“At this point we’re looking for confirmation of his death. As you know, he was calling us from Saint Petersburg, but we never talked to him. According to one source, he was shot and killed in some kind of fountain. Can you check to see if anything matches that description?”
“Do you have a name?”
“Richard Byrd. Although he might have been using an alias.”
Raskin went to work on his keyboard, quickly searching the main criminal database in Russia. Insiders called it Kremlin.com because its real name was written in Cyrillic and impossible to pronounce. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“No luck?”
“Just the opposite. I found something that matches your description. White male, mid to late forties, discovered in one of the Peterhof fountains. Single shot to the head.”
“Damn,” Jones muttered. He glanced at Payne and made a slashing motion across his neck. Payne nodded in understanding. “Was he identified?”
“Not according to this. Then again, that could mean a number of things. Maybe they’re holding his identity until they notify his family. Or maybe the killer took his wallet. The truth is I have no way of knowing without calling them myself.”
“Which is something we don’t want you to do. We need to keep a low profile on this.”
“I figured as much.”
“Next question. Can you check on Byrd’s movement during the past few months?”
“Hold on. Different database.” Twenty seconds passed before Raskin spoke again. “No visas listed for Russia, but he visited Greece, Italy, Germany, and several other countries in Europe. I can send you a list if you want.”
“Go ahead. But I won’t have access until we land.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Ramstein.”
“Then what?”
“A rendezvous in Russia.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“I wish.”
“In that case, you should tell Jon how you really feel.”
Jones laughed. “Damn, Randy! For you, that was pretty funny.”
“Thanks. Wait. What did you mean by that?”
“I’ll tell you later. First, I have one more question. I need some background information on an American named Allison Taylor. Middle name and hometown unknown. Current employer is believed to be Richard Byrd. At least until a few hours ago.”
“Hold on. That’s another database.”
Jones figured it would be. “Out of curiosity, how many databases do you have?”
“Let me put it to you this way: I have a database to keep track of my databases.”
Jones whistled, impressed. “Seriously, Randy, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Actually, it’s pretty simple. I’m the smartest guy in the Pentagon, remember?”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
Raskin smiled as he continued to type. A few seconds later, he found the information he was looking for. “Okay, here you go. Allison Renée Taylor . . . Born in California . . . Graduated from Stanford . . . Single . . . Valid driver’s license . . . Hot as hell! Seriously, you should see her photo. She even looks great on her ID.”
“Send it to me. The highest resolution possible.”
“Done.”
“What about employment? Any connection to Byrd?”
“Duh! That’s how I found her so fast. He filed a single document with the IRS. A personal-services contract. Whatever that means.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can find. Then again, I can’t stop staring at her picture. It’s really strange. No matter where I move, it’s like her eyes are following me.”
Jones laughed. “Damn! How much caffeine have you had today?”
“Define today.”
He laughed again. “Another all-nighter?”
“Another all-weeker. You know me, I never leave my desk.”
“That’s one of the reasons we love you: your dedication to your country.”
“That and the fact I do your dirty work for free.”
Jones nodded in agreement. “Yep. That too.”
“Okay, chief, I gotta jet. But send me a postcard from Siberia.”
“Not funny,” Jones said. “Not funny at all.”
17
MONDAY, MAY 19
Kalampáka, Greece
The phone rang at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour before Nick Dial planned to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over in the hotel bed, and checked his caller ID. It was Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division, calling from Interpol Headquarters in France.
If it had been anyone else, Dial would have let it go to voice mail. But since he had been trying to reach Toulon for the better part of a day, he decided to answer the call.
“Hello,” Dial said with sleep in his throat.
Toulon spoke with a French accent. “Bonjour, Mr. Boss-Man. Did I wake you?”
“You know you did.”
“Oui, I know. That is why I called. Just to wake you. My entire day revolves around Nick. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour!”
Dial grinned at the sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re mad about yesterday’s message.”
“Message? You left me a message?” Toulon put a cigarette in his mouth and desperately wanted to light it. “Sorry, I heard no message from you. I was too busy taking a nap and drinking wine in your office. Then I ate some stinky cheese, just to improve the smell.”
“Wow. You’re really pissy today. Do you want to talk later?”
“No,” Toulon said. “I want to talk now. I want to get this over with.”
Dial grimaced, not sure if Toulon was mad at him or not. Then again, it was too early in the morning to actually care. “Did you get my e-mail? I sent it from my phone.”
“One moment. Let me check.”
While Toulon checked his computer, Dial climbed out of bed and walked across the tiled floor of his spacious suite. Somehow Andropoulos had booked him a great room in the Divani Metéora, a luxury hotel in Kalampáka. It was so close to the monastery, he could stare at the towering cliffs from his private balcony.
“Oui. I found it. Give me a moment to read it.”
“Take your time,” Dial said as he wandered into the bathroom.
Toulon spoke again a few minutes later. He was staring at his computer screen, trying to make sense of the two images that Dial had sent to him. “What am I looking at?”
“Pictures of the killers.”
“You are teasing, no? How did you get these?”
“The monks had a nanny cam.”
Toulon spat out his cigarette in disgust. “I hate those damn things! I have been caught with too many nannies.”
Dial laughed, realizing that Toulon wasn’t joking. “Sorry to hear that, Henri. But in this case, we really lucked out. It’s the biggest break we’ve had.”
“This is quite helpful. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I am an expert on Ancient Greece.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re an expert on everything.”
“Oui, this is true. I am quite good.” Toulon ran his fingers over his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He certainly didn’t look the part of an Interpol officer. But his brilliance more than made up for his attitude and attire. “What do you want to know?”
Dial picked up hard copies of the two photos. “Let’s start with the sword.”
Toulon clicked on the first image, then enlarged it until the sword filled the screen. He focused on the details, searching for the nuances that would define the weapon. It didn’t take long for him to reach a conclusion. “This is a xiphos. It was used by a hoplite.”