The Lost Throne

Kozlov dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a writhing wave of agony. The pain was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, including the time he was shot.

Cartilage, tendons, and kneecap-all destroyed with a pinpoint strike.

Kozlov wanted to scream, but before a sound could leave his lips, it was stifled by the taste of metal in his mouth. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he choked on the gun that would soon end his life. It rested in the hands of the man he had just tried to stab.

Suddenly, Payne was in complete control.

And he would milk it for everything it was worth.

“You know,” he said as he knelt on Kozlov’s chest, making it tough for the Russian to breathe. “Back when I was in the Special Forces, I developed a nasty reputation. Among all the other officers, I was known as a closer. Does that translate into Russian?”

Kozlov tried to nod his head. The gun in his mouth made it difficult.

Payne glared at him. “I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I have the ability to read people. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a gift that I can use in so many ways. In situations like this, I love looking into the enemy’s eyes and figuring out what scares him more than anything else in the world. Then I take that information and I use it against him.”

While Payne was training for the MANIACs, he had learned that one of the most effective ways to get information from a prisoner wasn’t through torture but rather the insinuation of torture- the act of planting a psychological seed in someone’s head and then waiting for panic to set in. If it was done correctly, some people would literally piss their pants long before they were touched.

“So far, I’ve disarmed you, given you a concussion, and shattered your knee without using any weapons. Imagine what I can do to you when I start getting serious.”

Payne leaned to his left and grabbed Kozlov’s dagger off the ground. It was razor sharp. “Wow. This is a really nice knife. And I should know. I’m great with a blade. Hell, you should see me in the kitchen. I’m like one of those gourmet chefs. Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop! I’m particularly good with cuts of meat. Give me a chicken and I can debone that cock in two seconds.” Payne tapped the knife on Kozlov’s groin. “Does cock translate into Russian?”

Kozlov’s eyes got even wider-so wide his eyebrows looked like they might pop off.

“Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. A few minutes ago, I asked you a simple question that you promised you would answer. Instead, you tried to stab me. That made me pretty mad. That’s why my gun is in your mouth and your knife is in my hand.”

Payne glanced around. They were still alone. He could take as long as he wanted.

“Since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you another chance. I’m going to ask you the same question again. If you lie to me, I’m going to get really angry. And if that happens, you’ll find out why my platoon mates were scared of me.”

Payne inched the gun from Kozlov’s mouth. Before he pulled it the whole way out, he rattled it back and forth against the Russian’s teeth. It sounded like he was shaking dice.

“Okay, Boris. Answer my fucking question. Who hired you to kill Richard Byrd?”

49

Most operatives would have been spooked by the events on Nevsky Prospekt. They would have assumed that their cover was blown and a new hideout needed to be found. But not David Jones. Even though he had been followed from the Astoria Hotel, he was confident that they were now clean. He kept a watchful eye on the street as he and Allison made their way back to their suite. They took a circuitous route, one that allowed Jones to search for shadows. They walked a few blocks, took a cab, and then walked some more. After thirty minutes, they entered the Palace Hotel through a back entrance, staying clear of the lobby and the main bank of elevators.

The back stairs led them to their room. Jones went in first and looked around. Everything was how they had left it. He waved Allison inside and brought the bags in from the hallway. After carrying them for more than an hour, he never wanted to see them again. Yet Jones knew if they had any hope of solving the mystery of Byrd’s murder, the answers would be found in his belongings.

“Where do you want these?” Jones asked.

“By the table,” she replied from across the room.

Jones dropped the bags and noticed her standing near the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. . . . It’s nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. What is it?”

“Sorry,” she said as she stared at Richard’s bag. “I feel kind of strange going through his papers. He was so protective of his stuff. It makes me feel like a vulture.”

Jones leaned against the edge of the table. “Allison, come over here and sit down. We need to discuss a few things.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Just come and sit down.”

She nodded and did what she was told.

“Listen,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ve known you less than a day, so I won’t even pretend to know what you’re thinking or feeling. Everyone handles death and fear in different ways. Your way is different from my way and so on. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“That being said, you need to get something through your head. And the sooner you do, the better it will be for all of us.”

“Okay,” she said tentatively. “What is it?”

“Richard Byrd was a selfish prick.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was an asshole.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Why? Because you’re showing the guy way too much respect. He treated you like shit. He refused to tell you what he was searching for, and he put your life in danger. That sounds like an asshole to me.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

Jones unzipped Byrd’s bag and pulled out the stack of fake IDs and credit cards that he recovered from Byrd’s safe. He scattered them on the table for effect. “Go ahead. Take a look. What did he have? Five fake names? Ten? And those are just the ones I found. Who knows how many he has back in California. I’m telling you, the guy was bad news.”

As she glanced through the items, disappointment filled her face. She was aware of one fake identity-the one he had used to enter Russia. All the others were a surprise. “Why did he have so many?”

Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”

She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.

Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault. He dragged you into this mess. He put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”

Allison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.

“Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote