The Hunters Box Set, page 10
part #1 of The Hunters Series
Dobrev drank in the rail terminal’s handsome exterior as he looked around at the small crowd. This party—announcing and celebrating a new rail survey that would improve track conditions in rural regions—was suitably austere and ostentatious. They had cordoned off a corner just inside the main entrance so passengers could flow by with a minimum of inconvenience to them. Dobrev noticed that the rush and bustle of commuters, crowded but never congested, would be visible to the foreign guests.
The organizers had set up a cocktail bar and several tables of caviar, buckwheat blinis, pelmenis, and pierogies in a cordoned section off to the right of the main entrance. There were enough security guards to discourage the gypsies and mafia wannabes who always hovered nearby anything of significance in Moscow. Dobrev studied the crowd—minor dignitaries, lesser committee members, petty trade representatives, and unimportant railway officials.
Obviously they wanted to put on a low-level dog-and-pony show for the “Amerikos.” That was how Russians termed ugly Americans, men and women who came with money and opinions but very little experience. Sometimes no experience at all. Therefore, the total absence of Russian, state-run media wasn’t much of a surprise. The only other guest who stood out was the thin, bald man in a black tunic, pants, boots, and coat. Dobrev felt a chill, remembering the black, ripstop uniforms of the Russian OMON—a special-purpose mobile unit deployed during violent situations, including some Dobrev wished he could forget.
But it was more than his outfit that set this man apart. The bald figure in black had beady, attentive eyes, giving the impression that he was half security officer, half vulture. Just as Dobrev was heir to a great railroad tradition, this man was a throwback to Okhrana, the secret police of the Romanov dynasty. Not only did he observe, he judged with his gaze.
A minute later, Dobrev’s attention was drawn to the team of surveyors who entered the side door to polite applause. They were led by the study sponsor, Jean-Marc Papineau, who waved to the crowd like a visiting king. While most of the male guests gawked at the blue-eyed blonde in the form-hugging black dress and heels who was standing beside Papineau, Dobrev focused on the Asian woman in the pencil-skirt suit and bone-colored, high-necked blouse. He knew she would be treated poorly because she was different than him and his comrades.
Sadly, that mattered to Russians who were Russian to the core.
But Dobrev wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about race or age or anything superficial. He only cared about the person inside. Intrigued by her presence, he took it upon himself to watch over her at the reception, like a parent keeping an eye on his child at the playground. He gave her plenty of distance but was ready to spring into action if he deemed it necessary.
The rest of Papineau’s team seemed to hover near English speakers. The man with short, light hair was joking with the politicians. The man with longer hair hung out at the bar with the serious drinkers. The small, Latin-looking man only had eyes for the tablet screen he carried. And the blonde was busy turning all the men who approached her to stone.
As expected, virtually no one was speaking to the Asian girl, so he decided to strike up a conversation. She stood with a closed leather notebook clutched to her chest and drank white wine almost wistfully as he approached.
“It is very odd, yes?” Dobrev said in Russian.
She turned toward him. “What is?”
“Of your delegation, you are the only one I have heard speaking Russian. Yet no one is talking to you.”
She laughed quietly, which brought a wide smile to Dobrev’s face. Most women—Russian or foreign—dismissed him quickly. He was clearly of the old guard: squat, stocky, square-headed, and partial to ill-fitting, tan suits that allowed his big arms to move. His white shirts were always stained with grease or oil because he couldn’t help touching things on trains, and he wore dark ties no matter what the weather or occasion. Although he’d had a son, Ivan, out of wedlock, he rarely felt comfortable with the opposite sex. He spoke easily to locomotives and stubborn rail spikes, less so to human beings, and rarely at all with women.
But this woman was different. She was open, responsive, almost excited to talk to him. Like a granddaughter meeting her grandfather for the very first time.
“Have you seen the train selected for your survey?” Dobrev asked.
“I have,” Jasmine answered. “It seems very nice.”
“She is very nice,” Dobrev insisted. “She is the pride of the fleet. Perhaps the most efficient engine ever run in our system. You will have no issues with her.”
“That is certainly good news,” Jasmine replied. “Although I highly doubt that I would be the one having problems. I think driving a locomotive is a bit out of my league.”
“It has never been easier, my dear,” Dobrev countered. “Operating an engine used to be an art, requiring both skill and instinct. The best engineers were those who understood the nature of the beast, who listened to the engine’s every creak and groan and felt her most subtle wobbles and shimmies. Knowing when to lay off or when to throttle up meant the difference between delivering the cars safely and tumbling down the side of the mountain.” Dobrev stared in the directions of the tracks. “Today’s engines have more bells and whistles than a luxury automobile. Even a child could set the autopilot. What was then is now gone.” Dobrev hung his head, mournful of the days gone by. “The best engineers are no longer needed.”
Jasmine nodded. “You mean, experts like you?”
Dobrev lifted his head and smiled. “Perhaps in my heyday, yes. But that time has past. These days I am never called upon to participate in the day-to-day activities of our great railway, only to regale the current regime with stories of our history. Young, bored dignitaries who always seem to have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of an old man.”
Jasmine understood the implication of his words: if she wanted to end this conversation, he would understand. But she had no intention of cutting him off.
“What makes you such an authority?” she asked.
“More than a century of firsthand knowledge,” he answered. “Information passed down from grandfather to father to son. Three generations of Dobrevs, all in love with the same mistress: the railway.”
Jasmine laughed at the comment. She found his commitment to his work to be honest and oddly gratifying. Here was a man who made no illusions about who he really was. Even if his knowledge hadn’t been directly connected to their task, she still would have enjoyed listening to his stories about the past. As it was, she was beginning to think that he could be a valuable asset—even more valuable than they had originally thought when they added his name to the guest list.
“Well, I’m not sure if I still qualify as ‘young’ or as a ‘dignitary,’ but I know for certain that I am not bored,” Jasmine assured him. “If you don’t mind, please, regale me.”
Dobrev smiled. It would be his pleasure.
Chapter Twenty
Sunday, September 16
Two days later, Jasmine and Dobrev met again to continue their discussion. This time, under the watchful eye of the rest of the team.
Jasmine laughed at Dobrev’s choice of meeting spots—the Soviet Retro-Chic restaurant on the fourth level above the check-in area of the Sheremetyevo Airport’s Terminal F. But she also appreciated its functional 1960s “charm.”
“This is like the restaurant version of you,” she pointed out with a smile.
He was not offended in the slightest. As she took in the dark, plain decorations, heavy curtains, and faded carpet—all in shades of dark red—he explained why he had selected it.
“I wished to find someplace you could get to easily, one with a minimum of danger from lecherous drunks or racist skinheads.”
“It was very easy, thank you,” she said.
“There is none easier, in fact,” he said proudly. “The Aeroexpress train from the station runs every half hour, and you were here in thirty-five minutes with a minimum of fuss, muss, or whistles. Whistles from men,” he teased, “not—” He finished the statement by pulling on an imaginary train whistle and blowing two short bursts of sound from his pursed lips.
She laughed, which made him laugh as well.
As they watched the tarmac through the restaurant’s window and enjoyed a bowl of borscht, they talked about all things Russian. After dinner, he walked her back to the Aeroexpress entrance. Since she seemed amenable to another get-together before setting off on their survey, he cautiously suggested that they meet at the true repository of his family’s legacy: his apartment.
“Please understand,” he assured her, “I mean nothing untoward. It is just that, with your interest in our rail history and my unique collection, I thought you’d be interested.”
“I definitely am.”
“You are?” he said, half-surprised.
She laughed at his reaction. “I’m free now if you have the time.”
“Yes! That would be wonderful!”
In a blur of trains and stations and people and sights, they arrived at his apartment. She was quickly impressed by what she saw. His collection of Russian railroad memorabilia covered the walls, lined the shelves, and filled the cabinets of his longtime residence. It took up roughly one-third of the floor of a nondescript apartment building in Kartmazovo, twenty-nine miles outside of Moscow. The building was constructed in the industrial egg-crate styles of the 1950s on an unremarkable street just off the M3 highway.
The apartment had originally been intended to house a family of five, but when his parents died and his younger brother Vlad joined the army, there was only Dobrev. It was strange to see the place through the first fresh set of eyes that had been there in years. He looked with approval at the floors covered in dark, Russian rugs, the smallish room decorated with ornate if timeworn furniture, the light fixtures of heavy, antique iron and glass lamps, which bathed the towers of well-maintained memorabilia in soft, yellow light.
He offered her a drink, but she declined.
She said, “And risk missing a single detail of these glorious maps?”
That had made him smile even wider as they plunged into his collection. Instead of the customary response of tolerant boredom from young workers, the woman absolutely sparkled at his stories about the heroes of Russian rail: Yefim Cherepanova, and his son, Miron, who built Russia’s first steam-powered locomotive; Pavel Melnikov, creator of the first Russian railway; Fyodor Protsky, inventor of the first electric tram, and more.
Finally he got to his own family’s contribution, starting with his grandfather, Béla. He showed her his most prized treasure, which he kept tucked behind a vintage railway lantern.
“It is the history of my grandfather’s homeland in a single, small disc,” he said as he reverently picked up an old, velvet-lined, wooden box that Jasmine had originally mistaken for a magnifying glass container. His thick, stubby fingers showed remarkable gentleness as he removed the object within. The murky, butter-colored light gleamed off the coin.
“Wow,” she breathed, slowly raising her hands to her cheeks.
Using the cover story that Papineau had organized for them, Cobb had assigned each member of his team a different group to investigate. McNutt was rooting out black marketers who may have trafficked the gold or knew of someone who did. Garcia was hanging out with railroad software designers. Sarah kept her ears open around officials’ wives, girlfriends, and mistresses, who learned more from pillow talk than most intelligence services discovered through wiretaps.
But Jasmine had hit the jackpot with Andrei Dobrev.
He knew more about the railroads than their other sources combined.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Whoa,” Hector Garcia said in their tiny office at the Moscow train station, approximately nineteen miles to the northeast of Dobrev’s apartment. He looked up from the image on his screen, an image that was being transmitted from a button camera on Jasmine’s blouse.
“What is it?” Papineau asked, coming around his desk in the unadorned guest offices the train station had supplied them.
“You tell me,” Garcia replied from his table, which was covered in computers, cell phones, modems, routers, and wires.
Papineau leaned over his shoulder and whistled softly at the sight that bounced on the tablet screen. “My word!” he marveled. “That’s a gold leu!”
“A gold what?” Garcia asked.
“Did you not do the reading that Cobb and I assigned to the team?” Papineau scolded.
“I read it all. I just don’t remember it.”
“Tragic,” Papineau said, only half paying attention to the younger man.
“It’s called the Internet Era,” Garcia said in a defensive tone. “It’s knowing where to find information instantly that matters, not memorizing it.”
“And if, let’s say, you were on river rapids or in a cave with no reception?”
“Then I wouldn’t be worried about a leu. I’d be worried about drowning or starving,” Garcia assured him. “So, what is it again? The coin, I mean.”
“It’s a first-series leu,” Papineau said, leaning in to get a better look. “The gold twenty lei coin was issued in 1868. Less than five hundred were minted, so this is a rarity.”
Garcia glanced at him, confused. “Is it a leu or a lei?”
“Leu is singular; lei is plural.” Papineau practically put his nose against the screen. “Zoom closer. I want to see it better.”
Garcia tapped the screen to freeze the image, then slipped the live feed to the side so he could study the coin without losing Jasmine’s progress.
Papineau studied the image just to make sure. As expected, the left profile of Carol I appeared on the front. The inscription read: CAROL I DOMNULU ROMANILORU. In English, it meant: Carol the First, Prince of the Romanians. “What a beautiful coin. I wonder, where did the likes of Andrei Dobrev get something like that?”
“He said from his grandfather.”
“I meant his family in general. How did they get a coin of such value?”
“Guys,” McNutt whispered from his perch across the street from Dobrev’s apartment.
Papineau ignored the voice in his earpiece. He still wasn’t used to the tiny, flesh-colored communication device that Garcia had inserted near the bottom of their auditory canals. It served as both mic and speaker, and it was so precise that it could detect the faintest whisper.
For privacy purposes, team members selected code words—one for the mic and one for the speaker—that would temporarily deactivate their personal unit. Say the “mic” word, and the microphone toggled off. Say it again, and it came back on. The same applied for the “speaker” word. To prevent accidental muting, team members selected code words that wouldn’t come up in everyday conversation. Words like pumpernickel and Travolta.
Papineau continued to speak. “Perhaps it was a bribe of some kind.”
“Or a very generous tip,” Garcia suggested.
“I wonder, is there any way you could check his bank records from that time?”
“Guys!” McNutt shouted. “Quit your blabbing and listen to me!”
His voice was so loud it caused their earpieces to squeal.
Papineau winced from the sound. “Why are you yelling?”
“Why? Because you’re ignoring me!”
“That’s because we’re working.”
“Well, I’m working, too,” McNutt growled. “And I wanted you to know that someone is coming!”
Chapter Twenty-One
McNutt had been watching Dobrev’s apartment—and everything that happened inside—from his vantage point on a rooftop directly across the street. From there, he could also keep an eye on the hallway outside Dobrev’s door. His line of sight gave him the opportunity to warn Jasmine and the others of any unexpected visitors. His Soviet-made Snaiperskaya Vintovka Dragunova sniper rifle, or SVD, gave him a way to make those unexpected visitors go away forever.
McNutt peered through the Barska tactical scope and explained the situation. “You’ve got a white male standing outside Dobrev’s door.” He was a short, wiry, young man with a crew cut and a sour expression. He was wearing sneakers that had no shoelaces, black pants, a black leather jacket, and a faded T-shirt. “He must’ve come from one of the apartments.”
“How do you know that?” Papineau questioned.
“Well,” McNutt explained, “he wasn’t at the door five seconds ago when I scanned the hall, so unless he came down through the ceiling or materialized out of thin air, I’d say he just stepped out from one of the neighboring units.”
“Understood,” Papineau agreed.
“Thor Steinar mean anything to anyone? It’s written across his shirt.”
Garcia’s fingers pounded his keyboard as he searched the Web. He skimmed the results before he informed the team. “Thor Steinar is a clothing designer. It seems he’s especially popular among skinheads and neo-Nazis. He has a lot of fans in Russia.”
“Hold up! Thor is a skinhead?” McNutt said, confused. “That doesn’t make any sense. He has long hair in the comic books. It’s even longer than mine.”
“Different Thor,” Garcia assured him.
“Thank God! Because that Thor is tough to kill.”
“Of course he’s tough to kill. He’s the God of Thunder.”
“No shit, Hector! I know he’s the God of Thunder. I’m not an idiot.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Sitting outside in an SUV, Cobb rolled his eyes at the discussion that was clogging the intercom. The more he listened, the less confident he felt. It was the type of conversation one would expect at a comic book convention, not in the middle of an important mission.
Cobb growled, “Knock it off! Tell me what’s happening!”
