The Lost Throne (24 page)

L
ocated in St. Isaac’s Square, the Astoria Hotel first opened in 1912 and was renovated in 1991. Complete with parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, and a world-class caviar bar, it was one of the fanciest hotels that Jones had ever broken into.

Smiling and nodding like he belonged, Jones cut across the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor, where Allison’s room faced the inner courtyard. Wasting no time, he put the key in the lock and slipped inside. Everything was as she’d described it. The room was small but tastefully decorated with Russian linens and fabrics. The bed sat on the right, facing a built-in wardrobe, where she kept most of her clothes and all of her research. Just to be safe, he peeked into the bathroom and glanced under the bed, making sure he was alone.

As far as Jones could tell, nothing in the room had been disturbed.

It was a positive sign—one that meant Allison was probably in the clear.

If her research had been missing or her room had been tossed, the odds were pretty good that she had been linked to Byrd. It also meant Byrd had been killed for something other than a personal vendetta. Possibly his secret mission—whatever the hell that was. But at first glance, Jones was fairly confident that the killer didn’t know about Allison. Or didn’t care.

According to Allison, Byrd had gotten spooked on Sunday when he left the Hermitage Museum. He thought someone was following him, so instead of going back to the Astoria Hotel, he led the guy on a wild-goose chase for several hours. Ducking into churches and stores, changing cabs and trolleys, he did everything he could to lose his tail. But nothing worked. During his journey, he called Payne every half hour, hoping to get advice on how to get away. When that failed, he phoned Allison and told her to get to the Peterhof as fast as she could so they could leave Saint Petersburg together.

Unfortunately, he had been killed before they left the city.

Working quickly, Jones gathered her research and stuffed it into a book bag he found. He removed the identification tags from her suitcases and made sure no personal items—wallets, prescription drugs, monogrammed jewelry—were left behind. He even went through her trash, looking for receipts and old airline tickets. When he thought the room was clean, he unplugged her computer and put everything by the door.

Then he searched her room again. Just in case.

Her clothes were too bulky to carry, so they would have to stay. The same thing with her shoes, toiletries, and nonessential items. But he grabbed her iPod—in case it was loaded with personal photos or contact information—and slipped it into her computer bag.

Now he was positive the place was clean.

P
ayne and Allison stood in the middle of St. Isaac’s Square, near the equestrian monument that honored Nicholas I, the former emperor of Russia. The twenty-foot-long bronze statue, which sat atop a three-tiered ornamental pedestal across the plaza from the Astoria Hotel, depicted Nicholas riding into battle while wearing his grandest military outfit.

Allison stared at the statue while Payne glanced around the square.

She said, “See how the horse is rearing back on its hind hooves? It was the first equestrian statue ever with only two support points. It was hailed as an architectural marvel.”

Payne turned around and looked at the monument. Until that instant it had never dawned on him that this massive chunk of bronze was balancing on two thin legs. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Even the Communists, who destroyed royal statues all over Russia, left this one alone.”

“I can see why.”

“Strangely,” she continued, “the person who had the most trouble with it was Nicholas’s daughter, the grand duchess. It made her quite uncomfortable.”

Payne refocused on the plaza, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. “Why’s that?”

Allison pointed to the south side of St. Isaac’s Square. A large building made of reddish-brown sandstone stretched for more than a block. “That’s the Mariinsky Palace, where the grand duchess used to live. If you look closely, you’ll notice she has a unique view of the statue. Instead of gazing at her father’s face, she was forced to stare at the horse’s ass.”

Payne laughed at the remark. It was completely unexpected.

“So you were listening,” she teased. “I wasn’t so sure.”

“Don’t worry. I can do several things at once.”

“That’s good to know.”

He glanced at her, unsure what she meant by that. From the tone of her voice, it almost sounded as if she was flirting was him. Which, considering the circumstances, would have been even more surprising than her remark about the horse. Not that Payne hadn’t noticed Allison’s beauty and intelligence. Those traits were obvious from the first time they’d met in the wee hours of the morning. But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about—like his best friend breaking into a dead man’s hotel room and their getting out of the country alive.

If not for those things, Payne would’ve been tempted to flirt back.

“Do you get to travel a lot?” she asked.

Payne was about to respond when his phone started to vibrate.

“Hold that thought,” he said to Allison as he answered his phone. “Hello.”

It was Jones. “I’m ready to leave her room. Can you put her on the line?”

“Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine. Just put her on the line.”

Payne handed the phone to Allison. “D.J. has a question for you.”

“For me?” she said, intrigued. “Hello.”

“I forgot to ask you something before. Are any of your clothes personalized?”

“Personalized?”

“Initials on your jeans, tags on your shirt, names on your underwear. I don’t want to dig through your pantie drawer if I don’t have to.”

She blushed. “No, my panties are safe. But thanks for checking.”

Payne grimaced. He couldn’t imagine what Jones had asked that had produced such a response, but he’d definitely question him later.

She handed the phone back to Payne. “He wants to talk to you.”

“What is it?” Payne asked.

“I’m heading up to Byrd’s room. Am I clear to go?”

“As far as I can tell.” Payne turned and glanced in all directions. “Wait.”

“What?” Jones demanded.

“Jon,” Allison whispered. She noticed the problem, too.

Three Russian soldiers, dressed in full uniforms and carrying guns, were walking toward the monument of Nicholas I. Normally, that wouldn’t have concerned Payne, who was used to seeing soldiers and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by them. But as these soldiers approached, they weren’t focused on the statue. They were staring at Allison.

“Hang on,” Payne said to Jones. “I might’ve spoken too soon.”

“What is it?”

“Some soldiers are coming straight toward us.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jones assured him. “You’re white.”

Payne played it cool, casually glancing away. “I don’t know. They look determined.”

“Jon,” she said again. Her voice was filled with nervous energy.

Jones asked, “What should I do?”

“You know. I gotta go.”

“I
know
? What the hell does that m—”

Payne hung up on him and slipped the phone into his pocket. As the soldiers approached, he casually put his left arm around Allison’s shoulder. “Play along,” he whispered.

“I’ll try,” she whispered back.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Extending his right arm upward, Payne pointed at the statue. Then in a much louder voice, he exclaimed, “I’m telling you, it’s made of
brass
!”

“Brass?” she said, quickly understanding his plan. “It’s made of
bronze
!”

The soldiers, all of them in their mid-twenties and looking rather serious, stood behind Payne and Allison, listening to their argument. The largest of the three, who was bigger than Payne and looked like a grizzly bear, tapped Payne on his shoulder, much harder than he needed to.

In a heavily accented voice, he said, “Papers.”

Payne lifted his arm off Allison and slowly turned around, completely under control. No sudden movements of any kind. Then, with a smile on his face, he said, “No problem.”

As he handed his papers to Grizzly, he prayed that Kaiser had hired the best damn counterfeiter in K-Town. Otherwise, things were going to get sticky in a hurry. Not only was Allison liable to turn the same shade of red as the patches on the Russian’s jacket if she was forced to lie, but Payne knew if he was frisked, they would find a loaded gun. Or two.

All things considered, the
other
St. Petersburg had been much more relaxing.

T
he library at Great Metéoron was rarely seen by anyone outside the monastic order. Its books and manuscripts, some of which were over a thousand years old, were far too valuable to be touched by the general public. In fact, many of the earliest volumes were so delicate they were accessible only to a chosen few.

One of those monks was Theodore. He had been trained in archival science and knew the proper way to handle ancient documents. Although a lack of funding prevented the monastery from building a climate-controlled facility, they took pride in their preservation techniques, locking away their most valuable books in a hidden room that was properly ventilated.

Joseph, the fair-haired monk, was not permitted to enter the library. He knocked five times on its thick wooden door and waited for it to be opened from the inside. A few minutes passed before anyone responded. The inner locks clicked, then Theodore pulled the door toward him using his body weight and momentum. Inch by inch, the portal swung open. As it did, the metal hinges squealed, echoing through the stone corridor like a woman’s scream.

“That will be all,” Theodore said.

Without saying a word, Joseph nodded. Then he turned and walked away.

“Please, come in.”

Dial went in first, followed by Andropoulos. Both of them glanced around the library, not sure what to expect. Neither of them was disappointed.

All the walls were lined with shelves, and all the shelves were lined with books. Hundreds of antique codices, manuscripts, and documents. All of them locked behind black metal bars. A carved wooden desk and three matching chairs sat in the middle of the floor. A simple chandelier hung above them, casting light in all directions.

“May I?” asked Dial as he gestured toward the shelves on the left.

“Of course.”

Theodore stepped aside. He was wearing the same cassock and cap as the day before, yet because of the bags under his eyes, he looked as though he had aged several years since Dial had seen him last. He had spent half the night doing research, hoping to learn more about the secret tunnel and the artwork at Holy Trinity.

“Our library is the finest in central Greece.”

Dial tilted his head to the side, trying to read some of the ancient titles. All of them were written in languages that he couldn’t decipher. “How did you acquire the books?”

“Great Metéoron was blessed by good fortune. A Serbian ruler named Simeon Uroš gave us a large endowment in the mid-fourteenth century. It allowed us to build the original
katholikón
and expand our cloisters. Eventually, his son, John Uroš, joined our order. He took the name Iosaph and ran our monastery for many years. His wealth and guidance helped us persevere.”

“And the books?”

“Some were donated. Some were bought. Some were written here.”

“Really? What type of books did your brethren write?”

Slipping a pair of gloves on to protect the ancient relics, Theodore walked to the front corner of the room. With a set of brass keys, he unlocked the metal cage and removed a single book. It was nearly six inches thick and covered in tan-colored goatskin. He carried it to the wooden desk and carefully laid it open. “This is one of our recent volumes. It is less than a century old. Yet it reveals the quality of our bookmaking.”

Dial and Andropoulos leaned closer, both of them anxious to inspect it.

Even though it was written in Greek, Dial was overwhelmed by its beauty. The pages were filled with the most elegant calligraphy he had ever seen. Words flowed into one another like waves on the sea. The margins were illustrated in bold, bright colors—images that were so detailed, so transcendent, that Dial was able to understand the story without reading it.

“The birth of Christ,” he said. “It’s magnificent.”

Theodore nodded. “Pride is discouraged by our order. Yet it is hard not to be proud.”

Dial gestured toward the shelves. “How many of these books were made here?”

“Many,” he said cryptically. “Centuries ago, every book of significance was either written in monasteries or protected by them. Our library has volumes on virtually every field: history, alchemy, philosophy, grammar, politics.”

“And religion. Don’t forget religion.”

Theodore nodded. “We
never
forget religion.”

Dial laughed as he walked to the right-hand side of the room. Andropoulos followed closely, browsing the bookcases for anything that looked out of place. As a native speaker, he was able to read most of the titles. Occasionally, for Dial’s benefit, he translated their names aloud. But nothing stood out to either of them. No volumes on war or weaponry—other than some Grecian classics that were available in most libraries. Books like the
Odyssey
and the
Iliad
.

“So,” Dial said when he was tired of browsing, “what did you learn about the tunnel?”

Theodore slid behind the desk and took a seat. He motioned for Dial and Andropoulos to sit in the two chairs across from him. “Regrettably, not much.”

“Really? With all these books, I figured you’d find something of value. Didn’t you say the entire history of Metéora was chronicled here?”

“Yes, I did.”

Dial shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I find it
odd
that something as elaborate as that tunnel is not mentioned in any of these volumes. In fact, I’d be tempted to go one step further. I might even use the word
unlikely
.”

Theodore said nothing. He simply folded his hands on the desk in front of him and returned Dial’s stare. Unfortunately, because of the monk’s beard, Dial found it difficult to read his facial expressions. Was he smirking? Or grinning? Or gritting his teeth? Dial couldn’t tell. All he could do was study Theodore’s eyes, hoping to find a clue as to what he was thinking.