The Lost Throne

room.

So that’s what he set out to do. As quickly as possible.

Unlike Allison’s single room facing the inner courtyard, Byrd’s was a large suite on an upper floor that overlooked St. Isaac’s Square. Jones knew elevators were dangerous places, often equipped with video cameras and full of witnesses who had nothing better to do than stare at one another, so he opted to take the stairs instead. He climbed the steps two at a time, hoping to reach Byrd’s window before anything bad happened between Payne and the soldiers.

In a worst-case scenario, Jones was willing to fire a few shots into the air just to make the Russians reevaluate their priorities. What’s more important: a man and woman sightseeing in the plaza or someone firing shots in a nearby hotel? Not only would the soldiers come running, but Payne and Allison could escape in the resulting chaos.

The hallway was deserted when Jones reached Byrd’s suite. The “do not disturb” sign, written in Russian, still hung from the doorknob. Wasting no time, Jones pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Less than thirty seconds later he was slipping into the room.

“Hello,” he called softly. “Is anyone in here? The door was wide open.”

He waited for a response. Hearing nothing, he closed and locked the door, put on the security chain, and then set Allison’s book bag and computer on the parquet floor.

Allison had briefed him on the basic layout of the corner suite, so he had a pretty good idea where everything was. With gun in hand, he crept from room to room, making sure that he was alone, before he went to the bank of windows in the main sitting area. The white curtains were drawn, filling the suite with diffused light. He parted them and carefully peeked outside. He had a glorious view of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, its gilded dome glistening high above the city below, but was unable to see the monument to Nicholas I.

“Shit!” he swore as he hurried toward the next room. He passed through a set of French doors, hoping he would have a different angle from the bedroom, but quickly realized that it shared the same outer wall as the sitting room. “Shit, shit, shit!”

His last hope was the bathroom. It was on the far side of the bedroom, away from the massive cathedral. He knew it had a small frosted window-he’d noticed it when he checked the bathroom for trouble-but wasn’t sure what direction it faced. Heart pounding, he undid the lock and threw the window open. Glancing outside, he realized it was angled perfectly, overlooking the equestrian monument that towered above the square. And in front of it, he saw Payne, Allison, and three uniformed soldiers. None of whom looked happy.

Grizzly snatched Payne’s papers then studied them intently, searching for anything that might be missing or incorrect. Meanwhile, the other two soldiers ogled Allison as though she were dancing on stage at a local strip club. They whispered obscene remarks to each other, describing what they would like to do with her if they ever got her alone. One even made a slurping sound. Neither Payne nor Allison could understand Russian, but they had a pretty good idea what the soldiers were saying and who they were talking about.

And it sure as hell wasn’t Payne.

Remarkably, he managed to keep his cool. If the same situation had presented itself in an anonymous tavern, Payne would have fought the soldiers and anyone who tried to intervene. And the odds were pretty good that Payne would have won. His fighting skills were that extraordinary. But as things stood, he had nothing to gain by being aggressive. The last thing he wanted to do was bring any attention to himself, so he casually put his arm around Allison’s waist and pulled her close. It was his way of marking his territory.

“You no look Canada,” Grizzly declared without lifting his gaze from Payne’s paperwork. His accent was thick and slurred. His face was scarred. “You look Poland.”

Payne’s paternal ancestors were actually from a small town outside Warsaw. When his great-grandfather came to America, the guards at Ellis Island had been unable to pronounce his surname, which was Paynewski. So they gave him two choices: either shorten his name to Payne or get back on the boat and return to Europe. His family name had been Payne ever since.

But he wasn’t going to tell Grizzly that. The less the Russian knew, the better.

“Canadian, born and raised,” Payne claimed.

“What city?”

“Toronto.”

Grizzly glanced at Payne. He studied his face as intently as he had studied his paperwork. The two of them were roughly the same height, so Grizzly was able to look Payne directly in the eye. Man to man. After an uncomfortable silence, he asked, “You like the hockey?”

Payne nodded. “I’m Canadian. I love hockey.”

“You know Evgeni Malkin?”

“Of course I do. He’s a great NHL player. He’s Russian, right?”

“Da.” Grizzly paused for a moment, still holding Payne’s documents in his meaty grip. Then, with a hint of bravado, he claimed, “I play Malkin in Magnitogorsk.”

“Really? You must be pretty good. How did you do?”

Grizzly sneered, crinkling his oversized brow. “He win.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

He handed the papers back to Payne, then turned his attention to Allison. “Who is this?”

“That’s my girlfriend,” he said, trying to talk for her as much as possible. “She’s a big fan of history, so I wanted her to see Saint Petersburg. She loves the place.”

Grizzly stared at her with lust in his eyes. Starting with her legs, he slowly moved his gaze upward, lingering in all the inappropriate places, until he finally stopped on her face. “She does not look smart to me.”

Allison’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink.

“But she is,” Payne claimed. “At least most of the time. She thinks this horse monument is made of bronze.”

Grizzly looked at the horse and grinned. “Da.”

“Really?” Payne said. “I guess I was wrong. I could’ve sworn it was made of brass.”

Allison managed a smile but said nothing in return. Not even a friendly retort.

And Grizzly found that unusual. Especially for a couple on vacation. “Papers.”

The order frazzled Allison; she wasn’t used to this type of deceit.

Payne encouraged her by patting her on her hip. “Give him your papers, honey.”

She did as she was told but still said nothing. Too scared to speak.

Grizzly flipped through her passport and visa, studying all the signatures. Finally, after several anxious seconds, he said, “You no look Canada. You look California.”

Whoosh! Allison’s face turned bright red. Somehow the Russian had figured out where she was from. Instantly, her heart started throbbing twice as hard. She could feel it pounding in her rib cage like someone playing a bass drum. And Payne felt it, too. His arm was draped around her back, but he felt the intense thumping in her chest. Panic was setting in.

In a flash, he knew he had to cover for her.

“Look!” he said as he pointed at her cheeks. “You made her blush! She always gets that way when people compare her to a beach bunny. I tease her all the time. It’s hilarious.”

“She no talk? Why she no talk?”

Payne shrugged. “She’s just a little shy. That’s all.”

“I no like shy when I ask question.”

Grizzly stepped forward, invading her personal space. Standing close, he loomed over her the way the monument loomed over the square, only the Russian seemed much more dangerous.

Threatened by the soldier’s proximity, Allison reached her arm around Payne and clung to him for support. As she did, she felt the handgun tucked in the rear of his belt. Until that moment, she had completely forgotten about Payne’s weapon and the threat of violence, but the cold touch of his gun made her flash back to the Peterhof. It made her remember the pink mist when Richard’s brains were splattered into the fountain. It made her think of death.

Grizzly glared at her. “He say you like history. Say something smart.”

“Smart?” she asked, meekly. It was her first word since he started questioning them.