The Hunters (18 page)

‘The lesson in tactics and logistics
is
the information!’ he snarled back. ‘I don’t know where the damn treasure is. And I won’t know unless I get some good minds thinking along the same track. That’s the only way this is going to work!’

‘The same track,’ McNutt laughed. ‘That’s funny.’

Cobb glared at McNutt, then he glanced around at the team, ending on Sarah. ‘Stop thinking about how to steal the gold and start thinking about how you’d protect it if you already had it.’

There was a thick, unhappy silence for several seconds.

Eventually, McNutt broke the tension with a laugh. ‘Are you kidding, Jack? I wouldn’t protect that treasure for more than a minute. That gold would be like honey to a bear. Only in this case, the bears it attracted would be heavily armed and ready to attack. In all seriousness, I’d take what I could grab and leave the rest. I’d grab some gold and roll.’

‘Shit,’ Jasmine said. ‘We got it all wrong.’

‘We got
what
wrong?’ McNutt demanded. ‘You mean the thing about the bears? Trust me, I know that bears can’t shoot a gun. I’m
not
an idiot. Their paws are way too big to pull a trigger.’ Sadly, he didn’t stop there. ‘Then again, under the right circumstances, I bet they could train a circus bear to fire a cannon. Believe it or not, I’ve seen one ride a bike, so I don’t see why they couldn’t teach one to light a fuse.’ He laughed at the picture in his head. It looked like a cartoon. ‘Imagine that: a
bear
firing a
cannon
. That’s priceless.’

At that point, the whole group tuned him out.

Cobb looked to Jasmine for clarification. ‘What were you saying?’

She looked at Cobb. ‘You were right: we got it all wrong!’

Before she could explain, the entire train compartment lurched when the diesel engine coupled with the other cars. Jasmine nearly fell to the floor, but she hardly noticed.

She was too overjoyed by her insight.

Vargunin stepped away as the roll call officer dismissed the constables. ‘Sergeant Rusinko,’ he called. ‘A moment please.’

A tall woman with short, brown hair looked over to see who was calling. She quickly gathered herself, then approached in a brisk, business-like manner.

‘Sergeant Rusinko,’ Vargunin said. ‘This is Colonel Viktor Borovsky.’

Anna gasped softly. For an instant her eyes widened, brightened, and her mouth dropped open. ‘Of Special Branch?’ she blurted. Then her face changed again, a flash of mortification battling with competence for control.

‘At ease, Sergeant,’ Borovsky chuckled, once he had gotten over his own surprise. ‘An elder god has not descended from the firmament.’

Vargunin looked at Anna with a we’re-never-going-to-let-you-forget-this expression before turning to the colonel. ‘It would appear your reputation has preceded you, sir.’

‘Apparently,’ Borovsky said drily. ‘You know me then, Sergeant?’

She looked nervously at the warrant officer.

‘Not personally, sir, no,’ she said. ‘We’ve never met.’ Her own face attempted a twitching smile, but failing that, her stare shifted to one of open respect. ‘But everyone knows about your achievements, sir.’

‘I am a great man,’ he teased.

‘Sir, the explorations and discoveries you undertook in your youth, your heroism and patriotism, your exemplary military career—’

Borovsky held up a hand, shaking his head with amusement. ‘All right, Sergeant. I remember them well. I was just doing my job, which is all I ask of anyone.’

Anna obviously disagreed but was respectful enough to say nothing more - at least, with words. Her eyes still reflected admiration bordering on awe.

Her warrant officer got the conversation moving again. ‘Tell Colonel Borovsky your impressions of the incident between our officers and the local RNU chapter, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked up at Borovsky from her full five feet, nine inches. ‘An unusually violent confrontation, sir. We’ve been having increasing conflict with the members of the RNU here. They seem to be growing more aggressive and flagrant.’

‘Seem to be?’ Borovsky interrupted. ‘Or are?’

Anna stopped as if she had been pinched. ‘They are.’

‘Go on. Omit nothing, including your impressions.’

‘Sir, they are stepping up their black market activity. In addition to selling stolen electronic goods, accessories, jewelry, and bootlegs, they are now dealing in information. Identity theft, illegal databases, passport numbers, internet passwords, bank account numbers, credit card security information, arrest records, even tax returns - all stolen from government agencies.’

‘Stolen how?’ Borovsky echoed.

‘Hacked,’ Anna said. ‘Or leaked.’

‘Leaked,’ Borovsky repeated. ‘For money.’

Vargunin wasn’t certain whether his superior was being critical of the profit motive or of the mentality that allowed a person to put personal gain before the sacred duty with which they’d been entrusted: preserving the security and honor of the nation. For his part, Vargunin wished he had the courage to do that. Then, at least, he could afford the kinds of comforts that would make his private life less stark.

‘Money,’ Vargunin said grimly. ‘Selling such information to the highest bidder is a lucrative business. We estimate that the black market for such information is around fifty million dollars a year.’

‘And that is just for the exchange of the raw data,’ Anna added. ‘Breaking into bank and insurance accounts, into private e-mail accounts for purposes of blackmail, into arrest records of officials who want to keep their prostitution arrests secret, these all generate hundreds of millions in revenue above that.’

Vargunin glanced at his old friend. ‘That is why I’m having to learn new skills - to stay two steps behind the con men instead of a dozen.’

Anna continued. ‘Perhaps Officers Gelb and Klopov insisted on a better cut of the action, and the emboldened RNU members confronted them.’

Borovsky stared at her, displeased by the accusation.

‘You asked for her impressions,’ Vargunin reminded him.

The senior officer relaxed. ‘Do you think that is what happened?’

For the first time, Anna’s eyes wavered, looking at her fellow officers in her peripheral vision as they slowly dispersed for their rounds. ‘That was the consensus of the investigators.’

‘Based on any evidence?’ Borovsky asked.

‘Cash folded in the hands of the officers,’ she said.

Vargunin snorted.

Borovsky looked at him. ‘Do you doubt this?’

‘I don’t dismiss it,’ he said in measured words. ‘But I stand by my earlier remark. The crime scene was still too neat.’

Borovsky considered that while he regarded the young woman’s face. She was in her early thirties. Olive eyes, small, straight nose, and a flat mouth with lines at either bottom edge from too much frowning. Strong jawline and high cheekbones. Good, Slavic stock. Impressive mental attitude: deductive, alert to the thoughts of veterans and colleagues, but not necessarily seduced by the collective weight of their opinions. Borovsky was curious to know whether she joined the police because of the reform bill or in spite of it.

He turned toward his old friend. ‘Is Sergeant Rusinko still assigned to this case?’

Vargunin was taken slightly aback. ‘Well, the case hasn’t been
officially
closed as of yet.’ His emphasis on the word ‘officially’ told both of them that he wanted it to be. ‘So, yes. Technically, she is still assigned to it.’

‘Good,’ Borovsky said with a nod. Then he looked at Anna as if his old friend no longer existed. ‘Show me Marko Kadurik’s body, please.’

Once everyone had steadied themselves, Cobb motioned for Jasmine to take the floor. He stepped to the side, leaned against the workstation, and crossed his arms in anticipation. He was pleased to note that even Garcia was looking at Jasmine, not his computer screen.

‘We got
what
wrong?’ Garcia demanded.

‘Everything,’ she said as she started to pace back and forth in the center of the train compartment. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. I mean, it’s so
obvious
. Who knows? Maybe I was distracted by the violence, or maybe I’ve been worried about Andrei, I’m really not sure now, but this is something I should have focused on
much
earlier—’

‘Jasmine!’ Cobb blurted to stop her rambling.

She glanced at him, frazzled.

He flashed a warm smile to calm her down. ‘Relax. Just relax. Don’t worry about the past. Just take a deep breath, and tell us what you figured out.’

She did as she was told and took a deep breath.

He gave her a moment. ‘Better?’

She nodded. ‘Better.’

He smiled again. ‘Good. The floor’s still yours.’

She paused for a second to gather her thoughts. ‘As I was saying, we’ve been looking at things all wrong. Instead of focusing on who protected the treasure, we should have been trying to figure out who moved the treasure to begin with. And if you think about it, history tells us that there’s only one person who could have moved that much gold out of Moscow at that time.’

‘
Mon Dieu!
‘ Papineau gasped. With his knowledge of European history, he got her reference before the rest of the team.

‘Think about it!’ Jasmine commanded in her excited, sincere way. ‘The war was at its most oppressive point, the enemy was at the gates, everyone was starving and freezing. Who was the one person who could lead a train out of Moscow at that time? Who was the one person who could get through every station and every checkpoint with unquestioned authority?’

Garcia, McNutt, and Sarah had no clue. They looked like the Breakfast Club - a geek, a jock, and a prom queen - caught in the headlights of a pop quiz.

Shaking his head, Papineau muttered in French, ‘Stupid Americans.’

* * *

The team huddled around Garcia as he brought up historical information about Tsar Nicholas II and the Romanovs on his computer screen.

‘How’d you get this to work? Doesn’t Russia restrict access to the Web?’ Sarah asked.

Garcia chuckled. ‘It’s not like I’m
wardriving
- connecting to the Web through someone’s Wi-Fi signal. I’ve got a direct link through Papi’s satellites. He’s got two, by the way.’ He shifted his focus to the Frenchman. ‘But you should have three. When they switch over in their orbit, there’s a gap.’

‘We’re working on it,’ Papineau said, scanning the screen.

Jasmine could have described what they needed to know, but Cobb wanted them to discover it on their own. He sensed that they would learn more that way.

‘How long a gap?’ Cobb asked quietly.

Garcia blinked up at him. ‘Two to eight minutes. Why?’

Cobb grimaced. ‘Blackouts are risky.’

‘I know.’

Papineau interrupted them. ‘Here we are.’

They all faced the computer. On the screen was a picture of a Romanov prince with an extremely long title: Prince Felix Felixovich Yusupov, Count Sumarokov-Elston.

Jasmine wasn’t going to wait until they finished reading. She might not be able to shoot a pebble resting on the top of a mountain or steal a coin from a beggar’s cup, but there was one thing she could do. She could narrate.

‘After the prince was accused of being the brains behind Rasputin’s murder, Tsarina Alexandra Fyodorovna - who was the aunt of Felix’s wife - essentially placed the prince under house arrest in his estate outside St Petersburg.’

‘Hold up,’ McNutt said. ‘I’ve heard the name before, but who is Rasputin?’

Jasmine answered. ‘Gregori Rasputin was a Russian mystic and faith healer who greatly influenced the tsar and tsarina in the final years of the Romanov dynasty. Although many viewed him as a charlatan, the tsarina was under his charismatic spell.’

Sarah smiled. ‘You’d have liked him, McNutt. His nickname was the Mad Monk.’

McNutt nodded. ‘You’re right. I like him already.’

‘Well,’ Jasmine said, trying to get them back on track, ‘Prince Felix didn’t, which is why he had Rasputin killed. The tsarina, who viewed herself as Rasputin’s protector, was furious. So much so that she exiled the prince - even though he was a war hero.’

‘And that’s when he took the train,’ McNutt guessed.

‘No,’ Sarah assured him as she continued to read ahead. ‘Three months later, things went from bad to incredibly bad.’

Jasmine stared daggers at the back of Sarah’s head, angry that her turf was being encroached upon. ‘They were worse than “incredibly bad”,’ Jasmine corrected. ‘The tsar’s abdication and the February Revolution were events that shaped the course of our world.’

‘Shh,’ Sarah said, rebuking the rebuke. ‘I’m reading.’

Jasmine ignored her. ‘The prince couldn’t have possibly known he was going to be exiled—’

Sarah interrupted her. ‘But he absolutely knew which way the wind was blowing. After all, he had the stones and foresight to take out Rasputin. He had to realize things were precarious.’

Jasmine didn’t reply. She was far too irritated.

Cobb was curious to see how this would work out, but he didn’t get the chance. McNutt sliced through the tension.

‘How many times did they try to kill him again?’ McNutt asked.

Jasmine was back onstage. ‘About a half-dozen,’ she said. ‘Poison, shooting, beating - supposedly he was nearly disemboweled by a woman three years before, but obviously that didn’t kill him either.’ She looked around at the others, intentionally skipping Sarah. ‘And when they finally tried to burn his body after they found it in the Neva River, witnesses reported that he sat up in the flames.’

‘I’m officially creeped out,’ Garcia said.

‘Most likely his tendons weren’t cut before the funeral pyre,’ Sarah said without inflection, her eyes still intent on the screen. ‘The heat of the fire would make them shrink. Hence the incineration sit-up.’

Cobb smiled, impressed.

Jasmine noted his reaction and took a deep breath. ‘That is what some biographers have said as well, but others have put forth the idea that he was a saint who cheated death.’

‘A whoring, alcoholic, game-playing saint?’

Jasmine, who felt physically inferior to Sarah, hated where this was going. History was her area of expertise and she knew if she didn’t stand her ground and protect her role on the team, then these interruptions would continue for the rest of the mission. To shut Sarah down, Jasmine went for her weak spot. ‘Many theologians believe that sainthood is achieved through trial. It is not necessarily inborn. It is something that is
earned
over time, not stolen by a thief in the night. That’s the easy way to get through life.’