The Romanov Ransom

by Clive Cussler

  Such an ordinary suitcase . . .

  What was in it was anything but ordinary, Klaus thought as someone shouted from outside the plane.

  There was a commotion at the door, and he turned, saw a man, wearing a tan overcoat, enter.

  “Sorry,” the man said, out of breath. “Didn’t mean to hold up everyone. Joe Schmidt,” he said by way of introduction. He spoke perfect German, but the accent was something Klaus couldn’t place. There was a sheen of perspiration on Schmidt’s brow, and he reached up, wiped it with the back of his hand. Winded, he stood there a moment, looked around, his gaze catching on Klaus, and then his uncle, before taking the seat just behind Klaus.

  Once the door was shut, the engines started, and the plane moved down the runway. Klaus gripped the edge of his seat as they lifted off. He closed his eyes, trying to take even breaths. He was scared. Part of his fear came from the fact that he’d never been in a plane before. He looked down at that suitcase, thinking about what Greta had said about the Fourth Reich, the papers and the cases of jewels his uncle was carrying, and the men shooting at them as they fled. And then there was Greta’s comment about needing Klaus with them. To keep from being noticed.

  Who would be watching them?

  Something made him look back at the man who’d boarded last. Joe Schmidt. Their gazes met. The man gave a slight nod, and Klaus turned away. Somehow, over the roar of the engines, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Something jarred him awake. Klaus opened his eyes, confused by his surroundings. He looked around, then behind him as he felt his seat shudder and saw that Joe Schmidt had Uncle Ludwig’s suitcase. When the man realized he’d been caught, he raised his finger to his lips.

  They were being watched. His heart sped up a little at the hope that someone was going to stop the Nazis. He dared a slight nod, wanting to reassure the man that he wasn’t about to tell, and he glanced toward his uncle’s seat, noticing his head tilted to the side. Sleeping. Or so he thought until Ludwig dropped his hand down toward the floor where the suitcase had been, his fingers reaching at nothing. He jumped from his seat, looking around, frantic. The moment he saw Schmidt with his suitcase, he lunged.

  Schmidt shoved the case upward. His uncle blocked it with his arm, then slammed his right fist into Schmidt’s jaw. Schmidt grabbed Ludwig by his shoulders, pulling down as he brought up his knee.

  Ludwig staggered back, then reached beneath his coat, drawing his gun. Klaus turned toward the other passengers, willing them to get up and help, but they cowered in their seats. Only Greta stood, gripping Klaus by his arm. He looked back as Schmidt threw himself at Ludwig, ramming him with all his weight. The two men tripped over the suitcase, crashing to the floor. The gun flew from Ludwig’s grasp, landing near Klaus. Greta pushed him aside. She grabbed the gun while Ludwig overpowered the man, pummeling at his face until he lost consciousness. “Kill him!” Greta said.

  His uncle pulled a knife from his boot. In a flash, he rammed it beneath the man’s sternum.

  Klaus stared in shock at the growing red stain on Schmidt’s white shirt. His stomach roiled with nausea, and he took several deep breaths trying to calm it. “Why . . . ?”

  Greta must have heard him over the roar of the engines. “He’s a spy sent to stop us.”

  Turbulence jolted the plane, throwing Klaus and Greta against the seats. She dropped the gun as she tried to break her fall. Klaus grabbed it, his hand shaking as he pointed it at her.

  She tried to stand, grabbing for the gun, but he shoved her back into the seat. She reached for him. “Klaus. You don’t want to do this.”

  Ludwig’s brows went up a fraction when he realized that Klaus had the gun.

  “Give me the gun, Klaus . . .” Uncle Ludwig took a step forward. “It’s over now. There’s no reason to fight.”

  Tears clouded Klaus’s vision as he backed away. “I’ll shoot you.”

  “It won’t do any good,” his uncle said. He glanced at Greta, giving her a sharp nod.

  She stood, taking a step toward Klaus. He pointed the gun at her and she stopped.

  His uncle moved to her side. “When this plane lands, those papers will be delivered. But if you help me get them there, you’ll be rewarded. You and your father will have all the money you need. Think of your sister.”

  Klaus blinked away the tears, seeing the dead man, wondering if it was worth dying for . . . Was this how his brother died?

  “Klaus . . .” Uncle Ludwig held out his hand. “Your mother wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Give me the gun.”

  Follow your heart . . . Do that . . . You’ll be rewarded. Promise me . . .

  His mother’s voice sounded so clear in his head. Heart beating, he backed away from them, turning the gun toward the two passengers who tried to stop him. “Get out of my way!” he shouted as he continued backing up until he bumped into the ladder that led up to the cockpit.

  “Klaus!” Uncle Ludwig yelled. “Get over here!”

  He kept the gun pointed at them. “Stay away,” he said, grabbing at the ladder, climbing with one hand, as he kept an eye on them. He poked his head into the cockpit, saw the pilot at the controls, either unaware of what had transpired at the back of the plane or too busy trying to fly it to worry.

  Klaus took a deep breath, looking down at his uncle.

  “No!” Ludwig yelled, running forward. “Stop him!”

  Someone grabbed Klaus’s leg as he swung around. Too late. He shot the pilot. The man slumped over, and the plane jolted. Klaus fell into the cockpit. The black sky turned white as they spiraled toward the snowy mountainside, the roar of engines drowning out the screams.

  In those few moments, Klaus’s last thought was not of death but of his mother.

  And that he would see her again very soon.

  1

  LAGUNA MOUNTAINS

  SAN DIEGO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  To the left!”

  “Copy that. Moving to the left. Five . . . four . . .”

  The helicopter hovered near the sheer rock face, the tethered basket swinging from the cable, as one of the rescuers radioed, “Don’t come any closer. You’re one-zero from the wall.”

  “Copy that.”

  Sam Fargo watched as the two search-and-rescue volunteers, a man and woman, both wearing khaki uniforms and yellow helmets, guided the helicopter basket closer to where his wife, Remi, lay on an outcropping of rock, her left leg stabilized with a makeshift splint. The turbulence from the rotors whipped her auburn hair about her face, her green eyes tearing up from all the dirt blowing around. The man glanced up at the hovering helicopter. “We got it!” he radioed.

  Sam took note of every move they made, resisting the urge to step in and take over. And even though he knew his wife was in good hands, it was difficult to stand there and do nothing. Within a few minutes, they had her secured in the basket, then stood back as she was lifted from the mountainside. No sooner was she safely on her way than his phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but when he saw it was Selma Wondrash, the head of his and Remi’s research team, he answered. “Selma.”

  “How’s Mrs. Fargo?”

  “Doing better than the rest of us. She at least gets to ride out of here. The rest of us have to climb.”

  “You can always volunteer to be the victim next time,” she said, then got right to the point. “You recall my cousin’s nephews you and Mrs. Fargo were backing for that documentary they were making on the ratlines?”

  Because he and Remi sponsored so many educational and archaeological ventures through the Fargo Foundation, the charitable organization that they had founded, he sometimes lost track of who they were funding. In this case, though, being a World War II history buff, he distinctly recalled the young men and their project, a documentary on the ratline—a system of escape routes used by the Nazis and Fascists who fled Europe after the war. Even so, it to
ok him a moment to bring up their names. “Karl and Brand. I remember. Why?”

  “Their uncle hasn’t been able to get in touch with them for a couple of days. He’s worried. Especially after getting an odd message on his voice mail.”

  “Any idea what it was?”

  “Something about them finding a lost plane in Morocco, and people were after them. He can’t get any help from the authorities, because the boys didn’t register with the consulate, and no one seems to know where they are. I told him that you might be able to pull some strings and get someone to look into it. I know you and Remi have a date tonight, but—”

  “Your family’s our family,” he said, grabbing his backpack from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. “Have our plane ready to go. As soon as Remi and I get home, we’ll pack and head to the airport.”

  —

  SAM AND REMI FARGO were not the usual multimillionaires content to rest on the laurels of good business decisions that had netted them more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. Sam had earned an engineering degree from Caltech, spent seven years at DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, then left to start his own company, where he’d made a fortune developing a number of inventions used by the military and intelligence agencies. Remi, an anthropologist and historian with a focus on ancient trade routes, graduated from Boston College. Her background came in handy during the pursuit of their particular passion, searching for lost treasures around the world. It also helped that she had a near-photographic memory, was proficient in several languages, and was a world-class sharpshooter when it came to firearms. As many scrapes as they’d been in over the years, there was no one Sam would rather have as his partner than Remi.

  There was, however, one slight issue about leaving tonight. It happened to be the anniversary of the day they met at the Lighthouse Cafe, a jazz bistro in Hermosa Beach. To them, it was even more important than their wedding anniversary, and they honored it each year by having a date at the very table where they’d spent their first evening talking the night away.

  Remi was waiting for Sam at the car when he finally got there after the climb up the cliffside with the volunteers.

  “Took you long enough,” she said, looking at her watch. “We’re going to get stuck in commuter traffic if we don’t hit the road soon.”

  Sam tossed his climbing gear into the back of their Range Rover. “Any chance you wouldn’t mind a slight change of plans . . . ?” He left the question hanging, noting the disappointment on her face.

  “We’ve never missed date night at the Lighthouse.”

  “Maybe we could mix it up a bit. A week of date nights somewhere else? Like Morocco?” Before she had a chance to respond, he added, “Selma’s family might be in trouble.”

  “I love date night in Morocco.”

  2

  It was late morning, the bright sun shining on the snow-peaked Atlas Mountains in the distance, when Sam and Remi landed in Marrakesh. They rented a black four-wheel-drive Toyota Prado, then drove out to meet Selma’s cousin Albert Hoffler, who was waiting in front of the hotel as they pulled up.

  “He looks like Selma,” Remi said as Sam turned the key fob over to the valet. “At least in the eyes.”

  In fact, he was also about the same age as Selma, in his fifties, with brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache flecked with gray. His smile seemed strained—understandable, considering the circumstances. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I can’t thank you enough for flying all the way out here.”

  “Please. It’s Sam and Remi. Save the formalities for Selma,” Sam said, shaking his hand.

  “Cousin Selma’s been that way her whole life.” His smile was fleeting, and he gave a tired sigh. “We can talk over lunch. I’ve reserved us a table.”

  He led them through the hotel’s spacious courtyard lobby, with a fountain and reflecting pool in the center. The restaurant was on the far side, the tables overlooking the pool. When they were seated, he said, “How much has Selma told you?”

  Sam replied, “Something about a voice mail you received while the boys were here working on the documentary. And that you haven’t gotten much cooperation from the authorities.”

  “It’s not that they’re not cooperating, more that they have nothing to go on. The truth is, they’re not officially missing yet, since they’re not due back for a day or so. But after that voice mail . . .”

  “What can you tell us?” Sam asked.

  “They landed here after finishing up in Spain, documenting the lines of escape taken by some high-ranking Nazi officers who were fleeing to South America. I believe this is the project you were funding. They were looking for shipping records in Casablanca but got sidetracked after hearing a legend about a Nazi pilot rescued after the war. Apparently, he’d parachuted from the plane before it crashed, wandered the desert for days, and was rambling on about a map.”

  Sam noticed Remi perk up at the mention. Maps intrigued her. “What was it of?” she asked.

  “That’s just it. Nobody knows if the story’s even real. The boys thought it might be a map of the ratline route. Naturally, they wanted it for their documentary. They left Casablanca for Marrakesh, and, from there, to a few villages located below the Atlas Mountains, to determine where the legend originated from and who knew of it. The last I heard, they were following a very promising lead on locating the plane. I’ve called their cell phones but it goes straight to voice mail, and they haven’t called back. The hotel staff here has been very gracious, letting me into their room to look for anything that might help. Their suitcases, extra cameras and equipment are there, but their backpacks and climbing gear are gone. They’re excellent climbers.” He stopped to thank the waiter who poured water infused with mint leaves into their glasses. When they were alone again, he said, “Their rooms are booked until the end of the week, and the hotel manager feels that if they don’t return by then, he would be more concerned. They told him they were going to be gone for a while.”

  “How long ago was this?” Sam asked.

  “He thinks about five days. I know what you’re thinking. They said they were going to be gone. But if you’d heard that message . . .”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I can play it for you. I think their reception was poor. Some of it cuts out. It’s in German, though.”

  “Remi speaks German.”

  He took out his cell phone, pulled up the voice mail message, then hit PLAY, laying it on the table.

  They leaned in close to listen. Remi asked him to play it a second time so that she could write it down for Sam. “We found it! The plane! At camel . . . not sure. Shooting at . . . Maybe someone . . . out there . . . days.”

  “You hear the excitement?” Albert asked her.

  “Or panic,” Remi said.

  “Panic. That’s what I meant. And why I came. With the spotty reception, who knows what really happened.”

  Sam asked, “When did this message come in?”

  “Maybe two days after they left the hotel for the trip to the mountains.” He picked up the phone, giving a ragged sigh. “That’s the last I heard from them.” He looked away a moment, his gaze drifting to the lobby. Suddenly, he stiffened. “That’s who they were with! I’m sure of it!”

  “What?”

  He pointed through the potted palms into the lobby. “That man in the blue shirt talking to the girl at the desk.” Albert accessed the pictures on his phone and showed them a photo of three young men sitting on a rough-hewn wooden bench, each lifting a beer mug in a toast. “My nephews,” he said, pointing to the men seated on the right. Sam eyed the photo, noting the two boys, one wearing a red jacket, both with sun-streaked brown hair and brown eyes. “This man on the left,” Albert said. “That’s who they hired to take them out to the Berber Villages.”

  Sam compared the photo to the dark-haired man at the desk.
“Definitely him. Let’s find out what he knows.”

  The three got up and walked toward the desk. When the man saw them heading toward him, he bolted out the doors.

  3

  Sam gave chase. Remi was right behind him, ignoring the curious stares of the other guests milling about the lobby. Sam ran to the right, across the cobbled drive. The man darted around the corner, then down a side street, racing toward a red Renault as he dug the key from his pocket. He held out the key, and the doors beeped as the car unlocked. Just as he opened the door, Sam caught up to him, grabbing the back of his shirt, then swinging him around, slamming him against the car.

  “Please!” the man said in French. “I don’t know anything.”

  Sam shot his hand up to the man’s neck, gripping it. “You speak English?”

  He nodded. “Some.”

  “Your name?”

  “Z—Zakaria.”

  “Zakaria. We’re looking for Karl and Brand Hoffler.”

  “I—I’ve only spoken to them on the phone.”

  “We have a picture that says otherwise.”

  “A very old picture. I swear, I don’t know anything.”

  Remi wandered closer to the faded-red Renault. She peered into the window as Sam asked, “You’re saying you talked to them by phone, but you never met with either of them on this trip?”

  “I think they took up with another guide. They didn’t tell me who. Maybe they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I don’t know.”

  Sam eyed the twists of cables on the backseat, turning back toward Zakaria. “What do you know about audiovisual equipment?” he asked.

  “Just the camera on my cell phone.”

  “Then why do you have a bundle of AV cords in the back of your car?”

  A sheen of perspiration appeared on Zakaria’s brow as he shook his head. “I—I don’t know.”