Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Two thousand, one hundred, and sixty bars of solid, untraceable gold.

Gold that had never been reclaimed because the revolution succeeded. Gold that simply sat there because the handful of men who had hidden it had died in the bloodbath that followed the tsar’s abdication.

Jasmine turned to the group. ‘What now?’

Three smiles beamed back at her.

‘The US is that way,’ McNutt said, ‘with a long, unguarded coastline. Chekov, plot us a course for home.’

‘With pleasure,’ Garcia replied.

Sarah wrapped her arms around the men’s shoulders. ‘And it just so happens I know this whaler in Port Spencer who owes me a favor …’

Cobb’s expectations deflated the moment he pushed through the double doors into the lobby. The place was literally in ruins. Scaffolding stood next to every wall, where hundreds of spackled holes dotted the paneling all the way to the ceiling. The marble floor was pockmarked with tiny cracks and fissures. A stretch of plywood, hastily covered with a roll of plush, maroon carpet, led guests to the inner halls, a branch spurring off toward the registration desk.

Peering deeper inside, Cobb saw a large, marble fountain in the middle of a towering atrium. The water no longer flowed from the top spout, and Cobb could see where bullets had damaged the walls of the pool.

Determined to hear the story behind whatever he had missed, he stopped the first member of the hotel staff that crossed his path.

‘Hey, what the hell happened here?’ Cobb asked.

The preoccupied concierge did a double take before he could manage a response. ‘Oh, Mr Cobb,’ he finally offered. ‘Please, right this way. We’ve been expecting you.’ With that, he returned to the front desk, motioning for Cobb to follow.

The young employee stood behind the desk, staring at his computer screen and clicking his mouse repeatedly. ‘I’m terribly sorry about the renovations,’ he said as he typed. ‘Things around here have been very interesting lately. Who knew an air conditioner explosion could cause so much damage? Thank God that no one was hurt.’

That’s bullshit , Cobb thought. He had seen enough firefights to know the damage caused by bullets and flying shrapnel. There might have been an explosion, but it definitely wasn’t an air conditioner. More like an anti-personnel mine or a grenade.

But it wasn’t the lie that bothered him.

‘Did you say you’ve been expecting me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ the concierge replied. ‘We’ve got you … ah! Right here.’ The concierge looked up at Cobb and offered him an envelope. His name had been neatly printed on the front, and a copy of his driver’s license photo had been paper-clipped to the corner. ‘We’ve got you in the Imperial Suite. It has a great view of the lake. I hope that will be satisfactory.’

‘You’ve been expecting me?’ Cobb asked again. ‘For how long?’

The concierge glanced back down to his monitor. ‘The reservation was made on …’ His face scrunched into a curious frown. ‘Well that’s odd. The date is missing, and so is the name of the patron who made the reservation. But your suite is definitely in the system.’ He looked up at Cobb. ‘Perhaps it’s explained in the letter?’ He nodded toward the envelope that Cobb still had not taken from the counter.

Cobb picked up the envelope and stepped aside. He ripped it open as he tried to piece things together. Inside, he found a room key and a single, typewritten page.

Mr Cobb,

Welcome to Switzerland. Please stay as long as you’d like.

Bill all of your local expenses to the hotel.

All my best.

PS — Try to enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.

Same Day

Palace of the Parliament

Bucharest, Romania

Maurice Copeland was led to a lavishly appointed sitting room buried deep in the bowels of the Romanian government’s central headquarters. One of more than 1,100 rooms spread over nearly eighty-five acres, the space included several suede couches and chairs, as well as heavy, polished oak tables. The marble-topped bar in the corner and the accompanying racks displayed only the finest wines and spirits. A magnificent crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with portraits of the Romanian ruling families — not only those that came after the country’s independence, but dating as far back as the fourteenth century.

Copeland, a South African who had made his fortune in America, sensed that this was not a room frequented by outsiders. This was a place reserved for the back-room conversations of Romania’s highest authorities. A place where they could feel safe and converse in private about matters with which the general public would not — should not — concern itself. He smiled. Given his purpose in being there, it was the perfect setting.

‘Nicolai will be with you shortly,’ the aide related before closing the door behind him as he left the room.

There was neither small talk nor an invitation for Copeland to make himself at home. This wasn’t a social call. It was business. Nevertheless, Copeland chose a sofa and sat down. He spread his arms wide and rested his hands on the farthest ends of the overstuffed cushions supporting his back. He knew he would not be alone for long.

Impeccably dressed in a custom-made suit, Copeland thought of his subordinate, Jean-Marc Papineau. The Frenchman had once again proven his worth on this mission. After a decade of faithful service, Copeland had few doubts about Papineau’s abilities to handle the day-to-day details of a complex operation. It was this faith that allowed Copeland to avoid the spotlight until victory was at hand. Unlike most men of extraordinary wealth, Copeland preferred to work in the shadows, protected behind a curtain of anonymity like the great and powerful Oz.

The only time that Copeland surfaced was to claim his bounty.

And this was one of those times.

Copeland remained seated when Nicolai Emilian entered the room. While most people would immediately bounce to attention out of respect for the Romanian diplomat, Copeland did not feel intimidated by or inferior to this man in any way. They were trading partners, each using the other as a means to an end.

‘Nicky,’ Copeland began, ‘I was hoping El Presidente would be joining me.’

Emilian forced a smile. ‘Maurice, you know that every precaution must be taken in matters such as this. He must be … insulated from any direct knowledge of your activities.’

‘But he does know what we’ve been up to?’ Copeland asked, prying.

‘He knows everything he needs to know,’ Emilian answered cryptically. He walked across the room to the bar and poured two glasses of Glenfiddich 1937, one of the world’s rarest bottles of Scotch. He handed one to Copeland, who nodded his appreciation.

Emilian raised his glass. ‘To a job almost done.’

Copeland smirked and nodded in understanding. ‘I trust you’re satisfied with the delivery of everything thus far?’

It had been seventeen days since Papineau, acting on Copeland’s behalf, had supervised the return of the items they had found in the Carpathian Mountains back into the hands of the Romanian government. With the help of a modern train engine, Papineau’s crew of armed guards had taken the treasure from the town of Choban to the capital of Romania.

‘Where’s the rest?’ Emilian demanded.

Copeland’s smile belied the efforts he knew lay ahead. It would take him a few weeks to transport the treasure from the Bering Strait tunnel to Alaska, across Canada to Newfoundland, and finally to Eastern Europe. There it would be transferred to a nondescript, though heavily guarded storage facility on the far side of Bucharest — all under the watchful eye of the Brigada Anti-Tero a SRI , the Romanian Special Forces.