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.
13
After 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.
In the end, it made him a better person.
“So,” Jones wondered, “how do you want to handle this?”
“Not much we can do from here. Not until Byrd calls back.”
“And then?”
“Then it depends on him. If he seems legitimate, I say we bail him out. I mean, a friend of Petr’s is a friend of ours. On the other hand, if he seems shady in any way, I say we wish him well but tell him we’re on vacation.”
Jones nodded. “Agreed.”
“In the meantime, why don’t you dig up some background on him.”
“I’m way ahead of you.” He turned his laptop toward Payne and pointed at the screen. “As soon as Petr mentioned his name, I ran an Internet search and came up with a few articles. It seems the two of you have something in common.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You both come from money.”
Payne sat at the hotel desk and studied the image on the screen.
Richard Byrd was a handsome man in his late forties. He had sandy brown hair that was gray at the temples and a deep California tan. In the picture he was standing on the deck of his yacht, the Odyssey, while Catalina Island loomed in the distance. He looked cool, confident, and in total control-the exact opposite of how he had sounded on the phone.
Underneath there was a short biography, detailing his academic and professional careers. He had graduated from Stanford with a degree in history but never worked in that field. Instead, he had taken control of his family’s fortune, which had been amassed during the gold rush of the 1800s, and multiplied it many times over in the banking business. According to this website, he had retired a few years ago to pursue outside interests, although none were listed.
“Let me guess,” Payne said. “His hobbies include traveling, antiques, and Greece.”
“Is it just me, or does he look like a catalogue model?”
Payne smiled and handed the computer back to Jones. “Enough with the fluff. Why don’t you get some dirt on this guy? Anything that might suggest criminal activities. I want to know as much as possible before he calls again.”
As if on cue, Payne’s phone started to ring on the nearby table.
“Speak of the devil.”
“Don’t answer it,” Jones shouted as he scrambled for his laptop bag. He quickly unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a short black cord that he plugged into the back of his computer. “Give me your phone.”
Payne did as he was told and watched Jones attach it to the cord. This would allow them to listen through the laptop’s speakers while recording the call as a digital file.
Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. Three rings, then four.