The Lost Throne (27 page)

He searched under the bed, in the nightstand, in the dresser, even in the air-conditioning vents. Then he continued with Byrd’s belongings. He checked clothes and shoes, suitcases and toiletries, and a stack of books that sat in the corner of the room. From there, he moved his search to the other parts of the suite. There weren’t a lot of hiding places, and considering Byrd’s paranoia, Jones figured he wouldn’t find anything of value sitting out in the open.

And he was right. After several minutes of searching, Jones was ready to pack up.

I
t took two days for Kozlov to pick up Byrd’s scent. Two days of sitting on his ass in his hotel room, sifting through mountains of information in the FSB’s database. Two days of crunching numbers and making educated guesses before he noticed a pattern.

Of course, there is
always
a pattern. People are creatures of habit.

By studying old credit card statements, Kozlov determined that Byrd, a man of great wealth, always went first-class when he ventured around the globe. At least he did when he traveled as Richard Byrd. And since old habits were difficult to break, Kozlov predicted that Byrd would follow the same pattern when he was traveling under an alias.

The best hotels, the best restaurants, the best of everything.

In a city as large as Saint Petersburg, Kozlov knew he had to limit the scope of his search, so he decided to concentrate on one thing: luxury hotels. Particularly those close to Nevsky Prospekt. Not only was it the ritziest part of the city, but the avenue ran past several museums, including the Hermitage, which was where he had bumped into his target to begin with.

So that’s where Kozlov started—back at the Hermitage.

Armed with a gun, an old
NCB
badge, and a photograph of Byrd, Kozlov planned to visit every hotel on Nevsky Prospekt. He was going to flash his badge at every front desk and ask about the man in the picture. Now that Byrd was dead, he wasn’t nearly as worried about keeping things quiet. He was more concerned about finding information as quickly as possible.

And he would start at the hotel that was next to the museum.

The same hotel that David Jones was leaving.

Spárti, Greece (location of Ancient Sparta)

G
eorge Pappas was looking forward to this day. Even though he had been an
NCB
agent for twenty-one years, this was the first time he had ever been given an assignment from Interpol Headquarters. Not only that, but his orders came straight from the top. Nick Dial, the head of the Homicide Division, needed help with a multiple homicide at Metéora. He believed the killers might be from the mountain towns near Spárti, because of video evidence at the scene.

Normally, Pappas, a small-town cop, spent most of his time dealing with the tourists who flooded Greece during the summer months. He worked full-time for the local municipality, which was the administrative capital of Laconia, but also received a stipend for his
NCB
duties, which were usually limited to entering crime statistics into Interpol’s criminal database.

But today was a different story. After all this time, he was being asked to do
real
police work for Interpol as opposed to really boring police work.

And he couldn’t wait to get started.

Accompanying Pappas on the drive into the mountains were two younger officers, Stefan Manos and Thomas Constantinou. Manos was a ten-year veteran of the Spárti police force and was quite familiar with the people of the region. Meanwhile, Constantinou was the exact opposite. He had finished his police training in Athens less than a month ago and had never visited Laconia before being hired by Spárti. This was Constantinou’s first trip into the Taygetos Mountains, which made him an easy target for some teasing.

“Thomas,” Pappas said as he drove the four-wheel-drive truck up the winding road. “Make sure you stay close to us once we get into the village.”

“Why is that?” Constantinou asked from the cramped backseat.

Pappas looked at Manos in the passenger seat. “You didn’t tell him?”

Manos shook his head. “You invited the kid. I figured you would tell him.”

“Tell me what?”

Pappas glanced at him in his rearview mirror. “About your haircut.”

Constantinou rubbed his scalp, which he kept closely shaved. “What about it?”

“Everyone in the village has hair like yours. Men, women, kids. Even their goats.”

Manos laughed at the comment. He knew all about the Spartans and their haircuts.

“I don’t get it,” Constantinou said. “What’s so funny?”

“You mean you
really
don’t know?” Pappas asked. “I can’t believe no one told you. How are you going to succeed in Spárti if you don’t know anything about the locals and their customs? They should have told you this for your personal safety before they shipped you here.”

“Told me what?” he demanded.

Pappas tried not to smile, milking this for all it was worth. “Back in ancient times, Spartan men were required to get married at the age of twenty. This was after living with nothing but boys and the older men who mentored them for thirteen lonely years. The boys spent their days wrestling and training and bathing until they knew one another’s bodies like their own. In fact, they knew one another so well that the only people they were truly comfortable with were the other men in their squad. If you get what I’m saying.”

Constantinou nodded. “What does that have to do with my hair?”

“Relax. I’m getting to that.”

Manos clenched his tongue between his teeth, trying to keep from laughing.

“Spartans were never into fancy ceremonies, so their weddings consisted of a man choosing his wife and abducting her, sometimes quite violently. Now, don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t rape. This was just the way it was done in their culture. Spartans were bred to be aggressive, and that trait revealed itself on the battlefield and in the bedroom.”

Constantinou shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not sure where this story was going.

“After the wife was abducted, it was time for their wedding night. The man would drag his bride into a private section of the barracks, where he would take out his knife. Then, in a ritual that some locals still perform today, the man would shave her head like he was shearing a sheep. I mean, he’d get right down to her skin and just carve away until she was completely bald.”

“He cut off all her hair? What for?”

“Be patient,” Pappas ordered. “You’ll find out shortly.”

Manos kept fighting his laughter. He had heard this story, which was completely true, several times before. But there was something about the way that Pappas told it that kept it funny—especially when his audience was a wide-eyed rookie who wasn’t familiar with the Spartans.

“Anyway, here was the problem. Spartan men lived with nothing but males for the majority of their lives. They were told to love one another and protect one another because someday on the battlefield they would have to count on one another. Unfortunately, that ideology was so deeply embedded into their brains that they weren’t able to get physically aroused unless the person they were screwing actually looked like a man. Hence, the shaving of the wife’s head.”

“Are you serious?” Constantinou asked.

“Completely serious. When we get back to town, look it up if you don’t believe me.”

Manos nodded in agreement. “He’s serious. These guys are scary.”

“But it didn’t end there,” Pappas assured the rookie. “For the Spartans, the goal of sex wasn’t enjoyment; it was procreation. That meant no foreplay or romance of any kind. Late at night, a Spartan male would wait until all the other men were sleeping—because he didn’t want to disturb their rest—and sneak out of his barracks. His wife, realizing that her husband had little time to get aroused before he had to return, made sure her head was shaven at all times. In addition, to help set the mood she slept in men’s clothes, which we like to call Spartan lingerie. The combination of the darkness, the shaved head, and the men’s clothing made her husband feel like he was back with the boys, cuddling for warmth along the Eurotas River.”

“That’s disgusting,” Constantinou complained. “Why would you tell me that?”

Pappas glanced at him in the mirror. “How old are you, Thomas?”

“I’m twenty-two. Why?”

Manos shook his head with concern. “You’re twenty-two
and
you have a shaved head. Where we’re going, that’s a mighty attractive combination.”

Pappas nodded in agreement. “Like I said, make sure you stay close to us in the village. Otherwise, you might get dragged into the woods for your honeymoon.”

T
he first village they visited had no name. That was uncommon in Greece, where most people took pride in their community and bragged about it every chance they got. But these villagers were different. Like their Spartan ancestors, who refused to mint coins because it would only encourage interaction with outsiders, the citizens of this town wanted to be left alone.

Which, of course, was the reason that Pappas stopped here first. He was familiar with these people and their violent ways. In fact, from the moment he fielded the call from Interpol, Pappas had this place in mind. He figured, if there were killers lurking in the Taygetos Mountains, the odds were pretty good that they were going to be in the village that he called Little Sparta.

“I’ve been here before, so let me do all the talking,” said Pappas as he climbed out of the truck. “Stay close and keep your eyes open. These people do not like strangers.”

Manos and Constantinou nodded in silence.

The village was relatively small, no more than sixty homes spread against the rocky face of the mountain. But what it lacked in numbers, it more than made up in intensity.

The first time Pappas had visited the village, more than fifteen years earlier, he had stopped by the school and had caught a quick glimpse of their training methods. He had been amazed by the children’s level of discipline. The boys, even the youngest ones, didn’t fidget or goof around. They stood board-straight, like they were in the military, and did whatever they were told. Pappas figured that type of control was only achieved through severe physical punishment, but since he was there on a different matter and no complaints had been filed, he wasn’t allowed to investigate the school further.

Still, the sight of those preteen warriors disturbed him to the core.

He always wondered what type of men they would grow up to be.

Unfortunately, he and his partners were about to find out.

A
llison’s book bag hung from Jones’s left shoulder. Her computer dangled from his right. And he carried a large gym bag stuffed with Byrd’s most important belongings. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to haul them very far. He was scheduled to meet Payne and Allison in St. Isaac’s Square.

Jones eyed the hallway in both directions before he stepped outside the suite. One of the advantages of staying on the top floor of a luxury hotel was a scarcity of neighbors. Wealthy people loved their peace and quiet. Then again, so did burglars. Obviously, Jones didn’t view himself as a thief—he was simply collecting things for Byrd’s assistant—yet he knew the authorities wouldn’t see his actions in the same light. So when Jones heard the elevator doors open at the opposite end of the corridor, he wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

Keeping his cool, he turned toward the stairs and refused to look back even though he could hear footsteps. His goal was to reach the street while being noticed by the fewest number of people possible, and turning around would only increase his chances of being identified.

With his free hand, he opened the door to the stairwell and started his journey down.

For the first few floors, things were going well. He was alone on the stairs and making good time. He assumed his next trouble spot would be the lobby. Desk clerks tended to be nosy. A team of doormen and bellhops would be posted by the entrance, offering to help him with his bags. And hotel guests would be milling around, waiting for friends and family.

Once he survived that gauntlet, he figured he’d be home free.

But it wasn’t to be.

Jones realized there was trouble when he heard the door above him open. It was the exact same door he had passed through a moment before on a floor that had few visitors. Either someone had exited a suite a split second after Jones had left the hallway
and
had also decided to walk down several flights of steps, or the person from the elevator was still behind him.

In his gut, Jones knew it was the latter.

P
ayne detected a problem the instant he saw Jones leave the hotel. Instead of turning toward the plaza as he was supposed to, Jones headed toward Nevsky Prospekt in the opposite direction.

“Shit,” Payne mumbled to himself, never taking his eyes off the exit.

“What’s wrong?” Allison asked.

“Time to go.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, Payne would have sent her to safety in the Hermitage Museum or one of the nearby buildings, but considering Grizzly’s warning about unfriendly soldiers in the area and the fact that Jones had altered their plans based on something he had seen inside the hotel, Payne couldn’t abandon her. He couldn’t take the chance that she would be accosted, arrested, or spotted by a hidden foe. That forced him to take her along while he figured out what to do.

Meanwhile, Jones kept moving forward, never running or doing anything that would call attention to himself. That told Payne a lot about the situation. Jones’s life wasn’t in immediate danger. If it had been, he would have signaled Payne to enter the fray or dropped the bags he was carrying and started shooting. But Jones’s methodical pace and calm demeanor meant he was being followed. Or at least he thought he was.

It was up to Payne to figure out if that was true.

And if so, by whom?

Allison walked beside him as Payne crossed the street toward the hotel. The entire time he studied the exit, watching everyone who left the building. An elderly couple appeared first, then a woman in a dress, then a bellhop. None of them turned toward Jones, so they weren’t the shadow that Payne was searching for.