The Lost Throne

rarely shaved and reeked of sweat. The real scum of the earth.

Yet according to Ulster’s definition, Payne was a smuggler himself.

Excluding his stint in the military-when he and Jones had frequently shipped men, weapons, and supplies across enemy lines-Payne had been involved in two recent smuggling operations, although he hadn’t viewed himself as a smuggler at the time of the incidents.

The first occurred shortly after he met Ulster. Payne and Jones uncovered a plot to rewrite the history of Jesus Christ, and in the process they recovered several religious artifacts that had no rightful owner. Since they didn’t want the relics locked away in the Vatican basement, they had smuggled them out of Italy and delivered them to the Ulster Archives.

The second had been even more dramatic. Payne and Jones sneaked into the Muslim-only city of Mecca to thwart a terrorist attack and ended up rescuing an American archaeologist who had discovered an Islamic treasure the Saudi government knew nothing about. Worried that the Arabs would claim it for themselves, Payne and Jones had smuggled it out of the Middle East and donated it to Ulster’s facility, where it could be examined by experts in that field.

Ultimately, that’s one of the reasons Payne never viewed himself as a smuggler.

He never stole anything. He never sold the treasures. And most important, he always donated them to academia instead of keeping them for himself.

“You know,” Jones said after their call to Ulster, “we aren’t exactly angels.”

“I never claimed to be.”

Jones smiled. “Yet you want to be perceived that way.”

Payne shrugged. Deep down inside, he knew Jones was right. From the moment in the eighth grade when he lost his parents to a drunk driver, Payne had always craved the approval of others. It was his way of making up for the love and attention he had been denied. His paternal grandfather did a wonderful job of raising him after the accident, yet because of his duties as the founder and CEO of Payne Industries, he simply wasn’t around as often as Payne would have liked.

Instead of sulking or rebelling as teenagers are apt to do, Payne had poured his energy into every talent he had-academics, athletics, martial arts, and eventually the military-hoping his accomplishments would get him the positive attention he needed.

In the end, it made him a better person.

“So,” Jones wondered, “how do you want to handle this?”

“Not much we can do from here. Not until Byrd calls back.”

“And then?”

“Then it depends on him. If he seems legitimate, I say we bail him out. I mean, a friend of Petr’s is a friend of ours. On the other hand, if he seems shady in any way, I say we wish him well but tell him we’re on vacation.”

Jones nodded. “Agreed.”

“In the meantime, why don’t you dig up some background on him.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” He turned his laptop toward Payne and pointed at the screen. “As soon as Petr mentioned his name, I ran an Internet search and came up with a few articles. It seems the two of you have something in common.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You both come from money.”

Payne sat at the hotel desk and studied the image on the screen.

Richard Byrd was a handsome man in his late forties. He had sandy brown hair that was gray at the temples and a deep California tan. In the picture he was standing on the deck of his yacht, the Odyssey, while Catalina Island loomed in the distance. He looked cool, confident, and in total control-the exact opposite of how he had sounded on the phone.

Underneath there was a short biography, detailing his academic and professional careers. He had graduated from Stanford with a degree in history but never worked in that field. Instead, he had taken control of his family’s fortune, which had been amassed during the gold rush of the 1800s, and multiplied it many times over in the banking business. According to this website, he had retired a few years ago to pursue outside interests, although none were listed.

“Let me guess,” Payne said. “His hobbies include traveling, antiques, and Greece.”

“Is it just me, or does he look like a catalogue model?”

Payne smiled and handed the computer back to Jones. “Enough with the fluff. Why don’t you get some dirt on this guy? Anything that might suggest criminal activities. I want to know as much as possible before he calls again.”

As if on cue, Payne’s phone started to ring on the nearby table.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t answer it,” Jones shouted as he scrambled for his laptop bag. He quickly unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a short black cord that he plugged into the back of his computer. “Give me your phone.”

Payne did as he was told and watched Jones attach it to the cord. This would allow them to listen through the laptop’s speakers while recording the call as a digital file.

Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. Three rings, then four.

“Are we good?” Payne asked.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Payne took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hello?”

A loud blast of static filled the room. Jones leaned forward and lowered the volume on his computer. It helped with the sound level but didn’t help with the clarity. Static still filled the line.

“Hello?” Payne repeated.

There was a two-second pause before they heard a response.

“Hello,” said the voice. It was soft and meek and feminine.

Payne glanced at the number. It was restricted, just as before. “Who is this?”

She ignored his question. After another pause, she said, “Is this Jonathon?”

“Yes. This is Jon. Who is this?”

Static filled the line for a few seconds. Followed by a gasp and a sob.

“Are you all right?” Payne asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible.

“Is this Jonathon?” she repeated.

“Yes. This is Jonathon. Who is this?”

A slight delay, then an answer: “This is Allison.”

“Allison who?”

“Taylor.”

Payne looked at Jones, who shrugged. Neither of them knew who she was.

“Allison, where are you calling from?”

A few seconds of static. “Russia. I’m calling from Russia.”

“Are you with Richard?”

She let out a soft wail. No talking, just crying.

“Allison, where’s Richard?”

A slight pause, then a thunderbolt. “Richard’s dead.”

“What?” Payne said, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“They killed him. They killed Richard.”

“Who is they?”

“I don’t know. But they killed him.”

Payne paused, not sure what to ask. “Allison, how did you know Richard?”

Static for a few seconds. “I was helping him.”

“With what?”

“His trip.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“They shot him in the head. He fell in the fountain.”

“Allison, where are you in Russia?”