The Lost Throne

shallow waters of the Gulf. He would, at all times, stay close enough to the coast to guarantee cell phone reception. When Payne and Jones were ready to leave, they would phone him with a rendezvous point. If Jarkko didn’t hear from them within twenty-four hours, he would assume that his services were no longer needed and would return to Helsinki.

But they assured him that they would call. One way or another.

Because of the late hour of their arrival, they were unable to use most forms of public transportation-which was unfortunate, because Saint Petersburg has an extensive network of buses, trains, and streetcars. Not only did it have more streetcars than any other city in the world, it also had the deepest subway-designed to get under all the rivers and canals. But after 1 A.M., taxis were the only thing still running. So they walked to the nearest road and flagged down a yellow cab with a green light in the corner of its windshield. That meant it was available.

Jones opened the back door and asked, “Govorite li vy po angliyski?”

“Yes,” the driver answered. He spoke English.

“Good,” Jones said as he slid across the backseat. “Nevskij Palace Hotel.”

“Yes.”

Payne climbed in, not saying a word, and closed the door behind him. Both he and Jones knew from experience not to talk in close quarters. There was no reason to draw any extra attention to themselves, whether it was giving away an accent, a personality trait, or an accidental nugget of information. Their objective was to remain as anonymous as possible.

Plus, truth be told, they were too exhausted to talk. Two days before, they had been lounging near the beach in St. Petersburg, Florida. Now they were sneaking into Saint Petersburg, Russia. In between, they had lost eight hours on the clock and hadn’t slept lying down. Back in the MANIACs, that sort of trip was normal. They constantly pushed their bodies and their brains to the limit, enduring what other people could not.

It’s why they were considered the best of the best.

Although they were no longer on active duty, their years of training and experience were still a part of them. They knew what to do and when to do it-whether that was on the war-torn streets of Baghdad or in the jungles of Africa. Their formula for success was simple. Pinpoint their objective. Accomplish their goal. Then get the hell out.

Everything else was meaningless.

But as things stood, they had a problem. A major problem. Their objective was ill- defined. What started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else along the way. Something messy. Payne used to call it a potluck mission because it had a little bit of everything. Part fact-finding, part rescue, part mystery, part death. The problem was, they wouldn’t know what they were dealing with until they jumped into the fray. And that was dangerous.

Especially against an unknown opponent.

To make sure they didn’t do anything reckless, they would get a good night’s sleep in a nice hotel. They would shower, change, and eat a large breakfast. Maybe even go for a walk to clear their heads. After that, they would discuss everything they knew and make sure they were in total agreement on the mission’s parameters. If they were, they would get started right away, doing whatever was required. If not, they would hash things out until their goal was clearly defined. Until both of them were comfortable with the stakes.

With their lives on the line, they figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

But first, before they slept-before they were able to sleep-they had a promise to fulfill. One they had made to a scared stranger who was counting on them for survival.

Everything else could wait until morning. Everything except their pledge.

They had to rescue Allison Taylor.

30

Allison Taylor didn’t need to be rescued. She wasn’t the type.

She was a doctoral student at Stanford who had lived on her own since she was eighteen and knew how to fend for herself. She paid her own bills, had several jobs, and still found time to research her thesis-which she planned to finish if she got out of Russia alive.

But that was the problem. She was stuck in Saint Petersburg.

The murder of Richard Byrd had been a shock to her. It had shaken her to her very core, leaving her vulnerable for the first time in years. It was a feeling she despised. The tears, the grief, the displays of weakness. None of those things were a part of her life. Normally, she was the strong one. The rock in the raging storm. The one her friends clung to for support.

But this was different. Completely different.

What did she know about guns? Or assassins? Or sneaking through customs?

She was a student, not a spy. The rules of espionage were foreign to her.

A long time ago, when she was a little girl and her father was still alive, he used to say, “A smart person knows when they don’t know something.” For some reason, that expression had always resonated with her. It gave her the confidence to ask for help when she was confused or out of her element. It wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a sign of strength. It meant she was smart enough to recognize her limitations and secure enough to get assistance.

And this was one of those times.

She knew she needed help. And she hoped Jonathon could provide it.

In reality, she knew very little about him except his name. But what she had learned during her frantic phone call was enough to soothe her. At least for the time being.

Jonathon was confident, not arrogant. He had listened to her problem, then offered a sensible solution. Go to the American consulate. Get its protection. It was a simple answer, but one that revealed a lot about his character. He hadn’t suggested something dangerous or illegal. Instead, he had suggested the safest thing available: getting help from the American government.

Any other time, that would have been her first choice. But on this particular trip, she knew things weren’t that simple. There were other issues to worry about. Byrd had made sure of that. Otherwise, she would have left the Peterhof and gone directly to the consulate.

On the phone, when she had balked at Jonathon’s idea and said she couldn’t go, she had liked the way he had kept his composure. He hadn’t yelled or tried to change her mind. He had simply offered another solution. He had calmed her down, reassured her of his expertise, and then said he was coming to help. Before she could reject his offer or question his abilities, he was telling her what she needed to do and where she needed to go. And she followed his instructions like scripture.

She booked a suite at the Nevskij Palace Hotel, one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. She paid in cash, not by credit card. She registered under a false name. When the clerk asked to see her papers, she told him they had been stolen but replacements would be delivered within forty-eight hours. He was reluctant at first, until she asked for her money back and a cab ride to the Grand Hotel Europe, another five-star hotel in the area. Suddenly, he was willing to make an exception. She thanked him by giving him a large tip in American currency.

She had been told to sit tight after that. When she got hungry, she ordered room service. When she got lonely, she was supposed to talk to herself. No one else. Not friends. Not family. Not even the busboy. The lone exception was if Jonathon or his friend D.J. called her cell phone. Other than that, she was to remain silent, in her room, until they showed up at her door.

And if anyone else came knocking, she should fight for her life.

The knocking started at 2:37 A.M. It was soft but forceful.

She was wide awake, staring at the ceiling above her bed, when she heard it. Her heart instantly leapt into her throat. She was wearing an extra-long T-shirt and panties, just as she would at home. Now she regretted her choice. She Suddenly, felt vulnerable.

A chair was wedged under the door handle. Both locks were set. The safety chain was attached as well. If someone tried to break in, it would take a lot of effort and make a lot of noise. But not as much noise as her screaming. If necessary, she would wake the whole damn hotel.

Nervously, Allison stared through the peephole. Two men were standing in the hallway. One black, one white. Both of them looked muscular and lethal. “Yes?”