Eventually, McNutt got fed up.
‘Fuck this,’ he growled.
Before anyone could stop him, McNutt opened fire, unloading the entire fifty-round magazine of the submachine gun into the cabin of the nearest car.
When the temporary fog caused by the hot muzzle flare finally melted away, they could see the aftermath of McNutt’s assault: numerous holes had been torn into the side of the car.
Holes that revealed the faintest glint of metal.
Jasmine hustled forward to inspect the damage McNutt had caused - and the metal he had revealed. To the best of her knowledge, seats from Prince Felix’s era were made of wood, covered in soft padding and leather to cushion the ride. But the gunfire had proven that these seats had been shaped from something shiny.
Something that twinkled in the soft light of the cavern.
‘Guys, what would you do if you were a Russian soldier who wanted to keep his treasure safe until the revolution was suppressed?’ Jasmine didn’t wait for the others to answer. ‘You would hide it in plain sight!’
Sarah stepped forward and brought out a switchblade. She quickly cut across the top of the seat nearest them. She pointed her flashlight down and gold reflected back.
‘Holy shit!’ she shrieked in sudden realization.
Then she looked for someone to hug.
She grabbed Jasmine excitedly. The two of them were quickly wrapped up by McNutt in a massive bear hug, a split second before Garcia joined the party. Then the four of them jumped up and down in unison, long before they had a chance to do the math.
Each seat concealed a layer of gold bars - bars that they estimated weighed twenty pounds each. Each layer consisted of three rows of twelve across. That meant thirty-six bars in each seat, with ten seats in each row, and two rows in each of the three cars.
Two thousand, one hundred, and sixty bars of solid, untraceable gold.
Gold that had never been reclaimed because the revolution succeeded. Gold that simply sat there because the handful of men who had hidden it had died in the bloodbath that followed the tsar’s abdication.
Jasmine turned to the group. ‘What now?’
Three smiles beamed back at her.
‘The US is that way,’ McNutt said, ‘with a long, unguarded coastline. Chekov, plot us a course for home.’
‘With pleasure,’ Garcia replied.
Sarah wrapped her arms around the men’s shoulders. ‘And it just so happens I know this whaler in Port Spencer who owes me a favor …’
* * *
Cobb’s expectations deflated the moment he pushed through the double doors into the lobby. The place was literally in ruins. Scaffolding stood next to every wall, where hundreds of spackled holes dotted the paneling all the way to the ceiling. The marble floor was pockmarked with tiny cracks and fissures. A stretch of plywood, hastily covered with a roll of plush, maroon carpet, led guests to the inner halls, a branch spurring off toward the registration desk.
Peering deeper inside, Cobb saw a large, marble fountain in the middle of a towering atrium. The water no longer flowed from the top spout, and Cobb could see where bullets had damaged the walls of the pool.
Determined to hear the story behind whatever he had missed, he stopped the first member of the hotel staff that crossed his path.
‘Hey, what the hell happened here?’ Cobb asked.
The preoccupied concierge did a double take before he could manage a response. ‘Oh, Mr Cobb,’ he finally offered. ‘Please, right this way. We’ve been expecting you.’ With that, he returned to the front desk, motioning for Cobb to follow.
The young employee stood behind the desk, staring at his computer screen and clicking his mouse repeatedly. ‘I’m terribly sorry about the renovations,’ he said as he typed. ‘Things around here have been very interesting lately. Who knew an air conditioner explosion could cause so much damage? Thank God that no one was hurt.’
That’s bullshit, Cobb thought. He had seen enough firefights to know the damage caused by bullets and flying shrapnel. There might have been an explosion, but it definitely wasn’t an air conditioner. More like an anti-personnel mine or a grenade.
But it wasn’t the lie that bothered him.
‘Did you say you’ve been expecting me?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ the concierge replied. ‘We’ve got you … ah! Right here.’ The concierge looked up at Cobb and offered him an envelope. His name had been neatly printed on the front, and a copy of his driver’s license photo had been paper-clipped to the corner. ‘We’ve got you in the Imperial Suite. It has a great view of the lake. I hope that will be satisfactory.’
‘You’ve been expecting me?’ Cobb asked again. ‘For how long?’
The concierge glanced back down to his monitor. ‘The reservation was made on …’ His face scrunched into a curious frown. ‘Well that’s odd. The date is missing, and so is the name of the patron who made the reservation. But your suite is definitely in the system.’ He looked up at Cobb. ‘Perhaps it’s explained in the letter?’ He nodded toward the envelope that Cobb still had not taken from the counter.
Cobb picked up the envelope and stepped aside. He ripped it open as he tried to piece things together. Inside, he found a room key and a single, typewritten page.
Mr Cobb,
Welcome to Switzerland. Please stay as long as you’d like.
Bill all of your local expenses to the hotel.
All my best.
PS - Try to enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.
Epilogue
Same Day
Palace of the Parliament
Bucharest, Romania
Maurice Copeland was led to a lavishly appointed sitting room buried deep in the bowels of the Romanian government’s central headquarters. One of more than 1,100 rooms spread over nearly eighty-five acres, the space included several suede couches and chairs, as well as heavy, polished oak tables. The marble-topped bar in the corner and the accompanying racks displayed only the finest wines and spirits. A magnificent crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with portraits of the Romanian ruling families - not only those that came after the country’s independence, but dating as far back as the fourteenth century.
Copeland, a South African who had made his fortune in America, sensed that this was not a room frequented by outsiders. This was a place reserved for the back-room conversations of Romania’s highest authorities. A place where they could feel safe and converse in private about matters with which the general public would not - should not - concern itself. He smiled. Given his purpose in being there, it was the perfect setting.
‘Nicolai will be with you shortly,’ the aide related before closing the door behind him as he left the room.
There was neither small talk nor an invitation for Copeland to make himself at home. This wasn’t a social call. It was business. Nevertheless, Copeland chose a sofa and sat down. He spread his arms wide and rested his hands on the farthest ends of the overstuffed cushions supporting his back. He knew he would not be alone for long.
Impeccably dressed in a custom-made suit, Copeland thought of his subordinate, Jean-Marc Papineau. The Frenchman had once again proven his worth on this mission. After a decade of faithful service, Copeland had few doubts about Papineau’s abilities to handle the day-to-day details of a complex operation. It was this faith that allowed Copeland to avoid the spotlight until victory was at hand. Unlike most men of extraordinary wealth, Copeland preferred to work in the shadows, protected behind a curtain of anonymity like the great and powerful Oz.
The only time that Copeland surfaced was to claim his bounty.
And this was one of those times.
Copeland remained seated when Nicolai Emilian entered the room. While most people would immediately bounce to attention out of respect for the Romanian diplomat, Copeland did not feel intimidated by or inferior to this man in any way. They were trading partners, each using the other as a means to an end.
‘
Nicky,’ Copeland began, ‘I was hoping El Presidente would be joining me.’
Emilian forced a smile. ‘Maurice, you know that every precaution must be taken in matters such as this. He must be … insulated from any direct knowledge of your activities.’
‘But he does know what we’ve been up to?’ Copeland asked, prying.
‘He knows everything he needs to know,’ Emilian answered cryptically. He walked across the room to the bar and poured two glasses of Glenfiddich 1937, one of the world’s rarest bottles of Scotch. He handed one to Copeland, who nodded his appreciation.
Emilian raised his glass. ‘To a job almost done.’
Copeland smirked and nodded in understanding. ‘I trust you’re satisfied with the delivery of everything thus far?’
It had been seventeen days since Papineau, acting on Copeland’s behalf, had supervised the return of the items they had found in the Carpathian Mountains back into the hands of the Romanian government. With the help of a modern train engine, Papineau’s crew of armed guards had taken the treasure from the town of Choban to the capital of Romania.
‘Where’s the rest?’ Emilian demanded.
Copeland’s smile belied the efforts he knew lay ahead. It would take him a few weeks to transport the treasure from the Bering Strait tunnel to Alaska, across Canada to Newfoundland, and finally to Eastern Europe. There it would be transferred to a nondescript, though heavily guarded storage facility on the far side of Bucharest - all under the watchful eye of the Brigada Anti-Tero a SRI, the Romanian Special Forces.
‘I assure you,’ Copeland said, ‘everything is underway. I would not have called this meeting without confirmation from my team that they had found the remaining gold.’
‘To be delivered when?’
Copeland chuckled. ‘Nicky, you must have faith. These things take time. An eighteen-carat-gold bracelet can be smuggled in a variety of ways. But eighteen tons of gold bars are a little more difficult to conceal.’
‘To be honest,’ Emilian replied, ‘I thought it would be slightly more.’
‘Slightly more than a billion dollars?’ Copeland chuckled. ‘Perhaps you didn’t account for operating expenses? No one works for free.’
‘What’s a hundred million between friends? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Copeland replied. ‘If that’s what we’re calling ourselves.’
Emilian grimaced. He set down his drink and placed his briefcase on the coffee table in front of Copeland. ‘Always an eye on business. That is what I like about you.’ He spun the briefcase so that the latches faced Copeland. ‘Please,’ he offered, extending his hand as an invitation to Copeland to open the briefcase.
Copeland moved to the edge of his seat. His hands were nearly trembling as he unlocked the clasps and raised the lid. As he lifted the soft cloth covering the object inside, his poker face slowly melted into a wide grin.
The first of the legendary Pieces of Eight!
If Emilian could have read the rest of Copeland’s thoughts, he would have understood that $1,000,000,000 was a bargain trade for the item he had been casually storing in his old briefcase for the last week. Yes, Copeland first had to secure the remaining seven artifacts, but the mere existence of this first piece gave credence to the legend. Once the collection was complete, Copeland would have everything he needed to pursue the ultimate prize: a treasure of immeasurable value and incalculable worth.
Beaming, Copeland calmly shut the case and reengaged the locks.
Emilian stood. ‘I believe this concludes today’s exchange. I trust you can find your way out.’
Copeland stood and extended his hand. ‘Certainly.’
Emilian shook Copeland’s hand. As he did, Emilian noticed the ring on Copeland’s finger. It was Rasputin’s ring, the gift the Mad Monk had been given by the tsarina, the one he had worn in his coffin for the last century.
‘You did find him!’ For the first time, Emilian’s eyes were bright with excitement.
‘I did indeed,’ Copeland assured him, his smile fading into a stern expression. ‘I assume you’re interested in his safe return. Isn’t that right, starets?’
Copeland had known of Emilian’s association with the Black Robes from the start. He never entered into an arrangement without first conducting an exhaustive investigation into his consorts and confederates.
Emilian’s face tightened in anger, but his eyes betrayed his true emotions.
‘Name your price.’
Copeland grinned. He had just the thing in mind.
* * *
Confused, exhausted, and in desperate need of a shower, Cobb accepted the free room, even if he didn’t know who had extended the invitation.
Simply put, it was the most impressive hotel room he had ever seen. King-sized bed. Seventy-inch widescreen television. A steam room, bigger than most New York City apartments And the concierge had undersold him on the view. It wasn’t great. It was breathtaking. For a man accustomed to cramped barracks and seventh-floor walk-ups, it was Eden. Give him a cold beer and a rare steak, and he might never leave.
The phone on the bedside table rang at a quarter of eight. Cobb had just closed his eyes and was contemplating how much the hotel had spent on the linens. He knew little of thread counts or Egyptian cotton, but he did know they were the softest sheets he had ever felt. On the second ring, his training overrode his natural desire for rest, and he reached for the phone.
‘Hello?’ he asked.
‘Good evening, Mr Cobb.’ It was the concierge he had met earlier. ‘I trust you find the room to your liking?’
‘It’s okay, I guess.’
‘Excellent,’ the concierge replied, picking up on Cobb’s sarcasm. ‘I am calling to remind you of your dinner reservation. Le Chat-Botte. Eight o’clock. Table for two.’
‘Le Chat-Bo-what?’ Cobb asked.
‘Le Chat-Botte,’ the concierge repeated. ‘It’s our restaurant, right here in the hotel. Five-star, I assure you. Simply exquisite cuisine.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Cobb agreed. He sat up in bed and rolled his neck, knowing that his nap would have to wait. ‘Listen, I assume I’m going to need a jacket, so I’m going to need a jacket.’
‘One has already been arranged,’ the concierge confirmed.
Of course it has, Cobb thought.
‘A lovely, charcoal two-button from Yves Saint-Laurent. I shall have it sent to your room immediately.’
‘As long as it looks good with jeans,’ Cobb joked.
* * *
At five minutes after eight, Cobb entered Le Chat-Botte and was directed to a table in the far corner of the restaurant. His dinner companion had already arrived.
Cobb was carrying a pistol at both his ankle and his waist.
He was prepared for anything.
However, the only weapon the man at the table looked like he knew how to wield was a fork. He was a round man, with a thick, brown beard that covered his multiple chins. He was impeccably dressed, with a silk handkerchief tucked into his collar to keep the oysters he was slurping from dripping onto his tailored suit. A $1,500 bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti 1997 sat uncorked on the table. The first glass he had poured was now almost empty.
Still, Cobb approached the table with caution.
The round man put down his wine and stood to great him.
‘Mr Cobb, I presume?’
Cobb was momentarily stunned.
Wait a second. He doesn’t know who I am.
How can that be?
But Cobb kept his composure. ‘And you are?’
‘Petr Ulster, at your service,’ the man replied. ‘Please, sit.’
As they took their seats across the table from one another, Cobb tried to make head or tail of the situation.
‘Petr Ulster,’ Cobb repeated. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
The portly man grimaced with confusion. ‘Of the Ulster Archives …?’
‘Keep going,’ Cobb pressed.
>
Ulster sat back in his chair and smiled. ‘I am Petr Ulster, director of the Ulster Archives. It is the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world. Second to none.’
‘Director, eh?’ Cobb repeated. ‘I guess I have you to thank for the room.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Ulster answered. ‘Though we do owe someone a huge debt of thanks. I have stayed here many a night over the years, and I know how much the rooms and meals cost - especially when I’m eating. I will happily let someone else cover the expense this time.’
Cobb’s mind raced with possibilities. Although he was reluctant to admit his confusion, Cobb sensed the best way to get answers from Ulster was to ask him direct questions. ‘If you’re not paying for our rooms, who is? And what are we here to do?’
‘As for who is ultimately responsible for our meeting, I, like you, have not been told.’ Ulster’s chins jiggled as he smiled. ‘But I can help you with the rest.’
Ulster leaned forward and poured his new friend a glass of wine.
‘Mr Cobb, we’re here to discuss your next mission.’
Author’s Note
People always ask me where I get my story ideas. Normally, I’m not sure how to answer because my real answer - my ideas develop over time during several months of tedious research and stress-induced nausea - isn’t very glamorous. But in the case of The Hunters, I can narrow it down to one specific moment.
Although I never met the man - he died six years before my birth - my great-grandfather (Jidah) grew up in a small village like the one described in this book. Not only was it nestled in the rugged terrain of the Carpathian Mountains, but it was located in the ethno-geographic blob along the Ukrainian/Romanian border that still confounds mapmakers, historians and, most importantly, me to this very day. (Not to mention Hector Garcia and his GPS.)
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