The Romanov Ransom Page 8

  “What’ve you found on your end?”

  Sam told him what they’d learned from Zakaria’s cousin. “I’m guessing whatever was in that backpack is what we’re looking for.”

  “You think he had it the whole time?” Rube asked.

  “Looks that way.”

  “But why come after you?”

  “Undoubtedly, our untimely arrival,” Sam replied. “If I had to guess, Zakaria and the Hoffler brothers weren’t the only ones he was double-crossing. He hoped to use us as a distraction.”

  “Pretty bold.”

  “When you think about it,” Sam said, “what’d he have to lose?”

  “His life,” Remi replied.

  “What about the weapon he used?” Sam asked. “You get anything back on that serial number I sent you?”

  “I was getting to that next. Stolen from Frankfurt a few days before a big heist in the same area. Same group suspected in a number of other heists throughout Europe.”

  “You have an address on the guy?”

  “Two. One’s in Germany. Locally, we show an address in Marrakesh.” He read it to them. “Current as of three months ago.”

  “That’s pretty recent.”

  “Look, Sam. You shouldn’t be involved in this. Too dangerous.”

  Remi raised her brows at that. “You do realize who you’re talking to, Rube?”

  “I do,” Rube said, his voice filled with resignation. “Just hoping that he might listen, for once.”

  “Appreciate your concern, old friend,” Sam said as he started the car and shifted it into drive, pulling into traffic. “But Zakaria was kidnapped on my watch. And unless you can miraculously come up with a rescue team in the next ten hours without going through all the red tape, the least we can do is check out that address.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Will do,” he said, disconnecting the call. He glanced over at Remi. “You’re okay with that?”

  “I’ll check my calendar and see if I have anything more important scheduled.” She picked up her phone, typing something on the screen.

  He glanced over, saw she was actually entering the address into the map. “Any luck rescheduling that manicure?”

  “Very funny. Make a right at the next intersection.”

  —

  DURIN KAHRS lived in a four-storied apartment complex about twenty minutes south of the hotel. Typical of the buildings in the era, the only windows facing out were high, to allow a breeze in, and narrow, to protect against the desert sun. In other words, there was no chance of breaking in from the outside. Sam drove past the address twice, checking the area, before parking down the street. They entered through a wrought iron gate that led into a fairly large courtyard in the center of the complex where children played under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Each apartment door faced into the courtyard, the upper floors accessed via two enclosed staircases in opposite corners. Sam and Remi smiled at the women, then climbed the nearest flight of stairs to the second floor, walking around the balcony until they came to Durin’s apartment.

  Sam knocked on the door, not expecting anyone to answer, more to determine what sort of lock was installed and if there was an alarm. There was not. “Let’s go,” he said, taking note of the rest of the complex as he and Remi walked toward the staircase. No way to get into that apartment without being noticed. Not in the daylight at least.

  “See what you needed to see?”

  “So far.”

  “And?”

  He smiled at her. “Date night. Dress in black.”

  Remi linked her arm through his as they took the stairs down. “I love date night.”

  15

  Sam and Remi returned to Durin’s apartment complex after ten that night, parking far enough away not to be noticed but close enough to watch and get an idea of who came and went from the building. This time, Remi drove, since she’d be keeping watch while Sam broke in. Both were armed with handguns. They planned to communicate using Bluetooth earpieces and their phones.

  It was easy to pick out Kahrs’s apartment. The two slit-like windows were the only ones not lit. As the night passed, the surrounding lights went out one by one until there were only a few stragglers still awake, two on the ground floor and one on the third floor. Finally, after midnight, all was dark. Sam waited another twenty minutes just to be sure.

  Remi called Sam.

  He pressed the button on his earpiece. “Let’s get started.”

  “Have fun.”

  He leaned over and kissed her before getting out of the car, gently closing the door. Once he crossed the street, he kept to the shadows as he walked toward the complex. “See you in a few.”

  “Do you think other couples have this much fun on date night?”

  “In their dreams, maybe.” That was one of many things that had attracted him to Remi. Dinner and a movie was what other people did on dates. He and Remi were more likely to be climbing mountains or trekking through jungles in search of treasure. Or, in this case, breaking into someone’s apartment on their way to rescue a friend who was in trouble. Looking back, he tried to remember if there was a time when they’d ever had a normal date. Well, besides the night they’d met at the Lighthouse, and, of course, the times they’d returned on the anniversary of that meeting . . .

  He pushed through the wrought iron gate, the courtyard lit only by a dim light at each stairwell. Just before he entered, he glanced back toward the car, barely able to make out the silhouette of Remi, watching from the driver’s seat. He gave a nod, quietly closing the gate behind him, listening to the sounds, determining what was normal, before proceeding up the stairs. “Still there?” he asked, putting on his gloves and slipping a lockpick from his wallet.

  “Still here.”

  He paused when he reached the second floor, looking down into the courtyard, where a cat, eyes glowing green, padded across. Nothing else moved, and he continued on to Durin Kahrs’s door, inserting the pick into the keyhole, teasing it in and out, until the lock turned.

  Once inside, he dimmed his flashlight to its lowest level and took a quick look around, glad to see that nothing appeared disturbed. That, he hoped, meant he was the first in—and this courier bag, if it even existed, was actually there.

  The apartment was sparsely furnished with a couch, coffee table, and flat-screen television in the front room, and a small table and two chairs in the dinette area. The faint smell of stale beer drifted in from the kitchen, no doubt from the dozen or so empty bottles dumped in the trash can near the counter. After looking around, he moved to the first bedroom, which was used as an office. A desk and chair were positioned just below the high and narrow window. There was only one drawer in the desk, filled with assorted pens and pencils. A few bills on the top, but nothing important. The other room contained a bed, side table, and footlocker secured with a padlock. It took him less than a minute to pick the lock.

  “Sam, you need to get out of there.”

  “I may have found something.”

  “Whatever it is, forget it. Two cars just pulled up. Four guys, definitely a couple with guns.”

  He opened the shutter of the window and saw two compact sedans parked across the street with four men walking from them toward the apartment building. Two held guns down by their sides. No doubt, the other two were armed.

  So much for getting out through the front.

  He’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to leave without looking. Kneeling, he opened the trunk, dismayed to see nothing but neatly folded clothes inside. Then again, who locked up clean laundry? He reached in, dug around until he felt something stiff beneath the several layers of shirts. Whatever was hidden in there was wrapped in a white sheet. He pulled it off, revealing a narrow, brown leather courier bag. Definitely World War II era. If that wasn’t enough to convince him this was the item taken from
the crashed plane then the residue of red dust on the inside of the sheet was.

  He slung the strap over his shoulder and returned to the window, looking out. The street was empty. “Where are they?”

  “One’s standing guard out front, the other three are splitting up.”

  Definitely not what he was hoping for. “On my way out now.”

  “How?”

  “Still working on that part.” He walked to the front door, pulled it open about an inch, listening. When he heard them in the courtyard below, he closed and locked the door. Plan B it is . . . Back in the bedroom, he grabbed the sheet that had been wrapped around the bag, knotting it around the metal rail of the bed. Sheet in hand, he climbed onto the sill of the open window—not an easy feat, considering how narrow the space was.

  “Sam . . . ?”

  “A little crowded in the courtyard. Tell me when it’s clear your way.”

  “Clear. For now.”

  He squeezed through and balanced on the sill as someone kicked open the front door. Two men rushed in. They saw him as he jumped over the side, the friction heat burning through his gloves as he slid down the sheet.

  One of the men leaned out, trying to grab him. When he missed, he shouted something that sounded like Russian. The man at the gate ran toward Sam, gun pointed. Sam swung, then dropped on top of him. They landed on the concrete, Sam on top, the gunman stunned. Sam grabbed the gun, rolled over, and fired at the window.

  The two men jumped back. Sam got up, ran in Remi’s direction. “Start the car,” he yelled.

  Crack! Crack! The gunshots echoed down the street. Sam fired back as he took cover in a doorway.

  Tires screeched as Remi backed the car toward him, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. Sam fired at the building, then jumped in.

  “Cutting it close, aren’t you?” she said, taking off, the back end skidding out as she hit the gas.

  “Timing’s everything.” Sharp pings sounded as bullets hit the back of the Toyota as Remi turned the corner.

  “So what’d you find?” she asked, looking over at him, then back at the road.

  “World War Two courier bag,” he said, noticing red and blue emergency lights flashing in the distance in front of them, the sirens growing louder as the vehicles neared. Remi made the next turn, and Sam watched in the side mirror as two patrol cars raced past.

  “Where to?” Remi said.

  “Hotel. Time to open this thing and see what everyone’s after.”

  16

  Sam slid the strap from his shoulder, holding up the leather pouch so Remi could see. It measured about eight inches wide and ten inches long. A steel buckle secured the front flap. The leather was dry and cracked, with embedded traces of red dirt. When he unbuckled it, it cracked even more, bits of dried leather dust drifting to the tabletop. Considering the number of years it had been sitting in the wreckage of that plane under varying temperatures, it was in surprisingly good condition.

  “Look at that,” Remi said as Sam lifted the flap. She pointed to a name written in ink on the inside. Lennard Lambrecht.

  “Wonder if he was the pilot.”

  The front of the pouch had a space for pencils and a compass. The main compartment was divided into two. One side held a folded map and two posted letters. The other side held a small pale yellow tin about two inches square.

  “That’s it?” Remi asked, picking up the tin and opening it. Inside was a perfectly preserved World War II–era typewriter ribbon.

  “So it would seem.” He turned the bag upside down and shook it. Bits of yellowed, almost translucent paper fell out. A few pieces seemed to have pencil marks on them. When he picked one up, it disintegrated into even more pieces.

  “A bit disappointing, considering.” She took the spool of typewriter ribbon, unwinding it. “Maybe a secret message wound up inside?”

  “Worth a look.” He opened the map and spread it out on the bed. Someone had penciled a circle around the city of Königsberg. He sifted through his knowledge of World War II. The Allies and Russia had bombed Königsberg near the end of the war. Other than that, he couldn’t say why it might be significant. He looked over the letters, noting they were addressed to C. Eburhardt. At least the letters had survived, he thought, handing them to Remi. “Don’t suppose you can read any of this?”

  She rewound the ribbon, then looked them over. “Definitely German . . . Some are . . . garbled, almost. The sentence structure doesn’t make sense. Maybe Selma can make something out of it.” Selma was their go-to for all things needing to be researched. In her mid-fifties and Hungarian-born, she was also multilingual. If she couldn’t come up with a translation, she knew someone who could.

  “Let’s get pictures of everything,” Sam said. He and Remi photographed the items from all angles before making a video call to Selma. She answered from her computer, looking at them through her dark-framed glasses.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Good to hear from you. Back from your expedition? Anything exciting?”

  “Interesting date night,” he told her. “More important, someone got to the plane before us, which brings me to my point. Assuming we have the full story here, the only thing found at the site of the downed plane beside the logbook pictures we sent was a leather courier bag containing a typewriter tin with a ribbon, map, and two posted letters dated nineteen forty-five. They look to be written in German, but Remi thinks something’s odd about them. You should have photos in your email now.”

  As Selma looked down at her keyboard and typed, the desk lamp highlighted the spikes of her short hair that she’d recently started dying a subtle shade of blue and pink—something they attributed to her burgeoning romance with Professor Lazlo Kemp, who, because of his knack at cryptology, also worked for the Fargos. She nodded. “Right here. Where do you want me to start?”

  “Translation, to start,” Sam said. “See if it has anything to do with the map. We’ve got an errand to run, so we’ll get back to you later.”

  “Anything I should be aware of?” she asked Sam.

  “Other than Zakaria being kidnapped, and breaking into a building to steal the courier bag being used as ransom to pay the kidnappers? Can’t think of anything.”

  Remi leaned in, saying, “Unless you count the guy Sam killed and the bullet holes in that Toyota we rented.”

  Selma eyed them over the top of her glasses, then focused on Sam. “That’s it?”

  “Night’s still young, Selma.”

  “Let me know if you need the cavalry sent in.”

  “Will do.”

  Sam disconnected. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, texting Zakaria’s phone.

  I have the bag. Call for delivery.

  The phone rang less than a minute later. “What took you so long?” the kidnapper asked.

  “Having to dodge a few of your gunmen, for one.”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for? My men are right here.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t send anyone?”

  “If we’d known where to go, we wouldn’t have needed a hostage, would we?”

  Couldn’t argue with that. But if they weren’t the only ones looking for this thing, who else was? “Where do you want me to take it?”

  He named the location. “And make sure you come alone.”

  “Who do I ask for?”

  “Gere.”

  “Well, Gere. I want to know Zakaria is okay. Or no deal. Put him on the phone.”

  A muffled sound as though the phone was being handed off to someone, then, “Sam? Are you there?”

  He recognized Zakaria’s voice. “You okay?”

  “Fine. I’m sorry. I—”

  His captor was back on the line. “You got what you wanted. One hour, if you want him alive.”

  The line went dead.

  Sam slid his phone int
o his pocket, then took extra ammunition from his gear bag. “They want the pouch? Let’s give it to them.”

  17

  Remi looked up the location on the satellite map. “Right here,” she said, showing it to him.

  “I like it,” Sam said. “At this hour, deserted. Now, how to get him and us out of there . . .”

  She’d heard enough of Sam’s stories from his time at DARPA to be able to cite a few. “What about that trick you and Rube used back in Curaçao? You know, with the bottles?”

  “That could work. As long as the rain holds off.”

  “I didn’t think about that. I’ll check the weather report.” She accessed the weather app on her phone. “Looks like rain’s not expected until early in the morning.”

  “Let’s hope that’s accurate.” He studied the satellite map. “You think you’re up to it?”

  She gave a slight smile at his purely rhetorical question. “O ye of little faith.”

  Once they finalized their plan and got the bottles they needed, they headed out. Sam drove, and when they reached the street, he shut off the headlights, idling slowly down it. The area was industrial, no one around this time of night. All the buildings were dark except for one about halfway down the block.

  Sam stopped the car about two buildings away. “This looks like a good place. Direct line of sight.”

  Remi noticed a recessed doorway to her left, shadowed. Even better in her mind, the front door was barred from the outside and locked with a padlock. No one would pop out unexpectedly. “Looks good to me.”

  What didn’t look good was the light drizzle that had started. At least it was evaporating as soon as it hit the windshield. Maybe they’d have a chance after all, she thought, adjusting her Bluetooth earpiece.

  As they did at Durin Kahrs’s apartment, they planned to communicate by phone. Sam called her cell, making sure they had a connection. “Ready when you are.”

  He turned on the headlights, switching to brights, not only to light up the front of the building but to make it difficult for anyone to see Remi as she hid in the background. She got out, unsnapped her holster, pausing by his open window. “Be careful.”