The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  The Hunters

  ( Hunters - 1 )

  Chris Kuzneski

  Chris Kuzneski

  The Hunters

  Railroads of Eastern Europe

  Prologue

  Friday, December 15, 1916

  Iasi, Romania

  (246 miles north of Bucharest)

  The biggest theft in modern history didn’t occur at a bank. It happened in a train station in the dead of night, under the watchful gaze of armed soldiers.

  Amazingly, no one knew it was a robbery until years later.

  And by then, the treasure had been stolen again.

  It was miserably cold as Bela Dobrev left the three-story building where he and his wife lived in a small, second-floor apartment. The streets were empty at this late hour, and the wind from the northeast carried the damp, dreadful smell of the Prut River. He pulled his new wool scarf higher on his face, over his full mustache to the bridge of his nose. He was grateful his wife had given him this Christmas gift early. The winter was unforgiving, the odors of sewage even worse. At least in the summer the winds tended to blow from the south.

  From the moment he started out for his evening shift, he walked with his eyes downcast to protect them from the incessant wind. He did not have to look up to walk the three blocks to the sprawling station. He had worked there for over forty years, since the proud, palatial structure had opened in 1870. He knew the cobbled roadways stone by stone. He remembered when a carthorse had stumbled and broken this one, when an axe had fallen from a laborer’s backpack and cracked that one. He remembered it all.

  A block from the station, Dobrev smiled beneath the scarf, the bristles of his mustache prickling his upper lip. It was then that he always smelled the first, faint scent of the lubricants used to oil the trains. Crawling under the big locomotives to apply grease to the wheel hubs had been his first job here. That scent invariably took him back to a more innocent era. They were good times, when cities were being united by rail and each new arrival brought a sense of wonder, not dread. When the new year had brought hope and happy reflection, rather than fear of invading armies and the ghastly horrors of war.

  Dobrev’s gloved hands held the collar of his worn overcoat to his throat. His newly mended socks kept his heels warm, though his toes were starting to tingle from the cold. He quickened his pace, his eyes narrowing as he heard unfamiliar sounds coming from the tracks. He was accustomed to the clatter of unwieldy crates, to heavy machinery being loaded onto flatbeds by screeching mobile cranes, to the clomping of hooves as horses pulled baggage carts. But he had never heard so many sounds, so much activity, especially this late at night. His mind spun at the thought of the wages the stationmaster would have to pay — but for what?

  He looked up and saw rows of canvas-backed military trucks parked nose-in along the platform. That was not unusual: troops in their light-gray uniforms came and went from Iasi, heading to the frontier. In the late summer they came from Bucharest, but the city was now in German hands. More and more they were returning to Iasi from combat, along with crowds of refugees fleeing typhus outbreaks. These months since Romania had joined the war were the only time in Dobrev’s married life that he and his wife were glad his only child had moved away. The sorrow in the homes of his neighbors was difficult enough to witness.

  Cold as he was, Dobrev did not go straight to the cathedral doorways that fronted the towering facade. His curiosity wouldn’t allow it.

  This contingent was different from any he had seen. There were troops just beyond the parked convoy, but they were fresh and facing the street, holding rifles with fixed bayonets across their chests. Beyond them, illuminated by the hooded lamps that lined the platform, a train jutted far beyond both sides of the building. That was unprecedented. The tops of the cars were wrapped in steam from the locomotive. The train was ‘active’, ready to move at any moment. Given the cost of coal during winter — during wartime — this was most surprising.

  Dobrev went to the west side of the terminal where, shielded from the wind, he lowered his scarf and wiped his tearing eyes with his sleeve. He saw boxcar after boxcar, twenty-one in all. On the platform beside them were dozens of crates, stacked in columns, with armed soldiers massed around each, but nowhere on the military train did he see the red, yellow, and blue flag of Romania.

  The soldier nearest him took several steps toward him. He wore the insignia of a pigeon messenger. That was unusual too. In four months, Dobrev had never seen those troops as part of a guard detail. They were generally assigned to priority missions.

  ‘What is your business?’ the soldier asked curtly. His cheeks were red. They did not look old enough to support a beard.

  ‘I am the assistant stationmaster,’ Dobrev told him. ‘I am beginning my shift.’

  ‘Begin it inside,’ the young man told him.

  ‘I’m about to,’ Dobrev said. ‘But I’m wondering — there was nothing about a train this size on the sched-’

  ‘Inside, Assistant Stationmaster,’ the soldier ordered, shifting his rifle nervously so the bayonet was angled downward.

  Dobrev’s eyes lingered on the young man a moment longer. Then he raised a gloved hand in surrender, took a last look at the spectacle, and turned away. That exchange had told him more about the war than any of the reports in the newspapers. The situation was desperate when a young Romanian talked to an elder Romanian with no show of respect. Even youths from the capital had better manners.

  This boy was tense, afraid.

  Dobrev walked back to the front of the station. He noticed that the treads of the trucks were badly worn. This too was an indication that things were going poorly.

  What an ill-advised venture, he thought as he neared the door.

  Romania had joined the war on the side of Russia, France, and England in order to seize Transylvania from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Most of the people Dobrev talked to thought that was a waste of men and resources. The population in Transylvania was already largely Romanian. Did it matter who actually owned the high, daunting mountain ranges?

  Dobrev stopped abruptly. He saw something on the ground beside one of the bare truck tires, a flash of golden light. He shuffled over and picked it up.

  It was a valuable, twenty lei gold coin issued in 1868. Dobrev’s first thought was that it had probably been dropped by a harried passenger. The wealthy often departed by train for day trips to country estates. Mishaps like this occurred when they eagerly pulled gloves from their coats, searched with panic for misplaced tickets, or checked a pocket watch to see if they had time to visit the bar. As a youngster, Dobrev used to supplement his income handsomely with dropped coins. French francs, Turkish lire, and once a silver Russian ruble. Local coins were not as highly prized as foreign coins, which always seemed to be rising in value.

  But he had never found a coin of gold.

  Feeling a flush of warmth, as if he had just downed a nice plum brandy, he stood and tucked the coin in a pocket that he knew did not have a hole. Then, fueled by his good fortune, he decided to push his luck. Standing just out of view of the soldiers, Dobrev peeled back the corner of the canvas and peered inside the back of the truck. The space was empty, except for two benches along the sides, a few crowbars on the floor, and a pile of bent nails.

  The cargo has been opened, but why?

  For an official examination? Or something criminal?

  As he walked into the station, Dobrev considered the possibilities. Glancing east, he stared at the powerful locomotive. He pondered the significance of the guarded cargo, the pigeon messengers to signal its progress, and the unscheduled departure in the dead of night.

  None of this makes sense, unless-

  Dobrev stopped and trembled at the thought.

&n
bsp; His feeling of good fortune disappeared when he realized that the coin he found was probably a tiny fraction of the contents of the dozens of crates. Vast tons of coins and treasures, all being taken away. The wealth of a nation being removed from his homeland.

  The chill he felt as he entered the cavernous waiting area was deeper than any he had felt during his short walk through the winter night.

  It was the chill of despair.

  1

  Present Day

  Tuesday, August 21

  Brooklyn, New York

  The surveillance van was parked down the street on the left. The same place it had been the day before and the day before that. Its location was the second-worst-kept secret in the Eastern Bloc neighborhood of Brighton Beach.

  The first was the name of the man that the FBI was watching.

  Vladimir Kozlov had built a criminal empire in Moscow. He dabbled in everything from drugs and weapons to prostitution and smuggling. In recent years, he had discovered the advantages of cybercrime, though he rarely used computers himself. Through it all, he had managed to avoid prosecution. Thanks to the liberal free-trade laws established after the fall of the Soviet Union and, more importantly, millions of dollars in bribes to key officials, Kozlov was viewed by most Russians — the same people that he secretly robbed, and threatened, and extorted — as a national hero.

  But to the FBI, he was something else.

  He was a person of interest.

  Possibly the most interesting man in New York.

  Because of his ‘clean’ criminal record, Kozlov was allowed to enter America in order to expand his legitimate businesses. He immediately bought the largest house in Brighton Beach, an area of Brooklyn known as ‘Little Odessa’ because of its huge population of Ukrainians. He then used his reputation and connections to unite the local bratva, a term that meant ‘brotherhood’ to Russians but meant ‘mafia’ to everyone else. In less than five years, the Brighton Beach Bratva had become the most notorious syndicate in New York. They weren’t the largest operation in the city — that distinction still belonged to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra — but they were considered the deadliest.

  In the media, they were known as the Killer Bees.

  Inside the van, they were called something worse.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Special Agent Jason Koontz said as he stuffed noodles into his mouth from a takeout carton, ‘these guys are cold-hearted Russian motherfuckers. American criminals don’t think like them. Neither do the Italians. These Commie bastards are a different breed. They’re as nasty as the Triads, only a lot less Asian.’

  His partner, Rudy Callahan, nearly spit out his lukewarm coffee. He quickly glanced at his computer screen and made sure that neither of their microphones was actively transmitting. If they had been, his partner’s profane and racist rant would have been recorded on the Bureau’s mainframe, and it undoubtedly would have been red-flagged by their superiors and cited in Koontz’s ever-growing discipline file.

  ‘Stop doing that!’ Callahan demanded.

  ‘Doing what?’ Koontz asked, seemingly oblivious to the problem. He accented his ignorance by slurping up more lo mein. Soy sauce sprayed everywhere.

  ‘Saying stuff like that in the van. Do you know what would happen if the director heard what you just said?’

  Koontz shrugged. ‘He’d probably agree with me.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Callahan assured him. ‘He’d probably suspend you. You know damn well we can’t make racist comments during an operation. Your comments could be used against us in court. It makes our observations seem biased.’

  Koontz shook his head. His partner was such a boy scout. ‘You think I’m bad? You should hear some of the stories I’ve heard from the Narco units that cover the streetwalkers downtown. They say this one Czech chick can fit a-’

  ‘Jason!’ Callahan interrupted. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? Just about everything you say is racist!’

  ‘Racist? How can I be a racist? I’m eating Chink food with chopsticks. A real racist wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh … my … God,’ he mumbled in disbelief. ‘I’m stuck in a van with a total idiot. Why do I even bother?’

  ‘Because I’m your only friend.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Koontz laughed to himself. He loved getting on his partner’s nerves, especially on long stakeouts like this one where nothing major was expected to occur. The two agents were there to take pictures of Kozlov’s minions, fresh-off-the-boat recruits who were smuggled to America with promises of power and money but were actually brought here to do the dirty work that Kozlov’s top earners couldn’t risk doing. These thugs were recycled so quickly that the Bureau had to maintain constant surveillance to keep track of them. Conveniently, most of them lived in the houses that bordered Kozlov’s property. In many ways, they were like a community watch program in reverse.

  They warned Kozlov when the cops were around.

  Lately, that had been twenty-four hours a day.

  As part of a cooperative arrangement with the NYPD’s 60th Precinct, the FBI maintained an ongoing presence in Brighton Beach at the behest of community leaders who were trying to combat the notorious reputation of Little Odessa. This was particularly true in the summer months when tourists flocked to the local beaches with pockets full of cash and plenty of entertainment options. With Coney Island to the west and Manhattan Beach to the east, the businesses of Brighton Beach had to work extra hard to attract visitors. That meant convincing locals and tourists alike that foreign gangsters wouldn’t rob them before they had a chance to spend their hard-earned money on beers, souvenirs, and cotton candy.

  But unlike the 60th Precinct, which was tasked with patrolling the streets and walking the beat, the Bureau took advantage of this special opportunity by parking one of its state-of-the-art surveillance vans fifty feet from Kozlov’s house in an attempt to spook him. Initially, his high-powered attorney had tried to argue harassment — after all, Kozlov was a businessman to be ‘respected’, not a criminal to be ‘persecuted’ — but a federal judge dismissed the motion after the Bureau’s attorneys argued that they were watching the house, not the man. It was a technicality that stood on weak legal legs, but the judge agreed with the distinction.

  That was why the van never moved.

  And why Koontz was bored silly.

  Sensing a chance for some privacy, he did everything he could to agitate his partner. ‘Seriously, what did I say that was so wrong?’

  ‘Everything!’ Callahan explained. ‘First of all, half of his men aren’t Russian. They’re Ukrainian. And Chechen. And Georgian. Furthermore, how can they be less Asian than the Triads when most of Russia is in Asia?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Don’t “whatever” me! I get enough of that from my kids and my ex-wives. I don’t need it from you, too.’

  Koontz rolled his eyes, agitating his partner even more. ‘Fine, but you’re like a broken record. I know Kozlov’s men aren’t all Russians, but calling them “multi-ethnic motherfuckers” doesn’t have the same zing to it. Of course, you’re probably quite familiar with ethnic insults. You’re Irish.’

  ‘That’s it! The final straw!’ Callahan took off his headset, which had been wrapped around his neck, and threw open the back door. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  Koontz smiled in victory. ‘Fresh air, my ass! It won’t be too fresh with a cigarette in your mouth!’

  Callahan slammed the door in frustration. He knew damn well his partner was trying to piss him off, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

  If anything, it made it worse.

  If Koontz needed a few minutes to himself, why didn’t he ask for it? Why did he have to resort to childish games to get what he wanted?

  Irritated beyond belief, Callahan decided to take a walk.

  He hoped a long stroll would calm his nerves.

  Instead, it put his life in danger.

  2

  The intruder floated e
ffortlessly above the buildings, indistinguishable from the nighttime sky. Tethered by a line that had been anchored more than three hundred feet away, the kite-like contraption hovered over its target. The offshore breezes kept the slack taut while the intruder completed her graceful descent to the rooftop below.

  She landed without making a sound.

  With the flick of her wrist, she unhooked the kite from her harness and then tossed the assembly into the air, as if she were freeing a giant bird. No longer burdened by her bodyweight, it immediately took flight. She watched as the line and the device shot out of sight. It had served its purpose well: delivering its cargo undetected.

  Unfortunately, this was only her first obstacle.

  There would be many more to come.

  She would have preferred to land on top of Kozlov’s oceanside house, but the sharp peak of his roof had prevented it. Instead, she was forced to make do with the flat roof of a neighboring property — a three-story townhouse that served as a bunkhouse for his guards and his newest recruits. On a mission like this, the guardhouse was less than ideal, but what choice did she have? Had she approached the house on foot, she would have been spotted by Kozlov’s men and by the Feds in the surveillance van.

  She couldn’t risk either.

  For her to escape, she needed to avoid both.

  Thanks to the crescent moon above, she was virtually invisible as she scampered across the guards’ roof. Her matte-black bodysuit absorbed light, leaving no trace of reflection. To complete her outfit, she wore black shoes, black gloves, and a blank mask. Not just black, it was actually blank. No eyes, no nose, and no mouth. Not even ears. They were all tucked behind an elastic, cutting-edge hood that allowed her to breathe, hear, and see, but prevented her features from being detected.

  The effect was beyond creepy.

  Slowing to a stop near the edge of the roof, she studied the structure that she intended to breach. Styled like a Colonial home, its walls were made of the highest quality bricks, which had been expertly laid in both curved and straight swaths. She noticed the limestone accents and the two-tone stucco before she rested her gaze on the rear balcony. The place was handsome, but not ostentatious. It was cleverly designed to seem commonplace, but full of elegant architectural touches for anyone in the know.