The Hunters Box Set, page 14
part #1 of The Hunters Series
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.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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, José. I’ve got your back.”
Garcia glanced up at him. “Thanks. But my name’s Hector, not José.”
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.”
“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.
Chapter Thirty
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 dryly. “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 R.N.U. 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 R.N.U. 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 he’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 R.N.U. 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’d 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.”
Chapter Thirty-One
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 Frenchmen. “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.
