The Lost Throne (39 page)

Allison blinked a few times, trying to hold back her emotions. It was one of the nicest things that anyone had ever said about her. Strangely, it made her view Byrd in a whole different light.

“Had you known him long?” she wondered.

“Sadly, I never met Richard.”

“You never met him?”

Ivan shook his head. “All our conversations were by phone.”

“But in his planner, he had several appointments scheduled with you.”

“And I broke them all. Some days my health will not allow visitors.”

Payne reentered the conversation. “Every appointment but Sunday’s.”

Ivan nodded. “That is correct. When he not show, I thought he was tired of me and no longer interested in coat.”

“No,” Allison assured him. “I’m still interested in the coat.
We’re
still interested.”

“I’m glad you are. I held on to it for as long as I could, but medical bills are mounting and money is needed. At some point, sentimentality needs to be pushed aside for reality.”

Ivan rocked forward in his chair until he had enough momentum to stand up. He trudged slowly toward the front door, where a wooden rack had been mounted to the wall. A hat hung from the left hook and an umbrella from the right. In the middle was a black garment bag that looked nearly as old as Ivan. He lifted it by the hanger that protruded through the top and carried it toward the couch. As he did, he brushed off every speck of dust that he saw.

“Do you know story behind coat?” Ivan asked.

Payne and Allison shook their heads, stunned that the coat was
actually
a coat.

“Heinrich Schliemann was man with quirks that could not be explained. They helped define nature of his genius. Normal men who do normal things lead normal lives. But not Heinrich. He liked things in certain way and did not care what people thought.”

Ivan handed the garment bag to Allison and then inched back toward his chair.

“In final months of Heinrich’s life, he wore coat everywhere he went. It did not matter if weather was hot or cold, that coat never left him. His friends and family asked him why, and he told them it was lucky coat. They were familiar with his ways, so they thought nothing of it. He kept his coat and they kept quiet. This way both parties were happy.”

Ivan sat in his seat and sighed. He thought about things for a moment before he spoke again. “That coat stayed with him until end. He was wrapped in it on day he died in Naples.”

“He died in this coat?” she asked, amazed. “How did you get it?”

“It was given to me by Heinrich’s family. It was token of appreciation for all hard work I did at Hermitage Museum. I fought Russian government for many years to display Priam’s Treasure. That coat was their way of saying thank you. I have cherished it ever since.”

“And I’ll cherish it as well,” she assured him, feeling guilty for taking it.

“I know you will, Allison. Like me, you are true Schliemann fan.”

“About the money,” Payne said as he walked forward with the book bag. He unzipped it and showed its contents to Ivan. It was stuffed with all the cash from Byrd’s safe. “Is this enough?”

Ivan’s eyes grew wide. “More than enough.”

“I’m glad,” Payne said. “Take it all. Richard would have wanted you to have it.”

W
hile Payne called Jones to make sure the street was clear, Allison said good-bye to Ivan. She promised to be in touch in the near future, hoping to hear as many stories about Schliemann as Ivan was willing to tell. He assured her that it was a conversation worth living for.

Payne walked outside first, followed by Allison. She carried the garment bag with both hands, clutching it against her chest as if it was the most valuable treasure in the world.

“You know,” she said, “that was a really nice thing to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The money. You gave him all the money.”

“It wasn’t my money. It was Richard’s money.”

“Still,” she assured him, “it was very sweet.”

He shrugged and said nothing. The old guy had reminded Payne of his grandfather. Full of wit and wisdom until his body finally gave out. Maybe the money would help Ivan live a little bit longer. Or at the very least, a little more comfortably.

When they reached the car, Payne sat in the front seat and Allison climbed into the back. She hung the garment bag from a hook above the window, trying not to wrinkle its contents.

“What’s that?” Jones asked as they pulled away from the curb.

“The coat,” Payne answered.

“The coat? You mean the coat was a
coat
?”

“Trust me, I had the same reaction.”

Payne turned around and looked at Allison. “I thought you said that Richard wasn’t the sentimental type, that he only cared about the treasures.”

“He did,” she assured him.

“Then why did he risk his life to buy a coat?”

“I don’t know. I’m just as dumbfounded as you.”

Payne turned back around and stared out the front windshield. Buildings were blurred as Jones navigated through the traffic like a lifelong resident. It was amazing how quickly he could adapt.

“Where to now?” she wondered.

“To the hotel,” Payne replied.

“And then what?”

“Then we go to the boat. It’s time to leave Russia.”

J
arkko was waiting when they arrived at the dock. He waved to them from the boat until he saw Payne and Jones weren’t alone. One look at Allison and he came running.

“I am Jarkko,” he said proudly. “I am captain of ship. Come, we must drink!”

He grabbed her by the hand and half-dragged her to the boat. Meanwhile, Payne and Jones were left carrying the luggage, which they didn’t mind at all. It was worth the laugh.

“Maybe we should have warned her about Jarkko,” Jones said.

“Why? This is much more fun.”

Their trip got under way without incident. No police interference or trouble of any kind. Before they got too far from shore, Payne called the car rental office and told them the location of their car, claiming it wouldn’t start. Jones had made sure of that by disconnecting the battery—which also made it tougher to steal, since he had to leave the keys on the front seat.

Once they were in international waters, they turned their attention to Allison. She was sitting in the back of the boat, staring at the Gulf of Finland. Jones sat next to her on a hard metal bench and asked her how she was doing. She shrugged and didn’t say much.

“What’s wrong?” Payne asked as he leaned against the rail of the boat.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

She paused before answering. “Richard.”

“What about him?”

“Ivan said some things that make me wonder if I misjudged him. I mean, on the day that he was killed, he was waiting for me at the Peterhof. He didn’t have to do that. He knew someone was following him, yet he chose to stick around for me. If he had just hopped on a boat and left Saint Petersburg, he probably would have survived.”

“Maybe,” Payne admitted. “But the odds are pretty good that they would have found him eventually—whether it was in Russia or somewhere else.”

She shrugged again, not quite ready to accept reality. “Well, what about the coat?”

“What about it?”

“This whole time I thought Richard only cared about a treasure. Now I find out he had a soft spot for Schliemann, too.”

Jones spoke up. “Actually, I’m not quite sure about that. Jon told me about your conversation with Ivan, and I think something else might be going on here.”

She looked at him, confused. “Like what?”

“Richard wrote, the coat equals the key. But when we did our translations, three words—
coat
,
key
, and
location
—were always linked together. We assumed it was a coat of arms that would reveal the location, or something like that, right?”

“Right.”

“What if the key was
actually
a key? Just like the coat was a coat.”

She scrunched her face. “I don’t follow.”

Payne explained. “Ivan said that Schliemann never took off his coat. He kept it with him at all times. What if there was a reason for that? What if he kept something in his coat that he never wanted to leave his possession?”

Her eyes widened. “Like a key!”

Jones smiled. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Payne said, “We know it’s a long shot, but we’ve got some time to kill.”

“I’ll get the coat,” she said excitedly. She went and got the garment bag from the waterproof bin where Jarkko kept his valuables and brought it back to Payne and Jones. “I haven’t even opened it yet. I didn’t want to expose it to the sea air.”

“If you’d rather not,” Payne teased.

“No, that’s quite all right. The coat’s lasted this long. A little moisture won’t hurt it.”

She unzipped the bag and carefully removed the overcoat, which was black and single-breasted. The material was soft and solidly stitched, as a rich man’s coat should be. She reached into the side pockets and found nothing. The same with the interior pockets. Either Schliemann was carrying nothing at the time of his death, or the items were removed long ago.

“It was worth a shot,” she said, frustrated.

“That’s it? You’re giving up?” Jones grabbed the coat from her. “Please do me a favor and never take a job with airport security. That was the worst search I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Jones removed the coat’s hanger and handed it to her. “Hold this while I look.”

Right away he noticed that Schliemann was a small man. He figured that out when he placed his hand inside one of the sleeves and nearly got stuck. He repeated his search on the other side and then patted down the sleeves just to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. After that, he looked underneath the collar. It was a great place to hide items because it was rarely searched.

Next he turned his attention to the lining of the coat. It was black with faint gray pinstripes. He ran his fingers along the seams, searching for any bulges. This process continued for several seconds until he felt something. It wasn’t solid like a key; it was flat. He moved it back and forth and felt it crinkle.

“Allison,” he said glumly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Let me guess. The coat’s empty?”

“Actually, I think I found something. And if I did, I’m
never
going to let you forget it.”

N
ick Dial glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 A.M. in Ouranoúpoli, Greece. He had been standing in front of the rendezvous point—a fourteenth-century Byzantine tower that had been built as a sentry post next to the Aegean Sea—for more than thirty minutes, but the governor of Mount Athos hadn’t yet shown up for their appointment.

On most occasions, Dial would have left a long time ago. He didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to tardiness. But in this situation he realized that the governor held all the cards. If he wanted immediate access to Mount Athos, he needed special permission from the governor, so Dial had little choice in the matter. He had to wait as long as necessary.

“Marcus,” Dial said for the third time in the last half hour, “please check again.”

Andropoulos nodded and started his circular journey around the enclosed courtyard, just in case the governor was waiting on the other side. The building was made out of tan stones and topped with a red-tiled roof. The windows on the lower floors were nothing more than tiny slits, far too narrow for pirates or thieves to have slipped through. Nowadays the lone watchman was the skull of a former resident, which peered at the sea from its perch on a wooden balcony.

Dial followed the skull’s lead and stared at the gentle waves as they kissed the sandy beach. The weather was in the low seventies with hardly a cloud in the sky. If not for the urgency of his meeting, he would have felt as though he were on vacation. Other than the occasional fishing boat that dotted the horizon, there wasn’t a lot of activity in this sleepy village.

Except for the man who was strolling along the shore.

Dial spotted him walking barefoot in the surf. He was older than Dial, but possessed the casual stride of someone who had nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. His skin was tan, his silver hair was unkempt, and his light-blue shirt was unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze. A pair of sandals dangled from his left hand. Occasionally they brushed against his cream-colored shorts, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Hello,” he called while waving at Dial.

“Hello to you, too.”

The man smiled and walked closer. “American?”

Dial nodded. “What about yourself ?”

“Me too. My name is Clive.”

“Hi, Clive. I’m Nick.”

The two of them shook hands.

“So what brings you to Ouranoúpoli? We don’t get many American tourists.”

“We?” Dial asked. “You live here?”

“I live all over the world. But this time of year, I like Greece.”

“Must be nice. Going wherever the wind takes you.”

“I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty great.” Clive grinned. “How about you?”

“I’m here on business.”

Clive glanced around the empty shore. “
Business?
Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question for the last thirty minutes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was supposed to meet someone here at eleven o’clock. But I’m still waiting.”

“Is he a local? Maybe I know him.”

“Not
too
local. He’s from Mount Athos.”

Clive smiled. “Ahh, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why he isn’t here. You missed him by several hours.”

Dial arched an eyebrow. “Several hours? What are you talking about?”

“Mount Athos doesn’t use Greek time. They use Byzantine time.”

“They use
what
?”

Clive laughed. Dial wasn’t the first tourist to ask him that question in a similar tone.

“The monks on Mount Athos set their clocks according to the position of the sun. Midnight is at sunset, and so on. This time of year, they’re roughly three and a half hours ahead of us. Every few days they readjust their clocks to compensate for the setting sun.”