“You’re sure of this?” asked Theodore.
“I’m positive.”
Theodore considered this information as he walked toward the desk. With the picture in his gloved hands, he carefully removed the bottom of the brass frame and pulled the photograph out. He flipped it over and laid it flat on the desk. Dial and Andropoulos leaned forward as the monk silently translated the caption on the back. It was written in light pencil.
“You are right,” the monk said. “His name is Nicolas. He once lived at Holy Trinity.”
“And the others? Who are they?”
“I can tell you their names, but they mean nothing to me. That is, except one.”
Dial raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
Theodore flipped the photograph over and pointed to the tall man on the far left. Other than Nicolas, he was the youngest man in the picture. All the other monks ranged in age from thirty to seventy. “This was our abbot. The one who was killed.”
Andropoulos nodded in agreement. He had met the abbot a few times.
“And neither of you recognize anyone else in the photo?” Dial asked.
Both men shook their heads. The other monks were from a different generation.
“Is there anyone-maybe an older monk in the monastery-who might know them?”
“Probably not,” Theodore admitted. “Ours is a younger community. After a certain age, most of our older members move on to Mount Athos to continue their spiritual growth.”
“Mount Athos?” Dial asked, unfamiliar with the name.
Theodore nodded. “Catholic priests have the Vatican. We have Mount Athos.”
39
While in the MANIACs, Jones had been forced to make life-or-death decisions on nearly every mission. Communication could rarely be counted on in the desolate outposts where they operated, so his men had relied on him to read Payne’s mind anytime their unit was separated.
It was a skill that had saved them from friendly fire on more than one occasion.
Their strange psychic ability continued in their everyday lives. Payne and Jones spent so much time together that they could read each other like identical twins-twins who happened to look nothing alike. Whether it was reaching for the phone just before the other called or finishing each other’s sentences, they knew what the other was thinking most of the time. And in this situation, Jones had no doubt that Payne wanted him to search Byrd’s room.
So that’s what he set out to do. As quickly as possible.
Unlike Allison’s single room facing the inner courtyard, Byrd’s was a large suite on an upper floor that overlooked St. Isaac’s Square. Jones knew elevators were dangerous places, often equipped with video cameras and full of witnesses who had nothing better to do than stare at one another, so he opted to take the stairs instead. He climbed the steps two at a time, hoping to reach Byrd’s window before anything bad happened between Payne and the soldiers.
In a worst-case scenario, Jones was willing to fire a few shots into the air just to make the Russians reevaluate their priorities. What’s more important: a man and woman sightseeing in the plaza or someone firing shots in a nearby hotel? Not only would the soldiers come running, but Payne and Allison could escape in the resulting chaos.
The hallway was deserted when Jones reached Byrd’s suite. The “do not disturb” sign, written in Russian, still hung from the doorknob. Wasting no time, Jones pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Less than thirty seconds later he was slipping into the room.
“Hello,” he called softly. “Is anyone in here? The door was wide open.”
He waited for a response. Hearing nothing, he closed and locked the door, put on the security chain, and then set Allison’s book bag and computer on the parquet floor.
Allison had briefed him on the basic layout of the corner suite, so he had a pretty good idea where everything was. With gun in hand, he crept from room to room, making sure that he was alone, before he went to the bank of windows in the main sitting area. The white curtains were drawn, filling the suite with diffused light. He parted them and carefully peeked outside. He had a glorious view of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, its gilded dome glistening high above the city below, but was unable to see the monument to Nicholas I.
“Shit!” he swore as he hurried toward the next room. He passed through a set of French doors, hoping he would have a different angle from the bedroom, but quickly realized that it shared the same outer wall as the sitting room. “Shit, shit, shit!”
His last hope was the bathroom. It was on the far side of the bedroom, away from the massive cathedral. He knew it had a small frosted window-he’d noticed it when he checked the bathroom for trouble-but wasn’t sure what direction it faced. Heart pounding, he undid the lock and threw the window open. Glancing outside, he realized it was angled perfectly, overlooking the equestrian monument that towered above the square. And in front of it, he saw Payne, Allison, and three uniformed soldiers. None of whom looked happy.
Grizzly snatched Payne’s papers then studied them intently, searching for anything that might be missing or incorrect. Meanwhile, the other two soldiers ogled Allison as though she were dancing on stage at a local strip club. They whispered obscene remarks to each other, describing what they would like to do with her if they ever got her alone. One even made a slurping sound. Neither Payne nor Allison could understand Russian, but they had a pretty good idea what the soldiers were saying and who they were talking about.
And it sure as hell wasn’t Payne.
Remarkably, he managed to keep his cool. If the same situation had presented itself in an anonymous tavern, Payne would have fought the soldiers and anyone who tried to intervene. And the odds were pretty good that Payne would have won. His fighting skills were that extraordinary. But as things stood, he had nothing to gain by being aggressive. The last thing he wanted to do was bring any attention to himself, so he casually put his arm around Allison’s waist and pulled her close. It was his way of marking his territory.
“You no look Canada,” Grizzly declared without lifting his gaze from Payne’s paperwork. His accent was thick and slurred. His face was scarred. “You look Poland.”
Payne’s paternal ancestors were actually from a small town outside Warsaw. When his great-grandfather came to America, the guards at Ellis Island had been unable to pronounce his surname, which was Paynewski. So they gave him two choices: either shorten his name to Payne or get back on the boat and return to Europe. His family name had been Payne ever since.
But he wasn’t going to tell Grizzly that. The less the Russian knew, the better.
“Canadian, born and raised,” Payne claimed.
“What city?”
“Toronto.”
Grizzly glanced at Payne. He studied his face as intently as he had studied his paperwork. The two of them were roughly the same height, so Grizzly was able to look Payne directly in the eye. Man to man. After an uncomfortable silence, he asked, “You like the hockey?”
Payne nodded. “I’m Canadian. I love hockey.”
“You know Evgeni Malkin?”
“Of course I do. He’s a great NHL player. He’s Russian, right?”
“Da.” Grizzly paused for a moment, still holding Payne’s documents in his meaty grip. Then, with a hint of bravado, he claimed, “I play Malkin in Magnitogorsk.”
“Really? You must be pretty good. How did you do?”
Grizzly sneered, crinkling his oversized brow. “He win.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
He handed the papers back to Payne, then turned his attention to Allison. “Who is this?”
“That’s my girlfriend,” he said, trying to talk for her as much as possible. “She’s a big fan of history, so I wanted her to see Saint Petersburg. She loves the place.”
Grizzly stared at her with lust in his eyes. Starting with her legs, he slowly moved his gaze upward, lingering in all the inappropriate places, until he finally stopped on her face. “She does not look smart to me.”
Allison’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink.