A Raging Storm

He’d played this game before. After Storm had been recruited by Clara Strike, Jones had sent him through a training course at the CIA’s legendary facility called the Farm, outside Williamsburg, Virginia. There he’d been shown a photograph, asked to return it, and then asked about it. What did you see? Why was that important? What did you miss? What does it mean? His private eye experience had made him an expert at it.

“The three photographs show a kilobar of gold,” he said. “That’s a thousand grams of gold or the equivalent of 2.21 pounds. The markings on the bar show that it is 99.9 percent pure, which means it’s high quality. But the reason why this bar is so unique is because of where it was minted and for whom.”

Jones nodded approvingly. “And who owned it?”

“The impression in the lower center of the bar shows a hammer and sickle, which is the seal used by the former Soviet Union. Cyrillic letters under the seal form an acronym, КПСС, which, when translated to English, stands for the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. The bar in the photo was minted specifically for the Party and belonged in its treasury.”

“It’s odd really,” Jones said, “how little knowledge most Americans have about the Soviet Union even though they grew up being told that it was an evil empire and its leaders planned on burying them. Just last week, I had to explain to a Senate committee that only a limited number of Russians were permitted to join the Communist Party during the Soviet era and that the Party had its own treasury that was completely separate from the Soviet Union’s governmental holdings.”

Storm didn’t interrupt. Jones had a reason for this history lesson.

Jones said, “I couldn’t believe U.S. senators didn’t know that the Communist Party charged its members dues — just like labor unions do here. The Party deducted a portion of each member’s monthly salary for its coffers.”

Jones stopped talking and began tapping his finger on his desk as if he were marking time.

Storm knew the drill. It was now his turn to evaluate.

“There’s another marking in the photograph,” Storm said. “It identified that individual kilobar as being number 951,951. Logic tells us that this means there were 951,950 identical gold bars minted before it was and that those previous 951,950 gold kilobars also belonged to the Communist Party, not to the Soviet government.”

“Do you know the price of gold?” Jones asked.

This was more than a simple question. It was a test. CIA operatives chosen for covert missions were expected to know the worth of precious metals. During wars, local currencies were worthless. But gold and diamonds always could be used to buy information, friends, and supplies.

“You’re wondering if I still keep track,” Storm replied. “Gold is trading today for $1,770 per troy ounce. That means an individual kilogram bar — like the one in the photograph — would be worth just under $57,000. If you were lucky enough to have the other 951,950 kilo bars that were minted before that bar, you’d have yourself a tidy bit of pocket change.”

“Nearly five billion dollars’ worth to be exact,” Jones said.

“No,” said Storm, correcting him. “If you want to be exact, you would have $54,124,326,318. When you’ve been busted and had bill collectors pounding on your office door like I have, you don’t do estimates when it comes to cash. You count it to the penny.”

That was something Jones had always admired in his wunderkind operative. Even though Storm had been rough around the edges when Clara Strike recruited him, Jones had recognized that Storm had a lightning-quick mind and an amazing ability to remember the smallest details — especially when it came to money and instructions.

“Any idea where this fifty-four billion dollars in gold came from?”