Jerry leaned into the table, hinting at the other men to do the same.
"The value of gold this time last year was, according to the London market, roughly three hundred and forty-three pounds for one pure ounce." Jerry let the statement sink in.
"We're going to steal gold?" Larson asked.
"We're not going to steal gold," Jerry said, raising an eyebrow mischievously, "we're 'taking back' gold--" he inhaled slowly, "—five hundred tons of it." An olive rolled out of Elser's open mouth and landed on his plate with a ping.
"What?" Anton asked, incredulous.
"Oh my God," Larson said, pausing between each word. He had been made to secure transportation for a very large amount of heavy cargo. The thought of gold never crossed his mind.
"From where?" Elser asked, finally able to move his jaw again.
"Chechnya," Bauer answered. It was clear by the way the other four men at the table looked back and forth between Jerry and Bauer that they were thoroughly confused.
"Let's take a little time-holiday," Jerry suggested, leaning back, allowing the others to do the same. "Afghanistan, nineteen-eighty. The Soviets are busy raping the Arab world, and in the process, Soviet soldiers are pocketing anything that even resembles polished metal. Fast-forward ten years. The meat-grinder leaves a lot of Russian soldiers dead. The Soviets are notorious in this conflict for going through the effects of the dead to recover whatever can be used again, to save on the budget. One of the things they find—in large quantities—is this stolen gold. Not just gold, but silver. Gems, diamonds, anything. All of it illegally obtained. The Soviets set up a base in Chechnya to store all this contraband. Under the guise of a nuclear missile silo, this is a Russian Fort Knox. The Soviets planned on sitting on all this money, saving it for a rainy day. They thought, 'Wait fifty years, and people will forget where it came from'. Well, here we are, just a few years after the Russians pulled out, and there's something like five-hundred tons of this pure gold just waiting for someone to claim it. It sits at the bottom of an old silo, just collecting dust. The only thing between us and it--" Jerry picked up his hands, showed they were empty, then placed them flat on the table. "John provided the cash to buy out."
"General Aleksyevna," Elser said, nodding slowly.
"The commander of the light infantry brigade defending the silo." Jerry smiled at his own brilliance. "Since the collapse of the Union, the entire region is in chaos. Chechens are fighting for their independence, and there's not enough money going around to keep all the troops the Russians have out there. Aleksyevna's men are starving, and he has no idea what's in the silo. We give him with enough hard currency to provide for his men, and he'll lead them away from the facility long enough for us to get in, take the gold, and get out, with a minimal loss of life. The best part--" Jerry was interrupted by a once-again straight-faced Bauer.
"It's all clean." Jerry nodded and motioned for Bauer to finish the explanation. "Since the Russians can't account for how they got it, once we get it out of the country, it's all ours. This gold doesn't legally exist. You can't steal what doesn't exist, nor can you track down those who stole it—without admitting where you got it from."
"We'll be as pure as a virgin," Jerry said, lighting another cigar. "Something in the area of five and a half billion dollars. From our math, the stuff's stacked ten feet high. The Ruskies already melted it down into bars and stacked it on pallets. The forklift we're bringing will have no problem moving our little retirement fund." There was a long, shocked pause from the men at the table.
"How do we get it out?" Doonigan asked. He never said much, but when he did, it was important.
"Well," Jerry said, his smile fading. "Ask Bauer. He's in charge of that." Not missing a beat, the Shepard cleared his throat and began talking.
"We have secured eleven Hanyang HY473/962 trucks. With a towing capacity of roughly fifty tons each, we load the gold evenly among the eleven vehicles, leaving some towing capacity to spare. We cover the goods with simple tarps, and, disguised as Russian soldiers, we drive the cargo to the Caspian Sea, where transport will meet us." There was another stunned silence.
"Brutally simple," Jerry commented, "but it gets the job done." There was a long silence. Anton grabbed for his drink and downed the entire glass in one gulp.
"Another!" Anton demanded, holding his finger up for the waiter.
Cooper's mouth was agape, a fine string of saliva running off his tongue and onto the rooftop. The laser microphone hadn't glitched. Five and a half billion. Fifty-five hundred millions. Divide by eleven,
"Wow," Sly whispered to himself. He'd only need one. He giggled to himself, pleased with how things were going. He picked up the ray gun-looking device and planted it back into its foam cushion and then closed the case on top of it. No larger than a stack of textbooks, the microphone, along with its headphones, slid into Cooper's brown pack with some room to spare. He lifted the bag onto his shoulder and saluted the large restaurant good-bye. He floated down the side of the building on a ladder, and met back up with Murray, who waited below.
Willis was rather tired from his flight into Paris. It was counteracted by a cup of espresso and the adrenaline of what was happening. Bentley was probably wondering why he suddenly left. He figured that no explanation would be best. Just don't say anything when you got back. He was nervous about the arrangement, but what he was offering to Fox was too good for even her to pass up.
"Bis is de place," the taxi driver announced. Marvin passed a few Euros forward and stepped out. He walked into the multi-story garage and looked around. There was a new silver Audi next to a payphone.
"He's in," Highground announced. Argos inched himself to the right, to pan his rifle's view to the left. From his perch in a window, he could follow the lab all the way into his car, and could follow the car as far as three blocks away. The police had used this location to make drops and exchanges like this before. All Argos needed was the green light. He'd put one in the crook's shin and end his unassisted walking days.
Marvin let out a low whistle as he ran his hand along the side of the car and stopped to look in the back seat. The paperwork was all there. A death certificate, driver's license, birth certificate, all the things needed to start a new life, along with a guarantee of amnesty. He pulled the driver-side door's handle, and was surprised to find it locked.
"Now," Argos whispered into his radio. The phone rang. Marvin's head snapped to the noise, looked around, and then he slowly approached the blue telephone.
"Okay, Willis, there's the car, there's your new self." Fox grinned to herself. "You tell me something to start with, I'll tell you where in the garage the keys are stashed." Willis shook his head slowly.
"I would have never thought you the type to play games, detective."
"Inspector," Fox corrected, "and just start talking." Marvin leaned against the concrete wall and sighed deeply.
Fedorov listened intently from behind the soundproof glass. He watched Fox pace around the empty table, holding the cordless unit up to her ear. For roughly twenty minutes, Willis's voice hummed over the speaker at the technician's desk. Matkovich couldn't care less about how it got started. He wanted to know where the Crew was right then, and where they were going.
"Chechnya-" the voice said. Fedorov's ears shot up. Jerry was his. All they would have to do is—
The fax fell off the rollers and onto the tray. Captain Seriyev wandered back into his office and noted the snow falling outside. The white sky around very recognizable shape of the Russian Capitol building made Seriyev feel all warm inside. It always did. He sipped at his warm coffee and noted the change in taste the Vodka made. He stepped away from his window and was about to sit down when he noticed his fax machine had a new message.
To the Russian regional commander, blah, blah, blah. Interpol in-department request, blah, blah, blah. Requesting permission to pursue wanted individuals into coded-district 813.
"Eight-thirteen?" Seriyev asked himself. He leaned over his desk and pressed the red button on his intercom box. "Magda, which district is eight-thirteen?" There was a pause as his secretary began going through her papers.
"Sir, coded-district eight hundred and thirteen is the designation given to the state of Chechnya."
"Thank you, Magda." He released the button and sighed. Seriyev placed the fax on his desk, took out his stamp, rolled it in ink, made the proper mark and signed the document. He put it back into the fax machine and pressed 'return'.
"What does he mean, denied?" Fox asked, incredulous. Chief Roberts handed the message back to Fox and let her read it for herself. It was exactly as Fedorov had sent it, only with a large Russian word for 'not going to happen' stamped in the proper field. She tore out of the office and to her own. Fedorov was still trying to catch up on lost sleep, and was forced awake when the door was slammed shut.
"I take from slam-ed door," Fedorov started from his horizontal position on the couch, "we did not-" Fox threw the paper into Fedorov's face. He tried to snatch it out of the air, but had to pick it up off the floor.
"No, we didn't." Fox sat on her desk and folded her arms. "How could he do that? We're chasing a criminal! He's going to get away!"
"You do not follow the news, yes?" Fedorov asked. "Chechnya is a warzone. Civil liberties have been suspended, and there are no police. It's a military zone." When he said that, his ears picked up. The blue fur on his neck stood, and he smiled to himself.
"Well, then we've lost them! Damn! I shouldn't have let Marvin get away! Now, I'm back to square zero! What are you grinning about?" Fedorov sat up.
"Interpol does not have authority in Chechnya. Without support, trying to crash Jerry and his Crew would be suicide."
"What's your point?"
"Interpol has not power in Chechnya, but the Russian Army does."
"You just said that. I know."
"They made it personal."
"What?"