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“It takes three separate keys to unlock the gate that will take you past this last barrier,” Varnet said. “The keys are assigned individually to two vault custodians and the auditor, me.”
The three men with the three keys unlocked the three locks and the gate swung open. Beyond the gate, lockers with iron cage doors were filled to the ceiling with gold bricks.
“There it is,” Varnet said. “One-quarter of the world’s gold reserves. Approximately seven thousand tons, worth approximately two hundred fifty billion dollars.”
Riley and Emerson exchanged glances, and Riley suspected Emerson was thinking the bricks in the vault might be worth a lot less than two hundred fifty billion. She suspected he was thinking some of those bricks could be fakes.
“A little safety tip,” Varnet said, crossing to a large cabinet, opening the doors. “When you’re working with gold bars you have to wear these.”
The cabinet contained rows and rows of what appeared to be bedroom slippers made of metal.
“These shoe covers are made of magnesium. They might seem silly, but if you drop one of those bars on your foot you won’t be laughing.”
Everyone slipped the covers onto their shoes and walked, with clinking Tin Man–like feet.
Labels on each of the gold lockers had the names of the countries of ownership on them.
THE FRENCH REPUBLIC
THE KINGDOM OF SPAIN
JAPAN
THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO
They appeared to be in no order. Some of them, like the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland or the Federal Republic of Germany, were piled high with gold and filled up two or three lockers. Others, like the Republic of Mauritius, had a more modest stash.
The dolly was rolled up to a gigantic balance scale.
“We have to weigh the gold because each gold bar is unique,” Varnet said. “We have to know precisely what we have here, before we can enter it into our records.”
They loaded twelve gold bars at a time onto a metal disc at one end of the scale. Large counterbalances were placed on the opposite end, and the two ends of the scale shifted into place like a child’s teeter-totter.
“This might seem old-fashioned,” Varnet said while the vault custodian carefully observed the needle moving in the middle of scale, “but it’s very accurate. We’ve been doing it this way, with this exact scale, since the vault first opened in 1924.”
A red light flashed and a siren blared. Everyone froze. Varnet’s face turned ashen.
“We’re under attack,” Varnet shouted. “Everyone out of the vault. We need to lock it down.”
There was a mass exodus to the gate, and down the corridor to the door. The two custodians spun the wheels and the massive door slowly rotated shut.
Varnet looked around. “We’re missing two people,” he said. “The woman isn’t here. And one other.”
Five minutes before John Varnet announced that the building was under attack, Hans Grunwald’s town car pulled up to the front of Blane-Grunwald’s New York office. Hans and Werner got out and stood on the sidewalk while Werner shrugged into his suit jacket.
“I hate these monthly meetings with the old man,” Werner said. “Sometimes I leave thinking he’s a genius, and sometimes I leave thinking he’s a bloodthirsty sociopath.”
“Despotic fascist would be closer to the truth,” Hans said. “And we’re irrevocably tied to him.”
Werner buttoned one button, took the briefcase the driver had been holding for him, and the classic cream-colored Rolls parked two cars in front of them exploded.
The noise was deafening. BAROOOM! Black smoke poured out of the Rolls, clogged the street, and billowed into the sky.
The three men froze for a beat.
“What’s happening?” Werner asked.
“Fucking terrorists,” Hans said. “They’re everywhere. You can’t throw a stick without hitting one of them.”
