The Romanov Ransom

  “Agreed. Time we introduced ourselves.”

  24

  The woman, Remi noticed as she weaved her way through the tourists and shoppers admiring the various amber knickknacks, had questionable taste. She tried on a hideous necklace interspersed with plastic gold beads, then a pair of dangling earrings. As she held them to her ears, she checked herself in a handheld amber mirror, undoubtedly searching for Sam and Remi in the reflection.

  Sam caught up with Sergei to let him know that they’d meet him at the car. Remi swept past the couple, never giving any indication that she noticed them at all, keeping close to the crowd for safety. She stopped to admire an amber elephant figurine about two inches high. “How much?” she asked the vendor.

  “For you, only twenty-five hundred rubles. Genuine Baltic amber. The finest anywhere.”

  Whether it was the finest was debatable. It was, however, charming, and she turned it over in her hands, admiring the way the light caught in the inclusions. “Two thousand,” she offered as Sam joined her.

  “Twenty-two.” He gave a firm nod.

  A little over thirty dollars. Very reasonable. “Twenty-two it is. Sam?”

  He took out his wallet and paid the man, who wrapped the elephant in tissue and put it in a small cloth bag, handing it to Remi.

  “Spasibo,” she said.

  He gave a broad smile in return. “You’re very welcome.”

  Remi tucked the bag into her purse as Sam led her back toward the park. “And where are our new friends?” she asked.

  “Right behind us.”

  She again linked her arm through Sam’s, eyeing the crowd, breathing in the scent of freshly mown grass, as they walked. Other than the people following them, everything seemed normal. Children ran past, laughing as parents called after them to wait. Several teenage girls giggled at a nearby booth as they tried on amber necklaces. Up ahead, armed police officers strolled near the park, keeping a watchful eye on everything around them. That, she realized, was one of the things Sam would be watching for. Less likely for anything serious to happen in an area like this—especially if the pair following them was armed. “Do we have a plan?”

  “I’m thinking we go with the up close and personal, didn’t know you were here approach.”

  “Like the time in Mykonos?” she clarified since they’d been in a number of scrapes together.

  “Exactly,” he said as they strolled along. “Now.”

  They turned, saw the man and woman about ten feet away, both suddenly very interested in the items at the booth. The woman placed her purse down on the shelf beside her as Sam and Remi quickly closed the distance between them. When they were nearly on top of the couple, Remi threw up her hands in surprise, stepping between the woman and the booth. “You’re right, Sam. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Remi put one hand on the woman’s arm, drawing her attention, while reaching behind her to scoop up her purse. “What on earth are you two doing here?”

  Sam moved in, putting his arm around the man’s shoulders. “How are you?” he asked as he and Remi walked alongside, sweeping them in the direction of the two armed police officers. “So, lunch? Dinner? What do you say?”

  The pair tried to distance themselves, but Sam and Remi stepped closer. The woman looked around, suddenly worried, as the man said, “We—we don’t know you.”

  “Sure you do. Sam Fargo. My wife, Remi. And you are?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “Ivan Ivanov.”

  “Ivan Ivanov?” Sam stepped back to open a wallet, reading the ID. “I would’ve guessed something like . . . Ilya Aristov.”

  “That’s mine!” He tried to take back his wallet.

  “So you’re not Ivan Ivanov?”

  The woman turned toward the booth in a panic. “My purse!”

  Remi held it up. “You really have to be careful in places like this,” she said, opening the bag, seeing a small handgun next to a wallet. “Leaving it right where anyone could grab it. So careless.”

  The woman reached for the bag.

  Remi took a quick step back, gripping the weapon, careful to keep it hidden as she aimed it at the couple. “I’d hate to blow a hole through the bottom of a Louis Vuitton. Wait. It’s a knockoff. No worries.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” the woman said.

  “Right,” Sam said. “And yet, here you are. Exactly why are you following us?”

  The man’s glance strayed toward the police officer, then back at Sam. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Other than his slight Russian accent, his English was impeccable. “As your wife said, you have us mistaken for someone else.”

  “Could be,” Sam said, stepping close to Ilya, expertly removing the man’s gun before he even realized what had happened. “Follow us again? We won’t be this nice.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Shoot us?”

  “Remi, see if those nice officers are busy.”

  “Politsiya!” Remi called out as the man and woman bolted in the opposite direction. “Hmm. You’d think they’d at least accept our lunch invitation.”

  —

  “BOTH NAMES ARE ALIASES,” Selma announced later that afternoon. “Their IDs are professional fakes.”

  “Who are they?” Sam asked. He’d taken a photo of their IDs before Remi turned over everything to the two officers, reporting their suspicious behavior in a mixture of English and broken Russian. The police declared it a robbery attempt, something Sam and Remi highly doubted.

  “According to the information I was able to find,” Selma replied, “your would-be robbers are associated with a Russian crime family run by Tatiana Petrov, who took it over from her father after he was murdered by a rival crime family.”

  “What are they known for?” Sam asked.

  “According to the newspaper articles I was able to find, drug trafficking, sex trade, the usual.”

  “Even I’ve heard of the Petrovs,” Sergei said. “Very bad. I recommend you leave Kaliningrad. They’re worse than your American Mafia.”

  “Why us?” Remi asked.

  “Because of Durin,” Sam replied. “They have to be part of the group who attacked us at his apartment. It definitely confirms that there are two separate groups after this Romanov Ransom.”

  “One more thing,” Selma said. “After going through the bibliography on Andrei’s internet book, I was able to dig up some interesting information on that retired groundskeeper of Königsberg castle. Andrei was right. You’re definitely going to want to interview the man.”

  25

  The once splendid Königsberg castle had completely burned after the Allied bombing in 1944, leaving only the thick walls. After the war ended, Königsberg was annexed by the Soviet Union, renamed Kaliningrad, and the castle remains were leveled by a government that wanted to erase any reminders of its Prussian past.

  It was this last fact that made the presence of a groundskeeper a bit of a surprise—at least in Remi’s mind. There wasn’t much left of the grounds to keep, unless one happened to be an archaeologist. The empty rectangular courtyard was now surrounded by gray boards blocking off the area from the public. A large section of the boarded wall had fallen and a temporary chain-link fence stood in its place, allowing a view into the castle property and, at the far end, the recent excavations.

  Sam checked his watch as the three stood on the sidewalk, waiting. “He did say meet here near the parking lot?”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than a taxi pulled up. Remi saw a gray-haired man holding a cane get out, pay the driver, then hobble in their direction. “That’s got to be him.”

  “Miron Pushkaryov?” Sam asked as he approached.

  “You must be the Fargos,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “And Sergei. Forgive me for being late. I stopped by to see Andrei befo
re I came out here.”

  “No worries,” Remi said. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”

  “But I do worry. Ever since Andrei wrote that book, he’s had many things go wrong. I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were. Therefore, it was necessary to do so in person.” The man placed both hands on the brass head of his cane, eyeing them. “Andrei mentioned what happened to you at the museum. So you see, they’re still watching him. They’re probably watching me. They may even be watching you.”

  Sam scanned the vast parking lot that ran the length of the castle grounds, not seeing anything suspicious. “Were you followed here?”

  “I hope not.” He gave Remi a thorough appraisal. “Andrei never mentioned how beautiful you are.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Pushkaryov.”

  “Merely observant. And, please, call me Miron,” he said, then turned to Sam. “What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Information.”

  “On?”

  “The treasures that might have been stored at Königsberg castle.”

  “You mean the treasures that were taken from the castle after the bombing?”

  “Precisely,” Sam said. “What is it you know?”

  “Only what my grandfather told me. The most valuable treasures were kept belowground, out of the public eye. They survived the Allied bombing and remained there up until Hitler ordered their removal.”

  “The Amber Room?” Remi asked. “Any chance it survived and was moved?”

  “We can always hope. Unfortunately, recent excavations of the subterranean levels have turned up bits of amber . . .” He nodded toward the castle grounds, his smile bittersweet. “Still, being that my grandfather told me tales of a line of trucks waiting in the courtyard to be loaded at the end of the war, one never knows. Perhaps they got the Amber Room out in time. But I was under the impression that you were interested in something else entirely.”

  “We are,” Sam said. “Have you heard of the Romanov Ransom?”

  “Of it, yes. What was in it . . . ?” He shrugged. “I don’t precisely know.”

  “Is there anything you can tell us?” Remi asked.

  “A bit. My grandfather remembered seeing Nazi officers loading crates from the castle onto numerous trucks one night. Two officers inspected each truck, then removed four smaller chests from one. They opened the chests to see what they contained, then carried them to a different vehicle. The last truck in the line.”

  He stared through the chain-link toward the excavation site, taking a deep breath, then letting out a sigh. “So long ago . . . My grandfather used to bring me here when I was a boy, telling me what the castle looked like before the war. The pictures. They don’t do it justice.” He lifted his cane, pointing with it. “Over there, you can see the fence surrounding the excavation where some of the treasure was believed to have been stored. And over there is where the trucks pulled up and the men loaded everything from the castle’s remains. I loved hearing the tale from my grandfather.” His soft smile faded when he looked back at them. “As a boy, I dreamed of following the trail that my grandfather had seen on their map. I was going to find the treasure.”

  “Map?” Remi asked.

  “I assumed that’s why you were here. You had to have found the map.”

  A loud screeching of tires caught their attention. Sam spun around as a blue sedan sped through the adjoining parking lot toward them. Bright sunlight glinted off the black-tinted windows as the car slowed and the rear window rolled down—and someone pointed a handgun in their direction.

  26

  Get down!” Sam yelled.

  He grabbed Miron, pulling him behind a parked delivery van. Remi and Sergei dove behind a Fiat as the first shot was fired. A second shot ricocheted off the ground just a few inches from Sam’s leg. The car sped off, its tires squealing on the pavement as it whipped around the corner. Sam peered around the side of the van. The gunman’s car sped through the parking lot, the back end fishtailing as the driver whipped it around for a second pass.

  Sam helped Miron to his feet. “We need to find cover.”

  “The excavations,” Miron said as Sergei supported him from the other side. They reached the chain-link fence that surrounded it. Plywood and tin walls encompassed the perimeter, but the gate was open for the workers, who were climbing up from the dig site to see what was going on.

  Sam looked back, saw the blue car stopping near the gate. The gunman in the backseat threw open the door, about to follow, when the high-low whine of police sirens sent him scurrying back. The car sped off as the police arrived just in time to give chase.

  “That was close,” Remi said.

  Miron gripped his cane, his hand shaking. “I suggest we get out of here before the police come back. Unless you don’t mind being questioned for hours about why someone was shooting at us.”

  “I like your way of thinking,” Sam said. They’d already dealt with the police that morning after the incident at the museum. Having their names come up again was likely to result in a lot more red tape and valuable time lost.

  “Where to?” Sergei asked, pulling the keys from his pocket.

  “My house, if you don’t mind. It’ll save me a taxi ride.”

  It took about twenty minutes. Sergei drove while Sam, gun in hand, kept an eye on the side mirror and on every car they passed. Finally, they pulled up to an ivy-covered gabled house on a cobbled road. A brick walk led to Miron’s front door, which he unlocked, allowing them in. After locking the door behind them, he leaned his brass-headed cane against the wall, then took off his gloves, scarf, and hat. “I’ll turn on the heater to take the chill off. Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, crossing the room to the thermostat.

  “Earlier,” Sam said, “you mentioned something about a map? You assumed that’s why we were here.”

  “The map . . . Yes.” Miron tapped the button and the heater kicked on, bringing with it the scent of burnt dust, leading Sam to believe that he didn’t run it all that often. Judging from the peeling paint and general state of disrepair, Sam gathered that money was tight. “Rather a long story, so perhaps you should take a seat.” He directed them to sit at a round, scarred mahogany table, protected, oddly enough, with a glass top, which did nothing to hide the markings and gouges on the surface.

  “According to my grandfather, the map—I’m assuming it’s the same one you found—showed the route they were plotting for the trucks to take the treasure that had been stored up until then at Königsberg castle.”

  “There wasn’t a route drawn on the map we found,” Sam said. “Königsberg was circled, but that was it.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, the route was actually traced onto paper from the original map.”

  “That explains the bits of brittle yellowed paper we found in the courier bag,” Sam said. “A shame it didn’t survive.”

  “The tin?” Miron asked.

  “You know about that?”

  “Only because my grandfather wrote about it in his diary.” He nodded to a black and white photo on the bookshelf of a dark-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to Miron. “He, apparently, turned the map, the tracing paper copy, and the tin over to someone named Lambrecht, who was supposed to get everything to the Allies.”

  “Any idea as to the tin’s significance?”

  “None. My grandfather seemed to think the items had some importance beyond the gold. Of course, some of that was to finance the escape of the Nazi officers who planned to flee the continent. But he always suspected that there was something more going on. Even before Hitler ordered that all of the stolen art be removed from Königsberg castle, my grandfather believed these officers were making plans for the treasure—he just couldn’t figure out what for. It’s why, when he found their map, he copied their route, at great risk to himself. And it’s why he kept this table. I
t was in their office when they made their plans,” he said, running his hand across the smooth glass surface.

  “The Romanov Ransom?” Remi asked. “Did it have something to do with that?”

  “Indeed it did, Mrs. Fargo. It’s what’s behind all this violence. These people trying to keep Andrei from publishing his book all these years believe his writings will help others find the treasure before they do. And yet what they don’t realize is that they’re all chasing the wrong lead.”

  “Why is that?” Sam asked.

  “The evidence my grandfather found and turned over to Lambrecht and the Allies. It’s all right here.”

  He patted the tabletop.

  Sam glanced down at it. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Mahogany. Very soft, as you probably know.”

  Sam examined the dark wood, noting the scratches and other marks. “What, exactly, are we looking at?”

  “The route that was traced from the map. The same route on the bits of paper you found in the courier bag. Not that you’d realize it unless you know where to look,” he said, trailing his finger across some unseen mark on the table.

  Sam leaned in close, seeing a faint indentation in the dark wood in the shape of a large jagged Z. “That’s the route?”

  “I believe so. The only reason it’s never been examined any closer was that the original map was missing. As many times as I’ve tried to re-create the route on a modern map, it’s never worked. I expect it’s because of the size difference. But since you have the original, all we need do is overlay the tracing that I made on top. That will tell us where the treasure is.”

  “One problem,” Remi said. “We no longer have it.”

  Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “But we do have photos. If you have a computer, we can print it out.”

  27

  Unfortunately, they had to approximate the size of the map since the photos Sam took with his phone had nothing to reference the map’s original size.