The Lost Throne

one’s a little tougher for me.”

“Knock it off.”

“See, the s makes it plural.”

Payne ignored him. “Where were you staying?”

“At the Astoria Hotel. It’s across the street from the Hermitage Museum.”

“I know the place. One room? Two rooms? A suite?”

“Definitely two,” she stressed. “I wasn’t staying with Richard.”

“You weren’t a couple?”

She scrunched her face and shook her head. “Not a chance. That guy was a player. Good-looking, lots of money, and lots of girlfriends. I know he was hoping for something extra on this trip, but I was here to work. Nothing else.”

Payne nodded. “That’s a relief.”

“Why is that?”

“Why? Because if you were a couple, a good assassin would be able to figure out your name in a heartbeat. All it would take is a single call to California, and he’d know everything about you. But since you weren’t together, I’m hoping you’ll get lost in the shuffle.”

Allison turned pale as she set her fork down. “You think an assassin is after me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But . . .”

Payne believed in being up-front with people. “From what we saw, a professional killed Byrd. Since we don’t know why, we don’t know if he’s looking for a second target. If Byrd owed someone money or screwed someone over, then you’ll be fine. This was a one-and-done, and you’ll never be bothered again. On the other hand, if the two of you saw something or did something that you weren’t supposed to, then that’s a different story. Then I’d be worried.”

A moment passed before she spoke. “What do you mean you saw him killed?”

“Good question,” Payne said. “To help you understand, let me explain who we are.”

He gave her a brief rundown of their military careers. Nothing too in-depth. Nothing too personal. He didn’t even tell her their last names. But he explained that they were ex-Special Forces, they were close friends of Petr Ulster, and they had a wide network of government contacts. And one of those contacts provided them with security footage from the Peterhof.

“You actually saw the killer?” she asked.

Payne nodded. “Couldn’t see his face, though. We were kind of hoping you did.”

She shook her head. “I was too far away.”

“In that case,” Jones said, “we need to figure out why Byrd was killed.”

“His name was Richard. Can you guys please call him Richard?”

Jones corrected himself. “Sorry. Force of habit. Why Richard was killed.”

She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes, afraid that she was going to get emotional again-which was something she didn’t want to do in front of Payne and Jones. They had flown halfway around the world to rescue her and weren’t looking for money or anything in return. The least she could do was keep it together when she was in their presence.

Allison said, “For the past two days, I’ve thought about everything I’ve done in Saint Petersburg, and I don’t have any answers. I simply don’t know why Richard was killed.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Payne stated, “because you won’t be safe until we know.”

32

Taygetos Mountain Range (22 miles west of Sparti, Greece)

The Taygetos Mountain Range extends for 65 miles across the Peloponnese in southern Greece. Not far from the ruins of Ancient Sparta, the mountains are home to several small villages that have little contact with the outside world. No electricity. No telephones. And no public schooling. Instead, education is handled by the community in any way that it sees fit.

In some parts of the world, the Spartan way of life would be classified as barbaric.

Here, they viewed it as necessary.

Leon was only twelve years old, but he strode into the center of the ring with the swagger of someone twice his age. Confidence filled his face despite the welts and scars that covered his back. His schooling had started at the age of seven, the same as every other boy in the region. But he was unlike them in one way: this was his day to prove that he was ready for the next stage of training.

This was his chance to become a man.

He wore no shirt or shoes, for those were luxuries that had to be earned, much like food and water. He grasped a wooden sword in his right hand and a small metal shield in his left. Someday, if he survived his trials, he would carry real weapons like those used by his ancestors-warriors who were best known for their heroic stand in the Battle of Thermopylae. In 480 B.C., three hundred Spartans, led by his namesake King Leonidas, held off the invading Persian army. They killed more than twenty thousand men before they were outflanked, but only because the Persians were helped by a traitorous Greek.

People around the globe had been made aware of these events in the movie 300. Yet he never saw it and never would. He had heard the true story from the time of his birth. It had been drilled into his head, over and over again, until he believed that the Spartan way was the only way to survive, that everyone else in the world was weak and corrupt, and that someday, when push came to shove, he would be ready to defend his family and his village with the tip of his blade.

It was a philosophy shared by both men and women in his culture.

In ancient times, before going to war Spartan soldiers were presented their shields by their wives or mothers. They told the men to return home, “With this, or upon this.”

That is, come home victorious or come home dead.

Nothing else was acceptable.

Rocks lined the perimeter of the circle. Dirt and stones filled the ground in between.

Leon stood in the middle of the harsh terrain, staring at all the boys who surrounded him. For the time being, he considered them the enemy, unsure who would attack him first. Their ages varied from seven to seventeen. The youngest were given whips; others were given wooden swords. It all depended on their stage of training. The oldest boys, who had proven their worth long ago, could use nothing but their fists; otherwise they would overwhelm Leon in a matter of seconds. Still, if given the chance, they would gladly beat Leon to death with their bare hands.

Leon’s father, familiar with the same proceedings that he had endured as a child, loomed in the background, anxious to see if his son was worthy of living. The only other adults present were the instructors who worked for the agoge-the local equivalent of a martial arts dojo-which had been in existence in one form or another for more than twenty-five hundred years.

Simply put, this was where boys learned to be Spartans.

Leon stood in a defensive position, waiting for the assault to begin. His left arm was tight against his chest, holding his small shield high. He slowly turned, always keeping his weight balanced on both feet. This allowed him to move and strike as soon as he sensed danger.

As expected, the first blow came from behind. He heard the crunching of stones as someone lunged forward, followed by the snap of a whip. He tried to block it with his shield, but before he could, the leather nicked his thigh. Soon a rivulet of blood was running down his leg. A rush of adrenaline dulled the pain as he focused on the task at hand. He charged toward the nine-year-old boy, who had used the whip, and clubbed him across the forearm. The wooden sword didn’t slice skin, but it shattered the boy’s wrist.

Despite the fracture, he didn’t scream or cry. He just stood there, whip at his feet, waiting for the exercise to end.

Meanwhile, all the instructors beamed with pride over the actions of both of the kids.

Leon inched backward toward the center of the ring, waiting for the next strike. This time it was someone his