The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  Sarah nodded. ‘Thieves wouldn’t have bothered holding it for the best price. They would have melted it down and sold it right away.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Papineau said. ‘The gold apparently has not, as of yet, been circulated.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ McNutt chimed in. ‘Just wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’re not one hundred percent sure the gold’s even there, but you want us to break in anyway? Into the goddamn Kremlin? The one in goddamn Russia?’

  18

  Cobb smiled, realizing that McNutt and the others had gotten ahead of Papineau’s explanation. Had they let him finish, they would know what Cobb had already figured out.

  ‘It’s not in the Kremlin anymore,’ Cobb announced.

  ‘Just because you say it isn’t?’ Garcia challenged.

  ‘No,’ Cobb replied. ‘Not because of what I say.’ He nodded toward Jasmine. ‘Because of what she said.’

  Jasmine didn’t know how to respond, but her look said it all: Who, me?

  ‘Yes, you,’ Cobb assured her. ‘You said it just a moment ago. They refused to negotiate.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ McNutt admitted.

  Papineau beamed across the table, pleased that Cobb had put the pieces together.

  ‘They won’t negotiate,’ Cobb explained, ‘because if they did, someone might find out that they don’t have the treasure anymore.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Simple,’ Cobb continued. ‘They haven’t told anyone where it is.’

  ‘Chief,’ McNutt said, ‘I still don’t—’

  ‘It’s the twenty-first century,’ Cobb exclaimed. ‘Simply locking the gold away in a depository doesn’t mean anything in this era. There’s no pleasure in just looking at it. The treasure does them no good stashed in a vault, unless they declare it and use it as collateral. If they can’t draw against it, what good is it? And if they had taken out a loan against it, the whole world would have known by now. Ergo, they don’t have it.’

  Jasmine wasn’t satisfied quite yet. ‘Couldn’t they simply be hoarding it in secret?’

  ‘To what end?’ Cobb replied. ‘The only reason to keep it secret would be to privately negotiate its return with the Romanian government. But you already told us that they refuse to negotiate. So unless you can look me in the eye and honestly tell me that you think every Russian prime minister of the last century chose to perpetuate a ruse against Romania rather than bolster his crumbling economy, they simply don’t have the gold.’

  The room was silent again as everyone considered Cobb’s statement. Papineau was contemplative too, but mostly about Cobb. He wondered how he had figured it out so quickly.

  ‘So - we’re not going to Russia?’ McNutt said. ‘I’m confused.’

  Cobb ignored McNutt and turned toward Jasmine. ‘Things were far from stable in Russia during World War One, right?’

  ‘Yes. By any standard, it was basically chaos,’ she replied. ‘During the time when the Romanian treasure shipments were sent and secured, Tsar Nicholas the Second and his family were murdered, the Romanov dynasty ended, and the revolutionary Bolsheviks took power. Furthermore, the Red Army and the White Army factions were tearing each other apart, and there were military disasters plaguing the Russian Army at the German front. Between the violent uprising of the new regime and the soldiers everywhere dying and deserting, it was a complete disaster.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Let’s see …’ Jasmine thought. ‘In October 1916, with the Germans a mere two hundred miles from Moscow, the rail workers went on strike. Soldiers from the front were sent to force them back to work. Instead, the soldiers joined the railway workers.’

  ‘So the lines of defense are disintegrating, the enemy is at the gate, and the capital is in ruins. Time that out with the shipment.’

  ‘Two months after the second Romanian shipment arrived “safely” in Moscow’ - she emphasized the irony of the word safely with air quotes - ‘Nicholas the Second abdicated. The provisional government which preceded Lenin and the Communists was ineffective, to say the least.’

  ‘What was the mood in Moscow?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Confused. Unhappy. Desperate. They had to burn furniture to keep from freezing. They were starving. Finally, in December 1917, there was an armistice with Germany.’

  ‘Who did or did not know about the Romanian treasure?’

  ‘I’m sure the Germans knew there were treasures,’ Jasmine surmised. ‘If not from their extensive spy network, then from the Romanovs or the Communists who were pawing at power and infiltrating government offices one after the other. Even after the armistice, the Germans kept coming in a classic nineteenth-century-style land grab. They marched into the Ukraine unopposed. The Russians ceded that territory and other contested or coveted regions to protect themselves, to give themselves a geographical buffer.’

  ‘Where?’ Cobb wanted to know.

  ‘The Baltic Provinces. Finland, parts of Poland—’

  ‘Which the Russians could never have held,’ Papineau reminded her. ‘Even absent the Germans, the war had not left them with the necessary manpower.’

  ‘Very true,’ Jasmine said. ‘That’s when the Allies invaded Russia, just to stop Germany from getting their hands on Russian resources.’

  ‘Okay,’ Cobb concluded. ‘So let’s say you’re Russia. You’ve got Germany in your face and France, Britain, and America breathing down your neck. What would you do with - let’s round it off to a nice, round number - a hundred tons of gold?’

  He watched the group ponder the question.

  Even Garcia was still. His fingers had nothing to check.

  ‘I’ll make it simple,’ Cobb said. ‘Would you keep the gold where it was?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah decided.

  ‘Neither would I. So the question is: where did they move it?’

  Papineau smiled. That was the billion-dollar question.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Cobb,’ Papineau said. ‘That is exactly what I would like you to determine.’ He paused, letting it sink in. ‘I want you to find it, secure it, and transport it to a safe location of my choosing. The gold and any other valuables you find along the way.’

  ‘Ohhhhh,’ McNutt drawled. ‘Is that all?’

  Sarah leaned forward in her seat. ‘And what if we fail?’

  ‘If you fail, I’ll pay you for your time, but you won’t get the five-million-dollar bonus,’ Papineau said flatly. ‘Your bonus comes from the treasure, not my pockets.’

  Sarah nodded her acceptance. That seemed fair to her.

  Intrigued by the mission, Cobb turned to face the group. ‘All right, everyone, listen to me. If I’m going to lead this team, here is what I require. First, what I say goes. I’ll accept short discussions on anything and everything except in times of danger. Agreed?’

  He looked to each team member for an answer. McNutt and Jasmine nodded. Sarah didn’t object. Garcia shrugged in submission. Cobb turned to the Frenchman. ‘You’re responsible for all of our expenses. You’ll pay for everything we need.’

  ‘That is a given,’ Papineau said.

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ Cobb replied. ‘Your bank account is now my bank account. You’re going to trust me not to take anything more than we require. If I say we need something, we need something. You can ask me why, and if I have time, I’ll tell you. But if you decide against it, even once, I’m out.’ He let that sink in for a second. ‘Are we in agreement?’

  Papineau nodded.

  ‘Okay, Sarah,’ Cobb said, ‘let’s start with you. Jean-Marc, will you bring up the map of the area?’ With a click of the remote control, the wall became a modern map of Eastern Europe. ‘I want you to study the transportation routes and modes throughout the areas we’ve discussed - then blow it out, mile by mile, until you find a viable location for the cache.’

  ‘Sure, but do you have any suggestion on where I should start?’

  ‘I do,’ Cobb said, �
��but I want you to tell me what you think. That will vet my own findings. If we reach different conclusions, we’ll have to talk. Just put yourself in the position of a Russian politician when the tsar was the rock and Lenin was the hard place. Where would you put a hundred tons of gold?’

  ‘Damn good question,’ she said.

  ‘A gold filling for every Russian peasant!’ McNutt suggested. ‘Then have them spit ‘em out after the war.’

  ‘That’s just stupid,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Welcome to me,’ McNutt replied.

  ‘Where can she work?’ Cobb asked Papineau, ignoring the exchange.

  ‘Right here, if she likes,’ he said. ‘Mr Garcia can set her up with a laptop.’

  ‘Fine,’ Cobb said. He turned to McNutt. ‘While Sarah does that, and assuming you’re through joking—’

  ‘For the moment,’ McNutt said.

  ‘—make a list of the transport and armory requirements you think we’ll need once we’re on the ground in that region. We should be okay in the cities. It’s the rocky or watery countryside that we need to worry about.’

  ‘Artillery? Heavy as well as light?’

  ‘Whatever you think, as long as you remember that we’ll need to transport it once we’re there. Give me a wish list.’

  ‘I’ll do that on the terrace,’ McNutt said. ‘I think better in the open.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ Cobb remarked.

  McNutt shrugged. ‘It’s where I’ve done most of my heavy mental lifting, though usually with people looking to kill me.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Cobb said with an accusing glance at Papineau. He turned next to Garcia. ‘Hector, I want to know a couple of things. When Sarah and I have our target, you’ll have to become familiar with the police and military of every force in every village we might find ourselves up against. In the meantime, I want the specifications of all the communication systems we might require in terms of both hardware in-country and satellite access above. Finally, you’ll need to make all the security systems of all the companies in that region an open book for Sarah.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Garcia joked.

  ‘For now,’ Cobb said.

  ‘You can do that before dessert,’ Papineau remarked.

  ‘We should make him do it for dessert,’ McNutt suggested.

  Cobb looked at Jasmine. She was the team member he knew the least about. ‘Quick question: if I were to punch you in the face, what would you do?’

  She shrugged. ‘Probably cry.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s what I figured. There’s no doubting your skills as a historian - you’ve just demonstrated them. But I need to be sure that you can take care of yourself in the field. Starting early tomorrow morning, I want you to learn the rudiments of self-defense. Preferably judo or jiu-jitsu.’

  ‘Why Japanese?’ she asked.

  Cobb smiled. ‘Good question. Those styles are directed outward, designed to use an opponent’s attack against him. The Chinese forms use inner strength and four-point movement from center. They take longer to master.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a good school.’

  ‘No, find a good sensei for private lessons,’ Cobb said. ‘Eight hours a day. You won’t have a lot of time. Don’t worry: once you start, it’ll become addictive. And Hector?’ He turned back toward Garcia. ‘When you have the information I asked for, join her. That would make it after breakfast tomorrow, I’m guessing.’

  ‘I’m kind of a klutz,’ Garcia said.

  Cobb glared at him. ‘Hector, that was our short discussion. You’re taking lessons.’

  Garcia’s mouth didn’t move, but his eyes said, Yes sir!

  ‘Hey, chief!’ McNutt called as he headed upstairs. ‘We’ve got our marching orders. What are you going to be doing?’

  ‘Me?’ Cobb said. ‘I’m going on a rekky of Eastern Europe.’

  19

  Three weeks later

  Friday, September 14

  Moscow, Russia

  Andrei Dobrev roamed the reception, looking for someone to talk to, but his presence was mostly ignored by the well-dressed guests. There was a fake smile or two, and a few polite nods, but other than that, a lot of blank stares - especially when they learned that he was a semi-retired member of the working class, and not a dignitary or a well-connected politician.

  But Dobrev didn’t take it personally.

  At his advanced age, he was used to being ignored.

  The only reason Dobrev had been invited to the Leningradsky Rail Terminal for the announcement of the new American-European train survey was because of his long career as a railway worker. He was nothing more than a token laborer to put a blue-collar spin on the proceedings. Having worked on thousands of miles of track and at various stations throughout Russia, Dobrev knew more about the railways than most of its executive officers.

  When it came to trains, he was a walking encyclopedia.

  His was a proud railroad family, dating back more than a hundred years. His grandfather, Bela, worked all the way through the mobilization and nationalizing of the system through World War I and the Revolution. His father, Cristian - who married a Russian woman and moved to Moscow from Romania - worked the lines at the height of the railroad industry’s golden age. And he, Andrei, had survived the screeching, convulsive collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of the new Russian railway. Foreign investors had made financial and engineering contributions, but it was still a Russian line, sprawling through some of the most hostile rail territories on earth. It was the lifeline of towns and villages that could not be reached by any other means.

  Two months earlier, after forty years of honorable service, Dobrev had lightened his load by becoming an advisor. He had surrendered his day-to-day activities with regret. Those first few days when he did not put on his coarse, bull-hide work gloves, he had felt worse than naked; he felt useless. But it was good not to be hurrying from one station or another, to one crisis or another, to one bar or another to find a local railway authority. His reassignment had been mandated by the implementation of Government Order #384:

  When a member of the track workforce shall reach a certain age, that age being sixty-five …

  But Dobrev was occasionally invited to major railway events, a proud example of Russian industry and dedication. And he never failed to feel an overwhelming rush of pride whenever he stepped into any station in Russia - particularly in Moscow, the shining city which the last three generations of Dobrevs had helped to connect to the rest of the continent.

  The Leningradsky terminal was a particular favorite. It was the creation of the great Konstantin Andreyevich Thon, Imperial Russia’s official architect, who also designed the Grand Kremlin. This square, spired, palatial place was created in the great architect’s later years, but it still served as something of a revolution. Completed in 1851, it combined the best of old and new by rejecting Roman neoclassicism in favor of what became known as the Russian Revival style, identified by cunning and clever steel work, which was then one of the newest construction techniques.

  Dobrev drank in the rail terminal’s handsome exterior as he looked around at the small crowd. This party - announcing and celebrating a new rail survey that would improve track conditions in rural regions - was suitably austere and ostentatious. They had cordoned off a corner just inside the main entrance so passengers could flow by with a minimum of inconvenience to them. Dobrev noticed that the rush and bustle of commuters, crowded but never congested, would be visible to the foreign guests.

  The organizers had set up a cocktail bar and several tables of caviar, buckwheat blinis, pelmenis, and pierogis in a cordoned section off to the right of the main entrance, with enough security guards to discourage the gypsies and mafia wannabes who always hovered nearby anything of significance in Moscow. Dobrev studied the crowd: minor dignitaries, lesser committee members, petty trade representatives, and unimportant railway officials.

  Obviously they wanted to pu
t on a low-level, dog-and-pony show for the ‘Amerikos’. That was how Russians termed ugly Americans, men and women who came with money and opinions but very little experience. Sometimes, no experience at all. Therefore, the total absence of Russian, state-run media wasn’t much of a surprise. The only other guest who stood out was the thin, bald man in a black tunic, pants, boots, and coat. Dobrev felt a chill, remembering the black, ripstop uniforms of the Russian OMON - a special-purpose mobile unit deployed during violent situations, including some Dobrev wished he could forget.

  But it was more than his outfit that set this man apart. The bald figure in black had beady, attentive eyes, giving the impression that he was half security officer, half vulture. Just as Dobrev was heir to a great railroad tradition, this man was a throwback to Okhrana, the secret police of the Romanov dynasty. Not only did he observe, he judged with his gaze.

  A minute later, Dobrev’s attention was drawn to the team of surveyors who entered the side door to polite applause. They were led by the study sponsor, Jean-Marc Papineau, who waved to the crowd like a visiting king. While most of the male guests gawked at the blue-eyed blonde in the form-hugging black dress and heels who was standing beside Papineau, Dobrev focused on the Asian woman in the pencil-skirt suit and bone-colored, high-necked blouse. He knew she would be treated poorly because she was different than him and his comrades.

  Sadly, that mattered to Russians who were Russian to the core.

  But Dobrev wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about race, or age, or anything superficial. He only cared about the person inside. Intrigued by her presence, he took it upon himself to watch over her at the reception, like a parent keeping an eye on his child at the playground. He gave her plenty of distance, but was ready to spring into action if he deemed it necessary.

  The rest of Papineau’s team seemed to hover near English speakers. The man with short, light hair was joking with the politicians. The man with longer hair hung out at the bar with the serious drinkers. The small, Latin-looking man only had eyes for the tablet screen he carried. And the blonde was busy turning all the men who approached her to stone.