The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  Borovsky had been one in the group of officers whose responsibility it had been to reduce the one million, twenty-eight thousand police officers to one million, one thousand. Most of his peers found it either an odious or vengeful task, but Borovsky approached it with the same professional pride he had brought to every aspect of his life.

  In fact, he found it relatively easy. One recent study had maintained that twenty percent of the force routinely took bribes as well as extorting money from tourists and locals alike. Borovsky understood that the police department’s poor pay contributed to that, but he felt more sympathy for the reported sixty percent who sought more work rather than affiliations with local mobs. The police officers that he and his confederates found worthy got salary increases of up to thirty percent. Those that they found unworthy were now, more than likely, part of the criminal organizations they had taken money from. The ranks of the criminals were swelled by the reforms.

  Then there were the men like Vargunin. Men who were better suited to life in an office. Men who were not corrupt but who believed that confessions beaten from suspects were just as valid as those obtained by detective work.

  Vargunin changed the conversation with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Just two old war horses, eh?’

  ‘War horses, yes,’ Borovsky agreed. ‘But not so old.’

  ‘My spirit feels as if it fought the Mongols in the thirteenth century.’

  ‘Maybe it did,’ he teased. ‘I think this office was here, too.’

  Both men laughed, and Vargunin took a step back, finally taking the time to look his old friend up and down. If Anatoli were a workhorse, it was clear that Borovsky was still a thoroughbred. No thickening of his middle. And while his slicked-back hair may have had a little more gray on the temples, it was still enviably substantial.

  The healthier life of the optimist, Vargunin thought.

  In fact, age seemed to make Borovsky look even more impressive, from his angular face, probing light brown eyes, and sharp chin, all the way down to his long flat feet. Encased in specially made boots, they were one of Borovsky’s only concessions to personal comfort.

  ‘The changes to the uniform become you,’ Vargunin decided, releasing his friend’s forearms and turning back to the desk. ‘Apparently, so do the changes to the force.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Borovsky said. ‘I have just never been a pessimist like you.’

  ‘That’s anti-Russian,’ his old coworker said. ‘So. What brings you down here?’

  ‘Couldn’t it be a friendly visit?’ Borovsky asked innocently, pulling forward a seat.

  ‘Couldn’t Lenin rise from his tomb and take a stroll around Red Square?’ Vargunin shrugged. ‘I suppose it is possible.’

  ‘I was wrong,’ Borovsky said. ‘You’re not a pessimist. You’re a cynic.’

  Vargunin barked out a laugh. ‘Years after “the Bill”, you come to say “hi” to one of the officers who notoriously escaped your net and then slipped through another at the Forensic Expertise Center? I am not so old a detective as to consider your arrival merely a coincidence.’

  ‘We were friends, despite the task that was given to me.’

  ‘We were, yes,’ Vargunin said. He hoped he hadn’t emphasized the ‘were’ when he spoke it. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Why not?’ Borovsky decided. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  27

  Andrei Dobrev didn’t ask for a single train engine; he requested two - back to back, like a Siamese twin attached at the spine. ‘The better to power it,’ he explained.

  Less than a day later, Dobrev watched with pride as the massive, red-and-black engine that he recommended lumbered up the sidetrack at the Moskva-Kazanskaya station. ‘The Lugansk 2TE116,’ he said to Jasmine. ‘The true beast of the RZD.’

  ‘RZD?’ Cobb inquired.

  Jasmine waited until Dobrev had finished explaining.

  ‘It’s what they call the Russian railways,’ she simplified.

  Cobb nodded and continued to watch the behemoth approach. He couldn’t help feeling that this must be what a tyrannosaurus looked like when it tried to sneak up on its prey. He glanced over at Jasmine while Dobrev continued to speak. But for some reason, she didn’t translate.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Technical specs,’ she said. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘All Greek to you, eh?’ McNutt teased.

  ‘No,’ she clarified. ‘If it were Greek, I’d actually understand.’

  ‘Let’s have it anyway,’ Cobb told her.

  ‘All right. Let’s see. Diesel engine, fifteen-twenty millimeter gauge, three thousand horsepower at one thousand rpm—’

  Cobb let out a low whistle of appreciation. That would be a very powerful dinosaur.

  ‘Thirty-six meters long, twenty feet high, twelve feet wide, axle weight of twenty-three tons, full weight of two hundred and seventy-six metric tons—’

  ‘My head hurts,’ McNutt complained.

  ‘Wait,’ Jasmine said. ‘He’s off the details, talking about something else now.’

  Cobb waited for Jasmine to catch up. Dobrev didn’t seem to care, or even notice her translation. He seemed to be lost in his own railroad world.

  ‘He’s telling us what else we’ll need,’ she said, reciting the list to Cobb, who did not take notes but remembered every word she said.

  Finding Dobrev a standard railroad worker’s green shirt, green pants, green cap, black belt, black boots, and orange vest was not difficult - what with all the locker rooms within the station. In fact, the whole team except Papineau was dressed that way, so as not to draw unwanted attention. The Frenchman was in one of his suits as always. Jasmine had minimized her conspicuousness by pinning her hair into a bun, wearing sunglasses, and raising her shirt collar to cover the bruises that Kadurik had given her.

  The team was gathered beside the massive vintage locomotive - all except Sarah and Garcia, who had disappeared into the first train car.

  ‘According to Andrei,’ Jasmine said, ‘this engine was easy to obtain. The modernization of the Russian railways started around 2008, and they’ve been rolling out a thousand new locomotives a year. This vintage one was in a storage facility about an hour out of the city.’

  Dobrev took a second to spit onto the track.

  Cobb smiled. ‘Apparently our friend doesn’t think much of the new engines.’

  ‘He does not,’ Jasmine agreed. ‘“Give me this old beauty anytime,” he says. With all the new trains running around, there were plenty of these vintage engines to pick and choose from.’ Jasmine looked up at Cobb. ‘He actually knows this one in particular. He says he could take it apart and put it back together blindfolded.’

  ‘Good to know if we break down at night,’ McNutt said.

  Cobb stared at the monstrosity. It was an ambitious claim to make, but he wouldn’t put it past Dobrev. The beast was a big, thundering mobile home on large metal wheels. Essentially rectangular with a slightly curving arched roof, it had two big rectangular windshield ‘eyes’ and a round spotlight ‘nose’. Its ‘mouth’ was a low, broad cowcatcher - a plow-like attachment that pushed rocks, debris, and occasionally an animal from the track before it could cause damage to the wheels. This was framed by two more square headlights that looked like shining dimples.

  As Cobb watched, two workers approached with the special license plate Papineau had secured; a license plate, he assured them, which would allow them to go anywhere the RZD ran. Cobb was always impressed by the red tape the Frenchman seemed able to cut.

  Or maybe it’s just foreign money, he thought.

  Papineau signed for the plate and slipped the workers a gratuity. From their grateful expressions, the Frenchman clearly owned them for life.

  Cobb stepped to the side to take in the rest of the engine’s architecture. Ten high-set, square windows, sixteen air vents, and two doors on each side. No ladders or narrow walkways along the outside. Cobb nodded with appreciation. Easy to defend, to
ugh to attack. He was certain Dobrev had not taken that into consideration, but Cobb was pleased to see it nonetheless.

  Dobrev moved forward to personally supervise the linking up with the rest of the train.

  Cobb noted Jasmine’s gaze. ‘You’re watching him closely.’

  She nodded with concern. ‘He’s immersed himself in the work. I’m not a psychologist, but I suspect from the tone of his voice that he’s trying to avoid thinking about what he did last night - and why he had to do it.’

  ‘There’s another thing, too.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I bet he feels like this is his last adventure,’ Cobb guessed. ‘He, and his metal friend there, had been put out to pasture. This is his chance to prove that they still have some worth.’ Cobb watched as Dobrev instructed the younger workers on the best way to treat the locomotive. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he had named this old girl.’

  Jasmine grinned at the comment. ‘Ludmilla. He named it Ludmilla.’

  Cobb smiled at the humanity of it.

  That was rare in his business.

  28

  Vargunin took an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid, two small glasses, and a small jar of raw peppercorns from his desk’s lower drawer. Then he poured the liquid in the glasses, dropped two large peppercorns in each, and handed one over. He held up his glass.

  ‘To new times’ sake,’ Vargunin said pointedly.

  Borovsky grinned. It was said that only problem drinkers don’t toast - and both men had seen ample proof of that among their comrades over the years - so he raised his glass, too. Both threw the vodka deep into their throats, but only Borovsky choked, coughed, and slapped the desktop.

  Vargunin simply laughed.

  ‘At least distilling has been improved,’ Borovsky managed to choke out. ‘Why do you still insist on drinking “two balls”?’

  The balls were the peppercorns, used for millennia to soak up the poisons from regional vodka. The good stuff had always been exported, leaving the rotgut like this to the residents.

  ‘To me,’ Vargunin answered, ‘it always reminds me of my lost youth.’

  Borovsky smiled wistfully. ‘Good times.’

  ‘Good times, indeed.’ Vargunin began to put away the drinking paraphernalia. ‘You have to admit that this battery acid is, at least, an improvement.’

  Borovsky nodded. It was time to get down to business. ‘All right, my friend. Now that you’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to kill me, bring me up to date on things.’

  ‘Gelb and Klopov,’ Vargunin said as he reached for a file. ‘Cops on the take, but they only seemed to be out for themselves. Petty stuff, mostly. Links to the underworld were never fully established, nor had they ever received administrative penalties.’

  ‘Yes, and somehow they managed to pass the new qualification tests.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, my friend,’ he told Borovsky. ‘They might not have been great officers, but they were cunning and resourceful in their own ways. They had learned a lot about how to protect themselves on the street.’

  Borovsky nodded. ‘Which is why I was a bit surprised to hear that one was in the hospital and one was in the morgue. What has Klopov told you?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s still in a coma.’

  ‘Expected to recover?’

  Vargunin shrugged. ‘Circumstantial evidence suggests a clash between the two officers and a local sect of the RNU led by Pavel Okecka.’

  ‘What has he told you?’

  ‘Also nothing.’

  ‘Coma?’

  ‘Close. Severe shock. He was found with his face collapsed and his memory gone.’

  ‘So there are no clues.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Vargunin said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Back in the day, what was it that I always said?’

  ‘You said many things, most of them complaints,’ Borovsky noted.

  ‘True, but I also said: The absence of evidence is sometimes a clue.’ Vargunin leaned back in his chair. ‘The crime scene did not look like a normal brawl. In fact, the lack of evidence tells me it was more than that. It tells me someone messed with the crime scene.’

  Borovsky grimaced in surprise. ‘Someone messed with the crime scene?’

  Vargunin nodded. ‘The clash was violent. No one falls down holding their weapons, other than clowns who collide in the center ring.’

  ‘How violent was it?’

  Vargunin checked the paperwork. ‘Two men dead - Officer Gelb and a local member of the RNU - both from blunt force trauma.’

  ‘I know about Officer Gelb,’ Borovsky stated. ‘Tell me about the other one.’

  ‘Marko Kadurik, a local troublemaker. Nothing major of note, but he was questioned in connection with a disappearance. A man named Dobrev.’

  Borovsky arched his brow. ‘Dobrev? As in Andrei Dobrev?’

  Vargunin looked over with interest. ‘No. His grandson, Yury. He disappeared about a year ago.’ He paused for a moment, waiting for an explanation from his old friend. When none was offered, he asked the obvious. ‘How do you know Andrei?’

  ‘Our paths have crossed at a function or two. Is he involved?’

  Vargunin referenced his paperwork. ‘It seems that this incident took place in front of his apartment building. Coincidence?’

  ‘If it is, it’s unfortunate for Andrei,’ Borovsky answered. ‘What did he have to say about the matter?’

  Vargunin glanced at his notes. ‘He has yet to be located.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  Vargunin studied his friend’s face for any clues, then returned his eyes to the report. ‘Little more to say. Officer Klopov is in a coma, and the surviving neo-Nazis all have broken skulls and severe concussions. They are all, for the want of a better word, uncommunicative.’ He snapped the report closed, then looked back up at Borovsky. ‘The doctors say that the odds are even that the survivors won’t remember the attack.’

  ‘If they wake at all.’

  Vargunin nodded. ‘If they wake at all.’

  ‘Who’s the supervising officer on the case?’

  Vargunin checked the paperwork. ‘Sergeant Rusinko. Anna Rusinko.’

  Borovsky’s reaction was immediate. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  Vargunin was a bit taken aback by Borovsky’s urgency, but he immediately responded. ‘Of course.’

  The colonel may have been an old friend, but he was still Vargunin’s superior - by quite a few steps up the ladder of command. The warrant officer leaned over to activate the intercom.

  Borovsky interrupted. ‘I wish to see her in person.’

  Vargunin stopped in mid-click. ‘Of course.’

  The two men left Vargunin’s office and headed past the road safety office, the organized crime unit, the white-collar crime desk, and several other units. Workers moved briskly through the hallway because they knew a superior officer was coming; word spread ahead like a shockwave, informed by whispers, gestures, and veteran instincts that detected a change in the atmosphere in the building. Of course, some of the police officers were actually working hard and fast. Mostly the younger recruits, the ones who had their eyes on the jobs of the sluggish veterans, like great apes sensing frailty in the alpha male.

  The two men stopped at the morning briefing. It took place in the station’s central booking area, in front of a white wall. The officers were lined up in their multi-pocketed, olive-colored uniforms: black, military-style boots; black berets with new Russian Police insignia; and side arms. They were taking notes on pads as the duty officer read off the day’s assignments.

  ‘Once again we have been alerted to a possible caravan of black market materials traveling through our region,’ said the buzz-cut duty officer in his red-and-blue-billed hat, light blue shirt, and gray pants. ‘This caravan could include anything from passports to electronics to plutonium, so be on special watch for any vehicles that seem suspicious.’

  ‘Plutonium?’
Borovsky murmured to his companion.

  ‘Unlikely,’ Vargunin replied in hushed tones before shrugging. ‘But you never know. The one day we don’t say that will be the day some Chechen decides to irradiate the Kremlin.’

  ‘Has there been a drill paper on that?’

  ‘We haven’t done any preparedness checklists on things we probably can’t prevent,’ he admitted. ‘We just send our people out with Geiger counters and hope for the best.’

  29

  On the outside, the train cars looked plain, even a little drab.

  Inside, however, was a different matter.

  They entered the first car, which had been cannibalized from an old Grand Express train. The eleven square windows on each side were individually curtained in red and gold. Two lighting fixtures ran parallel to each other across the length of the ceiling, divided by a burnished wood panel that was dotted with TV screens that could swing down.

  The seats had been gutted, and an elaborate, L-shaped desk and workstation had been installed on the deep red, wall-to-wall carpet. The farthest section of the carriage had tables and couches for anything the team might require.

  Papineau was at the desk, staring at a computer screen while a sleek earpiece glowed in his ear. The telltale blue light let everyone know that he was on the phone, performing his latest miracle in foreign bureaucracy. Meanwhile, Garcia sat at the workstation, with McNutt leaning over his shoulder. They were staring at what appeared to be a videogame cutscene - a computer animation that bridges two game segments with backstory. But once Cobb approached, he saw that it was an eye-tearing series of fast-action chases along hyper-realistic railroad tracks.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cobb asked.

  Without turning his face from the screen, Garcia explained. ‘It’s a program I just finished. It tracks every possible route a gold train could take from Moscow in 1917. I interfaced maps of that period with satellite images from today. My program converts that information to point-of-view graphics. If all goes well, we will figure out the treasure train’s original route and, topographically speaking, know exactly what is ahead of us at all times.’