The Lost Throne (7 page)

“Alive? Who said anything about dead?”

Payne took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Your friend did. He sent me a text message that said:
This is not a prank. Life or death. Please call at once.
”

“Are you serious?”

“Couple that with all his calls and you can see why I’m concerned.”

“Oh my Lord, I had no idea. I just thought he needed your advice.”

“Unfortunately,” Payne said, “I think he needs more than that.”

“Jon,” Jones whispered, “put him on speakerphone.”

Payne nodded. “Petr, I’m going to put you on speakerphone so D.J. can listen in.”

“Yes, of course. The more help, the better.”

Payne clicked the button and placed the phone on the desk between him and Jones.

“Hey, Petr,” Jones said. “How are you?”

“I was much better five minutes ago. Now I’m worried for Richard.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. But first we need some background info.”

“Whatever you need, just ask.”

“What do you know about him?”

“His name is Richard Byrd. He’s an American collector from California. He’s visited the Archives a number of times during the past few years, spending most of his time with my Greek collection. In return, he loaned us several ancient coins to examine. Lovely items. Just lovely.”

The goal of the Ulster Archives was to foster the concept of sharing when it came to historical research, something of a rarity in academia, where experts and collectors tend to hoard things for themselves. According to some estimates, only fifteen percent of the world’s most valuable artifacts are displayed in public forums like museums or galleries. The other eighty-five percent are kept in private collections or stored in crates for safekeeping. In order to gain access to the Archives, a scholar had to bring something of value—either new research or an ancient relic—for his peers to study. Otherwise, Ulster wouldn’t let him enter the facility.

Jones frowned. “Wait a second. Did you say Greek?”

“Yes, Greek.”

“Not Russian?”

“Russian? Why would I say Russian?”

Payne answered. “Because that’s where he was calling from.”

“From Russia? He was supposed to be in Greece!”

“Yet he was calling from Saint Petersburg. We have the phone records to prove it.”

Ulster grimaced, growing more confused by the minute. “That doesn’t make any sense. The last time we spoke he said he had found a wonderful addition for my Greek collection and wanted to bring it here immediately. The only problem was getting it through customs, since the Greek government is notorious for protecting its heritage. That’s when he asked me for my advice and I gave him your phone number.”

“When was that?”

“Several days ago. However, earlier today he did leave a message. Thanks to static, it was virtually incomprehensible, but I recognized his voice and heard your name. I couldn’t understand anything else. That’s one of the reasons I gave you a call. To see if you had spoken.”

“And you thought I would help him with smuggling?”

“Jonathon, please keep in mind I’m not talking about stealing or selling items on the black market. I would
never
support either of those activities. I’m talking about smuggling for academic purposes. Without it, we wouldn’t know half the things we do about Egypt, Greece, or Rome. Without it, we would still view the Mayans, Incas, and Aztecs as savages, not the innovators that they were. Without it, the Ulster Archives never would have existed, because the Nazis would have seized my grandfather’s collection before he smuggled it out of Austria. And if that had happened, I would have been denied the greatest pleasure of my life!”

Ulster paused, trying to calm himself. “I realize smuggling is an ugly word. But in the world of antiquities, it is often a necessary evil to unlock the mysteries of the past.”

T
he boat was named the
Meteor
. It was tied to the quay on the Neva River behind the Winter Palace. Stretching along the waterfront, the green-and-white fortress had nearly two thousand windows and looked as if it had been built in France. In fact, much of Saint Petersburg looked French. This was a Western European city that happened to be in Russia.

On any other occasion, Allison Taylor would have enjoyed the scenery. She would have stopped to take pictures of the palace where Cath erine the Great once lived. She would have roamed the halls of the Hermitage Museum, admiring the art of Michelangelo, Monet, Rem brandt, and Van Gogh. She would have sat in the Palace Square, watching the other tourists as they gazed at the Alexander Column in the center of the plaza.

But today, none of those things were possible.

Not if she wanted to live.

As she ran to the station at the end of the platform, her blond hair fluttered in the breeze. She was an attractive woman in her mid-twenties with eyes the color of sapphires. In a city where Nordic models roamed the streets, she definitely fit right in. She was tall and lean and striking.

She was also trembling with fear.

She bought her ticket at the last possible moment to make sure no one was following. She scanned the crowd on the long wharf, searching for anyone who looked suspicious before making her way to the boat. She needed to reach her destination before dark, and this was her best option. No stops. No traffic. No distractions of any kind. She knew her intellect was the key to survival. She had to stay sharp or she’d be dead before dawn.

Taking a deep breath, Allison stepped on board and refused to sit down until the crew pushed away from the shore. She stood there, restless, nervously biting her lip, expecting someone to burst from the crowd and jump aboard the
Meteor
before she had a chance to jump off. But that didn’t happen. The motor sprang to life, and within seconds she could see water churning behind them as they slowly picked up speed. Only then did she search for a seat.

She found an empty row in the back of the crowded hydrofoil. It gave her a great view of her fellow passengers as they glided down the Neva River through the southwest corner of the city. In forty minutes they would reach the Gulf of Finland, an important arm of the Baltic Sea. It separated Russia from Scandinavia and Allison from her freedom.

At least that’s what she had been told.

S
eventeen miles later, the
Meteor
arrived at the lower park of the Peterhof. Dozens of tourists stood near the water’s edge, patiently waiting for their return trip to Saint Petersburg. Allison eyed them suspiciously before she left the boat and walked across the long pier toward the wooded shore. She was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a white blouse, a simple outfit that would help her blend in with all the people in the park. It would be closing shortly, and when it did, she hoped to disappear into the crowd.

Known as the Russian Versailles for its similarities to the château in France, the Peterhof was a series of palaces, fountains, and gardens that had been built as the summer residence of Peter the Great. Designed in 1714, the most remarkable feature of the sprawling grounds was the central role of water—whether it was the sea that bordered half the complex or the massive canal that bisected it. Allison had seen pictures of the Peterhof when she was in junior high and had marveled at its opulence, but nothing had prepared her for the things she was about to see.

Her first glimpse of the grounds came from the boat platform near the
Meteor.
She was walking across a concrete bridge when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Paranoid, she glanced in that direction and saw a large pair of geysers spouting water on both sides of the channel that ran from the palace to the edge of the bay. Behind them was another pair of fountains. And another. And another. In fact, there were so many fountains blending in with one another that she was unable to count them from where she was standing.

Of course, none of that mattered when she spotted the Grand Palace. It was painted bright yellow and sat on top of a small hill that appeared to hover above the fountains. From where she was standing, the hill seemed to be moving, as if the ground itself was caving under the weight of the building. Intrigued, she walked closer, taking the path on the right-hand side of the wide canal. A thick wall of pine trees blocked her view of the fountains, but she heard their constant trickling. The sound was soft and reassuring, somehow calming her nerves.

When Allison emerged from the grove, she was surprised by the sight. The section of hill that she thought was swaying was not a hill at all. Instead, it was the Grand Cascade, a series of seven water steps flanking both sides of a large grotto with water flowing from one level to the next. Each of the platforms was decorated by low-relief sculptures, gilded statues, and waterspouts—all of them facing the Samson Fountain that dominated the foreground. The gold statue in the center depicted Samson ripping open the jaws of a lion, symbolizing Russia’s victory over Sweden in the Great Northern War. A geyser from the lion’s mouth shot water sixty-five feet into the air.

Remarkably, none of the Peterhof fountains were operated by mechanical pumps. Peter the Great chose this location for his palace because of several spring-fed reservoirs to the south. In 1721 a canal system was built so water could flow by gravity to large storage pools. When the pressure was released, water rushed through the pipes with so much force that it erupted through the spouts, feeding the dozens of fountains all over the grounds.

Allison watched the flight of the water as it left the lion’s mouth. It sailed high above the balustrade and fell back to its circular basin. The resulting mist, carried by the light breeze that blew in from the bay, drifted toward the spacious patio at the rear of the palace.

And that’s where she spotted him.

He was standing next to a decorative vase perched above the grotto. Just standing there, staring at her, waiting for her arrival. The instant she saw him she wanted to wave, but knew it was too dangerous. No need to attract attention—someone might be watching. Instead, she studied her surroundings, searching all the nearby faces for anyone who looked suspicious.

After several seconds, she breathed a sigh of relief.

As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

The grounds extended in all directions, a labyrinth of sidewalks, gardens, and culs-de-sac. Without a map, she didn’t know which way to go, so she waited for him to decide.

It was a decision that would never happen.

Despite the distance, she saw the gun before the trigger was pulled. It emerged out of nowhere like a magic trick. One moment it wasn’t there, and the next it was.

But the barrel wasn’t pointed at her. It was aimed at the man she was there to meet.

Before Allison could react, his head exploded in a burst of pink mist. The roar of gunfire was muffled by a silencer. The first sound she heard was the loud splash as the man tumbled over the railing and landed in the upper fountain. He was dead before he hit the water.

It took a moment for things to sink in. But once they did, chaos erupted at the Peterhof.

Parents were screaming. Children were crying. Tourists were running everywhere.

And Allison wanted to join them. She wanted to sprint toward the exit and forget everything that had happened—like a bad dream that faded away when she woke up. Yet her legs refused to move. So she sank to her knees and tried to breathe as she stared at the waterfall.

Seconds later, the trickling water turned blood red from the corpse of Richard Byrd.

A
fter Ulster’s lecture on smuggling, Payne felt like a total hypocrite. He had always viewed smugglers as modern-day pirates, hardened criminals with rusty boats and no morals. Ruthless men who rarely shaved and reeked of sweat. The real scum of the earth.

Yet according to Ulster’s definition, Payne was a smuggler himself.

Excluding his stint in the military—when he and Jones had frequently shipped men, weapons, and supplies across enemy lines—Payne had been involved in two recent smuggling operations, although he hadn’t viewed himself as a smuggler at the time of the incidents.

The first occurred shortly after he met Ulster. Payne and Jones uncovered a plot to rewrite the history of Jesus Christ, and in the process they recovered several religious artifacts that had no rightful owner. Since they didn’t want the relics locked away in the Vatican basement, they had smuggled them out of Italy and delivered them to the Ulster Archives.

The second had been even more dramatic. Payne and Jones sneaked into the Muslim-only city of Mecca to thwart a terrorist attack and ended up rescuing an American archaeologist who had discovered an Islamic treasure the Saudi government knew nothing about. Worried that the Arabs would claim it for themselves, Payne and Jones had smuggled it out of the Middle East and donated it to Ulster’s facility, where it could be examined by experts in that field.

Ultimately, that’s one of the reasons Payne never viewed himself as a smuggler.

He never stole anything. He never sold the treasures. And most important, he always donated them to academia instead of keeping them for himself.

“You know,” Jones said after their call to Ulster, “we aren’t exactly angels.”

“I never claimed to be.”

Jones smiled. “Yet you want to be perceived that way.”

Payne shrugged. Deep down inside, he knew Jones was right. From the moment in the eighth grade when he lost his parents to a drunk driver, Payne had always craved the approval of others. It was his way of making up for the love and attention he had been denied. His paternal grandfather did a wonderful job of raising him after the accident, yet because of his duties as the founder and
CEO
of Payne Industries, he simply wasn’t around as often as Payne would have liked.

Instead of sulking or rebelling as teenagers are apt to do, Payne had poured his energy into every talent he had—academics, athletics, martial arts, and eventually the military—hoping his accomplishments would get him the positive attention he needed.