The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3)

by Chris Kuzneski

  Sylvester laid a crumpled twenty on the table, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and closed his computer. He paused by a mirror near the front door and admired his square jaw and thick brown hair. For a man in his forties, he still looked to be in his twenties, and he often used those good looks to his advantage. Sylvester exited the blissfully cool air-conditioned diner, trading it for the thick, soupy air of south Florida. He started his sedan, which had built-in Wi-Fi, and opened the laptop on the passenger seat.

  He cranked the vehicle’s AC to high and relaxed, knowing it would be a few minutes, even if Papineau was speeding. When the Hyundai showed up on the video feed in the lower right corner of the laptop’s screen – the final camera that Sylvester had placed along the road before the diner – he shifted into DRIVE and eased his sedan onto the road. He headed south with a constant eye on his rearview mirror. The Hyundai finally appeared a minute later. The small car followed him for a mile before passing him, steering west onto highway A1A toward the airport.

  ‘Where ya headed?’ Sylvester asked aloud as he turned to follow.

  As if in response, Papineau suddenly spun around and drove back in the opposite direction.

  The U-turn both surprised and impressed Sylvester. It was called a Surveillance Detection Route, or SDR. He knew that the Frenchman would perform a series of seemingly random turns, attempting to notice any vehicles following him. An SDR might only amount to a few minutes of detour, or it could take hours. In any case, Sylvester couldn’t turn to follow or he would be spotted. He had no choice but to continue west toward the city.

  Fortunately for him, Sylvester had planned ahead.

  He had cameras positioned along every road that led to the airport.

  If that’s where Papineau was headed, he would see him again soon.

  A mile later Sylvester pulled into a gas station to wait. He parked in front of one of the pumps, but didn’t get out. Instead, he simply sat there, flipping through the feeds on his laptop until he caught sight of the Frenchman nearly twenty minutes later.

  ‘There you are.’

  Having completed the unpredictable driving of his SDR, Papineau felt confident enough to approach his final destination. Sylvester quickly caught up to his target and watched Papineau pull off a busy street and head toward a private terminal for small aircraft. Lacking the appropriate gate pass, Sylvester continued on toward the cargo terminal before circling back with a cover story to gain access to the private facility.

  He told the guard at the gate that he was interested in renting a private hangar for one of his Learjets, and the hint of money prompted a call to the general manager. Sylvester had long ago discovered his clean-cut good looks lent themselves to role-playing a wealthy young businessman. A few minutes later, a paunchy man named Wilson was giving him a tour.

  During their twenty-minute conversation, the general manager explained the operations at the small terminal and spoke convincingly about the obnoxious aspects of commercial air travel and security – all in an attempt to lure prospective business. But the only thing that Sylvester cared about was the tour of the hangers. All it took was a fleeting glimpse of Papineau’s private jet and the lone security guard standing by it for Sylvester to memorize the aircraft registration number on the tail of the plane. With that, he could determine where the plane had been, where it was scheduled to go, and the name of the registered owner.

  In short, he had everything he needed.

  After thanking his host and indicating that he might be back to tour the facility again, Sylvester excused himself on the pretense of a business meeting in Miami. He promised to have his accountant get in touch within a week.

  Instead, he returned to his rental car and pulled up the online database for FAA registration. He entered the tail number that was fresh in his mind and began his trace of the aircraft’s ownership. It took him ten minutes to sort through the layers of shell companies, and ten minutes more to scour the log of flight plans, but he eventually found what he was looking for.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed Duggan.

  Seymour picked up on the first ring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a destination.’

  * * *

  Eight hours later, Duggan’s phone rang again in his opulent room in the Phoenicia Hotel in Malta. He checked the display and saw it was another of his operatives: Jerry Westbrook.

  ‘Tell me you found him?’ Duggan asked calmly.

  After receiving the tip from Sylvester in Florida, Duggan had phoned Westbrook, his best man in California, to drive to San Diego to tail Papineau from the airport to his final destination. Duggan had used Westbrook, a part-time actor and full-time private investigator, on a number of cases in the past. They had never met face-to-face and Westbrook, like Sylvester, knew Duggan only by the alias of ‘Harry Reynolds’.

  In Duggan’s line of work, it paid to keep things close to the vest.

  He liked Westbrook, but that was no reason to compromise his own security.

  ‘Yep. I got him, Mr Reynolds. A private limo picked him up at the airport and took him up to a swanky estate in Castillo. Big security. I had to park about a mile away to make sure I wasn’t made. Nothing but sprawling estates out there. Place looks like a damn castle. Want me to keep on him when he leaves?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Duggan said, thinking it over. ‘I’d head down the road a ways. He’ll most likely be going back to the airport tomorrow. It would be nice to confirm.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘In the meantime, why don’t you ask around a bit? Maybe one of the locals will know the name of the man who owns the estate. At the very least, get me a street. I can do quite a bit with a mailing address.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Westbrook bragged.

  Duggan smiled, glad that everything was going so smoothly.

  Unfortunately, it was the last thing Duggan would ever hear him say.

  17

  Castillo, California

  (22 miles north of San Diego)

  Papineau took a small bite of the succulent crab cake, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin. ‘You knew this would happen, sir. You planned for it.’

  Maurice Copeland nodded, chewing his food with the grace of a camel.

  Papineau smiled and marveled at his apparent new stature in his boss’s organization. On his last visit, Copeland had hinted none too subtly that Papineau might soon find himself out of work – or worse – but on this visit, he had been treated regally. Copeland had sent a limo to bring his guest from the airport to the fortified home. For the first time ever, Papineau had enjoyed the scenic ride to the private hilltop community. He had paid no attention to the electrified gate that momentarily blocked their path or any of the other security measures that protected the land from intruders.

  Instead, he admired the house and the distant Pacific Ocean.

  When Papineau had reached the residence, Copeland had welcomed him warmly at the front door. In the past, Copeland’s beautiful-but-broken wife had always greeted him, but she was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally found the courage to leave Copeland, or if his boss had killed her and buried her somewhere on his spacious estate.

  Papineau knew that the second option was far more likely.

  ‘Yeah, I planned for it,’ Copeland said, taking a swig from a bottle of Dos Equis. Papineau watched as the lime slice the man had shoved down the neck of the brown bottle jammed in its throat, flavoring the Mexican beer. ‘He surprised me, though. I didn’t think Cobb would have the stones to dig deeper into who was pulling the strings until the fourth mission.’

  While his face showed nothing, inside Papineau raised a mental eyebrow. His boss – the man who had ruined him in the world of business and then offered him a lifeline of servitude – had let it slip that there would be another mission after the Polo treasure.

  That is, of course, if they were successful.

  For all his own private investigations, Papineau had
failed to discover why Copeland was so intent on discovering these treasures. The man was already fabulously wealthy, and he didn’t really seem to want them. He had repatriated a good portion of the Romanian treasure to Bucharest and had allowed the Ulster Archives to examine the findings in the tomb of Alexander before the treasure was carefully packaged and shipped to Cairo. Copeland’s only desire had been to visit the burial site before Papineau had notified anyone else of its location.

  Copeland took another sip of beer. ‘Obviously you can agree to all of Cobb’s terms. Let’s also throw him a small bone; something that will get him to slow down his search for me. You can confirm that you work for a nameless benefactor. Tell him I prefer to remain anonymous for the time being, but if the team is successful on this mission I’ll reveal myself to him and him alone. The others must never know my name.’

  Copeland smiled, but it did little to improve his bulldog looks. With a cauliflower ear and a nose that had been broken many times, his grin only made him look constipated.

  ‘I don’t think he will accept those terms,’ Papineau said with just the right hint of uncertainty in his voice. He looked out past the massive swimming pool to the expansive view, feigning uncertainty as to how he might sell Cobb on the idea.

  He knew full well that Cobb would accept the terms.

  He was merely playing to Copeland’s ego.

  ‘He’ll agree to it,’ Copeland assured him. ‘And in the meantime, he’ll still be hunting me. So we’ll throw him a bone there, too. Something that makes him feel like he’s getting closer.’

  Copeland inhaled his last crab cake in one giant bite and started speaking again before he was finished chewing. ‘Where is the team on Polo?’

  Papineau hid his disgust. ‘Hector has finished the computer translation of the Rustichello manuscript, and Maggie is done with her contrastive analysis. Jack and Joshua are in northwest China while Sarah and the others are planning a trip to Florence to retrieve a different manuscript that might have some leads.’

  Copeland leaned forward in his wrought-iron chair. He was a short man with an even shorter fuse. ‘In other words, you have nothing.’

  Papineau was prepared for Copeland’s reaction. ‘You knew this one would be tougher than the others. They are working with very thin leads. The manuscript you procured is full of Rustichello’s suspicions, not maps. There is no “X marks the spot”.’

  ‘Then why is Cobb in Asia?’

  ‘They are performing reconnaissance in Xinjiang. Obviously, they’ve stumbled upon a clue of some sort. It’s in Cobb’s M.O. to investigate a location before bringing the team in. He calls these trips “rekkys”.’

  ‘But this time he’s done it without telling you the reason why,’ Copeland goaded.

  ‘Or so he believes. It’s all part of my calculated management style. I’ve actually been taking pointers from you.’

  Copeland leaned back. ‘Are you trying to flatter me, Jean-Marc?’

  ‘Never, sir.’

  Copeland let loose a throaty laugh, then stood and began to walk around the infinity pool set into the side of the verdant hill. Papineau stood and followed the man without being told.

  The immense estate might have looked like just another lavish home in yet another exclusive neighborhood, but Papineau knew that it was actually the centerpiece of a sprawling collective. All of the surrounding mansions were also owned by his employer, making the entire hilltop his personal dominion. It was an act of both convenience and arrogance. While he loved a good fight, he was uninterested in spending any time with adversarial neighbors he considered beneath him – at least not when victory could be bought instead of battled for. To ensure his complete control over both his property and his privacy, Copeland had convinced the local zoning board to declare the land outside of the township’s authority. It had been money well spent.

  He not only owned the land, he ruled it.

  It was his kingdom.

  The estate was surrounded by a low stone wall and landscaping that was so perfect it looked like it had been planted by a robot. The compound made the security at the house in Fort Lauderdale look primitive. The house itself resembled a reinforced castle piercing skyward out of the soil of the hilltop. The stones had been quarried from all over the country and presented a tapestry of shades of gray against the piercing blue of the California sky. The inside of the home was just as impressive, with tasteful artwork, handcrafted furniture, and multitudes of skylights to fill the place with natural light. Despite all the man-made luxury, the thing that Papineau liked best about the home was the view.

  He walked in silence as he absorbed the transcendent vista of the Pacific Ocean.

  ‘Just be sure he’s still on mission,’ Copeland said, shattering the moment. ‘I need him hunting for me, not hunting for me. Understand?’

  Papineau understood the distinction. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more thing, Jean-Marc. I may not want him looking for me, but it is the only acceptable alternative. If you ever sense that he’s lost interest in the treasures and my identity, I need to know immediately.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Copeland stopped walking and stared at Papineau. ‘Because if he’s no longer trying to find a treasure or find out who I am, it’ll be because he’s figured out what I’m doing. And once he does that, I’ll be forced to kill him … and his whole fucking team.’

  18

  Sarah paced the floor of the swank living room, asking herself the same question over and over again for the last several hours. ‘Where the hell are they?’

  She knew Cobb had touched base earlier in the day, but the data from the ground-penetrating radar had stopped suddenly and all attempts to contact him since had been unsuccessful. Normally she wouldn’t be worried about Cobb, who tended to be very focused when he was on a rekky, but thanks to the volatile weather in Loulan, she couldn’t help but wonder if a giant sandstorm had ravaged their communications gear, their vehicle, or them.

  If so, they could be stranded in the dead zone.

  She walked irregular patterns through the Doric columns of the living room, ignoring the crystal chandeliers overhead and the gorgeous hardwood and marble floors beneath her feet. She eventually noticed that she had been subconsciously avoiding the exotic Turkish rugs and was instead weaving a path around on the parts of the floors that were uncovered.

  Even lost in thought she was cognizant of the treasures around her.

  She changed her course and headed into the compound’s vast library to speak with Maggie. Lined with dark wood shelves that stretched up into the alcoves of the loft ceiling, the room contained close to 5,000 volumes, many of which were leather-bound first editions.

  All were meticulously free of dust.

  Sarah wondered briefly who performed the actual dusting. She guessed that Papineau had a professional cleaning crew come in once a week or so. Even the most perfectly constructed homes in Florida required constant maintenance. And if the air conditioning went out for even a week, every volume in the spacious library would be crawling with mold.

  Surrounded by sheaves of loose paper and piles of open books, Maggie sat at a long table, completely focused on her work. Sarah stood in the doorway for a moment, hoping to be noticed. When that didn’t happen, she pulled out a wooden chair and sat at the table across from Maggie, who welcomed her with a smile.

  ‘Any more leads?’ Sarah asked.

  Maggie nodded. ‘Actually, yes. It’s a bit complicated, but I think if we follow—’ She caught herself and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I was about to start a long historical explanation. Do you actually want to hear it, or were you just interested in the end result?’

  Sarah was surprised by the question. It was one that Jasmine had never asked – even when they were in the field under fire. Bullets would be flying, and Jasmine would launch into a graduate-level thesis on a historical tangent that had nothing to do with the original query because she felt it was a teaching moment.

 
It was annoying as hell, but part of her charm.

  And one of many things that Sarah missed about her.

  ‘Please,’ Sarah said, ‘regale me with details. I need to understand everything anyway, and I need to keep occupied. I’ve already procured new gear for the team, and I really can’t move much further in my preparations for extraction if I don’t even have any clue as to what the treasure is, how much there might be, or where in the world we might find it. Right now all I have to go on is: treasure … somewhere in Asia. That’s a hell of a big haystack, especially when you don’t even know what the needle looks like.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘Well, let’s see if we can narrow things down a bit. The first thing you need to know is that even though the Polos logged thousands of miles on their travels, they weren’t exactly trailblazers. Most of the paths that they followed were established trade routes of the indigenous population. What made the Polos special were the places they went and the people they met. They did things that no Europeans had ever done before.’

  ‘Like Columbus “discovering” America.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Maggie said. ‘Niccolò and Maffeo left Istanbul around 1259. They traveled to Uzbekistan and traded there for a few years. They then joined up with a caravan that was on its way from Persia to Dadu. That trip took roughly two years, but the members of the caravan had made the trip before. They were emissaries for Hulagu Khan and Kublai Khan.’

  ‘And who were the Khans?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘They were brothers – grandchildren of Genghis Khan, former supreme ruler of the Mongol Empire. At that time, Hulagu ruled everything from Turkey to the Baluchistan province of Pakistan. Kublai held Mongolia and the west and northern parts of China. The point is, the members of the caravan knew their way.’

  ‘Got it,’ Sarah said.

  ‘The brothers were received warmly in Dadu, which is modern-day Beijing. As I mentioned in my initial briefing, Kublai Khan sent them back to Europe with two tasks. Do you remember what they were?’