The Lost Throne(91)

“Fine! I’ll give you two hours. But I’ll need twice as many permits. One for me and one for my translator. His name is Marcus Andropoulos.”

Toulon cursed in French. He had worked with Dial long enough to know that he was serious. “You are asking for a miracle.”

“Come on, Henri. You’re always bragging about how intelligent you are. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll come up with something.”

“Oui, it is true. I am very smart.”

“I know you are. So do me a favor and use all that brainpower to help me out. Get me access to Mount Athos and I’ll give you a long weekend off.”

Toulon paused. “In that case, I will see what I can do.”





48




The blow to his head had left Kozlov dazed. It dulled his ability to think. To focus. To perceive the world around him. And that left him in a dangerous place, one where he was no longer the hunter. Suddenly, he was the target, trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.

Ironically, he had made his living in places like this, luring his victims to the nether regions of Moscow where he killed them in isolation. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, he would finish a job in public, but he preferred the solitude of the woods, where his victims could beg and plead as loudly as they wanted before he silenced them forever. He loved that feeling of absolute power, the ability to turn someone off like a light switch.

The rush was better than sex or anything else he had ever felt.

It made him feel like God.

Kozlov walked across the Metro parking lot and turned down a wooded path that led to his hotel. It was the same route he had taken several times during the past week, a scenic trail that ran along the banks of the Chernaya Rechka. Strolling along the water’s edge, he rubbed the back of his skull and felt the large lump that had started to form. It was tender to the touch, yet the pain was welcomed. It was like a whiff of smelling salts, helping him regain his faculties.

It helped him sense trouble before it struck.

The first time he heard the sound he assumed it was an animal. Maybe a rabbit or a fox looking for a meal. He turned slowly around and glanced at the path behind him, but saw nothing. So he kept moving forward, anxious to get to his room and his bottle of vodka.

The next time he heard the noise, it was much closer. Maybe thirty feet to his right. He stopped abruptly and scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sound. A quiet snap could have been dismissed as a furry creature scampering through the underbrush. But this noise was louder, heavier. Like a bear. Or a wolf prowling for meat.

Instinctively, Kozlov reached for his shoulder holster.

To his surprise, it was empty.

“Looking for this?” Payne asked from the middle of the path.

Kozlov whipped his head around and spotted the man from the train. Somehow he was standing in front of him, holding the gun that should have been in Kozlov’s holster.

Payne smiled. “I found it on the Metro. I think it belongs to you.”

Kozlov studied the weapon but said nothing. It was definitely his.

Next, Payne pulled out Kozlov’s wallet and his badge. “When you fall down, you need to be more careful with your stuff. Otherwise it could end up in the wrong hands.”

A surge of adrenaline cleared the remaining haze from Kozlov’s brain. Suddenly, the events at Nevsky Prospekt started to make sense. The man with his gun was working with the black man. They had worked together to guarantee the black man’s escape from the train. Kozlov had no idea who they were or how they were connected to Byrd, but it was obvious they were professionals.

Their level of precision required years of fieldwork.

“By the way,” Payne said as he tossed Kozlov’s pistol into the river. He was much more comfortable with his own gun, so he pulled it from his belt and aimed it at the Russian. “I know you can understand me. I glanced through your wallet and saw some business cards that were written in English. No way you would have kept those if you didn’t speak my language.”

Kozlov remained silent. Not willing to confirm or deny anything. At least not yet.

Payne continued as he walked forward. “How’s that bump on your head? I’m guessing it’s a mild concussion. Probably the reason you didn’t notice that your gun was missing. A healthy hit man would’ve noticed that sort of thing.”

“What is hit man? I am businessman.”

“A businessman who killed Richard Byrd.” Payne had no idea if Kozlov was actually the killer, but he hoped to trick him into admitting his guilt. “I saw surveillance footage of you from the Peterhof. I have to admit, I was impressed by your skills. That was a textbook shooting—except for the getting-caught-on-video part. You really should have smiled more.”