“My name is Jon. And this is Allison. We phoned you about Richard Byrd.”
Ivan nodded and shifted his focus to Allison. He stared at her for a moment and then offered her a smile. “You are more beautiful than Richard said. Please, come in.”
The comment caught her off guard. So much so that her cheeks turned pink as she entered the house. She wasn’t used to compliments from Byrd. And she certainly hadn’t expected to hear any from an eighty-eight-year-old Russian. But it was a nice surprise, one that put her at ease in an otherwise tense situation.
“You are early,” Ivan said to Payne. “One hour early.”
“We’re sorry about that. Our schedule got pushed forward because of an unforeseen event. We hope we’re not disturbing you.”
“Disturbing me? What could you disturb?” He trudged back toward his living room. It was sparsely decorated with a couch, a coffee table, and a small bookcase. An oxygen tank and a plastic mask sat next to his favorite green chair. “I am a sick old man who rarely leaves his home. There is nothing for you to disturb but death.”
He laughed loudly and immediately started coughing: deep, phlegm-filled coughs. As he sank into his chair, he grabbed the mask and placed it over his nose and mouth. After a few deep breaths, he signaled for Payne and Allison to sit on the couch across from him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.
Ivan shrugged as he lowered the mask. “Life is no fun when a man cannot laugh.”
Neither Payne nor Allison said a word. They just waited for him to continue.
“So,” Ivan said as he stared at them. “This event that changed your schedule, does it involve shooting at Peterhof ?”
Payne instinctively tensed in his seat. Standing quickly, he reached behind him and put his hand on his gun while he scanned the room for danger.
“Let’s go,” he said to Allison.
“Relax,” Ivan said in a soothing tone. “You have nothing to fear. I am only one who knows you are here. Please, sit down.”
Payne stared at Ivan, trying to gauge his honesty. Ivan returned his stare. Never blinking or looking away, he wanted to assure Payne that he was telling the truth.
“You must remember,” Ivan explained, “I grew up in a Russia where we feared police. KGB would knock on door in middle of night and people would not return. Entire families would disappear in blink of eye. Events like these are not forgotten. Or forgiven.”
Payne remained standing, still not satisfied. “When did the police call?”
“Yesterday morning. Questions were asked, but I did not answer.”
“What type of questions?”
“If you sit, I will tell you, and not a moment before.”
Admiring the old man’s spunk, Payne did as requested. But he sat on the edge of the couch, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.
“Is he always this tense?” Ivan asked Allison.
She smiled at Payne. “From the moment we met.”
“Perhaps,” Ivan said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “you should help him relax.”
Allison blushed at the innuendo while Ivan laughed and coughed. After a few short puffs from his oxygen mask, his breathing was back to normal and the smile had returned to his face. He rarely had any visitors and planned on enjoying this conversation for as long as possible.
“Where was I?” Ivan asked.
Payne answered. “The police.”
“Ah, yes. They asked me about Ellis Cooper, a name I did not know. They said he was killed at Peterhof, and my number was found in pocket. They wanted to know why.”
“And what did you say?”
“What could I say? I did not know Ellis Cooper.”
Payne realized Ellis Cooper was probably the name on the fake passport that Byrd had been carrying at the time of his death. Payne wondered what else Byrd might have been carrying.
“When did you realize it was Richard?”
“When police ask about Henry Shoemann. Do you know name?”
Payne grimaced. “No, I don’t. Who is he?”
“Man whose name was written on same paper as my number.”
“Henry Shoemann?” Payne said to Allison. “Do you know a Henry Shoemann?”
She shook her head. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Could they have meant Heinrich Schliemann?”
Payne glanced at Ivan and noticed a smile on his lips. A big, broad smile.
Suddenly, everything made sense to Payne. Byrd fell into the fountain at the Peterhof. By the time the cops had fished him out, the piece of paper in his pocket was waterlogged and the ink had run together. The police had tried to decipher the words on the list and had come up with Henry Shoemann instead of Heinrich Schliemann. In addition, they probably had trouble reading the digits of the phone number, which explained why it had taken them two days to call Ivan.
Payne asked, “How many people did they call before you?”
Ivan smiled some more. “I am guessing fifty.”
The answer pleased Payne. He simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with the police. He wanted to complete their transaction and get to Jarkko’s boat as soon as possible.
“So,” Payne said, “I was wondering-”
Ivan interrupted him. “If you do not mind, now I would like to speak to Allison.”
Payne glanced at her. The look in his eye said make this quick. “Of course.”
The Russian swung his gaze to her pretty face. He stared at her for a moment before he spoke. “I was told you are fan of Heinrich Schliemann.”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am.”