Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Cobb glanced at Papineau. ‘Does that theory sound right to you?’

‘Yes,’ Papineau mused, leaning back in his chair. ‘Prince Felix was both an honorable man and a man of action. He must have known that securing the Romanov riches from invaders as well as his own enraged family would be impossible under those circumstances.’

‘But maybe not the Romanian treasure,’ Cobb said.

‘How long have you known this, about the prince?’ the Frenchman demanded.

‘I still don’t know it,’ Cobb replied. ‘But once I stopped thinking about how to find the treasure and started to think about how it could’ve been lost …’

‘No one but a member of the royal family could’ve gotten it out of town,’ Jasmine said. ‘There are always royal loyalists in any revolution. Not even the highest-ranking general would have had that much pull.’

‘And the prince was going to be on an exile train regardless,’ Papineau marveled.

‘Yep,’ Cobb said. ‘So I wouldn’t worry about grave robbers. I bet they stopped looking for crumbs a long time ago. What was it that Sherlock Holmes used to say?’

‘“When you eliminate the impossible,”’ Garcia immediately quoted, ‘“whatever’s left, no matter how improbable, has got to be the-”’

He never got to finish. At that moment a small red light on his workstation began to flash, a strident buzzer began to bleat, and the ceiling screens began to swing down.

‘What is it?’ Papineau snapped.

‘Someone’s done something to the train,’ Garcia snapped back, his hands dancing across his keyboard as his computer screen filled with different images from outside. ‘The security cams I installed have been on-line for hours.’

Cobb and McNutt flanked him instantly, their eyes intent on the screen.

‘Do you see all the workers who were there before?’ McNutt asked.

‘The four that Dobrev was breaking in, yeah,’ Cobb replied. ‘The two that delivered the license left right afterwards. Where’s Dobrev?’

‘There,’ Jasmine said from just behind them. She pointed at the corner of an image in the upper left of the screen. Dobrev was checking Ludmilla’s undercarriage, carrying the spanner he had used to save Jasmine.

‘Okay,’ Cobb said. ‘So what’s the prob-’

They all snapped to attention when Sarah screeched like a wounded cat.

She was outside, and she was in trouble.

A morgue is a morgue. It has no personality. It isn’t a cathedral where the deceased are remembered with tears and prayer. It is a collection of drawers and tables where the dead are all the same. They haven’t ‘passed’ or ‘gone to their reward’. There is nothing romantic, nothing hopeful at all. There is no modesty. Public faces and private parts are all equal here.

They are dead.

No matter where it is — in the oldest village or a brand new building — and no matter how much technology is employed, a morgue is a place where lifeless bodies are stored and dissected to see what the dead have to say to the living.

Today, Marko Kadurik was talking to Colonel Borovsky.

Situated in the cellar of the police station, this morgue was neither ancient nor cutting-edge. The fresh paint and new furniture that brightened the floors above had yet to trickle down into this dark, stone space. There were fluorescent lights in the ceiling, metal tables on the floor, and autopsy equipment in a long tray on the right. Several corpse cabinets lined the left wall. It was not like the morgues that Borovsky had seen on television or in the other countries he had visited overseas. Those places were always clean and antiseptic. None of them communicated the smell, look, feel, and choking weight of death like this place did.

He glanced at Anna Rusinko, looking for signs of distress. She had led him down the stairs and into the morgue and was now watching his every move like a wide-eyed rookie.

Remarkably, she appeared unfazed by her surroundings.

As per his orders, the dead body of Marko Kadurik had been placed on the center table, a single sheet discreetly draping his body from the neck down. The first thing Borovsky did was pull back the thin covering with a flourish. Then he tossed it against the wall.

The civilian morgue attendant, a pale-skinned youth dressed in a stained lab coat, swallowed hard. He was surprised by the behavior. ‘The mortal wound is on his head, comrade.’

Borovsky looked at him dismissively. ‘The autopsy is complete?’

‘No, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘Not yet begun-’

‘But you are certain the head wound is what killed this man.’

The youth stood there with an expression that said, Do you not see the exposed section of brain? But he wisely said nothing.

‘Truth cannot enter a closed mind,’ Borovsky said. ‘Old Russian proverb.’

Anna looked at the attendant and motioned with her head for him to leave the morgue immediately. He did so without pause. When she looked back at her superior, he was examining every inch of the corpse.

‘Upstairs,’ Borovsky said flatly, ‘you stated that the theory of this case was a consensus of your fellow investigators. Is that true?’

When no answer came, Borovsky glanced at Anna, who was trying to figure out the best way to respond. ‘It’s a simple question,’ he said.

‘True, sir,’ she replied with obvious reluctance.

Borovsky nodded. ‘We were taught as young children that religion is the opiate of the masses. However, I put it to you that lies are the true opiate. Repetition makes them seem real — just like religion. In this instance, the obvious solution takes on the mantle of truth and ruins an objective investigation. True?’

‘True,’ she said immediately.

He made his way to the ruined skull. ‘Who do you think was the last man standing?’

‘We are still canvassing residents, sir, gathering infor-’

‘ Who do you think was the last man standing? ‘ he repeated without looking up. ‘You had two officers and four skinheads at the scene. Who do you think fell last: Gelb, Klopov, or one of the neo-Nazis?’

Anna exhaled, drew herself up, and tried to toe the station line. ‘My investigators suspect that the officers were attacked when they asked the skinheads to depart the area.’

‘Couldn’t the officers have demanded money? I understand there was cash in their hands.’

Somewhat embarrassed, she said, ‘We believe it came from a meeting, perhaps a chance meeting, with a motorist moments before.’

‘A bribe,’ Borovsky clarified. ‘Money for them to look the other way.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Could the motorist not have been there still when the skinheads arrived?’

‘It’s possible,’ she agreed, ‘but we cannot track a hypothetical car since the officers did not report a traffic offense.’

‘Fair enough,’ Borovsky agreed. ‘But if a bribe did occur, perhaps the skinheads witnessed the transaction. If so, perhaps the officers attacked them to keep them quiet.’

‘It is possible,’ she admitted.

‘What else have your investigators suggested?’

She continued with reluctance. ‘They believe the attackers succeeded in downing our officers before succumbing to their own wounds — wounds inflicted by Privates Gelb and Klopov in a vigorous attempt to defend themselves.’

Borovsky frowned at their conclusion. ‘The skinheads had broken skulls and, in one case, a broken arm. What do you think our comrades used to accomplish that? Their fists?’

She opened her mouth to paraphrase the investigators, then closed it again. ‘I couldn’t say for sure, comrade Colonel. I honestly don’t know.’

Borovsky looked at her with satisfaction. Then with the hint of a smile, he quoted another proverb. ‘There is no shame in not knowing. The shame lies in not finding out.’