The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  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, a
t 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.’

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-d8b52c-21ce-7643-9894-305f-6d26-ad7967

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 23.01.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.13, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  Chris Kuzneski

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