Читать книгу The Gold Thief - Justin Fisher, Justin Fisher - Страница 6

United States Bullion Depository, Fort Knox, Kentucky

3.32am

eavy boots pound the tarmac, as officers bark their orders and sniffer dogs whine, blinded by the rows of steaming halogen floodlights. More and more arrive by the second. A never-ending procession of armoured cars and trucks loaded with soldiers. Above them, a dozen gunships, with their ground-shaking propellers, scan for signs. But there is nothing, only the appalling certainty that this is not a drill.

Beyond their fences and walls and barricades, a president is being woken, and powerful men in charge of a nation’s currency, its digits and its dollar bills are meeting and shouting and blaming.

Far below the chaos and the panic of the search, Shwartz and Greer sit in a bare grey cement room. It has no windows and no discernible features of any kind, except for the small surveillance camera in the far corner and its pulsating amber light.

Private Marvin L. Shwartz, slumped in one of the room’s two plastic bucket-chairs, is in considerable trouble and the man he reports to, Staff Sergeant Greer, on the other side of the bare metal table, is losing his patience.

“No, sir, I don’t remember. I have no idea how the vault was opened. I was walkin’ and then I wasn’t and the next thang I knew I was here, sir, with you, sir.”

“Shwartz, you are in an inordinate amount of doo-doo and there ain’t a damn thing I can do to help you, till you start explaining how half of this nation’s gold reserve just up and vanishes in less than an hour!”

The Bullion Depository at Fort Knox was protected not only by the United States Mint Police, but also by the 16^th Cavalry Regiment, the 19^th Engineer Battalion and the 3^rd Brigade Combat Team of the 1^st Infantry, along with their tanks, attack helicopters and artillery. A force totalling well over thirty thousand men. The actual gold, all four and a half thousand metric tonnes, lay behind a one-of-a-kind, twenty-one-inch thick door, proofed against drills, lasers and explosions, designed by the Mosler Safe Company. It was monitored by twenty-four-hour orbital satellite and ground-sweeping radar. Automated machine guns covered every possible entry point, and it was rumoured that the entire surrounding grasslands were carpeted with land mines, a rumour Greer had been careful to encourage.

It was, to all intents and purposes, completely impregnable. That was, of course, until today – and on Private Shwartz’s watch.

Greer’s earpiece crackled.

He listened for a moment.

“They’re here! Already? Are you serious?”

It was at this point that Private Shwartz started to perspire.

“Son, I’ve known you a long time and I think I know the answer but I gotta ask anyway: do you love your country?”

“Sir, yessir!” puffed Shwartz, as eagerly as he knew how and all the more heartbreakingly because of it.

Staff Sergeant Greer was quite certain that if the Private had had a tail, he would have wagged it.

“I believe you do, son. The men you are about to meet …” His eyes dropped. “Just tell ’em the truth, Shwartz, like you told me.”

The door behind Greer slid open quietly and two men dressed in light grey suits entered the room. One had dark red-blond hair and introduced himself as Mr Fox. His greying accomplice, a Mr Badger, was built like a house and stood by the door without uttering a word. Handcuffed to his wrist was a small metallic briefcase.

The Staff Sergeant was excused, leaving Shwartz alone with the two men in grey.

The first thing Shwartz noticed was that Mr Fox did not sound remotely American. He was a young man, with kind eyes and a soft, vaguely British accent.

“Marvin, I represent the BBB. I hope you don’t mind me using your first name, Marvin, I find it helps enormously in these situations.”

“No, sir.” Shwartz paused. “Sir – the BBB, I’m sorry, is that a part of Homeland Security? Am I going to prison?”

“No. And … maybe. ‘Bagshot Bingley and Burke’, colloquially known as the BBB, are not connected to the US or any other government body. We are insurance underwriters, and the United States gold reserve is one of our contracts. As I’m sure you can appreciate, a claim of this magnitude presents logistical problems, even for an outfit with as much reach as ours. When something of this value goes missing, it is my job to get it back – and rest assured, Marvin, I will get it back.”

Fox raised his hand casually and Badger produced a document from the briefcase, which was when Shwartz noticed something else about Mr Fox. It wasn’t arrogance, or even a particular aura of confidence. Fox was, in fact, a rather unassuming sort of a man, but he had something, an air of … certainty. Slow, measured certainty. When he raised his hand, he knew Badger would have the items he needed, and when he slid them across the table towards Shwartz and handed him a pen, he knew that Shwartz would sign them for him. He was simply certain.

“Sir, what did I just sign, sir?”

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Marvin. Fox will do. The paper is a non-disclosure agreement. In the interest of the world’s financial security and ‘what-not’, if you ever speak of this to anyone, you and your entire family will be placed under lock and key, for the rest of your lives. I know it sounds heavy-handed, Marvin. According to our files, Debbie is not the kind of mother-in-law anyone would want to be locked up with. But please try to understand: when all of America’s gold vanishes in less than seventy-two hours, the implications for the world’s markets … their very viability is placed in jeopardy.”

“All the gold, sir?” said an increasingly sweaty and ashen-faced Shwartz. “But we only had half here, the rest is …”

“I’m afraid the other half was taken earlier this week. Now please, Marvin, if you wouldn’t mind, let’s start with the issue of ‘access’. Not one of the guards within these walls can tell me anything, only that they ‘fell asleep’ for no apparent reason. You were the last guard, Marvin, between the intruder and the vault. Is there anything you can tell me?”

“No, sir, I mean Mr Fox. Like I told Staff Sergeant Greer, one minute I’m walkin’ my route, and I hear these footsteps. Well the next thang I know, I’m on my back, and the vault doors are wide open.”

“Marvin, there are over a dozen retinal eye-scanners between the entrance to this facility and the vault doors. Over twelve hundred security cameras, and countless laser tripwires. If your statement is true, then the intruder, or intruders, managed to waltz through the entire compound undetected. Which is almost as unlikely as the removal of thousands of tons of gold … in less than an hour. Do you have any idea who could have done that?”

“No, no, I don’t, Mr Fox.”

“Neither do we.”

Badger opened his briefcase and pulled out a small glass vial.

“Marvin,” said Mr Fox, indicating the vial. “We found this substance, rather a lot of it, by one of the vault walls. It looks like liquid mercury, but I’ve been told that it isn’t. Do you know what it is, Marvin?”

“No, Mr Fox, I do not.”

“Is there anything you do know, Marvin?”

“There is … one thang, kinda weird. Just after I heard the footsteps, there was this music playin’, only it wasn’t playin’ no notes. And then I just wound up real peaceful, or asleep, or both, till I was found by Staff Sergeant Greer.”

Fox leant in a little closer and smiled.

“Music with no notes. That sounds … familiar.”

Before he had even raised his hand, Badger produced a phone from his briefcase – only it wasn’t a model that Private Shwartz had ever seen. Fox put it to his ear.

“Owl? Yes, it’s Fox. I’m afraid there’s been a development. It’s happened again. No, I don’t think it would be wise to inform Bear at this stage, he may … overreact. Yes, I think that would be prudent.”

Fox handed the phone back to Badger and started to hum a tune of sorts. What made Shwartz nervous was the unsettling look of sympathy on his face.

“Marvin, you’re going to have to come with me. Your family are already en route. Don’t worry. We’ll protect you.”

Badger looked over to the camera in the corner of the room and a moment later the door slid open. To Private Marvin L. Shwartz’s amazement, the long subterranean corridor running beneath Fort Knox was lined with well over a hundred insurance men. Each of them was wearing a light grey suit.