The Romanov Ransom

  “Not too valuable. The whole trip to Anholt castle was a wild-goose chase. The key didn’t lead to the third tin.”

  “Doesn’t matter, since Fargo guessed what was on it. If not for Nika, we wouldn’t have known about the smashed machine found in the tunnel—never mind gotten a photo of the wiring.”

  Rolfe walked over to the computer, trying to determine if Leopold had made any progress. “How are you doing this without the actual machine?”

  “The computer program is the Enigma machine. It was designed to duplicate an actual machine by taking the information entered and scrambling or unscrambling, as the case may be. All I need is to input which rotors were used and the order of the plugs. And, of course, the coded message. In this case, it’s from the two letters found in the courier pouch. Or, rather, the first character of each sentence in those letters.”

  “How is it you know this?”

  “It’s been passed down to the head of the Guard since it was first known.”

  It occurred to Rolfe just then that had he not joined forces with the Guard, he’d be at a loss when it came to interpreting the exact method of using the information from the tins. At least he was getting something for the exorbitant split he was handing over.

  Rolfe studied the screen while Leopold typed. All he saw was a bunch of garbled words. Nothing made sense. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “It will be considerably faster if you leave me alone.”

  He started his pacing again, occasionally looking over at Leopold to see how he was faring. Watching him work, Rolfe wondered again at his luck in meeting the man.

  Or was it luck?

  Rolfe had always assumed he’d been the one to find Leopold. Suddenly, he wondered if it hadn’t been the other way around. While he wasn’t the gambling sort, if he had to lay odds on the chances of running across the one man who knew everything there was to know on how to find the Romanov Ransom . . .

  He stopped in his tracks at the dawning realization that his luck on finding Leopold was anything but.

  So where did that leave him? Now that Leopold had the tins and the photo from the Enigma machine, there was only one thing standing in the way of him taking the information that he needed, then leaving: Rolfe was bankrolling this venture.

  So, for the moment, there was a mutual need.

  A sobering thought. Once the treasure was found, that need ended. And though he’d avoided thinking about that until this very moment, he realized it was time to start planning the endgame. He wasn’t about to lose any part of the treasure to the Wolf Guard.

  Or lose the whole thing. Shifts in loyalty could occur for any number of reasons.

  “It’s done,” Leopold said.

  “And?”

  “The treasure was taken to South America. Argentina, to be exact.”

  “Do we know where?”

  “Not yet. But based on what I know about the travels of most of the high-ranking Nazis, they landed in Buenos Aires. What I don’t understand is why the Wolf Guard wasn’t aware that the treasure had been taken there.”

  His comment surprised Rolfe. “Why would they know?” Rolfe asked. “Clearly, it was a secret, or why bother with the tins and protecting where they’d been hidden?”

  “Except,” Leopold said, leaning back in his chair as he stared at the computer screen, “the Guard also operates in South America.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the end of the war. A number of Guardsmen escaped using the ratlines.”

  “That explains it, then,” Rolfe said. “They weren’t interested in guarding anything beyond their own lives.”

  “No . . .” He pushed away from the desk, then stood. “The Guard branched out to every continent for the specific purpose of furthering the Führer’s plans. No one knew which country to expect the uprising, in case of spies. If the treasure had safely arrived in Argentina and made it into the hands of those in charge of Operation Werewolf, the Guard would’ve been called into service.” He looked at the computer, then back at Rolfe. “Something had to have happened to the treasure, and the men carrying it, before it reached its final destination. It’s the only explanation why it became lost. If nothing else, we may be able to find information that will help us locate where the treasure was last seen.”

  “So all you need to do is check with the Guard in Argentina?”

  “Something like that. In this case, I think it best that you stay behind. They’re dangerous. Not as organized. There may be issues.”

  “Issues, I can deal with.” Not a chance he was staying behind to let Leopold take possession of the treasure. “I’ll make the flight arrangements.”

  66

  While Sam and Remi waited on the jet, Remi received a message from Selma. “Apparently, Brand and Karl found records that Ludwig Strassmair had a sister who arrived in Buenos Aires with her family a few years before the war ended. She suggests we begin our search there.”

  “I’ll have the pilot update the flight plan,” Sam said. When he returned from the cockpit a few minutes later, he took a seat across from Remi at the table, watching as she spread several documents in front of her. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “Speculation on what might be in the Romanov Ransom. Selma did a little research for me.”

  “Counting the chicks before they hatch?”

  Remi’s brows arched. “Knowing what it consisted of could tell us the size, which could help us figure out where it’s hidden.”

  “You’re not still holding out hope it’s the Amber Room, are you?”

  “The possibility always exists. But, no,” she said, giving a sigh of disappointment. “I think that if the treasure made its way from Europe to South America in the possession of Nazi war criminals, it would have to be small enough to be smuggled in luggage. Something like this,” she said, sliding one of the papers toward him.

  He picked it up, looking at the list. “Missing Fabergé eggs . . . ? That would be a find. Aren’t some of these in private collections?”

  “Most, yes. But according to Selma’s research, out of all the eggs owned by the various Romanovs, there are only four that haven’t surfaced, at one time or another, between the Bolshevik Revolution and World War Two. Not surprisingly, all four belonged to Maria Feodorovna.” She nodded toward the paper.

  He scanned the names of the eggs. Hen with Sapphire Pendant Egg, the Royal Danish Egg, the Empire Nephrite Egg, and the Alexander III Commemorative Egg.

  “And what else have you determined?”

  “That if it really is treasure that the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna turned over to the Bolsheviks, the possibilities of what else might be included are . . . big. The missing Romanov fortune in totality is worth billions.” She slid over several more pages, showing paintings and photographs of the empress wearing bejeweled tiaras and necklaces. “It’s possible that when she fled the Bolsheviks, she managed to take everything with her, including the four eggs.”

  “How is it that history paints her as having died a relatively poor woman?”

  “Even more reason to believe that everything she owned was paid in a ransom, don’t you think? When her son and the royal family were executed, the Romanov women had a fortune of jewels sewn into their clothing. And this was while they were being held prisoner. Unlike her son and his family, Maria was living in the Crimea, far from the revolution. The royals tended to keep their prized possessions close by whenever they traveled. Certainly if they feared they might be in danger. My feeling? If this ransom truly exists, it contains her personal wealth.”

  “That’s a pretty big assumption.”

  “Not really. I may not have children of my own, but if I did, there’s no price I wouldn’t pay for their freedom. I’d do the same if it were you.”

  “Good to know,” Sam said, when his phone suddenly rang. He looked at t
he screen. “Tatiana.” He put the call on speaker. “Everything okay?”

  “With us, yes,” Tatiana said. “But there’ve been a couple of developments since our . . . incident with Nika.”

  “Speaking of,” Sam said, “what’s going on with her?”

  “She’s in protective custody while the investigation is being conducted. The bigger question is, will she serve time?”

  “Custody?” Remi asked. “So she’s been arrested? But her family was being threatened.”

  “Which they’ll take into consideration, Mrs. Fargo,” Tatiana replied. “Her actions have endangered everyone in this investigation, including you. Which is why I’m calling. Hold on one second . . .” There was a muffled noise in the background, and then she returned. “Sorry. Felix just walked in. He just found out that Viktor is going to be discharged from the hospital this afternoon.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Sam replied. “You were saying something about ‘developments’?”

  “Yes. Our sources have informed us that Rolfe and Leopold are—or will soon be—on their way to South America. Argentina to be exact.”

  Definitely not good news, Sam thought. “No chance of taking them into custody?”

  “If they were flying out of any of the major airports, I wouldn’t be calling. But they’re probably traveling in a private jet. Under assumed names, probably. Worse, and the main reason for my call, is that our sources are telling us that the Guard is active in South America. No doubt Rolfe and Leopold will be receiving help from them.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  “Have you considered not going?”

  Sam glanced up in time to see Remi’s knowing smile. “Never entered our minds,” he replied.

  An audible sigh sounded from Tatiana’s end of the phone. “I wish you luck, then. We’ll be headed that way at some point but probably not in time to be of much help with your search. Our goal is to shadow Leopold and Rolfe and meet up with our contacts in that part of the world. We’ll be in touch with any information.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “We appreciate it.” No sooner had he disconnected than the pilot announced they were cleared for takeoff.

  “Buenos Aires, here we come . . .”

  67

  BUENOS AIRES

  An afternoon of research led Sam and Remi to discover that Ludwig Strassmair’s great-grandnephew Dietrich was listed as the owner of a home about an hour’s drive from the city center. They pulled up in front of the bungalow that evening and found several boys playing soccer in the street out front.

  As Sam and Remi walked toward the neat yellow and white house, a Spanish television announcer’s voice drifted from the open window. Sam knocked at the door, which was opened by a dark-haired woman in her late twenties. “We’re looking for Dietrich Fischer,” he said, then repeated the question in Spanish.

  “Who are you?” she asked in thickly accented English.

  “Sam and Remi Fargo. We’re . . . researching old World War Two history, and his name came up as being a relative of . . .” He looked at Remi.

  “Ludwig Strassmair,” she said. “We think Dietrich might be able to answer questions about his relatives for a documentary.”

  The woman said nothing for a moment, her gaze moving to Remi, then back to Sam, as though weighing whether or not she could believe either of them. “He left about two years ago,” she finally said. “We rent the house from him.”

  “Any idea how to get in touch?” Sam asked.

  “The only address I have is a post office box, where we mail the rent check.”

  “A phone number?” Remi said. “Something in case of emergencies?”

  “No. I have an email address for him, but the last email I sent over a month ago has yet to be answered. I’m not sure there is internet where he is.”

  “Which would be . . . ?” Sam asked.

  “Somewhere in the middle of the jungle.”

  “Any idea where? Or what he does there?”

  “Maybe someone at the property manager’s office might know. I’ll get you their card.”

  —

  THE PROPERTY MANAGER, a man in his forties, gave the same information as the woman. Just as Sam wondered if they’d hit a complete dead end, the man said, “If it’s really important, the fastest way to get in touch with him is by messenger. No internet, and cell phone signals are sketchy, but if you’re willing to pay, it’s possible to get a message out to him.”

  “We’re willing to pay,” Sam said. “Let us know what we need to do.”

  “Not what you need to do. Where you need to go.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Better to show you.” He brought up a map of Argentina on his computer screen and pointed to a location near the north. “The village borders the river on the outskirts of the jungle. The water is how most people get to the village. It caters to guided river travelers. But it’s also a longer route.”

  Sam eyed the winding river on the map. “There’s a shorter route?”

  “Two days shorter. Through the jungle, unfortunately.”

  “What exactly does Dietrich do?” Remi asked.

  “I’ve heard he’s a pilot. Boats, we assume.”

  At least they had a starting point, Sam thought. “Any chance you can print this out for us?”

  “Not a problem.” He hit the button, and his printer whirred to life, dropping a sheet of paper into the tray. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’d highly suggest hiring a guide. The jungle isn’t without its hazards. That area is rife with drug runners.”

  68

  The guide recommended to Sam and Remi by the property manager was a young man named Nando Sandoval. After hiring him, and acquiring supplies, they drove out the next morning to his address outside of town. The pavement stopped after a few miles, dust kicking up behind their four-wheel drive as they drove slowly down the dirt road, trying to read the addresses on the brightly colored, flat-roofed houses. As they neared, Nando, a wiry man in his early twenties, waved at them.

  Sam pulled up in front of the house, rolling down the window. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Let me get my gear. I’ll be just a minute.”

  Sam parked, got out, and opened the tailgate. Nando returned shortly with his gear. As Sam loaded it into the back, Nando waved to a woman on the porch. “My wife,” he said. “She has fresh coffee, if you’d like.”

  “We’re good,” Sam said. “Had ours before we left.”

  “One moment, then.” Nando returned to the porch, kissed his wife, took the stainless steel, insulated coffee cup she held, then walked back to the car, waving at her as they took off.

  “Nando,” Sam said as he made a U-turn, heading back down the road. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Nando Roberto Sandoval is my full name,” he said, his face lighting up with pride. “After the two rugby players whose plane went down in the Andes Mountains in the nineteen seventies.”

  Sam recalled reading about the event. Two months after the crash, two of the rugby players made the many days’ trek through the snowy mountains to Chile, bringing back help for the remaining fourteen survivors. “Amazing story,” he said.

  “My father thought so,” Nando replied. “I think I’ve always loved the outdoors because of it. The beauty and danger. It’s why I became a guide. Well, when I’m not working at my family’s tire shop.”

  “We’re glad to have your help,” Remi said.

  —

  THE DRIVE TO the location where Nando had made arrangements for them to leave their car took several hours. According to Nando, they had at least a three-day walk through the jungle to the remote village where Dietrich was supposed to be living. When they had their gear, the three set off on foot, following a trail into the jungle, an ever-changing world of color amidst an orchestration of birds
ongs and the percussion of buzzing, clicking, biting insects. They made considerable progress on the first day through the stifling humidity and heat.

  Progress slowed halfway through the second day when the trail narrowed. But then it suddenly widened into a well-marked path.

  Nando seemed surprised. “This is new.”

  Sam didn’t like the looks of it. “You two wait here,” he said. “I want to check this out before we go farther. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “No argument from me,” Remi said. “I can use a rest.”

  Nando slid his pack from his shoulders. “I’ve heard about drug runners in the area, but they’ve usually been farther south.”

  Sam unsnapped his sidearm. “Just in case, stay off the trail until I get back.”

  After he left, Remi looked around for a dry place to set down her pack and rest where she and Nando wouldn’t be seen from the trail and where they wouldn’t be eaten by ants. “Maybe farther in,” she suggested to Nando.

  “I’ll check this side, you check that side.”

  Remi pushed through a wall of vines, stepping off the trail, seeing something that looked promising just a few feet in. The thick, raised roots of a tree would keep them off the rain-slicked ground, and there were no ants anywhere near it. About to call out to Nando that she’d found a decent spot, she stopped when she heard voices coming from the trail in the direction they’d just traveled.

  She stilled, wondering for a moment if it was Sam. No. He’d gone off the opposite way. Setting her pack on the roots, she retraced her steps to the wall of vines, peering through just as three men, automatic rifles slung across their backs, walked up the trail.

  Nando appeared on the other side, looking out at her. She held up her hand, warning him to stop, go back. He didn’t move, his expression telling her that he was confused about what she was trying to tell him.

  Realizing he couldn’t see the men from where he stood, she pointed in their direction.