Sam leaned into him, pressing his fingers into his neck. “Maybe you need a little help with your memory. Where are they?”
His eyes widened in fear. “I don’t know! I swear!”
“We don’t like being lied to,” Sam said. “Not when it comes to our family being endangered.” He glanced at Remi. “In French, in case there’s any question.”
The young man’s gaze shifted to Remi’s as she translated. When she finished, Sam added, “And they’re making a film that we’re paying for. If anything happens to them—”
“Wait. You are the Fargos?”
Sam loosened his grip on Zakaria’s neck. “You know who we are?”
He nodded, then his gaze caught on Albert. “Who’s that?”
“Their uncle.”
The young man closed his eyes, sinking down as though suddenly relieved. “Please. You have to understand. I only wanted to protect them.”
“From who?” Sam asked, finally letting him go and stepping back.
Zakaria reached up, rubbing his neck, trying to swallow. “I don’t know. They called me and said they were being chased. Someone was shooting at them, but they got away. They thought it was because of their search for the plane.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About four days ago.”
“They’re not back?”
“That’s what I came here to find out. I was hoping they’d been back by now. Or called. We expect them anytime.”
“We?”
“Durin Kahrs. A friend of theirs from school in Germany. He was with them when they took off to look for the plane. He came back early, and when I told him what happened, that they were shot at, he warned me not to talk to anyone. He worried about someone trying to find them. He thinks someone doesn’t want them to find the plane.”
“They’re okay?” Albert asked.
“They were when I talked to them.”
“Maybe,” Sam said, “you should start at the beginning.”
He nodded, looking at each of them, in turn, as though to assure himself they weren’t about to attack him further. “They hired me to act as a guide, to take them out to some of the remote villages, because they’d heard the story about this downed World War Two pilot dragging his parachute through the desert.”
“How’d they get your name?” Sam asked.
“I wrote an article about the pilot that was published in the university paper when I was a student. They found a reference to it on the internet and looked me up.”
“There had to have been a lot of soldiers traipsing around the continent after the war,” Sam said. “What makes this story stand out?”
“The legend is that the pilot offered a great reward if someone could find his downed plane and take him to it. But he died, and the plane was never found. Naturally, everyone assumed it must contain gold stolen during the war. But after talking with the villagers, it seems more likely that the story was embellished over the years. None of them mentioned gold.”
“And no one’s looked since?”
“Of course they have. There are even groups that advertise it as the highlight of their tour.”
“I have a question,” Remi said. “How is it that Karl and Brand found it when no one else could?”
“I think because their interest differed from everyone else’s,” he said. “Everyone else, without exception, wanted only to know where the plane was located because they hoped to find gold. The villagers were always very happy to point them in the right direction. Of course the direction varied, depending on which villager they happened to ask. What all these people failed to realize was that anyone who saw the pilot is no longer alive. I think that’s why the directions varied so greatly.” He glanced toward Albert, then back at Sam, saying, “Unlike everyone who came before them, Karl and Brand weren’t interested in the plane right off. They were thinking documentary. Filming candid responses. They’re the first to ask if anyone was related to the villagers who actually found the pilot or those who spoke to him.”
“They were filming?” Sam asked.
He nodded. “They wanted to document how the legend was passed down from generation to generation. But later, when they went through the film footage, they realized that these particular villagers spoke of a specific place in the upper desert mountains where the pilot was found. One villager even produced the parachute. And so they thought that it was worth pursuing.” He gave a tired shrug. “No one thought they’d find it, but they did.”
“Where is this place?” Sam asked.
“The villagers called it Camel Rock. It’s somewhere up in the Atlas Mountains.”
“Can you take us?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know where it is. I wasn’t with them when they found it. But I think Durin went out with them, at some point. He might be able to show you.”
“How do we get in touch with him?”
Zakaria tried calling. “It goes right to voice mail. He’s usually with his sister. She’s very sick. Cancer. But he’s supposed to call me this evening when he returns from visiting her. I’ll set up a meeting.”
They exchanged numbers, Zakaria telling them he’d telephone as soon as he heard anything at all. As promised, he called later that afternoon, saying that Durin would meet them in the main square at the medina that night at seven.
4
JEMAA EL-FNAA,
MARRAKESH
The scent of grilled meat and diesel fuel permeated the air as Sam and Remi neared the open-air market. Soon, the faded orange-red clay buildings on either side of the narrow cobblestone streets were filled with the souk and its covered stalls with vendors hawking their wares, everything from clothing, jewelry, and baskets to the finest spices. Motorbikes sped past, the whir of their engines mixing with the constant beat of drums and rhaita flutes as snake charmers played for their cobras, trying to lure an audience. In the main square, Sam expertly stepped between Remi and a vendor who tried to put a snake around her shoulders. “Trust me,” he told the man. “She’s not interested.”
“Playing hero, Fargo?” Remi asked as they continued on, avoiding a woman who tried to grab her hand, offering to paint henna on it.
“If he knew your aversion to snakes—and how quick you are with a knife—I doubt he’d be so eager to put one near you.” They stopped halfway down the row of shops facing the square, taking a look around. “He did say meet by this café?”
“There he is,” Remi said, nodding in the opposite direction.
Zakaria Koury saw them and waved as they approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” he said, then gave a wide smile. Apparently, he’d forgiven Sam for roughing him up. “You found me. Good.”
Sam shook hands with him. “Where’s Durin?”
“He’s on his way. First, some refreshment.”
He drew them past a stall with skewers of meat and vegetables set out to another that served drinks, then, without waiting, said something in Arabic to the vendor, who indicated they should sit at the table along one side. “Better this way,” Zakaria said quietly. “In case someone’s watching. Right now, we’re just a few tourists stopping for coffee. Durin is worried about being followed.”
Sam took a casual look around. No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention. “Why would anyone be watching?”
“Durin thinks that Karl and Brand aren’t the only parties interested in this downed plane. He tells me there have been—how should I say it?—some less than savory inquiries.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. And he wasn’t happy that I’d talked to you after he told me not to talk to anyone. It wasn’t until I explained that you were funding Karl and Brand’s project that he relaxed enough to agree to meet with you. He should be here anytime.”
“You think he’ll agree to take us out to the site where he last saw Brand and
Karl?” Sam asked.
“I don’t see why not,” he said, as someone placed cups of coffee on the table in front of them. “He says he tried to talk Karl and Brand from going out alone. Even if they did find it, considering how long that plane’s been up there, and all the weather it’s endured, he doubts there’s much left to find.”
Their strong coffee nearly finished, Zakaria nodded out toward the open square. “There he is now.”
Sam saw a tall blond man about the same age as Zakaria, mid-twenties, smoking a cigarette as he walked. He looked over his shoulder several times as though looking for a tail. When he saw Zakaria, he seemed to relax, slowing his pace.
Sam paid for the coffee, and the three joined him.
“At last,” Durin said as Zakaria made the introductions. He dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his foot. “Maybe my imagination is getting the best of me. Every person I saw seemed to be watching me.”
“I warned the Fargos that you were worried about being followed.”
“It’s true,” Durin said, taking another look around. “I hope I’m wrong, but it’s best to be careful.”
Sam checked the area he’d seen Durin walking from, his gaze catching on a dark-haired man in a gray-striped djellaba, who looked in their direction as he walked past. He met up with another man in similar garb, and both continued on, never looking back. Though neither had done anything out of the ordinary, the first man’s casual glance, then immediate disinterest, bothered Sam. “What about those two?” he asked Durin.
“Where?”
“Near the stall selling mint tea.” Sam pointed, but by the time Durin focused in the right area, both men were lost in the crowd.
“Probably nothing. I’ll keep an eye out,” Durin said. “So what is it you’re here for?”
“Zakaria tells me you might be willing to escort us out to the site?”
“In the Atlas Mountains, nothing is easy to get to. I can at least take you to where I last saw them. I had to leave early. My sister’s been ill, and I had made plans to be with her.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to get where Brand and Karl thought the plane might be?” Sam asked.
“One, maybe two days. A deep gorge to get across, and steep terrain on the other side of it.”
“What about a helicopter?” Remi asked.
“No place to land. Trust me. We looked at every possibility. The best-case scenario is to drive out as far as we can, then go the rest of the way on foot. I have to warn you, though. It’s dangerous. A lot of bandits roam the upper desert. I don’t think it’s a good idea—”
“How soon can we leave?” Sam asked.
“First thing in the morning, if you have a car with four-wheel drive. You can follow me. Once there, I can point you in the right direction. Beyond that, you’re on your own. If I didn’t have to get back to my sister, I’d take you all the way.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll make it work.”
“Good. You’re staying at the same hotel as Brand and Karl?”
“We are.”
“I’ll meet you there before sunrise.” He looked at Zakaria. “How about you?”
“I’ll be there.”
Durin eyed Sam. “You realize the weather’s taking a turn for the worse? Series of storms lined up.”
“All the more reason.” Sam had checked the weather forecast as they were flying in. Their only window of opportunity was early tomorrow or late the next day, and he wasn’t about to wait. “See you in the morning.”
After he left, Zakaria said, “I’ll walk you to the gate.” They started in that direction, weaving their way through the crowd. “Keep your hands close, Mrs. Fargo. The ladies who do henna tattoos are sometimes aggressive.”
“So we found out,” she said.
There was a commotion behind them, someone yelling, and then a loud crash. They turned to see a cart knocked over, small trinkets and cheap jewelry spilling to the ground, the vendor, shaking his fist, shouting. Someone pushed Remi and she stumbled.
“Sam! My purse!”
He glanced back just as a man raced off with Remi’s handbag tucked beneath his arm.
5
Stay with Zakaria,” Sam called, taking off after the thief. He pushed through a group of tourists posing for pictures with a tame monkey, then past a stall selling fresh orange juice.
The thief darted into a narrow alley, barreling over anyone who got in his way. Soon, the colorful souk and eager vendors hawking their wares gave way to a maze of dark doorways and high walls, the noise from the crowded marketplace fading in the distance. The only sounds came from the thief’s and Sam’s footsteps, echoing through the tunnel-like streets.
The man glanced behind him, saw Sam gaining, and quickened his pace. He shot around a corner, jumping over a wooden crate filled with empty burlap sacks. The alley twisted to the left, and he pulled an empty garbage can out, swinging it around at Sam, who was midair over the crate. Sam dodged the can as he landed, hearing it rattle down the alley behind him. When he looked back, the thief was gone. Although he could hear the sound of running, the alley was empty. There was only one direction the thief could have gone, but any number of doorways.
Sam stopped and listened, trying to hear the footsteps, when someone laughed from a window above. He looked up, saw a boy and a girl, grade school age, looking down at him, their dark eyes alight with curiosity and amusement. One of them pointed, not down the alley but at an arched doorway about ten feet away. Sam walked up to it, and the boy nodded. Sam returned the nod.
The heavy wooden door hung on iron hinges, and when he pushed, it swung open, not to a house but to another alley. The thief, his chest heaving from exhaustion, was about twenty yards ahead, fishing through Remi’s purse, pulling out the wallet and opening it. Recognition hit Sam as he realized this was one of the two men he’d seen following Durin. When the guy looked up and saw Sam, he dropped the purse, kept the wallet, and took off again.
Sam closed the distance, was nearly on him, when the thief suddenly turned and threw the wallet at Sam. The man stumbled as he turned back, and Sam pounced, slamming him to the ground. They rolled together, the thief trying to twist free. Sam held tight, using their momentum to swing the guy around, until Sam was back on top, vaguely aware that someone was running toward them. Sam drove his fist into the man’s face. The thief lay there motionless, his stunned expression moving from Sam to someone just behind them. Sam grabbed the guy’s shoulders, rolling away just as a club came crashing down, missing Sam and striking the ground.
Sam shoved the thief to the side just as his partner kicked at Sam’s ribs. The blow knocked the breath from his lungs. Sam saw the man’s boot coming at him again. He spun around, scissor-kicked, sweeping the guy’s feet from beneath him. His attacker fell to the ground.
The first thief scrambled to his knees, lunging. Sam caught the glint of a knife arcing toward him. He blocked the blow. The thief swung again. Sam caught his arm, gripped the knife hand, twisting the weapon from his grasp. It clattered to the cobblestones as Sam swung, slamming his fist into the man’s eye socket.
“Police!” someone shouted from the gate.
The thief dragged his partner to his feet, pulling him away.
They raced through the alley, and Sam jumped up, about to give chase, when he saw Remi and Zakaria coming through the gate.
No police. Regardless, their ruse worked. The thieves were gone.
Remi picked up her purse, then her wallet.
“Everything there?” Sam asked.
“Seems to be.” She looked at Sam, her gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Beyond the bruises likely to develop on his ribs and knees, his worst injury was a few scraped knuckles. “Had you given me a few more seconds, I might have won the round.”
“Close enoug
h, Fargo. Or did you forget we have an early day tomorrow?”
“Good point,” he said, glancing down the street in the direction the thieves had fled. Tonight’s events seemed entirely too coincidental. Durin being followed, and then the distraction in the marketplace moments before Remi’s purse had been stolen. He examined the five-inch folding knife left behind by one of the thieves. Sharp, well-balanced, quality German carbon. Not the sort he’d expect a couple of Moroccan street thieves to be carrying. And, now that he thought about it, that was a pretty elaborate and deadly scheme to steal a purse.
Only one reason for all this that he could think of. Someone didn’t want them to get out to that plane.
6
Rolfe Wernher slid a knife around the wine bottle seal, pausing when someone knocked on the door. He set the knife on the counter and rested his hand on the Glock next to it. It didn’t matter that he was in his private suite of rooms on the fourth floor of his riad or that he had armed guards on each floor below should anyone breach the security of the first floor. In his business, preparation was always the key to staying alive.
“Come in,” he called out, picking up the gun, keeping it at his side.
Gere Stellhorn, his eye swollen and a bruise forming, walked in. “You wanted to know as soon as we returned.”
“I’ll be right with you.” Rolfe returned the gun to the counter, glancing out to the patio, where Tatiana Petrov waited. She either didn’t hear the knock or she wasn’t interested, her attention solely on the unparalleled view of the night lights below. Normally, he would’ve taken this meeting with Gere in his study on the second floor of his riad. But he wasn’t about to leave so important a guest as Tatiana by herself. And so he finished opening the wine, poured two glasses, then carried one of them out to her.
“Forgive me, Tatiana,” he said as he walked up.
A light breeze stirred at her long brown hair, which skimmed the back of her low-cut red dress, the fabric shimmering as she turned. Her opalescent blue eyes regarded him with mild curiosity.
The Romanov Ransom Page 4