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The answer did not come easily, taking five years, millions of dollars, and a dedicated staff of historians, archaeologists, and genealogists, but by the time he turned forty Hadeon Bondaruk was sure of it: He was, in fact, a direct blood descendant of Xerxes I, ruler of the Persian Achaemenid Empire.
From there Bondaruk’s curiosity quickly grew into an obsession with everything Persian; he used the full force of his wealth and influence to assemble a collection of Persian artifacts, from the drinking cup used at the wedding celebration of Cyaxares to a stone dais used for Zoroastrian rituals during the Sassanid Dynasty to the jewel-encrusted gerron shield carried by Xerxes himself at Thermopylae.
And his collection was nearly complete. Save one glaring omission, he reminded himself. His personal museum, which lay in the bowels of his mansion, was a marvel he shared with no one, partially because no one was worthy of its glory, but mostly because it was not yet complete.
Yet, he now thought. Soon he would remedy the issue.
As if on cue the door to his study opened and his valet entered. “Pardon me, sir.”
Bondaruk turned. “What is it?”
“A call for you. Mr. Arkhipov.”
“Send it through.”
The valet left, gently closing the door behind him. A few moments later the phone on Bondaruk’s desk trilled. He picked it up. “Tell me you are calling me with good news, Grigoriy.”
“I am, sir. According to my sources, the man runs an antique shop in the area. The website where he posted the picture is a well-established forum for antique dealers and treasure hunters.”
“And has anyone shown any interest in the shard?”
“Some, but nothing serious. So far the consensus is that it’s simply a broken piece of bottle, nothing more.”
“Good. Where are you?”
“New York, waiting to board my flight.”
At this Bondaruk smiled. “Always taking the initiative. I like that.”
“It’s why you pay me,” the Russian answered.
“And if you manage to secure this piece there’ll be a bonus in it for you. How do you plan to approach the man, this antique dealer?”
The Russian paused for a moment and Bondaruk could almost see that familiar cruel smile curling Arkhipov’s lips.
“I find the direct approach is always best, don’t you?”
Arkhipov knew about directness and results, Bondaruk thought. The former Russian Spetsnaz was smart, ruthless, and relentless. In his twelve years in Bondaruk’s employ, Arkhipov had never failed in a mission, no matter how dirty.
“I do,” Bondaruk replied. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Just take care that you’re discreet.”
“I always am.”
Which was true. Many, many of Bondaruk’s enemies had, as far as the authorities could determine, simply vanished from the face of the earth.
“Call me as soon as you have word.”
“I will.”
Bondaruk was about to hang up when another question popped into his head. “Just out of curiosity, Grigoriy, where is this man’s shop? Anywhere close to where we’d predicted?”
“Very close. A small town called Princess Anne.”
CHAPTER 3
SNOW HILL, MARYLAND
Sam Fargo sto
