The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3)

by Chris Kuzneski

  Maggie, still finding her footing, paused to gather her thoughts.

  Sarah found her indecision troubling. ‘Is it possible that you’re seeing things that aren’t actually there? I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, but I know from our previous missions that treasure has a way of messing with your head. Trust me, all of us have been there. You start making up crazy theories to fit the facts, all in hopes of finding the pot of gold.’

  Sarah glanced at Cobb, who subtly shook his head.

  Now wasn’t the time to add more pressure.

  Maggie considered the question for an uncomfortable moment while the others remained silent. ‘Yes, I guess it is possible. Remember, I’m giving my opinion here. We don’t have a clear roadmap to follow, so all we’re left with are my impressions and interpretation of events. That said, I have a possible location after my reading – but all I have to back it up is a hunch.’

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ Sarah said, ‘I’m happier putting my faith in your hunch than on all the guesses that the rest of us could come up with. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the expert.’

  Cobb smiled warmly at Sarah.

  It was the right thing to say, whether she meant it or not.

  Maggie beamed. ‘Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate your confidence in me. Unfortunately, the area that I’m thinking of is one of the most politically turbulent areas in Asia. We can get in, but we are sure to face several issues with security.’

  Papineau opened a bottle of water and poured some into a glass.

  He didn’t like the sound of her initial warning.

  She continued. ‘Polo mentioned – and the scribes recorded – many of the travels he undertook as a diplomat for the Khan. He traveled far and wide across China and the neighboring kingdoms. He claimed he was always impressed by the people and the cultures he encountered, and the scribes recorded his enthusiasm. He is recognized as being very progressive for the time, keeping an open mind about the unusual sights and practices he encountered. Still, by this point in his journey, I feel Polo was evaluating potential hiding places for the wealth he had accumulated. Of all the places Polo mentioned in Lanzhou, he seemed most impressed with the people he found in the region we call Xizang today. Besides Taiwan, it’s the biggest cauldron of raw feelings and political animosity in all of China.’

  ‘And where is Xizang?’ Cobb asked.

  Garcia’s fingers were a blur on his laptop. As soon as Maggie mentioned the name, he had started looking for a map of the region to put on the TV. But his efforts screeched to a halt when he realized which part of China she was talking about it.

  ‘Oh crap,’ he said as all eyes turned to him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Cobb demanded.

  ‘Xizang is the Chinese name for Tibet.’

  41

  Papineau stood quietly and opened the window for some fresh air. The sounds of Tokyo drifted up into the room as a chaotic but subdued din. It was raining outside, but the balcony from the room above kept any water from coming into the suite.

  ‘What’s the problem with Tibet anyway?’ McNutt asked. ‘Monks, yaks, mountains. I saw a documentary once. Buddhist people. What’s not to like?’

  ‘Tibet is a political hot potato,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s now firmly a part of China, but it used to be a separate country. The whole region that used to be independent Tibet is the size of Alaska and Texas combined. That would make it the world’s tenth largest nation. In 1951, Chinese communist forces invaded the then-sovereign region and annexed it, permanently.’

  ‘Why?’ Sarah asked. ‘I was always led to believe that China didn’t like to expand because of its culture.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Maggie replied. ‘Throughout history, most Chinese believed that China was the center of the world, and everywhere else was the frontier, populated by barbarians.’

  ‘Then why did China even invade Tibet?’

  ‘The reason is as basic as you can get. They did it for water.’

  ‘Water?’ Sarah blurted.

  Garcia looked up from his computer. ‘Holy crap.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Yes, Hector. Tell them how much.’

  ‘Tibet is the source of fresh water for forty-seven percent of the world’s population,’ he said, reading from the screen of the laptop.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Maggie said. ‘When you have that much of a natural resource in the hands of a neighbor and you can justify your taking it by saying that you were simply retrieving what was once yours, you don’t ask for permission. You just move in.’

  Cobb shook his head. ‘That’s not all, though.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no,’ Maggie said. ‘The Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of Tibet, was just a boy when China invaded in 1951. He fled the country in ’59 and has been living in exile in India ever since. The communists were incensed that he escaped. They set about persecuting the Buddhist leaders, and they eventually installed their own puppet as religious leader. Worst of all, they began a secret ethnic genocide, moving Han people into Tibet in order to displace and breed out the ethnic Tibetan population.’

  McNutt sat up. ‘Seriously?’

  Maggie’s face was grave. ‘Two-hundred thousand people died in the atomic bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But close to a million Tibetans have died since China invaded. Of course, as a Chinese woman, I learned none of these things – even after the advent of the Internet – until I first traveled abroad. The region is one of the most oppressed in the world. Chinese troops have shut down ninety-nine percent of the monasteries around Tibet. Regardless of whoever attacked us in Guangzhou, we’ll also have to face the People’s Liberation Army in the capital city of Lhasa; especially around the Potala Palace. That’s the former home of the Dalai Lama and a symbol of the Buddhist faith in Tibet.’

  ‘Great,’ McNutt muttered. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘And what exactly are we looking for there?’ Sarah asked.

  Maggie shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, this is where the conjecture begins. Professor Chu told us about a young woman Polo had met and fallen in love with. Her name was Yangchen, and she was a local girl who was assigned to Polo as a tour guide. He wanted to see the remnants of the Great Wall north of Lanzhou, and she was the one who led him. At that time, the Wall had fallen into total disrepair. Most of what was standing was in ruins. It wouldn’t be until a hundred years later when serious reconstruction began.’

  ‘What do the records say about Polo?’ Sarah wondered. ‘I’ll bet a relationship between a “white ghost” and a local girl didn’t go over too well.’

  ‘Quite correct,’ Maggie said. ‘Many locals were incensed, and a few of the kinder folks tried to gently explain to Polo that their relationship would not be welcomed anywhere in China. But according to the scribes, he was determined to win over her family. By the end of his stay in the region, he was heading to Lhasa with Yangchen as his guide.’

  ‘Were they going to the palace?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Definitely not. The Potala Palace wasn’t built yet. However, there was a different temple on the same spot, and the area was still run by the monasteries of the region. If they made it to Lhasa, the monks would have mentioned Polo in their records. And if those records survived, they would be at the Potala today. At least, I think that’s where we’d find them. Again, a lot of this is guesswork.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cobb admitted. ‘We could sit here for a month debating whether anyone kept records at the Potala, or whether they’ve turned to dust over the centuries. We won’t know for sure unless we go there.’

  Papineau cleared his throat. ‘Won’t going to Tibet open us up to further attacks – especially since we don’t know who is after us?’

  ‘Maybe. But we’re not going to find the treasure in Tokyo.’

  ‘Still,’ Papineau argued, ‘if they could track us from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, isn’t it possible they will know of our arrival in Lhasa? It’s imperative that we keep a low profile. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on wh
y a team of treasure hunters blowing up another city might be cause for alarm. Another incident like Alexandria would be very bad indeed.’

  ‘First of all,’ McNutt argued, ‘we were the targets in Alexandria, so don’t blame us for that. Secondly, the bomb in Panyu was barely a firecracker. It blew up one car, not an entire city.’

  ‘What about Brighton Beach?’

  McNutt smiled. ‘Forgot about that one. Yeah, that was fun.’

  Papineau rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, if we can avoid blowing up any more of China …’

  ‘First things first,’ Cobb said. ‘If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take the Gulfstream from Japan. I’m hoping we can get in and out of Tibet before anyone notices us.’

  ‘No problem,’ Papineau said.

  Cobb looked at Garcia. ‘Hector, if the monks did keep records, I’m assuming they won’t be digitized. But don’t let that stop you. Dig around and see what you can find. I want to know what you know the minute we touch down in Tibet.’

  Garcia just nodded and tapped at his screen.

  ‘Josh,’ Cobb said, ‘can you get us armed in Lhasa?’

  ‘It’ll be tougher than Hong Kong,’ McNutt admitted. ‘It’s off the beaten path of the traditional smuggling routes. Plus, when you factor in the political upheaval in the area and combine that with the essentially peaceful Buddhists, the pickings will be slim. Even with Maggie’s translation skills, I might only be able to get us some Chinese hand-me-downs.’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Cobb said, as he headed for the door. ‘But try to get something that goes boom, too. Just to be on the safe side.’

  McNutt grinned. ‘Whatever you say, chief.’

  42

  Phoenicia Hotel

  Valletta, Malta

  Seymour Duggan sensed it was time to run.

  He hadn’t heard from any of his colleagues in almost two weeks. That wasn’t just odd, it was downright disturbing. There were certainly days that went by without a source checking in, but a week was suspicious. And two was upsetting. John Sylvester and Jerry Westbrook were trusted operatives, yet neither had reached out to him since the end of March.

  Warning bells sounded in Duggan’s mind.

  If it had been just one man, he wouldn’t have been so concerned. Covert sleuthing was a cutthroat business, and he wasn’t the only player in the game. Competitors had lured away associates of his on more than one occasion, the promise of shorter hours and larger paychecks too good to refuse. He was used to losing a person here and there; it came with the territory.

  But when every agent on a case went dark, it usually meant one thing.

  The hunted had become the hunter.

  At times like this, he could either hunker down or flee.

  Duggan had chosen the latter.

  Any doubts he had about his choice had vanished the moment he heard the hotel’s fire alarm. The sirens wailing in his ears only exacerbated the anxious buzzing in his head, reinforcing the decision to keep moving. He reasoned that the hotel’s evacuation might slow his escape, but it would also afford him some cover if his pursuers already knew his location. If they were waiting for him, this might be his only opportunity to sneak past.

  To Duggan, it was a stroke of good luck.

  He knew it was now or never.

  Duggan double-checked his pockets. His most important items – his phone, his money, and a selection of fake passports – were always on his person in a zipped inner compartment sewn into his coat. Satisfied that everything was in place, he grabbed his ‘go bag’, a stylish leather backpack that held his computer and a few days’ worth of clothing, and bolted for the door.

  Under normal circumstances he would have taken the time to carefully pack all of his belongings and wipe down the suite before he exited the hotel. He would have taken every precaution, leaving nothing that could be traced back to his real identity. But at the moment he feared that every second mattered. He needed to get ahead of whomever was coming for him.

  Besides, he was convinced that they already knew his name.

  He swung the backpack over his shoulders as he stepped into the fourth-floor hallway. Guests shuffled toward the exits at the opposite ends of the floor, guided by a bellman who continually shouted directions above the din. Even in the dead of night, the mood of the crowd was more curious than panicked, but it would still serve Duggan’s needs. He quickly waded into the flow of humanity, trying to hide himself in the confusion.

  As he reached the stairwell at the end of the hall, his confidence grew. The pace was slow, but steady, and he was surrounded on all sides by tourists with the same goal in mind: to get out of the building as safely as possible. Then he felt someone sidle up next to him.

  Not just close, too close.

  It was followed by the unmistakable pressure of a blade against the spine of his lower back.

  ‘Seymour,’ the pale man said in a hushed tone, ‘if you scream or look at my face, you’ll never walk again. One push, and you’re paralyzed for life.’

  For a fleeting moment Duggan considered challenging the man’s pledge. He imagined that if he could only separate himself by a foot, he could move clear of the man’s thrust and escape injury. He could also yell for help, and he reasoned the good Samaritans surrounding him would pummel his assailant before he could cause any harm.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be.

  The man was close enough that Duggan could suddenly feel the outline of his attacker’s revolver pressing up against him. Duggan knew that he might be able to avoid the knife, but there was no way he could dodge a bullet.

  ‘What do you want?’ Duggan asked submissively.

  ‘Not here,’ the man replied. ‘Keep walking.’

  Duggan nodded. ‘Fine. Just don’t hurt anyone.’

  When they reached the lobby, the man guided Duggan away from the hotel and into one of the small, secluded courtyards that overlooked the sea beyond the building. Duggan was ordered to sit on a bench while the assailant hovered behind him, close enough to strike but allowing enough separation to dispel any suspicion from passersby.

  For his own safety, Duggan kept his eyes focused on the water in front of him. He had no interest in looking at the man, much less studying his features. If he couldn’t identify his attacker, there was still a chance he’d make it through the night alive.

  ‘Answer my questions,’ the man said, ‘and I promise that I will walk away. Understood?’

  Duggan nodded. ‘Yes. I understand.’

  ‘Good. Now, who hired you?’

  Given the disappearances of Sylvester and Westbrook, Duggan knew which case the man was referring to. ‘He is US military. Special Forces. Works with a covert unit. Well-built. Cropped hair. You know the type. Not to be trifled with.’

  It was a calculated deception on Duggan’s part. He hoped the mention of the US military would spook his attacker. Facing off against a civilian was one thing, but taking on the inexhaustible resources of the US armed forces was a different proposition altogether.

  With any luck, Duggan hoped the implied threat would get him off the hook.

  ‘What do you know?’ the man demanded.

  Duggan knew that lying wouldn’t work. Not this time. He had learned a lot during his days working with the CIA, experiences he would not soon forget. He had seen evil, and he had come to know its traits. He knew that the man holding him hostage would not tolerate dishonesty.

  ‘I know that Jean-Marc Papineau does not work alone. He is only the puppet; there is someone else pulling the strings. Whoever he is, he protects himself well. Much better than most. We know he lives on the West Coast, and we presume he has unlimited wealth – he has to, given the way he insulates himself. But that’s as far as we got.’

  ‘We? Who is we?’

  ‘My associates,’ Duggan answered. ‘One in—’

  ‘California. Another in Florida. Yes, we’ve already met.’

  Duggan gulped hard. Any lingering doubts that this man had killed h
is colleagues instantly evaporated. The ghoul had traveled more than six thousand miles just to finish what he had started. Despite his predicament, guilt suddenly washed over Duggan. He felt responsible for their deaths. They were good men who were only doing what he had asked them to do.

  ‘The soldier doesn’t know?’

  Duggan shook his head emphatically. ‘I haven’t given him my report yet. He’s been off the grid on some mission. I haven’t had the chance.’

  ‘And you won’t,’ the man growled as he shoved Duggan from behind.

  The push was so unexpected, Duggan tumbled off the bench and fell face-first onto the lawn. The ground broke his fall, scraping his nose and knocking the breath from his lungs, but it was a hell of a lot better than a knife in his spine. Duggan stayed there for a moment, not knowing what was going to happen next.

  A second turned to two and then it became five.

  After ten full seconds, Duggan glanced back and realized no one was there.

  The assailant had walked away, just as he had promised.

  Relieved and exhausted, Duggan rolled over and stared at the dark sky above him. He didn’t know why he had been allowed to live, but he was thankful nevertheless. The pounding in his chest slowly subsided, the thumping of his heart growing quieter.

  A second later, it was replaced by a steady beeping from his backpack.

  In his last moment of life, Duggan was overcome by a sense of clarity. Even without looking, he knew exactly what had happened. In the confusion on the stairwell, he hadn’t felt the assassin slip a hand inside his pack. In his seat on the bench, he hadn’t noticed the extra pound of Semtex, or C-4, or whatever plastic explosive his killer had chosen to burden him with.

  He had spent his life noticing the details that others overlooked.

  Yet he had missed the one thing that could have saved him.

  The charge erupted like a volcano, only instead of lava and ash, blood and bone spewed into the air like grotesque fireworks. The parts of Duggan’s torso that weren’t vaporized in the blast rained back down, showering the three-foot crater with globs of charred skin and chunks of viscera. His skull was shattered and his face torn to shreds, yet his legs still twitched despite their lack of a body. His suspenders and bow tie were nowhere to be seen, replaced by crimson and carnage in all directions.