Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

‘ 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.’

Sarah winced. ‘Excuse me?’

Jasmine didn’t back down. ‘Sorry. No offense intended.’

Sarah stood back from the computer, even more insulted by the insincere tone of the apology. ‘I would think not since we’re both trying to steal this treasure.’

‘Actually,’ Jasmine stressed, ‘I’m trying to find it, not steal it.’

Cobb sensed they weren’t going to work this out on their own. He could see the aggressive tension in both of their bodies, particularly Sarah’s. ‘Take a breather,’ he said to her.

‘Glad to,’ Sarah muttered as she left the train car.

‘Man,’ McNutt said, as if the confrontation hadn’t occurred, ‘I get the feeling that Rasputin was a guy who really didn’t want to die.’

Cobb smiled. Sometimes McNutt’s bubble was a useful place.

‘Prince Felix wanted to live, too,’ Jasmine reminded them. ‘After the abdication three months later, he immediately decamped to Crimea.’

‘How “immediately”?’ Cobb wanted to know.

‘No way of knowing for sure, but within weeks, possibly a fortnight, possibly less.’

‘Surprising how much you can get done under house arrest,’ Cobb said. ‘Three months could be enough time to have made plans, written letters.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Jasmine said. ‘From Crimea, the family — including the prince — was able to secure passage to Malta on a British warship. From Malta, they went to Italy and London before eventually settling in Paris.’

‘When?’ Garcia asked.

‘That was in 1920.’

‘Two, three years after attacking Raspy,’ McNutt noted.

‘Wow,’ Garcia teased. ‘You didn’t even have to use your fingers or toes.’

‘Cut it out,’ Cobb said before McNutt could respond. He didn’t need another pissing contest. Or a dead computer guy, which is what Garcia would be if McNutt got a hold of him.

‘How do you think the prince paid for all that?’ Papineau asked Jasmine.

She thought about it for a while. ‘There was some talk that he took jewelry and rare art from their palace before they left.’