23
Saturday, March 29
Papineau was worried about Cobb and McNutt. As far as he could tell, it had been a few days since anyone had heard from them. Their last communication was Wednesday, right before the transmission of their GPR data had stopped abruptly.
Based on his conversations with the team, he sensed they were worried too.
Particularly Sarah. He had never seen her so uptight.
It made him wonder if she had fallen for Cobb.
Though it pained him to admit it, Papineau realized his presence at the compound only added to the tension of the team, so he decided to give them some space. Upon returning from California on Thursday night, he had boarded his yacht and set a course for the blue-green waters of the Atlantic. Normally a few days at sea would melt his tensions away, but not this time. He had been too wrapped up in his thoughts to enjoy the scenery.
His trips out west to see Copeland always made his blood boil. His hatred for the man was extraordinary, so much so that he often stayed up late thinking of ways to knock him from his perch. As it was, his best plan involved Cobb and his treasure-hunting team. If the team leader had gotten himself killed on his advance fieldwork in Asia, everything would be lost.
As the yacht gently nuzzled against the private pier, Papineau pulled his mind into the present. He stood from his lounge chair and donned his linen jacket, waiting for the captain to finish with the lines and the gangplank. After stepping ashore, he strolled through the grounds of his estate, studiously avoiding direct looks into any of the cameras. He knew the others must have detected some or even most of them by now – he’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t – but he didn’t want to tip them off to any they might have missed. Instead, he breezed past the palms and assorted flowers without a glance, moving directly into the living room through the sliding glass doors off the patio.
Not surprisingly, Garcia was nowhere to be seen. He would be secluded down below in the room that Papineau had dubbed the Control Center, but which the members of the team insisted on calling the War Room. Even without the cameras secreted around the compound, Papineau knew he would find Garcia there.
He also knew Maggie would most likely be in the library. She seemed to have staked out that space as her primary working area, spreading her printouts and documents across the surface of the large antique table. Unlike the others on the team who had fully embraced the digital world, she worked almost exclusively with paper. Maybe that was a generational thing as she was slightly older than the others, or maybe it was her field of study.
Papineau was well enough versed in the subject of Marco Polo to understand that not only were there multitudes of varying accounts but, in some cases, scholars had even taken to adding copious notes in the margins of different versions of the tale. The marginalia, as they were called, despite being anonymous in many cases, were often deemed by scholars to be as useful as the main document. In fact, many of the most well-known theories concerning the Venetian’s travels had come from these additions.
Papineau made a mental note to ask Maggie if she had discovered anything useful in the marginalia of any of the copies of the book she had obtained.
But he would do it later.
Right now, he needed to speak with Garcia.
Unfortunately, Sarah was in his way. She was pacing in the kitchen, wearing low-rise shorts and a bikini top while eating a piece of fruit. Her skin was a deep tan and her blond hair was lighter than it had been before his trip. Her small, bare feet slapped on the marble floor as she walked. Despite the elaborate swimming pools out on the patio, he realized this was the first time he had seen her in an actual swimming suit.
‘Sarah,’ he said, startling her from her thoughts. ‘Finally enjoying the pool? I hope you’ve been getting some work done as well.’
Instead of responding with her typical defensiveness, she looked relieved to see him. ‘I’m actually going a little stir crazy without the others here. Hector’s locked himself in with the computer, doing God knows what. Maggie’s busy with her books. I’ve already done as much of the advance prep work that I can without knowing exactly where we’re going. Do you know how hard it is to devise an exit strategy from a dozen different nations for a treasure of indeterminate size?’
Papineau smiled with compassion. He had been in charge of that same task on the previous two missions. ‘I cannot imagine, my dear.’
‘Let’s just say it isn’t easy. But I did it, plus I acquired some new equipment for the team as well. Now I’m left wondering what to do with myself. Do you want to look over some of the new gear? I’d be happy to show you.’
Papineau wondered if she was acting or if she was really bored. He suspected a bit of both. ‘That would be fabulous, but first I need to speak with young Hector. If you’ll excuse me.’
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be around.’
As he made for the stairway that led down to the War Room, Sarah pulled her cell phone out of the tight back pocket of her shorts and sent an emergency text message.
* * *
Garcia’s phone emitted a soft tweeting noise, and he leaped up from underneath the tabletop computer where he had been planting his own listening device. He jumped into his usual chair, which had an array of empty snack packets in front of it, and quickly tapped the tabletop touchscreen, activating five different windows on the glass surface of the table.
Now, when Papineau walked into the War Room, he would see the hacker embroiled in research, coding, and reports from three different international news stations on events in China and India. The empty wrappers for the Twinkies and Snickers candy bars – consumed over the past few days – were just set dressing to make it appear he’d been at work for hours.
To complete the illusion, Garcia began tapping at the virtual keyboard displayed on the table’s surface just as the Frenchman entered the room.
‘Good morning, Hector,’ Papineau said.
Garcia made a show of acting startled. ‘Papi! You’re back.’
The man frowned. ‘Please, don’t call me “Papi”.’
‘Are the others back, too?’ Garcia asked.
Papineau slid into a chair at the table, opposite Garcia. ‘Actually, I was hoping you could tell me where they are and when they’ll return.’
Garcia felt a quick moment of fear. He’d started as the Frenchman’s informant, but now his allegiance had shifted to the team. He was afraid Papineau was about to ask him to spy again and he wasn’t sure he could act as a triple agent.
As it was he’d been busy ferreting out the cyber intrusions into his own systems, which he assumed were the work of Papineau’s people. The snoops were definitely there, as evidenced by the malware they had placed in his Denver system. He’d spotted it covertly, and it was enough for him to know that he would need to write off the whole facility and all the hard work he had done there.
‘I wish I knew where they are, but I don’t.’
The Frenchman just stared at him, unsure if he was telling the truth.
Garcia opted to change the topic. ‘Did you speak to Maggie? She said my computer translations were incredibly helpful. I think she’s done with her own translations, and now she’s just sifting through the information. She said most of what was in the original document echoes the account in the first third of most copies of the book we have today: descriptions of the Middle East, the journey to China, and the meeting with Kublai Khan.’
The Frenchman rubbed the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath of the basil-scented air. The other plants in the room had been his idea, increasing oxygen and making the space homier, but Garcia had added the basil, knowing the scent increased mental acuity and also had anti-viral properties. Plus he liked the rich smell.
‘Are we closer to a location?’
‘Yes, sir. We’re getting there. Any day now.’
‘Good,’ Papineau said as he stood up. ‘I’d like to have a destination ready to go as soon as we obtain a new tea
m leader.’
Garcia did a double take. ‘A new team leader? You’re firing Jack? I know he was a little demanding in the last meeting, but—’
‘No, Hector. It isn’t that. He’s long overdue from wherever he’s gone. We cannot wait on him any longer. Once we have a location, we must proceed without him.’
‘Well, I’m waiting on him,’ a voice said from behind.
Papineau and Garcia turned and saw McNutt standing in the doorway with an aluminum crutch under one beefy arm. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the slogan THE HELL WITH YOUR MOUNTAINS, SHOW ME YOUR BUSCH on it, with a can of beer superimposed against a distant mountain range. His blue jeans were faded, and his beard hadn’t been shaved since he had left Florida. He was starting to look very much like the biker he was.
Both men noted the crutch.
‘What happened to you?’ Garcia blurted.
‘And where have you been?’ Papineau demanded.
‘Nice to see you guys, too.’
Garcia ignored the sarcasm. ‘Seriously, Josh, are you okay?’
‘Yes, Penelope, I’m fine. Just a minor accident. I met this really hot Asian chick during the rekky, and I got sooooo excited my boner actually pierced my leg. Doc says I need to use this damn crutch for a while, but I should be up and running by summer.’
‘Summer?’ Papineau shrieked.
McNutt laughed as he limped into the room. He loved messing with Papi. ‘Don’t worry, if we need to mobilize, I’ll ditch this sucker and keep up. Oh, and as for where I’ve been, I was doing what I was supposed to be doing: checking out China and arranging supplies for our mission. Jack and I separated a few days ago in Kashgar. I haven’t heard from him since … Why? Is he missing?’
‘Yes,’ Papineau said. ‘For some time now.’
‘And you don’t think we should wait for Jack?’
‘What?’ Sarah said as she entered the room. ‘Who’s not waiting for Jack?’
Papineau took a deep breath. ‘I merely mentioned the possibility of moving forward without him. This mission is time-sensitive, and our leader is nowhere to be found. If I don’t hear from him soon, well, I’ll have no choice but to move in a different direction.’
Although this was merely a bluff – he hoped that someone on the team would contact Cobb and get him to return – he sensed that time was of the essence with Maurice Copeland’s plans for the treasure. That meant time was crucial to Papineau as well. And if Cobb didn’t return soon, Papineau really would need to find another man to lead the team.
Surprisingly, Garcia was the first one to draw a line in the sand. ‘Sorry, sir. I’m not going on this mission without Jack.’
Sarah smiled. ‘That might be the first thing you’ve said that I completely agree with.’
McNutt nodded at Garcia, then turned his focus to Papineau. ‘You heard the team. None of us are going anywhere without the chief.’
Papineau stepped around the others and started up the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ Sarah demanded.
‘I’m tired of these little mutinies,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘In addition to finding a new team leader, it appears I need a new hacker, weapons expert, and thief.’
24
San Diego, California
Jerry Westbrook was running for his life.
But he didn’t know why.
He had first spotted the tail as he left the airport on Thursday. The black SUV with the tinted windows had followed him for several miles, careful to never get too close. When it disappeared thirty minutes later, Westbrook had begun to wonder if he had only been imagining things. For all he knew, Jean-Marc Papineau was nothing more than an unscrupulous businessman. Surely nothing in his investigation would warrant this type of attention.
His opinion had changed earlier that night.
That’s when the same SUV had reappeared.
Westbrook had driven all around the city for hours trying to lose them; but each time he’d been successful at slipping a tail, a new follow vehicle would appear. With each new tail, he was able to eliminate another possibility. Amateurs wouldn’t be so coordinated. Gangsters, mobsters, and other unsavory types would have been more brazen and reckless. A military or government agency could have taken him anytime, anywhere – they didn’t need to fool around with car chases.
He couldn’t say who they were, but he definitely knew the type.
They were private contractors and extremely well funded.
With his sedan running low on gas, Westbrook made a last-ditch gambit. He sped up, putting some distance between himself and the nearest car, and headed toward the San Diego Zoo: one of the largest wildlife parks in the world. The main entrance was barricaded with wooden sawhorses painted in cheerful orange and white stripes, but he had no problem smashing through them with his car.
He shot across the empty parking lot and hastily parked in the row nearest the grounds. From the glove box he grabbed the vehicle’s registration card and his proof of insurance – papers that listed both his name and current address. He stuffed them in his pocket as he leaped out and sprinted for the closest point of access. After scaling a wall and dropping to the ground beyond, he crept off into the zoo.
He could hear the squeal of tires behind him as his pursuers gave chase.
Westbrook had been to the zoo dozens of times but never when it was deserted. Without the steady murmur of the usual crowds, the sound of his shoes slapping on the asphalt pathways rang out like gunshots in his ears. To limit the noise, he slipped off the track and onto the sandy soil at the side of it. He darted between trees, vaulted over obstacles, and ducked under low-hanging branches. He deliberately careened through the landscaping off the beaten trail, hoping the others wouldn’t be able to follow.
Out of breath, he stopped and took cover behind a huge bush. The shrub easily concealed his frame, giving him a moment to consider his predicament. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around, peering intently at the dark shadows pooling between the far-too-distant street lamps that lit the trails. One thing was clear: the zoo had not been designed for a nighttime audience.
The heat of the night was stifling. He wondered if it was just unseasonably warm or whether he was badly out of shape. In either case, the random scents of animals – both those free to wander their paddocks and those caged in more confining containers – filled the night air like the cologne of the damned. It was a rich, meaty stink. Westbrook had never experienced allergies before, but now he found it difficult to breathe in the stench.
After a minute of silence, he pushed deeper into the park. There were exits at each end, and exits meant roads. With any luck he could flag someone down and hitch a ride. He rehearsed a convincing story as he ran, but he never had a chance to use it.
The six-seat golf cart, used to transport employees and customers around the park, bore down on him like a runaway train. The powerful electric motor propelled the vehicle silently on its collision course until it made contact with the unsuspecting jogger. The first thing Westbrook heard was the sound of the cart hitting him.
The hit wasn’t lethal, but it was hard enough to send him flying through the air. He barely had time to see the darkened world flutter past him in slow motion before time sped up and his body slammed into the ground. He rolled a few times, and then started to get up, marveling that the only injuries he noticed were small patches of road rash on his wrists and palms.
Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.
Suddenly rough hands were grabbing him and dragging him to his feet. He could hear questions, but the voices sounded blurred, like adults in a Charlie Brown special.
Despite the dull throbbing in his head, Westbrook opened his eyes as his three assailants tossed him up against a fence. They slapped him across the face a few times to ensure that they had his full attention. As his senses returned, Westbrook realized that only one man was talking.
‘Who paid you?’ the man demanded. He wore a dark suit, and his
head seemed to shimmer in the moonlight.
As Westbrook’s vision adjusted to the darkness, he could see that his interrogator was not simply bald, he was completely hairless.
‘Hey man, relax.’ Westbrook’s own voice sounded strange to him; it was thick and slurring. He realized something was wrong with his ear when he touched it and felt blood. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know. The money wasn’t that good.’
The man moved uncomfortably close to Westbrook. Without lashes, his jet-black eyes took on a hollow, vacant stare. Instead of eyebrows, he had only the thick, bony protrusions of his orbital ridge. He looked like a skeletal ghoul, wrapped in barely enough flesh to pass for human.
His face wasn’t just menacing, it was haunting.
‘Give me a name,’ the demon demanded.
Westbrook sensed this was a man who plowed through every obstacle in life, rather than using finesse. ‘Harry Reynolds … I think he’s English or something.’ Westbrook started to wobble on his feet. His balance suddenly gone, the world started spinning upward and to his left. ‘I think … I think I might need some help.’
‘Give him a hand,’ the man said as he turned and walked away. The other two men, similarly dressed and shorn with military-style crew cuts, stepped forward at his command. One grabbed Westbrook’s arms, the other Westbrook’s legs, and with a single easy motion they tossed him over the fence.
His body hit a grassy slope and slid down sideways until he landed in a shallow pool. He sputtered and thrashed in the water for a moment until he realized that the pool wasn’t deep. He stood up and then immediately fell down again. His balance was shot.
Vertigo was making his stomach queasy.
Then, even through his shattered eardrum, he registered the roar.
The bass of it reverberated in his sternum. The hair on his arms stood on end, his body reacting with primal fear to the new life-threatening menace. He turned slowly in the water to see the approaching behemoth.
Jerry Westbrook screamed long and loud.
He was still screaming when the polar bear began to eat him.
The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3) Page 12
