Turning to his right, he noticed a wooden cabinet standing next to the stone wall. He walked toward it, staring at the two framed photographs that sat on the top of the unit. Each one was a picture of a monk. They were dressed in their traditional black cassocks and caps, although the two men looked nothing alike. One was old and regal. His eyes filled with wisdom. His beard gray with age. Meanwhile, the other monk was younger than Dial. His cheeks were round and chubby. His smile full of life. Yet both pictures were displayed in the same manner. They were surrounded by several lit candles in metal trays and tiny gold lanterns filled with incense.
The scent was piney and pungent, like a forest fire.
Dial asked, “Who are they?”
Joseph answered, his voice vacant of any emotion. “That is the abbot and the caretaker of Holy Trinity. We honor their sacrifice and mourn our loss.”
Dial glanced back at the monk, who showed no signs of sadness. Normally, that would have raised a red flag with Dial, particularly in a community as small as Metéora, where everyone knew everybody else. But considering the skulls and images he had seen in the last twenty minutes, Dial realized the monks had a much different view of death from most people’s.
Whether those views would help or hinder his investigation, he wasn’t sure.
But he would keep it in mind when he talked to Theodore in the library.
36
Nevsky Prospekt, a bustling avenue that cuts through the heart of the city, is the most famous street in Saint Petersburg. Planned by the renowned French architect Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Le Blond, it honors Alexander Nevsky, a national hero who defeated the Swedish and German armies in the thirteenth century and was later canonized as Saint Alexander.
More important to David Jones, it gave him an easy route to Allison’s hotel.
Glancing at his watch, Jones left the Palace Hotel and turned west on Nevsky. The sidewalks were filled with a lunchtime crowd, a mixture of tourists and locals. Jones had his fake passport in one pocket and his lock picks in another. His gun was covered by his un-tucked shirt.
Five minutes later, Payne and Allison left the hotel, using a different exit. They walked to the nearest intersection and waited for the light to change. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. Six lanes of cars, taxis, and buses. All of them rushing to get somewhere. When the traffic stopped, they crossed to the northern side of Nevsky and turned west.
They would shadow Jones from the opposite side of the street.
During the past week, Allison had spent several hours in nearby museums and libraries, doing research while Richard Byrd roamed the city. By foot, the Astoria Hotel was only twenty minutes away. It was near the Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, and the Mariinsky Theater. Tourists would be everywhere. Eating their lunches. Standing in lines. Enjoying the spring weather in the nearby plaza. It was a good spot to wait while Jones broke into Byrd’s room.
Payne wanted to be close in case there was trouble.
In a perfect world, Payne wouldn’t have brought Allison with him. He would have left her in their suite at the Palace Hotel until they returned a few hours later. But somehow she had talked him into it, convincing him it was worth the risk. She could take him to the dock for the Meteor, the boat she rode into the Peterhof. She could point out the Hermitage Museum, where Schliemann’s treasure was kept.
Payne didn’t know where clues existed, so he wanted to see everything.
On their side of the street, they passed a large trade house, which was adorned with multiple stained-glass windows and several patina-coated statues, the same color as the Statue of Liberty. In sharp contrast, the building sat next to an Adidas clothing outlet and a discount record and video store. New and old sharing the same neighborhood.
Back across Nevsky, Payne noticed an elaborate building that seemed to stretch for an entire block. People of all ages streamed in and out of the front entrance.
“What’s that?” he asked as they kept walking west.
“The Russian National Library. It’s one of the largest in the world. It has over thirty million items. Since 1811, it has received one copy of every book published in Russia.”
Payne shook his head. “You’re as bad as D.J. He’s always spouting facts like that.”
She smiled. “Richard took me there when we first got into town. He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for, so I roamed the aisles on my own. I read that fact in a pamphlet.”
As they continued, his focus remained on the opposite side of the street. He noticed a pillared Greek temple called the Portik Rusca that used to be the entrance to a long arcade of shops. It sat next to an eight-story clock tower, which was topped by a two-story antenna that used to receive optical telegraphs in the 1800s. He had read about such devices—they were eventually made obsolete by the electric telegraph—but he had never seen one.