The Lost Throne

“Tell me about city. Something I not know.”

Allison racked her brain, trying to remember one of the stories she had learned about Saint Petersburg since her arrival. For the past hour, she hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut, spouting random facts like a knowledgeable tour guide. But now that she needed one to save her life, she was drawing a complete blank. Which made her even more anxious.

Payne noticed the fear in her eyes and started to speak for her again. “We went drinking last night, and she told me-”

Grizzly interrupted him. “I no care what she say then. I care what she say now.”

“Tell him, honey.”

As luck would have it, Payne’s comment about drinking actually helped her remember one of the best stories she had heard about the city’s history. That wasn’t his intent-she hadn’t shared the story in their time together-but it triggered her memory.

“Did you know,” she said, her voice cracking, “that Peter the Great opened the first museum in Saint Petersburg?” She took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure as the soldiers continued staring at her. “He wanted to bring culture to the city that he created and figured a museum would be a great way to start. Once it was built, though, he was worried that no one would use it, so he promised everyone a free shot of vodka when they reached the museum’s exit. To this day, the residents of Saint Petersburg love their culture almost as much as free vodka.”

Grizzly’s English wasn’t great, but he knew enough to grasp the meaning of her words. Handing back her passport, he said, “This is good story.”

“Thanks,” she said, relieved. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He stepped back and patted Payne on his shoulder. “You are correct. She is smart beach bunny. You are lucky man.”

Payne nodded. “I know.”

“Keep eye on her. Other soldiers not friendly like me.”

With that, Grizzly walked away, followed closely by the other two soldiers. They cut across the busy square, conducting more random searches in the heart of the city.

Payne waited a few seconds as Allison trembled against him. Then he asked, “Are you all right? I thought you were going to have a stroke.”

“I still might,” she mumbled, burying her face against his chest.

Payne smiled. He thought back to the video of her at the Peterhof. She had broken down for about a minute, and then found the courage to sneak away. “I have to admit, you started out shitty, but you finished strong. You’re tougher than you think.”

“Well, I think I’m going to vomit.”

Payne laughed. Early in his career, he had often felt the same way at the end of a mission. “If you have to puke, do it on the giant horse. Not me.”

40

Alexei Kozlov used to work for the Federal Security Service (FSB) of the Russian Federation, the organization that has handled domestic security in Russia since the KGB was disbanded in 1995. Over the years, several FSB officers had been removed from service because of criminal misconduct-mostly extortion, human-rights violations, and payoffs from the Russian Mafia.

Kozlov had been fired for all three. And more.

Nowadays, he used the skills he had learned and the connections he had made while in the FSB to become one of the best-paid assassins in Russia.

Not only was he highly trained, he also had a taste for blood.

His latest victim was a man named Richard Byrd. An American entrepreneur. Kozlov had put a bullet in his brain at the Peterhof, and then casually slipped away.

Normally, that would have been the end of things. The contract would have been complete, and Kozlov could have gone home. But in this case, he still had more work to do.

When Kozlov was hired, his employer didn’t know where Byrd was headed but guessed he would surface in Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Probably at one of the major museums. Other than that, Kozlov wasn’t given much information. He was told to locate Byrd, determine what he was looking for, and then kill him before he had a chance to leave the country.

It sounded simple enough for a man like Kozlov.

Since he lived in Moscow, he had started his search there, staking out the Pushkin State Museum and the cultural facilities near Red Square. His employer wanted him to keep his manhunt highly confidential, which meant he wasn’t able to show Byrd’s picture around the city or hire additional personnel to locate the target. Instead, he used the FSB database to search hotel reservations, track credit card purchases, and monitor phone logs.

For someone with little experience in countersurveillance, Byrd did a remarkable job of staying off the grid. He used cash and fake IDs, and he never called his family or friends in California. After wasting several days in Moscow-on foot and online-Kozlov switched his operations to Saint Petersburg, a place he rarely visited.

As in the capital city, many of the museums in Saint Petersburg had been built in a central location. Kozlov set up shop near one of the rivers. It allowed him to watch the Hermitage, the Academy of Fine Arts, the Marble Palace, and the smaller art collections scattered in cathedrals and buildings near Nevsky Prospekt. Occasionally he strayed to other parts of the sprawling city, yet he spent most of his time near the Winter Palace, scanning faces in the crowd.

His hard work paid off on May 18. He was keeping watch on the Hermitage, as he had done several times before, when he bumped into Byrd in the main entrance. Literally bumped into him, as he was leaving through the same door that Kozlov was entering. Kozlov tried to play it off as an accident-which, of course, it was-but the look of recognition in his eyes could not be concealed. He stared at Byrd like he was a winning lottery ticket.

And Byrd picked up on it.

Over the next several hours, they played an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse in a city that neither of them had mastered. A game that would have ended in less than a minute if Kozlov’s mission was to assassinate Byrd. But that wasn’t the task that he had been given. He was told to find Byrd, figure out what he was searching for, and then kill him. That required a lot more tact than going up to Byrd in a crowded plaza and slicing his throat.

Instead, Kozlov was forced to lie back, to track him from a distance, to make him feel safe. He needed Byrd to think he had somehow managed to escape. That he was too smart to be caught or cornered. It was the only way Byrd would feel secure enough to go back to his hotel or wherever he was staying. From there, Kozlov could follow him day after day, tracing his path through the city, trying to figure out what the American was looking for.

And then, when Byrd was finally ready to leave the country, Kozlov would make sure it was in a coffin.

As the soldiers walked away from Payne and Allison, Jones closed the bathroom window and breathed a sigh of relief. He had watched their confrontation from his vantage point at the Astoria Hotel. Now that he knew they were all right, he could get back to the business at hand.

Allison had told him about Byrd’s most important papers. They were kept in a room safe that was bolted to the floor inside his bedroom closet. But Jones wasn’t concerned. She had described the safe to him in very specific terms, and he knew he could crack the lock. With lock picks in hand, he opened the closet door and studied his opponent. It was just as she had described. The safe was guarded by a simple warded lock, one of the easiest types to manipulate.

“Piece of cake,” he said to himself.

And Jones was correct. It took less than a minute to open the safe.

Inside he found a number of documents in an expandable binder. There was also a small pouch filled with fake IDs, foreign currency, and credit cards registered to several phony names. It explained why no one had found his hotel room. Byrd must have paid a fortune to preserve his anonymity. That meant whatever Byrd’s mission had been, he didn’t want to be followed.