The Double Eagle (7 page)
Authors: James Twining
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
20 July—10:05
A.M.
A
black Ford Explorer had picked Jennifer up from her apartment that morning and driven her to Reagan Washington National, where, in one of the side hangars, a tan Cessna Citation Ultra had been prepped and was waiting for her. Corbett clearly did not kid around when it came to getting things done.
The jet had looked brand new and apart from the pilot and lone cabin attendant, she was the only passenger. Sinking back into the soft leather seats, she had stretched her legs right out into the narrow aisle, basking in the cabin lights. Twenty minutes later and the plane was arrowing through the clear Washington sky.
Flying had always made her slightly nervous. Once, though she was too traumatized now to remember exactly when, a plane she was on had hit an air pocket and dropped almost five thousand feet. As if they’d hit a glass wall in the sky and slid down it. Takeoff and landing were the worst and she unconsciously alternated between gripping the armrests and bracing herself for possible impact against the seat in front of her, depending on what stage of the journey they were at. This time, though, tired from the early start, she had found herself falling into a deep sleep until the gentle bump of the undercarriage coming down shook her awake.
Blinking, she turned her head to the window. The elliptical porthole framed a quilt of differently colored fields, each one bounded by a dark line of trees. A single, cotton-thin strip of blacktop ran in an unbroken line right to left and disappeared in both directions into a shimmering heat haze. Lonely farmsteads and barns stood marooned in the flat landscape like small wooden islands. Then, as the plane dropped lower, a low-slung galvanized fence on the military air base’s outer perimeter surged up to meet her.
“Welcome to Kentucky, Agent Browne.” Jennifer stepped down off the steps that had concertinaed out of the jet’s gleaming fuselage and shook the hand of the man waiting to greet her. “I hope you had a pleasant flight. I’m Lieutenant Sheppard. I’m to escort you to the Depository.”
“Thank you,” she answered, unable to mask her smile. It was quite an outfit. Pink plaid trousers, white Polo shirt, and yellow sun visor all competed for her attention. Beneath the visor the man’s face was creased into a broad grin as he pumped her hand up and down enthusiastically.
Although Jennifer was mindful never to form opinions of people too quickly—a trait she had inherited from her mother, who maintained that time was the only reliable lens through which to view someone’s true character—she instinctively liked Sheppard. He had a breezy, cheerful confidence and an uncomplicated and genuine manner that his gaudy wardrobe reinforced rather than undermined.
Sheppard looked down at himself and then flashed her a guilty smile, brown eyes twinkling in his smooth, suntanned face.
“I’m real sorry about the clothes, ma’am. I was just heading out when I got word to come and meet you here. I didn’t have time to change.” Jennifer nodded back, her tone understanding.
“That’s quite all right, Lieutenant. I appreciate you taking me over. Is it far?”
“No, ma’am. Not in this baby.” He pointed to a white golf cart, his clubs firmly strapped to the back.
“In that?” She looked at him questioningly as they walked over to it.
“In this.” He swung himself into the driver’s seat and then, reaching up, fixed a red light to the roof. “I had a buddy in the Corps of Engineers make a few alterations. You into cars?”
“I used to fix up and race Mustangs with my dad, if that counts,” she replied with a smile.
“Hey, then, maybe you should drive,” Sheppard suggested eagerly, sliding across to the passenger side. “Then you can tell me how you think this baby handles.”
“Sure.” She shrugged and slipped in behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. “You holding on?”
“Hell, yeah.”
As well as being the site of the U.S. Bullion Depository, Fort Knox is also the tank capital of the United States, its 109,050 acres home to 32,000 men and women of the U.S. Army Armor and Cavalry, which has its headquarters there. It was not long, therefore, before they were speeding past barrack buildings, mess halls, training blocks, and groups of soldiers running in tight formation, their chanted cadences blending with each other to form a muscular, sweaty symphony.
Her foot flat to the floor, Jennifer slalomed through the troops and the buildings, the red light flashing, oncoming vehicles sounding their horns as Sheppard called out the directions, his hand fiercely gripping the grab handle to stop himself from sliding across the shiny white vinyl seat as she dived in and out of the traffic. She sensed he was enjoying the ride.
Ahead of them, the granite-clad shape of the Depository loomed closer. From a distance, Jennifer thought that it seemed fairly ordinary; not much bigger than a small office block really, like one of those low-rise bank buildings you get in local malls. But as she drew closer she saw that it had, in fact, the squat solidity of a small white mountain.
Set in a wide compound, it was a two-story building, the upper story smaller than the lower one, its roof slightly tiered like the first few steps of a ziggurat. Steel-framed windows had been evenly set into the walls of both stories like embrasures in a castle wall. The only access came through a single gate in the fifteen-foot-high steel fence that encircled the compound, itself flanked by two armored sentry boxes. Once inside, a service road with neatly cut grass verges on each side ringed the building, which had four concrete bunkers surgically grafted onto each of its corners. A lone lawn mower patrolled the outer verge, its engine buzzing.
“It was built in 1936 and the first gold shipments arrived in 1937,” Sheppard shouted over the whine of the cart’s electric motor, angrily gesticulating soldiers scattering in front of them like ninepins. Jennifer nodded. She couldn’t imagine it having ever actually been built. It seemed to have been there forever, as if it had erupted out of the solid bedrock millions of years ago and then been shaped and polished by tens of thousands of years of sun and rain and frost.
“Usage peaked in 1941, when it held about six hundred fifty million ounces,” he continued. “Course these days, the main reserves are held at the Federal Reserve in New York, about five stories down. You should go and check it out sometime. I’m told the security there makes this place look like Disneyland.”
She slowed the cart as it approached the gate and then accelerated hard again as they were waved through. The sentries saluted Sheppard, their arms snapping to attention at the side of their head, their hands stiff, thumb tucked in, seemingly unfazed by his clothes and the sight of Jennifer at the wheel of the careering golf cart.
Up close, the building was even more formidable. The sheer mass of its granite walls seemed to weigh down on everything around it: a dark, dense, oppressive energy that compressed and squeezed and stifled. Jennifer found herself strangely conscious of the sound of her own breathing, of the sheer effort of moving, as if underwater.
Surveillance cameras, positioned high on the granite walls like glass eyes on white steel stalks, covered every inch of the building’s walls. Twin floodlights perched atop black poles gazed out at the surrounding compound on all four sides. A huge Stars and Stripes snapped in the wind outside the main entrance. The golden seal of the Treasury Department that had been carved into the lintel glinted overhead like a small sun.
“Stop here,” Sheppard shouted.
Jennifer immediately threw the cart into a tight skid, the tires biting the tarmac as it slowed to a stop.
“Wow,” Sheppard breathed. “I think you just set a new record.”
“It sure is quick.” She jumped out and tossed the keys over to him. “What did you do? Change the gearing?”
“Trade secret.” Sheppard smiled. “What d’ya think of the handling?”
“Slight understeer. You want to tighten up the front left suspension.”
“I’ll do that.” He winked at her. “Come on. Rigby will be waiting and boy, does he hate that.”
Turning on his heel, Sheppard disappeared through the depository’s massive black doorway into the cold marbled darkness of the building.
10:27
A.M.
A
s Sheppard had predicted, the officer in charge, Captain Rigby, was standing in the large entrance atrium ready to greet her. He gave her a brief handshake and what looked to Jennifer like a forced smile as Sheppard introduced them.
He was tall, perhaps six foot four, his uniform immaculate, his hair clipped short, his eyes bristling with well-drilled efficiency. From his snatched glances, Jennifer could tell that he was struggling to reconcile Sheppard’s garish golfing outfit with his well-ordered world. She decided to keep it short and businesslike, sensing that anything else would fail to show up on Rigby’s internal radar.
“Thank you very much for agreeing to see me today, Captain.”
“That’s quite all right, Agent Browne,” he said stiffly. “We all have a job to do.” The way his pale eyes narrowed a fraction over his thin nose and high-cut cheekbones suggested what he was really thinking. That he thought this was a waste of time. That he didn’t want her or any other federal pains in the asses anywhere near his facility, asking him questions, disrupting his routine, marking his polished floor. He just wanted her out, ASAP. That suited her just fine.
“Have you received the instructions from Washington?”
He nodded.
“Yes, they came through this morning. As requested we have left the items in situ.”
“Good. Then before we go down, I wonder whether you could answer a couple of questions.”
“What sort of questions?” Rigby’s tone was immediately suspicious.
“Any questions I choose to ask, Captain,” Jennifer answered firmly.
“This is a classified installation,” Rigby countered forcefully. “If you think I’m just going to reveal sensitive intel without specific authorization, then I suggest you get back on your plane, Agent Browne.”
“And if you think I’m going to leave here without everything I want, I suggest you take another look at your orders, Captain.” Jennifer’s voice was hard and her eyes flashed defiance. Normally, she would have preferred to use reason rather than raising her voice, but in Rigby’s case she sensed he had been conditioned not to react to anything else. “They specify full and unconditional cooperation with the FBI for the duration of our investigation, including disclosing relevant security procedures. If you’ve got a problem with that, then I suggest we step into your office right now and call your and my superiors in Washington. I think we both know what the answer would be.”
There was an awkward silence, punctured only by the rasping of the studs on Sheppard’s golf shoes against the marble floor as he nervously shifted his weight onto his other foot. Rigby had gone a deep shade of red and he seemed to be rolling something around between his thumb and forefinger, the tips of both fingers white from squeezing so hard. Jennifer, lips pressed together, returned his glare until, eventually, he managed a grimace that she assumed approximated a smile.
“Very well,” he conceded, his voice slightly strangled.
“I have no intention of prying, Captain,” Jennifer said, adopting a more conciliatory tone now that she had made her point. “Just a bit of background about the installation to go into my report. For instance, is this a military or a federal installation?”
“Oh.” Rigby sounded relieved, although there was still an unmistakably impatient edge to his voice. “A bit of both. The buildings are on an army base so they have some responsibility for the security and defense of the facility. But it is run by the U.S. Treasury and staffed by officers from the mint police. There are twenty-six of us in all.”
Jennifer frowned.
“Buildings? I only see one building.”
“No.” Rigby shook his head firmly. “It’s two buildings. The one that you see around you now is just a single-story outer shell built from granite and lined with concrete. But the vault itself is an entirely separate building on two levels built from steel plates, I-beams and cylinders, all encased in reinforced concrete.”
“So how do you get in?”
“Through a twenty-ton steel door.”
Jennifer nodded, satisfied.
“Okay. Then let’s get started.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He set off, with Jennifer next to him and Sheppard bringing up the rear. She soon saw what he had meant about the two buildings. The atrium led to a corridor running left and right that encircled the vault with offices and storerooms giving off its outer edge. It was a narrow, constricted space and Jennifer recognized the same ruthless anonymity she had witnessed in other federal installations, the Bureau included. She was glad when they emerged, having turned right and then followed the corridor round until they were on the other side of the building, into another large space.
Here, the large steel shutters that had been set into the outer granite wall and the loading bays and ramps suggested that this was where bullion and supplies were moved in and out. Opposite the shutter, built into the vault wall, was the gleaming steel bulk of the vault door.
“No single person has the combination to the vault,” Rigby continued. “Instead, three separate combinations are required, each held by different members of my team.”
As he spoke he approached a console to the right of the door. On the other side of a plate-glass window that looked onto the atrium, Jennifer saw another two men step toward similar consoles. Ten seconds later there was a series of loud clunks as the restraining bolts retracted. With a steady mechanical drone the massive door began to swing back toward them, steel pistons gleaming and hissing like a steam train.
“It’s certainly an impressive setup.”
At these words, Rigby came as close to smiling as she imagined he had ever done in his life and she sensed that their earlier disagreement had temporarily, at least, vanished from his mind.
“Ma’am, I’m proud to say this installation is more secure than most of our missile silos. We’re in the middle of a fully manned army base. We have our own power plant, water system, and strategic food reserves. We have twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree surveillance. Nothing gets in or out of here that isn’t meant to.”
They stepped inside the vault and walked along a narrow metal platform to the elevator that took them with a low-pitched whine down to the basement vault floor. Rigby held the gate open for them. Jennifer looked slowly around her.
The room was like a massive warehouse, consisting of two floors built around the central space in which they were now standing. Each floor was divided into compartments with thick steel bars separating and enclosing the top of each compartment, so that they looked like a series of huge cages. And within each compartment, stacked from floor to ceiling, were thousands upon thousands of gold bars.
It took her a few seconds to realize that she was unconsciously holding her breath; fearful, perhaps, that the sound of her breathing might rouse the slumbering dragon who must surely be guarding such a fairy-tale treasure.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Sheppard winked. “It still hits me right here every time I see it.” He clutched a clenched fist to his chest as Jennifer nodded silently. The gold was everywhere she looked, glowing and alive; a huge dull mass pulsing rhythmically in the flicker of the lights like the beat of a powerful heart.
“We have small shipments going in and out of the facility all the time.” Rigby cut into her thoughts, pointing at three large silver containers standing in the middle of the room, each about four feet long, two feet wide, and three feet high with the U.S. Treasury seal emblazoned across the front. “This is what the bullion is transported in. These are due to go out this afternoon.”
“Right.” She nodded, smiling. Complimenting his facility seemed to have transformed Rigby into the very model of interagency cooperation.
“But the items you requested to see are over here.” He led her toward a compartment on the far left of the room. As she drew closer, she could see that it seemed a little less full than the other cages and contained boxes and briefcases and files.
“As you can see,” said Rigby, holding up a large metal tag that was fixed to the door of the compartment, “each of the thirty-four compartments is sealed. When any seal is broken, the compartment’s contents are re-inventoried and resealed by the U.S. Mint.”
He snapped the seal off and, reaching into his pocket for a key, unlocked the cage and stepped in. He emerged a few moments later holding a thin aluminium briefcase that he held out to Jennifer with a nod.
“I believe that this is what you came for.”
“I’ll open it down here.”
“As you wish.”
Rigby carried the case over to one of the containers and placed it down flat on its side, its catches facing Jennifer. She reached forward and flicked the catches open, the noise echoing through the room like rifle shots. Imperceptibly, Sheppard and Rigby moved around to stand on either side of her.
She opened the case, only to find another smaller box, about eight inches long and six inches wide, inside it. It was covered in dark-blue velvet that had worn away around the corners, leaving them bald and frayed. The top had been stamped with the gold seal of the U.S. Treasury, now faded and dull.
Jennifer gently removed the box from the case and pressed the small gold catch that released the lid, her throat suddenly dry and tight. The lid snapped up, revealing an interior lined in creamy white silk that had been fashioned to snugly house five large coins, two along the top, three along the bottom.
But the box was empty.
