The section of hill that she thought was swaying was not a hill at all. Instead, it was the Grand Cascade, a series of seven water steps flanking both sides of a large grotto with water flowing from one level to the next. Each of the platforms was decorated by low-relief sculptures, gilded statues, and waterspouts—all of them facing the Samson Fountain that dominated the foreground. The gold statue in the center depicted Samson ripping open the jaws of a lion, symbolizing Russia’s victory over Sweden in the Great Northern War. A geyser from the lion’s mouth shot water sixty-five feet into the air.
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