne had already scouted Ivan’s house. He was familiar with the surrounding streets. He knew the dead ends and the blind spots. He knew where the police would lie in wait, if they were waiting at all. It was a quiet neighborhood on the southern side of the city. The houses were small but well kept. Yards were virtually nonexistent. If the cavalry came charging in, they would know about it—especially if someone stayed outside and kept watch.

That someone would be David Jones. He would remain in their car, which Payne rented at the crack of dawn using his fake passport, and monitor things from down the street. At the first sign of trouble, Jones would call Payne’s cell phone. He, in turn, would grab Allison, and they would slip out of the back of the house while Jones pulled around the corner to pick them up.

It wasn’t a perfect plan. There were many variables that they couldn’t control. Yet Payne decided it was worth the risk. They had come this far. One more meeting wouldn’t kill them.

At least, he hoped not.

Payne and Allison got out of the car and walked half a block to Ivan’s house. Payne had a gun tucked in the back of his belt and carried a book bag filled with the cash from Richard’s safe. He had no idea what price had been negotiated by Richard, and Allison had failed to ask during her phone call with Ivan. If the item cost more than Payne was carrying, they were shit out of luck, because Payne wasn’t willing to have a second meeting. This would be a one-shot deal.

“If it’s okay with you,” Payne said, “I’d like to do most of the talking.”

Allison nodded her approval. “I think that would be best.”

“We want to leave as soon as possible, so no long stories. Promise me: no long stories.”

“I promise.”

The nineteenth-century house was one story tall and made out of wood—it did not have aluminum siding, as they were used to seeing in America, but actual strips of wood. No paint covered the surface. Only a light sealant protected the planks, letting the natural color shine through.

A stone path led them to the decorative front door. The top half was made of stained glass. Payne put his face against it and tried to see inside. The interior was spacious yet plain. As far as he could tell, the front room was devoid of people except for an old man who was sitting in a green chair. Payne watched him for a moment, then knocked on the door.

Several seconds passed before the old man answered it.

“Da?”
he said, with a confused look on his face.

“Mr. Borodin?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Jon. And this is Allison. We phoned you about Richard Byrd.”

Ivan nodded and shifted his focus to Allison. He stared at her for a moment and then offered her a smile. “You are more beautiful than Richard said. Please, come in.”

The comment caught her off guard. So much so that her cheeks turned pink as she entered the house. She wasn’t used to compliments from Byrd. And she certainly hadn’t expected to hear any from an eighty-eight-year-old Russian. But it was a nice surprise, one that put her at ease in an otherwise tense situation.

“You are early,” Ivan said to Payne. “One hour early.”

“We’re sorry about that. Our schedule got pushed forward because of an unforeseen event. We hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Disturbing me? What could you disturb?” He trudged back toward his living room. It was sparsely decorated with a couch, a coffee table, and a small bookcase. An oxygen tank and a plastic mask sat next to his favorite green chair. “I am a sick old man who rarely leaves his home. There is nothing for you to disturb but death.”

He laughed loudly and immediately started coughing: deep, phlegm-filled coughs. As he sank into his chair, he grabbed the mask and placed it over his nose and mouth. After a few deep breaths, he signaled for Payne and Allison to sit on the couch across from him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

Ivan shrugged as he lowered the mask. “Life is no fun when a man cannot laugh.”

Neither Payne nor Allison said a word. They just waited for him to continue.

“So,” Ivan said as he stared at them. “This event that changed your schedule, does it involve shooting at Peterhof ?”

Payne instinctively tensed in his seat. Standing quickly, he reached behind him and put his hand on his gun while he scanned the room for danger.

“Let’s go,” he said to Allison.

“Relax,” Ivan said in a soothing tone. “You have nothing to fear. I am only one who knows you are here. Please, sit down.”

Payne stared at Ivan, trying to gauge his honesty. Ivan returned his stare. Never blinking or looking away, he wanted to assure Payne that he was telling the truth.

“You must remember,” Ivan explained, “I grew up in a Russia where we feared police.
KGB
would knock on door in middle of night and people would not return. Entire families would disappear in blink of eye. Events like these are not forgotten. Or forgiven.”

Payne remained standing, still not satisfied. “When did the police call?”

“Yesterday morning. Questions were asked, but I did not answer.”

“What type of questions?”

“If you sit, I will tell you, and not a moment before.”

Admiring the old man’s spunk, Payne did as requested. But he sat on the edge of the couch, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.

“Is he always this tense?” Ivan asked Allison.

She smiled at Payne. “From the moment we met.”

“Perhaps,” Ivan said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “you should help him relax.”

Allison blushed at the innuendo while Ivan laughed and coughed. After a few short puffs from his oxygen mask, his breathing was back to normal and the smile had returned to his face. He rarely had any visitors and planned on enjoying this conversation for as long as possible.

“Where was I?” Ivan asked.

Payne answered. “The police.”

“Ah, yes. They asked me about Ellis Cooper, a name I did not know. They said he was killed at Peterhof, and my number was found in pocket. They wanted to know why.”

“And what did you say?”

“What could I say? I did not know Ellis Cooper.”

Payne realized Ellis Cooper was probably the name on the fake passport that Byrd had been carrying at the time of his death. Payne wondered what else Byrd might have been carrying.

“When did you realize it was Richard?”

“When police ask about Henry Shoemann. Do you know name?”

Payne grimaced. “No, I don’t. Who is he?”

“Man whose name was written on same paper as my number.”

“Henry Shoemann?” Payne said to Allison. “Do you know a Henry Shoemann?”

She shook her head. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Could they have meant Heinrich Schliemann?”

Payne glanced at Ivan and noticed a smile on his lips. A big, broad smile.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Payne. Byrd fell into the fountain at the Peterhof. By the time the cops had fished him out, the piece of paper in his pocket was waterlogged and the ink had run together. The police had tried to decipher the words on the list and had come up with Henry Shoemann instead of Heinrich Schliemann. In addition, they probably had trouble reading the digits of the phone number, which explained why it had taken them two days to call Ivan.

Payne asked, “How many people did they call before you?”

Ivan smiled some more. “I am guessing fifty.”

The answer pleased Payne. He simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with the police. He wanted to complete their transaction and get to Jarkko’s boat as soon as possible.

“So,” Payne said, “I was wondering—”

Ivan interrupted him. “If you do not mind, now I would like to speak to Allison.”

Payne glanced at her. The look in his eye said
make this quick
. “Of course.”

The Russian swung his gaze to her pretty face. He stared at her for a moment before he spoke. “I was told you are fan of Heinrich Schliemann.”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“I am as well. I am one of few people old enough to have met his wife, Sophia.”

Her eyes widened in awe. “You
met
his wife?”

“Yes. My father was professor who believed in showing me as much of world as possible when I was little boy. That included long trip to Athens before air travel was popular. He showed me ruins and explained their importance. I am not sure if he planned it or it simply happened, but Sophia was speaking at one of the museums. She shook my hand and pinched my cheeks and I was smitten for life. I knew then and there that I wanted to work in museum.”

“Wow,” she said, virtually speechless. “That is
amazing
.”

“Over the years, I had chance to speak to his children as well.”

“Andromache and Agamemnon.”

Ivan smiled at the mere mention of their names. Schliemann was so fascinated with Homer that he had named his children after characters in the
Iliad
. “It is true. You
are
fan.”

She nodded again. “Schliemann’s the topic of my dissertation.”

“So I was told.”

Allison paused, unable to let the moment pass. She knew Payne didn’t want her to prolong the conversation, but she had to find out what Ivan meant. “Richard talked about me?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Stunned. Richard barely talked
to
me. I find it hard to believe that he talked
about
me.”

Ivan smiled. “Sometimes a man does not know how to handle the unfamiliar.”

“Meaning?”

“You were first woman he viewed as colleague and not conquest.”