Andropoulos glanced around the room again. “Could someone else have been in here?”
“Maybe.”
“What about the blood? Was it here last night?”
Dial shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. It was too dark to see.”
“But you think it was, right?”
Dial furrowed his brow. “When did you start asking the questions?”
Andropoulos stammered. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to-”
Dial cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. Go on.”
He took a deep breath to calm himself. “We’re assuming the blood is from the killers, right? They opened the door to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and when they did, they left the bloodstain near the handle.”
“Or,” Dial suggested, “they came in here looking for something. Not someone.”
“Like what?”
Dial growled softly. “That’s the same damn thing I asked you five minutes ago. I hope you realize the goal is to answer my question, not rephrase it.”
Andropoulos nodded. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t see anything in here.”
“Me neither,” said Dial as he moved to the back of the room. The two cots were old and rusty. The nightstand and lamp were secondhand. So were the table and chairs. The only thing worth taking was the tapestry of the Orthodox cross. “What do you think this is worth?”
The young Greek walked toward Dial. “I don’t know. It depends how old it is. I’d say several hundred euros. Maybe more.”
“That much, huh?” Dial moved closer to examine the golden tassels on the edges of the tapestry. “Does Holy Trinity have any other artwork?”
“Some frescoes have been painted on the walls.”
“I mean removable artwork. Statues, pottery, precious metals.”
“No, sir. Not that I can remember.”
“Me neither,” Dial said as he ran his fingers across the heavy fabric. It was much thicker than he had expected. Much more durable, too. The type of thing that could last for centuries. “And the frescoes are in areas of worship, right? The chapel and so on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why is this in here? It’s locked away in their private quarters for no one else to see.”
“I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out? I could ask someone.”
Dial shook his head as he leaned closer to the tapestry.
It had taken a while, but he had finally found the answer he was searching for.
22
To create fake documents for Payne and Jones, Kaiser hired a world-class forger who lived in K-Town and specialized in visas and passports. Not only was he an expert on ink, paper, and handwriting, he also had a unique perspective on the industry, since he used to be a border guard at the Berlin Wall. So he understood the risks of a border crossing-what guards looked for, what they questioned, and so on-and guaranteed his creations would pass scrutiny.
For a trip to Russia, he recommended a single-entry tourist visa. Simple, straightforward, and rarely challenged. Especially if it was issued to a Canadian citizen. In the world of espionage, Canada was viewed as the Switzerland of the West. In other words, harmless. Payne and Jones knew this, which is why they had requested Canadian paperwork. Many countries around the world hated the United States. But few people-except jealous hockey fans-hated Canada.
When it came to border crossings, Payne and Jones were veterans. They had sneaked into so many countries when they were in the MANIACs that they weren’t the least bit stressed over their trip. Of course they realized their return trip would be a lot more difficult, since they’d be escorting Allison Taylor, a wild card if there ever was one. From the sound of her voice on the phone, they were tempted to buy some horse tranquilizers, just to keep her calm.
To help with their cover, they stopped at a department store to buy some clothes. The designs and fabrics in Europe were much different from those in North America. That was one of the main reasons Americans stood out when they were traveling overseas. Language was number one. Knowledge (manners, laws, decorum, etc.) was number two. Clothes were number three. Years of experience had taught Payne and Jones how to deal with the first two issues. They knew a shopping spree could rectify the third.
Payne was looking at shirts when his cell phone started to ring. The display screen read Restricted. Thoughts of Saint Petersburg quickly entered his head.
“Allison?” Payne said.
“Sorry, pal. Guess again.”
The voice belonged to Randy Raskin, calling from the Pentagon.
“Wait a second! You’re calling me? That might be a first.”
“It’s been a whole day since you asked for a favor. I figured you were sick or something.”
Payne smiled. “Nope. Just been traveling. Seeing some sights. Rescuing some damsels. You know, normal stuff.”
“I figured as much, which is the reason for my call. Do you have computer access?”
“We will for another hour. After that, no.”
“I’m sending a link to D.J. Tell him to follow Panther protocols. He’ll know what to do.”
“Okay,” said Payne as he grabbed the clothes he needed. “Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. If you have any trouble, let me know.”
Payne hung up and casually walked toward Jones, who was looking at pants on the other side of the store. “It’s time to roll.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got mail.”
There was an Internet café less than a block away. Jones grabbed a computer in the back corner while Payne paid for an hour. He always used cash when on a mission. Never credit cards.
To view Raskin’s message, Jones followed the Panther protocol, a simple procedure Raskin had designed for accessing data in a public place. Jones logged on to his office system in Pittsburgh, which was highly encrypted, and ran a program, called Panther, that blocked all monitoring software on the public terminal. It was an effective way to erase all trails to the Pentagon, and it prevented any files from being saved in a temporary folder on a public network.
Once Jones was confident the computer was clean, he opened the e-maiclass="underline"
hey guys,
i think you’ll like this-or maybe not. he doesn’t seem like
a nice person. make sure you cover your tracks. i don’t want
him coming after me. he’s scary.
r.r.
A few minutes later, they understood what Raskin was talking about when they viewed the file he had attached to the message. Sometime during the night, he had hacked into a Russian surveillance company and downloaded the security video of Richard Byrd’s murder. Actually, it was more than a murder. It was a cold-blooded execution, perpetrated by an assassin in a highly public venue. The type of wet work that was taught by the CIA, MI6, and other security agencies around the globe-including the old KGB.
At least that was the opinion of Payne and Jones.
The black-and-white footage was filmed from an elevated angle on the back porch of the Peterhof. It was a wide-angle shot, focusing on the banister above the main grotto, right where Richard Byrd was standing. Although the video was grainy, Payne and Jones were mesmerized by what they saw. The killer walked with precision. Never wasting energy or stopping to contemplate his next move. He approached Byrd, raised his gun, and fired. No hesitation. Never breaking stride. Totally professional. Then he tossed his weapon over the railing. It hit the water at the exact moment his victim tumbled into the fountain.