The Hunters (17 page)

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, tough 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.

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.’

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.’

‘Very impressive,’ Cobb said.

‘I call it …
Goldfinder
.’ Garcia laughed at the name. He was the only one who did. ‘You know, like the James Bond movie. Except it’s
finder
, not
finger
.’

‘Gotcha,’ Cobb said.

‘I’ve been working on a theme song, too. Want to hear it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Goldfinder!’ Garcia crooned. ‘I’m the man, the man with the—’

‘Missing teeth,’ Sarah shouted from across the car. Cobb turned to see her studying a map on one of the sofas. ‘He’s been trying out verses for the past thirty minutes. He’s driving me crazy.’

McNutt laughed off her threat, anxious to rile her up. He patted Garcia on the shoulder and said, ‘Sing all you want, Jose. I’ve got your back.’

Garcia glanced up at him. ‘Thanks. But my name’s Hector, not Jose.’

McNutt growled playfully. ‘Don’t correct me again. And
never
look me in the eyes.’

Cobb shook his head and walked toward Sarah. He could sense something was wrong. ‘What’s bothering you?’

She sighed. ‘I’m trying to figure out every possible way someone could move that much treasure out of the country. The possibilities are endless.’

Cobb smiled. ‘You’re thinking like a thief, not a royal strategist.’ He pointed toward the screen where Goldfinder was calculating the best route for an engine of that era while factoring in weather conditions and the topography of the region. ‘Consider any person who wanted to steal the bulk of the treasure. He would take a very different approach from anyone who just wanted to lighten the load by a gold coin or two.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.

‘Disinformation,’ Cobb said. ‘About the train, the treasure, and several other things. Whoever stole it would have taken the easiest, fastest route, the one ensuring the most success. Then they would have started rumors about how or why the treasure never made it. Avalanche, Bolsheviks, Romanian loyalists - there are any number of reasons. That being said, I tend to accept the simplest theory about the missing treasure: that the people transporting the gold were the same ones who took it. What do you think, Jasmine?’

Standing off to the side, Jasmine was lost in thought while staring out one of the windows. She flinched at the mention of her name. ‘What’s that?’

Cobb smiled. ‘What do you think about my theory?’

‘I agree,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘Near the end of the war, the Germans were getting perilously close to Moscow. There were many rumors that the Bolsheviks and the tsarists dispersed several treasures to the provinces, where they may have been lost or already stolen.’

Even Papineau looked up at that. ‘And if those rumors are true?’

Sarah threw up her hands. ‘Then we’ll never find it! It’s almost certain that those treasures have already been lost or stolen. What are we going to do, a house-to-house search in every village along every route, looking for clues as to where the gold went from there?’

Cobb sighed. ‘Come on, Sarah. You’re still thinking like a thief. Sure, maybe like a thief from a century ago, but still a
thief
. You should be reverse-engineering this: thinking like someone who wants to protect it from thieves.’ He pointed at Jasmine. ‘She might be able to figure this out, because she’s the only one of you that doesn’t want the treasure for personal gain.’

Sarah exploded. ‘Cut the mind games, Jack! Just tell us!’

Cobb suddenly became serious - dead serious. ‘Is that what you think these are? Mind games?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, challenging his methods. ‘If one of us had information, you’d want it immediately, not dangled like catnip.’