The Lost Throne(37)

Andropoulos glanced around the room again. “Could someone else have been in here?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the blood? Was it here last night?”

Dial shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It was too dark to see.”

“But you think it was, right?”

Dial furrowed his brow. “When did you start asking the questions?”

Andropoulos stammered. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”

Dial cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. Go on.”

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re assuming the blood is from the killers, right? They opened the door to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and when they did, they left the bloodstain near the handle.”

“Or,” Dial suggested, “they came in here looking for something. Not someone.”

“Like what?”

Dial growled softly. “That’s the same damn thing I asked you five minutes ago. I hope you realize the goal is to answer my question, not rephrase it.”

Andropoulos nodded. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t see anything in here.”

“Me neither,” said Dial as he moved to the back of the room. The two cots were old and rusty. The nightstand and lamp were secondhand. So were the table and chairs. The only thing worth taking was the tapestry of the Orthodox cross. “What do you think this is worth?”

The young Greek walked toward Dial. “I don’t know. It depends how old it is. I’d say several hundred euros. Maybe more.”

“That much, huh?” Dial moved closer to examine the golden tassels on the edges of the tapestry. “Does Holy Trinity have any other artwork?”

“Some frescoes have been painted on the walls.”

“I mean removable artwork. Statues, pottery, precious metals.”

“No, sir. Not that I can remember.”

“Me neither,” Dial said as he ran his fingers across the heavy fabric. It was much thicker than he had expected. Much more durable, too. The type of thing that could last for centuries. “And the frescoes are in areas of worship, right? The chapel and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So why is this in here? It’s locked away in their private quarters for no one else to see.”

“I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out? I could ask someone.”

Dial shook his head as he leaned closer to the tapestry.

It had taken a while, but he had finally found the answer he was searching for.





22




To create fake documents for Payne and Jones, Kaiser hired a world-class forger who lived in K-Town and specialized in visas and passports. Not only was he an expert on ink, paper, and handwriting, he also had a unique perspective on the industry, since he used to be a border guard at the Berlin Wall. So he understood the risks of a border crossing—what guards looked for, what they questioned, and so on—and guaranteed his creations would pass scrutiny.

For a trip to Russia, he recommended a single-entry tourist visa. Simple, straightforward, and rarely challenged. Especially if it was issued to a Canadian citizen. In the world of espionage, Canada was viewed as the Switzerland of the West. In other words, harmless. Payne and Jones knew this, which is why they had requested Canadian paperwork. Many countries around the world hated the United States. But few people—except jealous hockey fans—hated Canada.

When it came to border crossings, Payne and Jones were veterans. They had sneaked into so many countries when they were in the MANIACs that they weren’t the least bit stressed over their trip. Of course they realized their return trip would be a lot more difficult, since they’d be escorting Allison Taylor, a wild card if there ever was one. From the sound of her voice on the phone, they were tempted to buy some horse tranquilizers, just to keep her calm.

To help with their cover, they stopped at a department store to buy some clothes. The designs and fabrics in Europe were much different from those in North America. That was one of the main reasons Americans stood out when they were traveling overseas. Language was number one. Knowledge (manners, laws, decorum, etc.) was number two. Clothes were number three. Years of experience had taught Payne and Jones how to deal with the first two issues. They knew a shopping spree could rectify the third.

Payne was looking at shirts when his cell phone started to ring. The display screen read Restricted. Thoughts of Saint Petersburg quickly entered his head.

“Allison?” Payne said.

“Sorry, pal. Guess again.”

The voice belonged to Randy Raskin, calling from the Pentagon.

“Wait a second! You’re calling me? That might be a first.”

“It’s been a whole day since you asked for a favor. I figured you were sick or something.”