The Hunters

20

Two days later, Jasmine and Dobrev met again to continue their discussion. This time, under the watchful eye of the rest of the team.

Jasmine laughed at Dobrev’s choice of meeting spot — the Soviet retro-chic restaurant on the fourth level above the check-in area of the Sheremetyevo Airport’s Terminal F. But she also appreciated its functional, 1960s ‘charm’.

‘This is like the restaurant version of you,’ she pointed out with a smile.

He was not offended in the slightest. As she took in the dark, plain decorations, heavy curtains, and faded carpet — all in shades of dark red — he explained why he had selected it.

‘I wished to find someplace you could get to easily, one with a minimum of danger from lecherous drunks or racist skinheads.’

‘It was very easy, thank you,’ she said.

‘There is none easier, in fact,’ he said proudly. ‘The Aero express train from the station runs every half-hour, and you were here in thirty-five minutes with a minimum of fuss, muss, or whistles. Whistles from men,’ he teased, ‘not—’ He finished the statement by pulling on an imaginary train whistle and blowing two short bursts of sound from his pursed lips.

She laughed, which made him laugh as well.

As they watched the tarmac through the restaurant’s window and enjoyed a bowl of borscht, they talked about all things Russian. After dinner, he walked her back to the Aero express entrance. Since she seemed amenable to another get-together before setting off on their survey, he cautiously suggested that they meet at the true repository of his family’s legacy: his apartment.

‘Please understand,’ he assured her, ‘I mean nothing untoward. It is just that, with your interest in our rail history and my unique collection, I thought you’d be interested.’

‘I definitely am.’

‘You are?’ he said, half surprised.

She laughed at his reaction. ‘I’m free now if you have the time.’

‘Yes! That would be wonderful!’

In a blur of trains and stations and people and sights, they arrived at his apartment. She was quickly impressed by what she saw. His collection of Russian railroad memorabilia covered the walls, lined the shelves, and filled the cabinets of his longtime residence. It took up roughly one-third of the floor of a nondescript apartment building in Kartmazovo, twenty-nine miles outside of Moscow. The building was constructed in the industrial egg-crate style of the 1950s on an unremarkable street just off the M3 highway. The apartment had originally been intended to house a family of five but when his parents died and his younger brother Vlad joined the army, there was only Dobrev. It was strange to see the place through the first fresh set of eyes that had been there in years. He looked with approval at the floors covered in dark, Russian rugs, the smallish room decorated with ornate if time-worn furniture, the light fixtures of heavy, antique iron and pelican-shaped glass lamps which bathed the towers of well-maintained memorabilia in soft, yellow light.

He offered her a drink, but she declined.

She said, ‘And risk missing a single detail of these glorious maps?’

That had made him smile even wider as they plunged into his collection. Instead of the customary response of tolerant boredom from young workers, the woman absolutely sparkled at his stories about the heroes of Russian rail: Yefim Cherepanova, and his son, Miron, who built Russia’s first steam-powered locomotive; Pavel Melnikov, creator of the first Russian railway; Fyodor Protsky, inventor of the first electric tram, and more.

Finally he got to his own family’s contribution, starting with his grandfather, Bela. He showed her his most prized treasure, which he kept tucked behind a vintage railway lantern.

‘It is the history of my grandfather’s homeland in a single small disc,’ he said as he reverently picked up an old velvet-lined wooden box that Jasmine had originally mistaken for a magnifying glass container. His thick, stubby fingers showed remarkable gentleness as he removed the object within. The murky, butter-colored light gleamed off the coin.

‘Wow,’ she breathed, slowly raising her hands to her cheeks.

Using the cover story that Papineau had organized for them, Cobb had assigned each member of his team a different group to investigate. McNutt was rooting out black marketeers who may have trafficked the gold or knew of someone who did. Garcia was hanging out with railroad software designers. Sarah kept her ears open around officials’ wives, girlfriends, and mistresses, who learned more from pillow talk than most intelligence services discovered through wiretaps.

But Jasmine had hit the jackpot with Andrei Dobrev.

He knew more about the railroads than their other sources combined.

‘Whoa,’ Hector Garcia said in their tiny office at the Moscow train station, approximately nineteen miles to the northeast of Dobrev’s apartment. He looked up from the image on his screen, an image that was being transmitted from a button camera on Jasmine’s blouse.

‘What is it?’ Papineau asked, coming around his desk in the unadorned guest offices the train station had supplied them.

‘You tell me,’ Garcia replied from his table, which was covered in computers, cell phones, modems, routers, and wires.

Papineau leaned over his shoulder and whistled softly at the sight that bounced on the tablet screen. ‘My word!’ he marveled. ‘That’s a gold leu!’

‘A gold what?’ Garcia asked.

‘Did you not do the reading that Cobb and I assigned to the team?’ Papineau scolded.

‘I read it all. I just don’t remember it.’

‘Tragic,’ Papineau said, only half paying attention to the younger man.

‘It’s called the Internet Era,’ Garcia said in a defensive tone. ‘It’s knowing where to find information instantly that matters, not memorizing it.’

‘And if, let’s say, you were on river rapids or in a cave with no reception?’

‘Then I wouldn’t be worried about a leu. I’d be worried about drowning or starving,’ Garcia assured him. ‘So, what is it again? The coin, I mean.’

‘It’s a first-series leu,’ Papineau said, leaning in to get a better look. ‘The gold twenty-lei coin was issued in 1868. Less than five hundred were minted, so this is a rarity.’

Garcia glanced at him, confused. ‘Is it a leu or a lei?’

‘Leu is singular; lei is plural.’ Papineau practically put his nose against the screen. ‘Zoom closer. I want to see it better.’

Garcia tapped the screen to freeze the image, then slipped the live feed to the side so he could study the coin without losing Jasmine’s progress.

Papineau studied the image just to make sure. As expected, the left profile of Carol I appeared on the front. The inscription read: CAROL I DOMNULU ROMANILORU. In English, it meant: Carol the First, Prince of the Romanians. ‘What a beautiful coin. I wonder, where did the likes of Andrei Dobrev get something like that?’

‘He said from his grandfather.’

‘I meant his family in general. How did they get a coin of such value?’

‘Guys,’ McNutt whispered from his perch across the street from Dobrev’s apartment.

Papineau ignored the voice in his earpiece. He still wasn’t used to the tiny, flesh-colored communication device that Garcia had inserted near the bottom of their auditory canals. It served as both mic and speaker, and it was so precise that it could detect the faintest whisper.

For privacy purposes, team members selected codewords — one for the mic and one for the speaker — that would temporarily deactivate their personal unit. Say the ‘mic’ word, and the microphone toggled off. Say it again, and it came back on. The same applied for the ‘speaker’ word. To prevent accidental muting, team members selected codewords that wouldn’t come up in everyday conversation. Words like pumpernickel and Travolta.

Papineau continued to speak. ‘Perhaps it was a bribe of some kind.’

‘Or a very generous tip,’ Garcia suggested.

‘I wonder, is there any way you could check his bank records from that time?’

‘Guys!’ McNutt shouted. ‘Quit your blabbing and listen to me!’

His voice was so loud it caused their earpieces to squeal.

Papineau winced from the sound. ‘Why are you yelling?’

‘Why? Because you’re ignoring me!’

‘That’s because we’re working.’

‘Well, I’m working, too,’ McNutt growled. ‘And I wanted you to know that someone is coming!’