The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3)

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Besides,’ Chu said, ‘there are several Chinese sources that confirm his presence as well. After all, the Great Wall was where Marco Polo met the love of his life.’

  34

  Maggie was stunned by the professor’s claim. In all of her years as a tour guide, this was the first time she had heard it mentioned. ‘Marco Polo had a woman in China?’

  ‘Not just a woman,’ Chu stressed, ‘Yangchen was the love of his life.’

  He glanced at Cobb and smiled. ‘Her name means the sacred one – and she certainly was to him. Marco met the young Yangchen, a Chinese girl, on his way into China from the Silk Road. This was way out by the western end of the Wall near Lanzhou.’ The man pointed vaguely west, but it was understood he was talking about the other side of China.

  ‘Why have we never heard of this before?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Why indeed, Mr Cobb. Western scholars are so fond of congratulating themselves for their accomplishments and so busy reinforcing their imperialistic viewpoints that they forget there was a “rest of the world” before they discovered it. The written histories in China go back more than thirty-five hundred years. Yet from the Middle Ages onwards, Western scholars interested in Marco Polo – and anything else for that matter – have been content to dig through musty libraries and monasteries in Europe while pretending that the Chinese and the Arabs were so underdeveloped that they couldn’t read or write. The truth, of course, is very different. While successive wars and invasions decimated libraries in the Middle East, China’s history has been preserved. Unfortunately, there is one major problem with it.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘There is too bloody much of it,’ Chu said with a laugh.

  Cobb smiled in understanding.

  Compared to China, America was just a baby.

  ‘Too bloody much,’ Chu repeated. ‘Several thousand years of history recorded by several thousand bureaucrats, who note every little detail that happens in government on the national and local levels. Combine that with folklore, superstition, songs, poetry, and the like, and it quickly gets overwhelming.’ The old man stopped walking and turned to face them. ‘It’s just too much information for any one person to consume in a single lifetime.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Cobb admitted.

  ‘In the not-too-distant past, you had to study everything to be a scholar. But somewhere along the line, people began to specialize – just as I have with my studies of the Wall. But you see, the folly in that is you don’t see the big picture. Are you familiar with the story of the blind men describing an elephant? One touches its leg and says it feels like a tree stump. One touches its tail and says it feels like a rope. The last one touches its ear and says it feels like a fan. Eventually the three men come to blows over their wildly different perspectives, and yet none of them are technically wrong. The problem is they can’t see the whole animal.’

  Cobb was familiar with the parable, but smiled nonetheless.

  Chu continued. ‘Scholars are like that now. Polo specialists read the early editions of his book, and they argue over silly things like whether or not he came to China. But how many of them ever did so? How many of them took the time to track down imperial court records from the time of Kublai Khan to confirm Polo’s stories? Maybe a handful. And those that did were expecting Polo’s appearance to be likened to the arrival of a foreign king – described with pageantry and grandeur. When they found nothing matching their preconceived Western notions, they returned home and claimed that Polo never set foot in China.’

  ‘But …’ Cobb said.

  ‘But the truth was Marco was simply a merchant when he arrived; barely a footnote in the eyes of China. He was not the figure that he is today.’

  ‘But still a footnote, right? I mean, he was mentioned, wasn’t he?’

  Chu smiled. ‘Yes, he was. Many times.’

  ‘In what context?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘In many contexts,’ Chu assured her, ‘though not always by name. To find evidence of him in China, a researcher would have to focus on Polo, and the time period, and the bureaucracy of the day. I only know about it from reading up on the Wall during that era.’

  Maggie pressed the issue. ‘What can you tell us about his connection with the Wall? Or this woman?’

  ‘Only that the two were intertwined. Beyond that, I’m afraid the details escape me. I came across Polo several decades ago, but I wasn’t particularly interested in him at the time.’ He tapped his temple with his index finger. ‘Luckily for you, I do remember that the records I was looking at were from the court of Kublai Khan.’

  ‘Any records in particular?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, no. But the time period you are concerned with is fairly small. Less than twenty years. And the other details were mostly dull observations. Ledgers declaring how much grain was being stored for the winter. That sort of thing. I suspect you’ll be able to find what you are after – if you can get to the records.’

  ‘If?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘The records passed from Peking University to the State Administration for Cultural Heritage sometime in the 1980s. They’re not on display at any museums, or I would have heard about it. Most likely they are in storage somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere? Could you narrow that down for us at all?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ the old man said. ‘There are hundreds of storage facilities all over China, which is one of the biggest problems facing researchers today. Remember, we are talking about thousands of years of history packed away in boxes and crates. To know which documents are being kept where, you’d have to be a genius.’

  ‘Thankfully,’ Cobb said, ‘I have one of those on retainer.’

  35

  Sunday, April 6

  Panyu, Guangdong Province

  (1,175 miles south of Beijing)

  Despite the fertile soil of the Pearl River Delta, Panyu is known more for factories than farming. A former suburb of Guangzhou, the expansive urban sprawl has effectively consumed Panyu, folding it into a megalopolis that continues to grow. More than sixty million people reside in the region, making it one of the most densely urbanized areas in the world.

  The tightly packed population of the delta was a double-edged sword. Cobb knew that people in large cities often kept to themselves, but he also realized that distinct faces stood out in a crowd. Here, his chiseled American features would stick out like a sore thumb – especially if he visited the same spot twice.

  In his mind, a rekky was simply too risky.

  ‘Lorenzo, are you sure this is the right place?’ McNutt asked as he peered down at the warehouse from a hillside overlooking the industrial neighborhood.

  Garcia grinned from the safety of his suite at the Westin a few miles away. McNutt had yet to call the computer whiz by his proper name, and he had all but given up correcting him. At this point, the teasing actually made Garcia feel more accepted.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Garcia replied.

  Garcia had found the facility, and a brief description of the artifacts housed inside, by hacking into the database of the State Administration for Cultural Heritage. The SACH, as it was known, was a subsidiary of the Ministry of Culture responsible for the management of China’s museums, including the cataloging of the country’s historical relics.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure,’ Garcia continued. ‘The site didn’t list the exact info we were looking for, but Maggie agreed that it’s our best target.’

  ‘Pretty sure?’ McNutt repeated. ‘Now he tells us.’

  McNutt wasn’t complaining. He had covered countless incursions, and as far as vantage points were concerned the warehouse was nearly perfect. It had been built at the base of one of the few protected nature parks that remained in the city and from his hiding place on the wooded slope McNutt had full view of the warehouse, the surrounding neighborhood, and the highway that encircled both. He could protect the team’s entrance and their escape, just as long as they stayed
within the two-thousand-yard range of his custom-made EDM Arms Windrunner: the present he had purchased for himself during their visit to Hong Kong.

  Cobb interrupted them. ‘Josh, are you in position?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ McNutt replied.

  They were using a sophisticated communications set that utilized tiny buds placed in the inner-ear canal and a thin film with an embedded microphone that had been attached to each team member’s molars. Garcia had tweaked the software to filter out both mouth noises and background hiss, and he had boosted the level of encryption to such degree that every hacker at the NSA would grow old and die before cracking it – or so he claimed. As a result, Cobb felt comfortable using their real names on the operation.

  ‘And ladies,’ Cobb said, encouraging Sarah and Maggie to finish the radio check, ‘how are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Reading you loud and clear,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Maggie added.

  ‘Last chance for “no-go”,’ Cobb instructed. It was military-speak to let them know that any of them could call off the mission if they felt that something was wrong. All they had to do was speak up.

  The radio channel was silent.

  ‘We’re go on Sarah’s lead,’ Cobb said.

  ‘Approaching now,’ Sarah replied.

  McNutt dropped the binoculars and pressed the scope of his rifle to his face. He didn’t have eyes on Cobb, but he took that as a good sign. He reasoned that if he couldn’t see Cobb, it was unlikely anyone else could either.

  Sarah and Maggie drove to the warehouse in an inconspicuous Mercedes A-class hatchback that Papineau had chosen because of its ubiquity throughout the region. They parked the Mercedes behind a small outbuilding across the street from the main warehouse and immediately exited the vehicle. The pair walked purposefully toward the building, their confident strides giving off an air that they belonged there. Even their attire failed to attract attention.

  The women were both dressed in the new dark uniforms Sarah had put together. The fabric was designed to absorb light, but the material could pass as eveningwear instead of tactical clothing. Despite their chic appearance, the trousers concealed several hidden pockets that held first aid and survival gear. Their tops had been constructed with built-in holsters for their 9 mm handguns and sheaths for their ceramic, T-handled knives. The outfits were complemented with all-purpose boots that also fit the style of well-moneyed tourists.

  ‘Going in,’ Sarah said.

  McNutt watched as she made short work of the front door’s lock. A moment later, the women disappeared into the warehouse. He turned his attention to the facility grounds, then continued outward to the surrounding buildings. It was his job to warn the others if anyone approached. He switched his scope to night-vision mode, hoping to illuminate the shadows. When he still saw nothing, he activated the scope’s infrared capabilities and looked for the heat signatures of anyone who might be lurking nearby.

  He spotted Cobb for the first time that night.

  The team leader was resting against the wall of a bus stop canopy roughly one hundred feet from the warehouse entrance, on the other side of the street. He held a map of Guangdong in one hand, keeping the other hand free for the Glock that McNutt knew he had strapped under his shirt. If anyone approached the warehouse from his direction, it was Cobb’s job to run interference.

  McNutt watched as Cobb subtly adjusted the bud in his ear.

  ‘How we doing in there?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘This place is pathetic,’ Sarah answered. ‘I opened the lock on the front door in two seconds, and that’s the only security we’ve found. No cameras. No guards. Nothing. Maggie could have kicked in the door and done this job without me. The place is all boxes on shelves with Chinese characters and numbers. You know that last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark? It’s like that. The shelves run on forever.’

  ‘Stay cautious,’ Cobb warned. ‘You never know what’s around the next corner. Until you find the manifest, stay radio silent—’

  ‘I found the manifest,’ Maggie interrupted.

  Garcia chuckled at the timing. ‘Can you translate it?’

  This time, Garcia didn’t have access to a live feed of what they were seeing. That would’ve required an active laptop to stream the Bluetooth connection from the cameras in their eyewear, and Garcia didn’t want to risk leaving a computer in the car unattended.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie answered. ‘It’s all numbered descriptions. Just give me a few minutes.’

  She fell silent as she flipped through the pages of the printed ledger, which were filled with cramped Chinese characters etched in a careful scrawl.

  The book was over five hundred pages thick.

  She had her work cut out for her.

  * * *

  After nearly ten minutes of silence, Papineau’s patience was wearing thin. Like Garcia, he had been listening from the hotel suite, but even in his posh surroundings he was growing uncomfortable.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  Maggie finally filled them in. ‘We’re looking for two boxes. I’ve got the identification numbers; we just need to find them.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Sarah added.

  Cobb knew she was talking about the seemingly endless rows of shelving that she had described earlier. ‘How much time?’

  ‘No way to say for sure,’ she admitted. ‘Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen?’

  Cobb watched as a patrol car cruised down the road toward him. It slowed slightly as it neared the outbuilding, then came to a stop as the men inside noticed the parked Mercedes.

  ‘Sorry ladies,’ Cobb said, ‘but you don’t have that much time.’

  36

  Sarah and Maggie moved quickly through the warehouse, checking the markers for each row as they ran. Fortunately, what the facility lacked in modernization was more than made up for in organization. Each section of the space had been assigned a numeric label, and each box within that space had been further identified with a unique stamp. Every object was perfectly catalogued, with a place for everything and everything in its place.

  Sarah wondered if the artifacts themselves had been tagged with barcodes.

  She would find out soon enough.

  Maggie suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. ‘There,’ she said as she pointed at a pair of boxes collecting dust on a shelf. ‘That’s what we’re after.’

  ‘Jack, did you copy?’ Sarah asked. ‘Maggie found the boxes.’

  ‘How big are they?’ Cobb asked.

  Sarah stepped forward and took note of the size. ‘A little bigger than a shoebox. Why?’

  Cobb didn’t give her an answer.

  * * *

  Cobb watched as the two men from the patrol car stepped out of their vehicle and walked cautiously toward the Mercedes. ‘Hector, talk to me.’

  ‘I’m not getting any radio chatter from the police band,’ Garcia said in his ear. ‘Looks like a genuine patrol. They’re not responding to a call, at least. I can’t understand what they’re saying on the radio, but the voices are all calm and bored.’

  ‘Stand down, Josh,’ Cobb instructed. ‘Let me see if I can work this out.’ Cobb didn’t want anyone to get shot just for doing his job, but he knew that McNutt wouldn’t hesitate to drop the unexpected visitors if it meant protecting the team.

  ‘Copy that, chief. But I’m here if you need me.’

  Cobb knew his sniper was zeroed in, the crosshairs of his scope tracking the patrolmen’s every move. He stepped away from the bus stop and waved his map like a flag. ‘Hey there! Hey, officers!’ Cobb called out with a phony drunken slur to his voice. He ambled across the road toward the warehouse, staggering like a drunkard.

  The men abandoned the Mercedes and headed straight for him.

  ‘Jack just bought you some extra time,’ McNutt informed the women.

  ‘How?’ Sarah wondered.

  McNutt watched closely. ‘I think he’s pretending to be me.’

  Cobb spread the map on t
he ground in the middle of the street, luring the patrolmen in for a closer look. ‘You’re just who I was looking for. Can you give a guy directions? I think there’s something wrong with my map. It’s in Chinese.’

  He wobbled as he spoke, then flailed his arms wildly as he pretended to catch his balance. In actuality, he used the move to lift his shirt and expose the grip of the semi-automatic pistol he had holstered in the rear of his waistband.

  Just in case.

  * * *

  Sarah peeled open the seal on the first box with one of the tools in her burglary arsenal. Some girls never left home without lip gloss; Sarah rarely went anywhere without lock picks and a pocket knife. She lifted the lid and peeked inside.

  ‘Loose-leaf documents, a couple of bound notebooks, and a book,’ she announced. She opened the second box and reported its contents as well. ‘More of the same.’

  Maggie rifled through the collection. ‘I can’t translate all of this right now. Even if I hurried, I might not catch what we’re looking for. I need to be thorough.’

  ‘Just take it,’ Papineau ordered. ‘Take all of it.’

  Sarah didn’t need to be told twice. From one of her pockets she withdrew a small folded piece of fabric. With a snap of her wrist, the compact square unfurled into a pouch. After dumping the entire contents of the first box into the bag, she threw her arms through the handles and swung the satchel over her shoulders like a backpack.

  When she was done, she pulled an identical bag from Maggie’s pocket and emptied the second box. In less than a minute, the haul was secured and the boxes resealed. The missing layer of dust was the only evidence that anyone had tampered with the collection.

  ‘Done and done,’ Sarah announced. ‘We’re on the move.’

  * * *

  As the men from the patrol car drew closer, they started shouting in Cantonese.

  ‘Sorry, fellas,’ Cobb replied, ‘I have no idea what you’re saying. I’m just trying to find my way back to Guangzee … Guangzow? … Gesundheit?’

  Maggie translated their response in his ear. ‘They said, “What are you doing here? Show us your papers. You have no right to be here.”’