things got murky. He was loaned to the Pentagon for an ‘alternative tour of duty,’ at which time he dropped off the Academy radar. No more records. No forwarding address. Nothing. He was effectively wiped from their system, which, Jones assumed, was the moment that Charles Boyd was born and began his new career in the CIA.
To verify this fact, Jones downloaded a picture of Boyd from a local news agency and sent it to Randy Raskin at the Pentagon with a message that said: ‘Is Chuck safe to drink with?’
This was a coded way to find out if Boyd was viewed as a threat by the U.S. government. If Jones had wanted to know about Boyd’s access to top secret information, he would’ve asked if Boyd was ‘safe to dine with.’ If Raskin’s response mentioned a ‘one-course meal,’ then Boyd was cleared to discuss first-level documents. A ‘two- course meal’ meant second level, and so on. But Jones didn’t care about that. He wasn’t looking to share secrets with the guy. He simply wanted to know if Boyd was in good standing with the Agency.
Jones also wanted to know why Raskin didn’t warn them about Boyd’s duties with the CIA when Payne called him from Milan. That just didn’t make sense.
While he waited for Raskin’s response, Jones switched his focus to Maria Pelati and found everything he was looking for. She grew up in Rome, moved to an exclusive prep school in England before she reached her teens, and then enrolled in Dover, where she’d been studying for the past ten years. Interpol documents proved that she rarely left the U.K., even for the holidays, which suggested that her relationship with her father was, in fact, strained.
Her only extended visit to Italy in the past decade was the one she took recently, flying from London to Rome on the same flight as Dr Boyd two weeks ago. From there, Jones was able to track their whereabouts around Orvieto by following a string of credit card transactions. A hotel bill here, a store purchase there — always within their means — and absolutely nothing to suggest that they were treasure hunters on the verge of a big payday.
As Jones continued his research, his computer let him know that Raskin had replied to his e-mail. He opened the message with a click of his mouse. It said:
Drink away, my friend, but
49
At first Payne thought Dr Boyd was joking when he asked him to leave the Roman Collection room to give them more space. That is until he started talking about claustrophobia and claiming there wasn’t enough air to breathe with so many people around the table.
Needless to say, Payne was stunned. After giving it some thought, though, he realized Boyd was right: Payne was pretty useless in the research department. He couldn’t read Latin or log ancient scrolls. And he certainly didn’t have the computer skills that Jones possessed. In fact, when it came right down to it, there wasn’t anything that he could do except guard the door and fetch prosciutto sandwiches when they got hungry.
That’s right, he was their rent-a-cop sandwich bitch.
Anyway, Payne decided not to make a scene and asked Ulster if he could use his office to work on a project of his own. Ulster laughed and told him to help himself, which was probably a mistake on his part, because Payne was about to fingerprint two suspects who weren’t even there, using the specimens that he collected in Milan.
The process itself was rather straightforward. Press the specimen in ink, then roll it on paper. Just like finger painting in kindergarten. Only this time, Payne used someone else’s fingers.
When Payne was done, he put them in a brown paper bag that said DON’T EAT ME and returned them to Ulster’s freezer. Then he faxed the prints to Randy Raskin, figuring if anyone could determine who Manzak and Buckner were, it would be him. Payne included a short note that told him to send the results to Jones’s computer as soon as possible.
After that, Payne had time to kill, so he decided to explore the Archives. He walked up and down the halls looking at everything: the paintings, the statues, and all the display cases. The thing he liked the most was a series of black-and-white photos that Ulster’s grandfather had shot in Vienna in the 1930s. Most of them featured landmarks Payne didn’t recognize, but the final one, a photograph of the Lipizzaner stallions, instantly warmed his heart.
When he was a boy, his parents tricked him into watching a TV performance of the majestic white horses by telling him that they were unicorns that had lost their horns. Payne believed them, too, because he had never witnessed a more magical display of showmanship in his entire life. The horses entered the Imperial Riding Hall of the Hofburg to the violins of Bizet’s ‘Arlesienne Suite,’ then proceeded to glide through a gravity-defying series of pirouettes, courbettes, and caprioles. Payne never knew animals could dance or spin until that moment.
He took the picture off the wall and ran his fingers over the faded image. All the horses in the photo had died decades before Payne was born, but because of their careful breeding — each Lipizzaner was branded with specific marks to signify their historic bloodlines — they looked eerily similar to the ones he’d seen as a boy. The same high necks and powerful limbs, muscular backs and well-formed joints, thick manes and remarkably limpid eyes.
‘Didja know you saved their lives?’ someone growled down the hall. ‘
Bemused, Payne glanced at the old man trudging his way. His name was Franz, and he was Ulster’s most trusted employee. ‘What was that?’ Payne asked.
‘You American, no?
‘I did? How the hell did I do that?’
A smile exploded on Franz’s wrinkled face. ‘Not you! But men from your country.
Payne had no idea what he was talking about, so he asked him to explain.
‘Back in 1945, Vienna was under heavy attack by Allied bombers. Colonel Podhajsky, the leader of the riding school, was afraid for his horses — not only from bombs, but from hungry refugees who were scouring the city for meat.’
‘Did you say
Payne had never heard of Podhajsky, so he was clueless. ‘I give up. Who?’
‘American General George S. Patton.’
‘Really? How’d he know Patton?’
Franz chuckled with delight. ‘Would you believe they met at the 1912 Olympics?
‘Patton was an Olympian? I never knew that.’
‘That is nothing. Wait till I tell you what happened next. To convince Patton that the horses were worth saving, the colonel staged a Lipizzaner performance right there on the battlefield. Can you imagine the spectacle? Horses dancing in the middle of a war!’ Franz laughed so loud it hurt Payne’s ears. ‘The general was so impressed that he made the horses official wards of the U.S. Army until Vienna was safe enough for their return.’
Payne smiled at the photograph. ‘I guess my parents were right. They are magical.’
‘Hmm? What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ he fibbed, half embarrassed. ‘Out of curiosity, could I borrow this picture for a few minutes? I have a buddy upstairs who always tries to impress me with facts about everything, and I doubt he knows that story. Would it bother Petr if I carried this upstairs?’
‘Petr!’ Franz groaned. ‘I’m glad you said his name, because I almost forget to tell you. Petr sent me to find you. He wants you to go upstairs at once. Your friends would like to talk to you.’
Excited by the possibilities, Payne thanked Franz for the news, then hustled upstairs with the photo. But when he entered the room he quickly realized he’d have to save his story for later, because the look on everyone’s face told Payne something bad had happened.
Dr Boyd’s complexion was paler than usual, which made the bags under his eyes stand out like layers of football eye black. Maria sat to his left, her face buried on the table under her tightly clenched arms. And Ulster, whose lips had been frozen in a perpetual grin since Payne had met him, seemed to be frowning, even though it was tough to tell through the thicket that he called a beard. Jones was the last person Payne noticed, since he was
