The Lost Throne(69)

“Good idea. But if anything feels off, get the hell out of there.”

“Trust me, I will.”

“Then call me with an update.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll see me. I’ll be the black guy running toward Finland.”





37




Located in St. Isaac’s Square, the Astoria Hotel first opened in 1912 and was renovated in 1991. Complete with parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, and a world-class caviar bar, it was one of the fanciest hotels that Jones had ever broken into.

Smiling and nodding like he belonged, Jones cut across the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor, where Allison’s room faced the inner courtyard. Wasting no time, he put the key in the lock and slipped inside. Everything was as she’d described it. The room was small but tastefully decorated with Russian linens and fabrics. The bed sat on the right, facing a built-in wardrobe, where she kept most of her clothes and all of her research. Just to be safe, he peeked into the bathroom and glanced under the bed, making sure he was alone.

As far as Jones could tell, nothing in the room had been disturbed.

It was a positive sign—one that meant Allison was probably in the clear.

If her research had been missing or her room had been tossed, the odds were pretty good that she had been linked to Byrd. It also meant Byrd had been killed for something other than a personal vendetta. Possibly his secret mission—whatever the hell that was. But at first glance, Jones was fairly confident that the killer didn’t know about Allison. Or didn’t care.

According to Allison, Byrd had gotten spooked on Sunday when he left the Hermitage Museum. He thought someone was following him, so instead of going back to the Astoria Hotel, he led the guy on a wild-goose chase for several hours. Ducking into churches and stores, changing cabs and trolleys, he did everything he could to lose his tail. But nothing worked. During his journey, he called Payne every half hour, hoping to get advice on how to get away. When that failed, he phoned Allison and told her to get to the Peterhof as fast as she could so they could leave Saint Petersburg together.

Unfortunately, he had been killed before they left the city.

Working quickly, Jones gathered her research and stuffed it into a book bag he found. He removed the identification tags from her suitcases and made sure no personal items—wallets, prescription drugs, monogrammed jewelry—were left behind. He even went through her trash, looking for receipts and old airline tickets. When he thought the room was clean, he unplugged her computer and put everything by the door.

Then he searched her room again. Just in case.

Her clothes were too bulky to carry, so they would have to stay. The same thing with her shoes, toiletries, and nonessential items. But he grabbed her iPod—in case it was loaded with personal photos or contact information—and slipped it into her computer bag.

Now he was positive the place was clean.





Payne and Allison stood in the middle of St. Isaac’s Square, near the equestrian monument that honored Nicholas I, the former emperor of Russia. The twenty-foot-long bronze statue, which sat atop a three-tiered ornamental pedestal across the plaza from the Astoria Hotel, depicted Nicholas riding into battle while wearing his grandest military outfit.

Allison stared at the statue while Payne glanced around the square.

She said, “See how the horse is rearing back on its hind hooves? It was the first equestrian statue ever with only two support points. It was hailed as an architectural marvel.”

Payne turned around and looked at the monument. Until that instant it had never dawned on him that this massive chunk of bronze was balancing on two thin legs. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Even the Communists, who destroyed royal statues all over Russia, left this one alone.”

“I can see why.”

“Strangely,” she continued, “the person who had the most trouble with it was Nicholas’s daughter, the grand duchess. It made her quite uncomfortable.”

Payne refocused on the plaza, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. “Why’s that?”

Allison pointed to the south side of St. Isaac’s Square. A large building made of reddish-brown sandstone stretched for more than a block. “That’s the Mariinsky Palace, where the grand duchess used to live. If you look closely, you’ll notice she has a unique view of the statue. Instead of gazing at her father’s face, she was forced to stare at the horse’s ass.”

Payne laughed at the remark. It was completely unexpected.

“So you were listening,” she teased. “I wasn’t so sure.”

“Don’t worry. I can do several things at once.”