The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3) (17 page)

‘Working,’ Cobb answered. ‘I take it everyone else has been doing their share of that while I’ve been gone, right? Or did you spend all of your time at the pool?’

McNutt groaned as he sat down, then gently set his injured leg on the only remaining empty chair, right before Papineau was about to sit in it. He looked up at the Frenchman with a sheepish grin. ‘You don’t mind, do you? This sucker is starting to itch like Vietnamese crotch rot. I’m gonna need to get at it … unless you’re volunteering.’

Papineau’s face crumpled with disgust, as if the visual might be enough to make him vomit. He stepped back and waved his hand at the chair as if to say, ‘I’ll never sit in that chair again.’ Then he turned his focus to Cobb, who was staring at him once more.

Cobb sat calmly at the head of the table. The message had been sent. There was no more power struggle. These were his people now. He turned his attention from Papineau and looked at each member of the team, one by one.

They were ready to get back to work.

‘Let’s hear what you’ve got,’ he said to Maggie.

‘The Rustichello document is remarkably similar in content – if not in wording – to the surviving texts. There’s a line at the end of the journal that described Lop Nor in China. From that and Rustichello’s own theories, we deduced that the Loulan ruins must have been where Polo had hidden something; whether a clue or the treasure, we weren’t sure. Unfortunately, the radar images you sent back were all negative.’

Garcia touched a button on his virtual keyboard, and a series of grainy black and white images filled the main video screen. ‘I know these won’t mean much to you guys, but trust me, what these images show is a bunch of sand and natural rock. Absolutely no treasure.’

‘What about the relics that have been removed from the site?’ Cobb asked.

Maggie answered. ‘They were scattered to different museums and universities, most of which have no online presence. There’s a chance the relics were never properly documented and photographed, or – and my money’s on this one – the people who did the cataloging are all still in the pre-internet age. If you’d like, I could make some calls to China, but after what happened in Loulan I think it would be best if we didn’t announce our interest.’

‘Agreed,’ McNutt said. ‘At least until I’m healthy.’

Cobb nodded. ‘Unfortunately, we have to start somewhere. Where are we with the guard’s journal?’

‘Better news on that front,’ Sarah said as a picture of the gallery and a map of Florence appeared on the screen. ‘The Uffizi Gallery is no slouch when it comes to security, but I think Hector and I have figured out how to get the manuscript. We just have one small problem …’

Cobb stared at her. ‘Which is?’

Garcia answered before she could explain. ‘We’re confident she can acquire the book, but once she’s outside we have no idea how to get her out of Florence. The police and museum security will be on her in about thirty seconds after she grabs the book. I’ve run simulations, and we can’t get her past a half-mile away from the gallery before she’ll be caught.’

McNutt spoke up. ‘Have we considered just buying the book from the gallery? I mean, Papi’s got some big pockets. Hell, so do I for that matter. How much is it? I’ll put it on my credit card and earn some air miles.’

‘We don’t want anyone to know we’re interested in the journal,’ Sarah said. ‘And the sale would likely take longer than tracking down all those Loulan relics. Art sales have more red tape than real estate deals.’

‘Okay,’ McNutt said, looking up at the rooftop of the U-shaped gallery adjacent to the Arno River in Florence. ‘Why don’t we just meet her out front with a car?’

‘We’d be cut off for sure,’ Garcia assured him. ‘The city has started putting in automated bollards. We wouldn’t get very far.’

‘How in the hell are a bunch of robot ducks gonna stop us? I’ll just shoot the fuckers.’

Garcia shook his head in disbelief. ‘I said “bollards”, not “mallards”, you moron.
Bollards
are metal posts that stick out of the ground.’

McNutt glared at Garcia. ‘Call me “moron”’ again, and there will be something else buried in the ground – and the only post in sight will be my crutch sticking out of your ass.’

‘Anyway,’ Sarah said with a laugh, ‘the museum is located in a very crowded part of the city. We considered motorcycles, but we’re afraid a road pursuit could possibly result in civilian injuries or deaths. That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.’

‘What about the sewers?’ Cobb asked.

‘Ewww,’ Sarah said. ‘Definitely not. I’d smell like shit for a week. Besides, the ancient system underneath the city is flooded with water and debris, so it just isn’t safe.’

‘What about the river?’ McNutt asked, pointing to the big screen.

‘What about it?’ Sarah countered.

‘You’re a good swimmer. We can stash some gear, and you can escape underwater.’

‘Believe it or not, that’s actually been tried before. The security team at the gallery now has scuba equipment on hand in case someone tries it again.’

Cobb stared at the screen, noting some renovations that were being done to the exterior of the museum. ‘How current is this picture?’

‘It’s from earlier today,’ Garcia answered.

‘And the construction, is it scheduled to end anytime soon?’

‘Nope. Not for another month.’

‘Good,’ Cobb said with a smile. ‘Then I have an idea that just might work.’

Monday, March
31

Special Agent Rudy Callahan was thrilled to be out of his private dungeon at the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building in New York – even if that meant flying to Florida at roughly the same time that half of the state’s population was flying to New York.

Or at least it seemed that way.

Most of the snowbirds left Florida right after baseball spring training, returning to their main homes in Pennsylvania, Michigan, Canada, or wherever else they might have come from. The temperature and the humidity would steadily increase in the next few months until the summer weather became oppressive, and they had no desire to experience it.

But Callahan didn’t mind the heat.

After all, he had spent the last several months in Hell.

Thankfully all of that ended with a strategic move on his part. Although he was still on the FBI’s shit list after the fiasco in Brighton Beach, he had taken his findings about Jack Cobb straight to the Assistant Director of Counterintelligence in Washington, bypassing several key people in the chain of command in New York: a serious violation of Bureau protocol. He’d kept his partner’s name out of it initially, just in case the blowback destroyed his career.

Luckily, the Assistant Director’s political aspirations took priority over everything else. She was thrilled with the connection that Callahan had made between the mess in New York and the bombing in Egypt and had praised him for his tenacity and his initiative in bringing the case straight to her. She immediately took Callahan and his partner Jason Koontz off probation, pulled them out of the New York office, and reassigned them to her department in Washington where they would delve deeper into the mysterious former soldier in the video.

No more endless days of torture.

No more agents making fun of their past blunder.

Things got even better when Callahan’s request to place Cobb on the Transportation Security Administration’s watch list had paid off immediately. In a stroke of luck, Callahan had received a phone call from an agent at the Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood International Airport who remembered seeing a man who looked like Cobb before the alert had posted. The TSA didn’t have any clear photos of the man but, based on the way that the suspect avoided the airport’s cameras, Callahan was positive that it was Cobb.

Koontz wasn’t quite as confident as his partner, but he had been more than willing to join him in Florida. Not only was Callahan responsible for getting them out of the doghouse, but Koontz was also looking forward to some sunshine. He wondered if Cobb was a regular at any of the local beaches where models and strippers worked on their tans.

He would have to interview them all, just to be sure.

Callahan drank his morning coffee at their hotel near the Fort Lauderdale airport while waiting for his partner’s arrival. The plan was to track down some leads and interview the TSA agent before he and Koontz headed south to work temporarily out of the Miami field office. He looked around the empty dining room with its fading white paint and wallpaper borders of palm trees and dolphins and couldn’t help but smile. The room hadn’t seen an overhaul since the early 1990s, but at least he wasn’t in the windowless office in New York.

While Callahan ate a bowl of freshly picked fruit salad – the most satisfying breakfast he’d had in months – Koontz came rushing into the dining room. His dress shirt was half buttoned, and his tie was draped around his neck.

‘Rudy! We got him,’ Koontz shouted.

‘Got who?’ Callahan asked.

‘Cobb! He’s at the airport right now.’

Callahan snagged his jacket from the back of his chair and bolted toward the parking lot. He had figured it would take weeks, if not months, to spot Cobb again.

Somehow they had found him in less than a day.

* * *

Callahan revved the engine of the Jeep Grand Cherokee as they sped toward the airport while Koontz continued to get dressed in the passenger seat.

‘Who spotted him?’ Callahan demanded.

‘The AFSD called the Miami office—’

‘That’s what again?’

‘Um … A Fucking Short Detective,’ Koontz guessed as he tucked in his shirt. ‘Anyway, he placed the TSA agent who originally spotted Cobb on surveillance duty. You know, monitoring the main airport entrance cameras, the gates, and parking structures. I guess they figured if Cobb returned, that guy might spot him easier than anyone else.’

‘Huh,’ Callahan grunted. ‘I always thought TSA just did the security check and airport employees manned the cameras.’

‘Don’t be stupid. They’re too busy stealing shit from the luggage to do anything else.’

Callahan laughed. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘Anyway, the guy spots Cobb in a van with a few other people. They were headed for the private plane terminal. We don’t have permission to ground their plane, but TSA said they would try to stall them for as long as they can.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘Still,’ Koontz said, ‘it would probably help if you drove a little bit faster. Just because you’re a senior citizen doesn’t mean you have to drive like one.’

‘Screw you, Jason.’

‘Only if I can be on top.’

Then the two of them laughed.

After months of boredom, they were finally enjoying their jobs again.

When they reached the security gate, Callahan held his badge out the window and the uniformed security officer opened the boom barrier. Callahan sped directly across the tarmac, swerving around a fuel truck and heading straight for a dark gray hangar. He stomped on the brakes in front of the metal building and threw the SUV in park.

Koontz was already leaping out of the vehicle when a man in a TSA windbreaker approached them from the open mouth of the hanger. He was holding a cell phone in his hand.

‘You the FBI?’ he asked.

‘Special Agents Callahan and Koontz,’ Callahan said, showing his badge.

‘Rob Gillespie, TSA.’

‘So …’ Callahan said, looking around. ‘Where is he?’

‘Sorry guys, you just missed him.’

‘Fuck!’ Koontz screamed as he kicked an imaginary dog. ‘How is that possible? We just got the fucking call ten minutes ago!’

‘Sorry,’ Gillespie said as he pointed in the air to a sleek private jet that had left the ground no less than a minute earlier. The plane performed a slow semicircle around the airport before heading north. ‘I tried to stop them – I really did – but I got a phone call from my supervisor saying I had to let them go. I think the owner of the jet complained about harassment.’

Callahan took the news in stride. ‘Who’s the plane registered to?’

‘We’ve got that info for you inside.’

‘Thanks,’ he said to Gillespie. He knew it was the Bureau’s fault, not the TSA agent’s. The FBI hadn’t sent the order to detain the flight like they should have. He knew how reluctant they were to inconvenience the upper one percent, and the private plane implied wealth.

Koontz took a deep breath and regained his cool. ‘Sorry about my outburst. Completely unprofessional on my part.’

‘No problem,’ Gillespie said. ‘Sometimes I’m an asshole, too.’

Callahan smiled. ‘Any idea where they were going?’

‘Yeah. They were going to Italy.’

* * *

Much to their chagrin, the paperwork in the office was a dead end. The jet was registered to a shell company based in the Cayman Islands, a territory in the Caribbean Sea that had no income tax, capital gains tax, or corporation tax, and was known for banking policies that attracted criminal organizations and tax-evading millionaires from around the globe. Even with their FBI credentials, Callahan and Koontz would get nowhere with the plane.

Thankfully, the agents had more luck with the surveillance footage.

The last several months of punishment had honed their abilities to spot even the slightest clue, but this time would be much easier. Here they were looking for something specific.

Gillespie cued up the video before giving them some privacy.

Callahan anxiously sat in front of the computer screen while Koontz pulled up a second chair next to the metal desk. Once Koontz was ready, Callahan pressed
PLAY
.

Filmed from the rafters of the hangar, the overhead video showed a limousine with tinted windows pulling up next to the private jet. Six people got out of the car, and four of them – two men and two women – headed up the steps of the plane without turning toward the camera.

Based on the height of the limo, the agents were able to estimate the height of the passengers. They also took note of their shapes and sizes, hair colors, clothing styles, and anything else that might help them down the line.

Callahan and Koontz watched as the two remaining travelers, both athletic men, walked to the rear of the limo and pulled out several large bags from the spacious trunk before carrying them onto the plane. Neither of them faced the camera, but their profiles could be seen on the screen.