The Lost Throne (13 page)

D “Sir?” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course you can come in. This isn’t my apartment. It’s a crime scene.”

Andropoulos blushed and stepped inside. He was carrying a folder filled with information about the victims. “I have the background that you asked for.”

But Dial ignored him, focusing on the nightstand instead. It sat between the two cots and was the only furniture in the monk’s room where something could be stored. He opened the drawer, hoping to find something important, but it was empty. Just like the rest of the room.

“Speaking of crime scenes,” Dial said as he glanced back at the young cop, “who’s in charge of the perimeter?”

“The perimeter?”

“You know, the imaginary line that encircles a crime scene. Who’s in charge of it?”

“We are, sir.”

“Who’s
we
? Because I know
I’m
not in charge of it.”

“Us, sir. The local police department.”

Dial nodded. He had known the answer. He just wanted Andropoulos to take ownership of the problem. “And what’s your policy for letting people into the crime scene?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, do you let
anyone
enter the crime scene?”

“Of course not, sir. Only authorized personnel.”

“Authorized personnel.” Dial practically spat when he said it. “Does that include cops?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about reporters?”

“No, sir.”

“What about monks?”

Andropoulos paused. “I’m not sure about that one.”

Dial smirked. “I don’t blame you. That’s a tough one. I mean, they’re men of God, so we can trust them, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Dial shook his head in disappointment. “Earlier to day, we saw a monk entering the crime scene, didn’t we? Up in the cable car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’m guessing he didn’t sneak in. Not while wearing a cassock and carrying a box.”

“No, sir.”

“So
someone
let him through.”

Andropoulos nodded. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

Dial softened the tone in his voice. He was angry at Nicolas’s presence at the crime scene but didn’t want to blame the young cop for something that wasn’t his fault. “Not you personally, but someone on your team screwed up big-time. Remember the old monk I introduced to you last night? I just found out he didn’t belong here. In fact, he might not be a monk at all.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“The monk from the cable car. Then again, maybe
he’s
not a monk, either.”

“You mean Theodore? He’s
definitely
a monk. I’ve met him before.”

“But not Nicolas?”

Andropoulos shook his head. “No, sir. He didn’t look familiar to me.”

“Great,” Dial mumbled to himself. “Next time speak up a little sooner.”

“I will, sir. In the meantime, what should I do to fix this?”

Dial stared at the kid. He had just lectured him over something he didn’t do, yet Andropoulos had taken it like a man. He hadn’t gotten defensive. He hadn’t passed the buck. He simply wanted to know how he could make things right. It was the perfect reaction to the situation.

Dial said, “Get word to the perimeter about Nicolas. Find out who let him in and why. Also find out what time he left and if anyone gave him a ride. I know when I came through last night, they recorded my name and ID badge into a log. Maybe they did the same thing with him. If so, get someone to verify the information
ASAP
.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Andropoulos said.

“No. Get someone else. You have better things to do with your time.”

“Sir?”

“Do me a favor and look at the door.”

“Which door?”

Dial pointed. “The one you just walked past.”

Andropoulos did what he was told. It didn’t take him long to spot the stain near the handle. “Is this blood?”

“It sure looks like it. And as far as I can tell, it hasn’t been processed.”

“You’re right, sir. It hasn’t. I’ll get forensics in here at once.”

Dial nodded and turned back to examine the interior of the room. Combine the bloodstain on the door with Nicolas’s presence inside, and Dial knew he was missing something.

But what was it? What was being overlooked?

“Marcus, before you leave, I’d like your opinion.”

“On what, sir?”

“If you were a criminal, why would you come into this room?”

“Is this a test?”

“No, it’s not a fucking test. I’m asking for your help. Is there something in here that would interest you?”

Andropoulos tried not to smile as he walked back into the room. Hoping to impress his boss, he scanned everything, focusing on the intricate wooden ceiling for several seconds before he moved on to the nightstand and the two cots that rested against the wall. Eventually, he stopped near the table and chairs in the center of the room. “May I look in the box, sir?”

“Not the box.
Ignore
the box. I carried it in myself.”

Andropoulos considered Dial’s statement, then said, “Did you carry anything out?”

“No, I didn’t,” Dial said, “but that’s a pretty good question. When you talk to your people, find out if Nicolas was carrying anything when he left the grounds.”

“This is about Nicolas?”

Dial nodded. “He was in here when I met him, but I can’t figure out why. This place has nothing in it.”

“Maybe he was hiding in here, waiting for people to leave.”

“I considered that. But that doesn’t explain why he chatted with me for twenty minutes. If you were hiding, would you answer a knock on the door? Or at the very least, wouldn’t you make up some kind of excuse so you didn’t have to talk to me?” Dial shook his head as he continued to reflect on the previous night. “Strangely, the more I think about it, the more I get the sense that he took me up to the bell tower because he wanted to get me away from here. There was something about the way he stepped outside and quickly closed the door behind him that bothers me. It was—I don’t know—like he didn’t want me to see the interior of the room.”

Andropoulos glanced around the room again. “Could someone else have been in here?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the blood? Was it here last night?”

Dial shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It was too dark to see.”

“But you think it was, right?”

Dial furrowed his brow. “When did
you
start asking the questions?”

Andropoulos stammered. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”

Dial cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. Go on.”

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re assuming the blood is from the killers, right? They opened the door to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and when they did, they left the bloodstain near the handle.”

“Or,” Dial suggested, “they came in here looking for
something
. Not someone.”

“Like what?”

Dial growled softly. “That’s the same damn thing I asked you five minutes ago. I hope you realize the goal is to answer my question, not rephrase it.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t see anything in here.”

“Me neither,” said Dial as he moved to the back of the room. The two cots were old and rusty. The nightstand and lamp were secondhand. So were the table and chairs. The only thing worth taking was the tapestry of the Orthodox cross. “What do you think this is worth?”

The young Greek walked toward Dial. “I don’t know. It depends how old it is. I’d say several hundred euros. Maybe more.”

“That much, huh?” Dial moved closer to examine the golden tassels on the edges of the tapestry. “Does Holy Trinity have any other artwork?”

“Some frescoes have been painted on the walls.”

“I mean
removable
artwork. Statues, pottery, precious metals.”

“No, sir. Not that I can remember.”

“Me neither,” Dial said as he ran his fingers across the heavy fabric. It was much thicker than he had expected. Much more durable, too. The type of thing that could last for centuries. “And the frescoes are in areas of worship, right? The chapel and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why is this in here? It’s locked away in their private quarters for no one else to see.”

“I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out? I could ask someone.”

Dial shook his head as he leaned closer to the tapestry.

It had taken a while, but he had finally found the answer he was searching for.

T
o create fake documents for Payne and Jones, Kaiser hired a world-class forger who lived in K-Town and specialized in visas and passports. Not only was he an expert on ink, paper, and handwriting, he also had a unique perspective on the industry, since he used to be a border guard at the Berlin Wall. So he understood the risks of a border crossing—what guards looked for, what they questioned, and so on—and guaranteed his creations would pass scrutiny.

For a trip to Russia, he recommended a single-entry tourist visa. Simple, straightforward, and rarely challenged. Especially if it was issued to a Canadian citizen. In the world of espionage, Canada was viewed as the Switzerland of the West. In other words, harmless. Payne and Jones knew this, which is why they had requested Canadian paperwork. Many countries around the world hated the United States. But few people—except jealous hockey fans—hated Canada.

When it came to border crossings, Payne and Jones were veterans. They had sneaked into so many countries when they were in the MANIACs that they weren’t the least bit stressed over their trip. Of course they realized their return trip would be a lot more difficult, since they’d be escorting Allison Taylor, a wild card if there ever was one. From the sound of her voice on the phone, they were tempted to buy some horse tranquilizers, just to keep her calm.

To help with their cover, they stopped at a department store to buy some clothes. The designs and fabrics in Europe were much different from those in North America. That was one of the main reasons Americans stood out when they were traveling overseas. Language was number one. Knowledge (manners, laws, decorum, etc.) was number two. Clothes were number three. Years of experience had taught Payne and Jones how to deal with the first two issues. They knew a shopping spree could rectify the third.

Payne was looking at shirts when his cell phone started to ring. The display screen read
Restricted
. Thoughts of Saint Petersburg quickly entered his head.

“Allison?” Payne said.

“Sorry, pal. Guess again.”

The voice belonged to Randy Raskin, calling from the Pentagon.

“Wait a second! You’re calling me?
That
might be a first.”

“It’s been a whole day since you asked for a favor. I figured you were sick or something.”

Payne smiled. “Nope. Just been traveling. Seeing some sights. Rescuing some damsels. You know, normal stuff.”

“I figured as much, which is the reason for my call. Do you have computer access?”

“We will for another hour. After that, no.”

“I’m sending a link to D.J. Tell him to follow Panther protocols. He’ll know what to do.”

“Okay,” said Payne as he grabbed the clothes he needed. “Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. If you have any trouble, let me know.”

Payne hung up and casually walked toward Jones, who was looking at pants on the other side of the store. “It’s time to roll.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got mail.”

T
here was an Internet café less than a block away. Jones grabbed a computer in the back corner while Payne paid for an hour. He always used cash when on a mission. Never credit cards.

To view Raskin’s message, Jones followed the Panther protocol, a simple procedure Raskin had designed for accessing data in a public place. Jones logged on to his office system in Pittsburgh, which was highly encrypted, and ran a program, called Panther, that blocked all monitoring software on the public terminal. It was an effective way to erase all trails to the Pentagon, and it prevented any files from being saved in a temporary folder on a public network.

Once Jones was confident the computer was clean, he opened the e-mail:
bq. hey guys,
i think you’ll like this—or maybe not. he doesn’t seem like
a nice person. make sure you cover your tracks. i don’t want
him coming after me. he’s scary.
r.r.

A few minutes later, they understood what Raskin was talking about when they viewed the file he had attached to the message. Sometime during the night, he had hacked into a Russian surveillance company and downloaded the security video of Richard Byrd’s murder. Actually, it was more than a murder. It was a cold-blooded execution, perpetrated by an assassin in a highly public venue. The type of wet work that was taught by the
CIA
, MI6, and other security agencies around the globe—including the old
KGB
.

At least that was the opinion of Payne and Jones.

The black-and-white footage was filmed from an elevated angle on the back porch of the Peterhof. It was a wide-angle shot, focusing on the banister above the main grotto, right where Richard Byrd was standing. Although the video was grainy, Payne and Jones were mesmerized by what they saw. The killer walked with precision. Never wasting energy or stopping to contemplate his next move. He approached Byrd, raised his gun, and fired. No hesitation. Never breaking stride. Totally professional. Then he tossed his weapon over the railing. It hit the water at the exact moment his victim tumbled into the fountain.

The timing was so perfect, the body and the gun made a single splash.

Payne and Jones replayed the video several times, looking for flaws in the killer’s technique. There were none. He never looked at the camera. He never ran or panicked. He never did anything to give away his identity. Even during the chaos that followed.

Payne watched the execution one more time. “What do you think? Ex-Agency?”

“Maybe. Or Russian mob. No one we want to tangle with—if we can help it.”

“Famous last words.”

Jones smirked. “I hope not.”

Payne tapped the computer screen. “Do me a favor and keep it running for a bit. Allison said she witnessed the shooting. Maybe we can see her in the aftermath.”