sat next to an Adidas clothing outlet and a discount record and video store. New and old sharing the same neighborhood.
Back across Nevsky, Payne noticed an elaborate building that seemed to stretch for an entire block. People of all ages streamed in and out of the front entrance.
“What’s that?” he asked as they kept walking west.
“The Russian National Library. It’s one of the largest in the world. It has over thirty million items. Since 1811, it has received one copy of every book published in Russia.”
Payne shook his head. “You’re as bad as D.J. He’s always spouting facts like that.”
She smiled. “Richard took me there when we first got into town. He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for, so I roamed the aisles on my own. I read that fact in a pamphlet.”
As they continued, his focus remained on the opposite side of the street. He noticed a pillared Greek temple called the Portik Rusca that used to be the entrance to a long arcade of shops. It sat next to an eight-story clock tower, which was topped by a two-story antenna that used to receive optical telegraphs in the 1800s. He had read about such devices-they were eventually made obsolete by the electric telegraph-but he had never seen one.
“So,” Payne said, shifting his attention back to Allison, “what’s your take on Richard?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you trust the guy?”
Her cheeks turned pink, her standard reaction anytime she was embarrassed. In the world of poker, it would be a horrible tell. “Please don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s dead. What good would it do to criticize him?”
“I’m not asking you to make fun of him. I want to know if you trusted him.”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Payne glanced to his right and saw St. Catherine’s Armenian Church. Its facade was painted turquoise, a color that sparkled among the grays and beiges of the surrounding buildings.
“Was he a criminal?”
Her face registered surprise. “What? Why would you ask me that?”
“Why? Because he was killed by a professional. It seems like a legitimate question.”
She remained silent while she sorted through all the thoughts that had plagued her during the past two days. And Payne didn’t press her. He just kept walking, taking in the architecture, keeping an eye on all the people who filed past them on the busy sidewalk. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being followed. He did this casually, using his peripheral vision or looking at the reflections in store windows.
Up ahead he saw the Grand Hotel Europe. Adorned with gold letters and stylish maroon awnings, it looked far more luxurious than where they were staying. At least from a distance. A black Mercedes limousine was parked in front, while a chauffeur waited nearby. If they’d had more time, Payne would have glanced inside the lobby-just to see what it looked like. For some reason, he had always been fascinated by fancy hotels, especially in foreign countries.
“Yes,” Allison said out of the blue.
Payne glanced at her. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I think he might have been a criminal.”
Payne stopped on the busy sidewalk. Chagrin filled his face. He gently grabbed her elbow and guided her through the crowd until they were up against the wall of the closest building, out of the way of all the people who continued to surge past. “What kind of criminal?”
“I don’t know. A smuggler, a thief, I’m not really sure. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve had.”
“Since when?”
“Since he was shot.” Her cheeks were redder than Payne had ever seen them, as if she had been running a marathon. “For the last two days, I’ve been sitting in my hotel room, thinking about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff: the secret meetings, the change in travel plans, the unexpected trips, the fake IDs. Either he was breaking the law or he was onto something big. Something worth all the trouble.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged in frustration. “I honestly don’t know. If I did, I would tell you.”
Payne felt his cell phone start to vibrate. It was a brand-new device he had purchased in K-Town when he was shopping. One for him and one for Jones. They had left their other phones, Jones’s computer, and their personal effects in a locker at Ramstein Air Base. One of the easiest ways to be compromised on a mission was to carry personal information of any kind-whether that was a credit card, a hard drive, or a BlackBerry with an address book. Payne’s new cell phone had no names or numbers. If he needed to make a call, he had to do it by memory. However, all of the calls placed to his old phone were forwarded to his new one, so he was able to stay in touch with the outside world without fear of being traced.
Payne answered it, expecting a call from Jones. “Hello.”
“I’m at the Astoria. I’m pretty sure I’m clean. Am I clear to go?”
“Hold on.” He covered the mic and asked Allison, “How far are we from the hotel?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
Payne returned his attention to Jones. “We’re ten minutes out. Can you hold?”
Jones glanced around the square. It was filled with dozens of people. All of them white. “I don’t know. I’m feeling slightly conspicuous here. Jackie Robinson comes to mind.”
Payne smiled as he started walking again. “It’s your call.”
“In that case, I’m going in.”
Turning from the plaza, Jones strolled toward the entrance of the hotel. In his experience, people were less likely to stop someone who was talking on a cell phone. Sometimes, if necessary, he pretended to be on a call even when he wasn’t. “I have her room key, so I’ll grab her research first. That will buy you some time before I hit Byrd’s room. That’s more likely to be hot.”
“Good idea. But if
“Trust me, I will.”
“Then call me with an update.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll see me. I’ll be the black guy running toward Finland.”
37
Located in St. Isaac’s Square, the Astoria Hotel first opened in 1912 and was renovated in 1991. Complete with parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, and a world-class caviar bar, it was one of the fanciest hotels that Jones had ever broken into.
Smiling and nodding like he belonged, Jones cut across the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor, where Allison’s room faced the inner courtyard. Wasting no time, he put the key in the lock and slipped inside. Everything was as she’d described it. The room was small but tastefully decorated with Russian linens and fabrics. The bed sat on the right, facing a built-in wardrobe, where she kept most of her clothes and all of her research. Just to be safe, he peeked into the bathroom and glanced under the bed, making sure he was alone.
As far as Jones could tell, nothing in the room had been disturbed.
It was a positive sign-one that meant Allison was probably in the clear.
If her research had been missing or her room had been tossed, the odds were pretty good that she had been linked to Byrd. It also meant Byrd had been killed for something other than a personal vendetta. Possibly his secret mission-whatever the hell that was. But at first glance, Jones was fairly confident that the killer didn’t know about Allison. Or didn’t care.
According to Allison, Byrd had gotten spooked on Sunday when he left the Hermitage Museum. He thought someone was following him, so instead of going back to the Astoria Hotel, he led the guy on a wild-goose chase for several hours. Ducking into churches and stores, changing cabs and trolleys, he did everything he could to lose his tail. But nothing worked. During his journey, he called Payne every half hour, hoping to get advice on how to get away. When that failed, he phoned Allison and told her to get to the Peterhof as fast as she could so they could leave Saint Petersburg together.
Unfortunately, he had been killed before they left the city.
Working quickly, Jones gathered her research and stuffed it into a book bag he found. He removed the
