The Lost Throne (18 page)

Toulon pulled out a cigarette and held it under his nose like a glass of fine wine. “You have these men in America, no? They live in Montana with their kids and their dogs and they follow their own rules. What is it you call them?”

“Militia.”

“
Oui!
Like the Unabomber, Ted Kuzneski.”

“Kaczynski.”

“Whatever! You know the men I mean. Every country has them. Some are called rebels. Some are called guerrillas. Some are freedom fighters. But they are one and the same. They choose a cause and fight for it because that is who they are.”

Dial was quite familiar with militant types and the damage they could do. He had been assigned to the southwestern U.S. in 1993 when a religious sect called the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh, had faced off against the
ATF
and the
FBI
, 9 miles outside of Waco, Texas. The resulting fifty-one-day siege ended with the death of eighty-two church members, including twenty-one children.

Exactly two years later, to the day, Timothy McVeigh parked a Ryder truck, filled with 5,000 pounds of explosives, outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City and lit the fuse. The resulting blast killed 168 people and injured over 800 more. At the time, it was the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil—since surpassed by 9/11.

And in all these cases, Dial had been called in to help with the official investigation.

“So,” Dial asked, “the hills around Spárti are filled with these men?”

“
Oui,
but they are different from militia.”

“In what way?”

“They use no guns. They use no bombs. They fight with their hands and their blades.”

“Just like their ancestors.”

“Just like the Spartans.”

Dial considered this while staring at the natural rock pillars that loomed behind the hotel. They stood at attention like ancient soldiers whose sole job was to guard the monasteries from any force that meant them harm. Over the centuries, they had performed their duty admirably during times that were far more turbulent than these: times of war and revolution in Greece.

That’s why none of this made any sense.

What had brought on the sudden violence? And what did it have to do with Spartans? If, in fact, that’s who the killers were. What connection could they possibly have with a bunch of monks who lived several hundred miles away from Spárti?

“Let me ask you a question,” Dial said, racking his brain for potential links between the two groups. “Were the Spartans religious people?”

Toulon shrugged. “That is a tough question. I do not know.”

“Really?” Dial teased. “I thought you were an expert on Ancient Greece.”

“I am. But no one knows the answer to your question. As I’ve mentioned, the Spartans did
not
support the arts. This included the art of writing. According to Spartan law, historical records were not kept. Literature was not created. And laws were memorized, not recorded. That means everything we know about the Spartans comes from outside sources, written by men who never fully grasped the culture that they described.”

“Then how do we know they were great warriors?”

“Because
everyone,
even their most hated rivals, praised their skill as soldiers. That is the one thing that all of Greece agreed upon. Do not mess with the Spartans.”

“But all the other stuff—religion, politics, and so on—is just a guess by historians?”

“
Oui.
Just a wild guess. No one knows for sure.”

Dial nodded. “Which ultimately worked to the Spartans’ advantage.”

“In what way?”

“People fear what they don’t understand.”

“This is true.” Toulon lit his cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke into the air. He enjoyed the flavor and his civil disobedience. “That is why I fear nothing.”

Dial smiled at the comment as he pondered all the information he had been told. Unlike Toulon, who pretended to know everything, there were still several things that Dial didn’t understand about the case. “Do me a favor. Get ahold of that
NCB
agent from Spárti.”

“George Pappas.”

“Right. Get ahold of George and ask him to snoop around those mountain towns near Spárti. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

TUESDAY
,
MAY
20

Gulf of Finland

T
he 235-mile boat trip from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg was uneventful, just as Payne, Jones, and Jarkko had hoped. The Gulf of Finland was calm. The weather was unseasonably warm. And because of the northern latitude, the sun didn’t set until nearly 11 P.M. This allowed them to blend in with all the other fishermen who were taking advantage of the extra daylight. In Russia, the phenomenon is called Belye Nochi, or White Nights. During the summer months, the sun doesn’t drop low enough behind the horizon for the sky to grow completely dark. At times, day and night are often indistinguishable. In fact, it is so pronounced in late June and early July that the city of Saint Petersburg saved money by not turning on its streetlights.

Thankfully, the effect isn’t quite as severe in May because Payne and Jones preferred darkness for border crossings. Fewer witnesses. Fewer guards. More freedom to improvise.

As they approached the Russian coast, all three watched for patrol boats. They rarely bothered local fishermen, spending most of their time searching for drug runners and warships, but occasionally, when the soldiers were bored, they stopped boats for the hell of it. Just to be safe, Payne and Jones wore waders and waterproof jackets over their normal clothes. That way if their boat was stopped, they would look as if they belonged.

Jarkko asked, “Where you want to dock? You tell Jarkko, we go there.”

Jones had never been to this part of Russia, but he had spent enough time memorizing the layout of the city to know his best options. Located in the Neva River delta, Saint Petersburg is spread over 576 square miles, including 42 river islands, 60 river branches, and 20 major canals. Known as the Venice of the North, the city of nearly five million people is connected by over 300 bridges, some of which have been standing for centuries.

The main dockyards sit to the west of the city, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Areas like those are patrolled around the clock, so Jones wanted no part of them. The same went for anything inside the city proper. Even though it was bisected by a 20-mile stretch of the Neva River, a fishing boat would look somewhat out of place. Particularly at night. The last thing he wanted was to deal with the city police before they even set foot ashore.

“Maybe you can suggest a place around here,” Jones said as he pointed to a map of the coastline. “I’m looking for a small marina, preferably something that isn’t patrolled.”

“Yes! I know good dock. It is near bar that Jarkko go.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The Finn laughed as he changed his course. “Jarkko work hard. Jarkko get thirsty.”

“I bet you do.”

Payne overheard the conversation. “Have you always fished these waters?”

“When ice permits, I fish entire Baltic from Copenhagen to Oulu. I have since little boy. In winter, Jarkko try to stay warm. I visit Mediterranean near Spain. Ionian near Italy. Aegean near Greece. I like girls in Malta. They keep Jarkko warm.”

He unleashed a loud belly laugh, one that was contagious. Both Payne and Jones laughed as well, enjoying this portion of their trip much more than they could have imagined. If not for their mission, they would have been tempted to hire Jarkko for a week of fishing and drinking.

Payne said, “I’m guessing you use a different boat down south.”

“Last time Jarkko check, Europe is big chunk of land. Tough to drive boat through. Or has that changed? I do not have TV.”

“Nope. It’s still pretty big.”

Jarkko smiled as he guided his boat into the river channel that would take them to a private dock. “Then, yes, Jarkko have two boats. This one is old. She is rusty and smells like fish, but she never lets me down. I will keep her till she sinks.”

“And the other?”

“The other is yacht. It has no rust and smells like champagne. Pretty girls love her.”

Jones grinned at the image. “Are you serious? You
really
have a yacht?”

“Yes, Jarkko have yacht. She stays in Limnos. Why is this surprise?”

“Why? I didn’t know fishing paid that well.”

Jarkko laughed. “Fishing does not. But Americans do!”

A
s promised, Payne and Jones were put ashore on the outskirts of the city. The marina was deserted and had no surveillance. Jarkko would sleep aboard his boat until morning, then head back to the shallow waters of the Gulf. He would, at all times, stay close enough to the coast to guarantee cell phone reception. When Payne and Jones were ready to leave, they would phone him with a rendezvous point. If Jarkko didn’t hear from them within twenty-four hours, he would assume that his services were no longer needed and would return to Helsinki.

But they assured him that they would call. One way or another.

Because of the late hour of their arrival, they were unable to use most forms of public transportation—which was unfortunate, because Saint Petersburg has an extensive network of buses, trains, and streetcars. Not only did it have more streetcars than any other city in the world, it also had the deepest subway—designed to get under all the rivers and canals. But after 1 A.M., taxis were the only thing still running. So they walked to the nearest road and flagged down a yellow cab with a green light in the corner of its windshield. That meant it was available.

Jones opened the back door and asked,
“Govorite li vy po angliyski?”

“Yes,” the driver answered. He spoke English.

“Good,” Jones said as he slid across the backseat. “Nevskij Palace Hotel.”

“Yes.”

Payne climbed in, not saying a word, and closed the door behind him. Both he and Jones knew from experience not to talk in close quarters. There was no reason to draw any extra attention to themselves, whether it was giving away an accent, a personality trait, or an accidental nugget of information. Their objective was to remain as anonymous as possible.

Plus, truth be told, they were too exhausted to talk. Two days before, they had been lounging near the beach in St. Petersburg, Florida. Now they were sneaking into Saint Petersburg, Russia. In between, they had lost eight hours on the clock and hadn’t slept lying down. Back in the MANIACs, that sort of trip was normal. They constantly pushed their bodies and their brains to the limit, enduring what other people could not.

It’s why they were considered the best of the best.

Although they were no longer on active duty, their years of training and experience were still a part of them. They knew what to do and when to do it—whether that was on the war-torn streets of Baghdad or in the jungles of Africa. Their formula for success was simple. Pinpoint their objective. Accomplish their goal. Then get the hell out.

Everything else was meaningless.

But as things stood, they had a problem. A
major
problem. Their objective was ill-defined. What started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else along the way. Something messy. Payne used to call it a potluck mission because it had a little bit of everything. Part fact-finding, part rescue, part mystery, part death. The problem was, they wouldn’t know what they were dealing with until they jumped into the fray. And that was dangerous.

Especially against an unknown opponent.

To make sure they didn’t do anything reckless, they would get a good night’s sleep in a nice hotel. They would shower, change, and eat a large breakfast. Maybe even go for a walk to clear their heads. After that, they would discuss everything they knew and make sure they were in total agreement on the mission’s parameters. If they were, they would get started right away, doing whatever was required. If not, they would hash things out until their goal was clearly defined. Until both of them were comfortable with the stakes.

With their lives on the line, they figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

But first, before they slept—before they were able to sleep—they had a promise to fulfill. One they had made to a scared stranger who was counting on them for survival.

Everything else could wait until morning. Everything except their pledge.

They had to rescue Allison Taylor.

A
llison Taylor didn’t need to be rescued. She wasn’t the type.

She was a doctoral student at Stanford who had lived on her own since she was eighteen and knew how to fend for herself. She paid her own bills, had several jobs, and still found time to research her thesis—which she planned to finish if she got out of Russia alive.

But that was the problem. She was stuck in Saint Petersburg.

The murder of Richard Byrd had been a shock to her. It had shaken her to her very core, leaving her vulnerable for the first time in years. It was a feeling she despised. The tears, the grief, the displays of weakness. None of those things were a part of her life. Normally, she was the strong one. The rock in the raging storm. The one her friends clung to for support.

But this was different. Completely different.

What did she know about guns? Or assassins? Or sneaking through customs?

She was a student, not a spy. The rules of espionage were foreign to her.

A long time ago, when she was a little girl and her father was still alive, he used to say, “A smart person knows when they
don’t
know something.” For some reason, that expression had always resonated with her. It gave her the confidence to ask for help when she was confused or out of her element. It wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a sign of strength. It meant she was smart enough to recognize her limitations and secure enough to get assistance.

And this was one of those times.

She knew she needed help. And she hoped Jonathon could provide it.

In reality, she knew very little about him except his name. But what she had learned during her frantic phone call was enough to soothe her. At least for the time being.