The Romanov Ransom

by Clive Cussler

  “Like the shots you took at us?”

  “Just a warning.”

  “Some warning,” Remi muttered.

  “What is it you want?” Sam yelled.

  “Don’t shoot, or I’ll hurt your friend!”

  Sam kept his gun aimed that direction, straining to hear what was going on up there. A moment later, he saw someone moving up on the crest. Recognition hit, and he let up on the trigger. Zakaria, his face bloodied and a gag around his mouth, was now a human shield for his captor. “I’m listening,” Sam shouted.

  “Bring me the courier bag and I’ll let your friend go. If you call the police, I’ll kill him, then come after you.”

  “What courier bag?”

  But the man dragged Zakaria back. A moment later, they heard an engine revving as the vehicle sped off.

  Remi looked over at Sam. “They are gone, aren’t they?”

  “Wait here and I’ll find out.”

  He made his way up the hill, staying low, gun ready. The dead guy was sprawled facedown in the mud on the hillside, his hand outstretched and, just beyond it, his rifle. Sam reached out, grabbed it by the barrel. “Remi!” He slid it, butt first, toward her.

  She retrieved it, covering the hilltop, while he made his way toward the crest.

  He ducked behind a stand of brush. The car was gone. He checked inside the Toyota, then all around it. “Clear!” he yelled, returning to the ravine, making his way to the body as Remi, Karl, and Brand climbed up the hill toward him.

  The first thing Sam noticed was the dead man wore hiking boots with the same waffle pattern as the prints they’d seen in the plane. When he rolled him over and pulled down his muddied face mask, he wasn’t at all surprised. It was Karl and Brand’s supposed friend, Durin Kahrs.

  Remi eyed the body. “It’d be nice to know what’s really going on here.”

  “And what Zakaria knew.” He dug through the man’s pockets, found his ID, and took a photo with his cell phone. Finding nothing else of interest, they climbed back up the hill to their Toyota—and the flat tire. At least the keys were in the ignition. “Don’t suppose AAA makes international calls?”

  “Sorry, Fargo. I think we’re on our own out here.”

  Sam changed the tire while Remi stood guard. Karl and Brand were too shell-shocked to do much more than watch.

  She glanced down at Sam before returning her gaze to the horizon. “We shouldn’t have left Zakaria here.”

  “It wasn’t like we had a lot of choice.”

  “It’s our fault,” Brand said.

  “No,” Sam replied. “It’s Durin Kahrs’s fault. You couldn’t have known he was playing you.”

  “You think it could be the logbook they’re after?” Brand asked.

  “Hard to say. We’ve definitely got to take a better look at it.” He finished tightening the lug nuts, going over everything that Zakaria told them. He gave the last lug nut a final twist, then stood. “Something’s bothering me about all this.”

  “What’s that?” Remi asked.

  “If this courier bag was on that plane when Durin went out to the crash site, it’s a safe bet that he took it.”

  “Which doesn’t make sense,” Remi said.

  Karl added, “If he already had the courier bag, why have us come all the way out here?”

  “Exactly.” Sam took one last look around to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind, then closed the tailgate. “Only one reason I can think of. A setup, to begin with. He’d already been out to the plane, found this courier bag, didn’t want you or Zakaria to know he was in possession of it, and decided to use you as the means to an end.”

  “Unfortunately for him,” Remi said, “the plan backfired.”

  12

  Gere kept one hand on his prisoner as he kicked at the door, then yanked Zakaria in by his arm. The man murmured something through the gag around his mouth. Whatever it was, Gere wasn’t interested. He dragged him upstairs, then locked him in the office. When he came back down, he started to go over what he was going to tell the boss. For a man who liked the outward appearance of only being semi-interested in the whereabouts of this plane and the courier bag that was supposed to have been on it, Rolfe Wernher was definitely into micromanaging.

  That meant if he didn’t call him right away, the guy was likely to have a heart attack. But before he could think of a good story, Rolfe walked in. As usual, he was dressed in a silk suit—gray today—his only concession to the heat was the open collar of his crisp white shirt. “I expected a call before now,” Rolfe said.

  “The bag wasn’t there.”

  A vein pulsed in Rolfe’s temple, and his nostrils flared slightly. Several seconds of silence passed before he spoke. “Where is it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

  “We got there just as the Americans returned from the downed plane. They didn’t have it with them. Durin thought maybe they’d already been out to the plane. It makes sense, since they got back far sooner than it should’ve taken. At least according to what Durin told me.”

  “Where is he?”

  Gere glanced away before meeting Rolfe’s gaze. “Dead.”

  “How?”

  “The American killed him.”

  “Fargo killed Durin?”

  “To be fair, Durin tried to kill them first.”

  Rolfe’s lips pressed together as he processed the information. “You’re a fool. Durin set us up. The Fargos couldn’t have had the bag. They flew in the night before. When would they have had time to get out there?”

  Gere was almost afraid to ask the obvious. “Then who has it?”

  “Durin, you idiot. Which presents a big problem, since he’s dead.” Rolfe’s gaze bored into him. “You’re the one who handled him. You don’t find it odd that he didn’t take you out to the plane before now? Why would he have let the Fargos go searching for those two brothers without being there himself? Especially when he knew how valuable that bag was to us?”

  Gere shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “He already had it.”

  “He couldn’t,” Gere said. “He had to go visit his sister. She was sick or something.”

  “And how long was he gone?”

  “A couple of days . . .” Gere felt his face heat up at the apparent realization that Durin had played him.

  “Where does he live?” Rolfe demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  Rolfe drew his gun, pointing it at Gere. “Then you’re completely useless to me. Aren’t you?”

  His eyes went wide. “I—I . . . Maybe Zakaria knows where it is. I brought him here.”

  Rolfe lowered the gun, waiting.

  “Durin took their friend Zakaria hostage. I have him upstairs,” Gere said. “Durin accused him of going to the plane and getting the bag, but Zaharia told me he didn’t have it. The Fargos, either.” Realizing all this did was prove Rolfe’s point that Durin had played them for fools, he added, “I did, however, tell the Fargos if they wanted to see Zakaria again, bring the courier bag to us.”

  “Wait here,” Rolfe said. He walked up the stairs. Gere heard the walls shake from whatever Rolfe was doing up there. Gere worried about the safety of anyone getting in the man’s way—including himself, he thought, seeing the look in Rolfe’s eyes as he stormed down the stairs, gun in hand.

  “This is your fault,” Rolfe said, then shot him in the thigh, the gunshot echoing in the confines of the room.

  He fell to the floor, crying out, his ears ringing.

  Rolfe narrowed his gaze. “If you weren’t my nephew, I’d kill you. I still may.” He strode to the door and opened it. “When your hostage regains consciousness, see if you can’t get Durin’s address out of him. If not, you better hope the Fargos find this courier bag and bring
it to you.”

  13

  While Sam drove, Remi read the logbook to them, ending with, “Casablanca, January nineteen forty-six. No cargo. Very odd . . .”

  Sam checked his rearview mirror, then glanced over at Remi. “What is?”

  “Those were the last entries. Didn’t the plane go down six months after that date? Or did I misunderstand?”

  “You’re right,” Karl said. “At least that’s the way we heard it.”

  “Then why no entry?” she asked.

  “Good question. Karl and Brand can take the book and talk to Selma about it,” Sam said as his phone rang.

  It was Ruben Haywood, a case officer for the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, returning Sam’s call. They’d met after Sam was recruited by DARPA and attended the CIA’s Camp Perry training facility during covert operative school.

  The two had clicked during the six weeks of intense training in weapons, fighting, and survival skills. They’d been fast friends ever since, never mind that Rube was the closest thing they had to a concierge international law enforcement connection. “Where are you now?” Rube asked.

  “Driving back to Marrakesh,” Sam replied. “We’re heading to the hotel where Karl and Brand’s uncle is waiting. They’re here with us. On speakerphone, by the way.”

  “Okay. I’ll get in touch with one of my contacts out there and start a quiet investigation into the shooting. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something in the background on the dead guy that’ll help lead to the kidnappers. Does Zakaria have any family in the area?”

  Sam glanced at the brothers in his rearview mirror.

  “A cousin,” Brand said. “Lina.”

  “You catch that?” Sam asked.

  “Got it,” Rube said. “What about talking to her in the morning? See if she knows anything that’ll help?”

  “We’ll do that.”

  “In the meantime, try to get some sleep. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

  “Likewise,” Sam said.

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, Sam, Remi, Karl, and Brand drove straight to the riad where Zakaria had been staying with his cousin. They got out of the car, Karl staring at the salmon-colored walls of the three-story home. He turned to Sam. “What are we supposed to say? Lina’s going to know something’s wrong the moment she realizes he’s not here with us.”

  If Zakaria’s cousin was overcome with worry, chances were that she’d be too emotional to give them the information they needed. “Let’s take it slow. See what, if anything, she knows.”

  They walked up to the blue keyhole-shaped door, and Sam knocked.

  The man who answered the door spoke only Arabic, but he recognized Karl and Brand and stepped aside to let them in. Like many of the grand houses in the area, the residence was built around a wide courtyard, this one paved with blue and white tiles in a beautiful mosaic pattern and shaded by palms. In its center, a fountain bubbled. An open arcade hall surrounded the courtyard, each arch framing a door or window that led into the house.

  Sam thanked him, then said, “Is Lina home? We need to speak to her.”

  Remi repeated his question in French.

  He replied something unintelligible, then lifted his hand slightly as though directing them to wait. A few moments later, Lina walked in. About a head shorter than Remi, she wore a white sefsari. Sure enough, when she saw Karl and Brand, she looked toward the entry, searching for her cousin, her smile fading when she didn’t see him. “Zakaria’s not with you?”

  “No,” Sam said. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Yesterday. Just before he left with Mr. Kahrs on this expedition. He told me they’d be home today.” Her gaze landed on Karl and Brand. “Zakaria was very worried about you both. You’re okay, then?”

  They nodded, Brand replying, “Yes.”

  Sam stepped in before either of them could say a word. “Do you know anything about what Durin and Zakaria were working on together?”

  She glanced at the Hoffler brothers, then back at Sam. “Only what Zakaria told me. That Durin was a friend of theirs. He was helping them search for an old plane from World War Two, I believe. Zakaria invited Durin to stay here on a couple of occasions because there were times he had to leave very early in the morning—to see his sister—and staying here was much more convenient . . .” She looked at each of them, in turn, before focusing on Sam again. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Did either of them mention anything about a messenger bag? Or a courier bag?”

  “No. Why?”

  He realized then there was no way to avoid the truth or lessen the shock. Not if they wanted to get to the bottom of this. “Durin Kahrs is dead, and Zakaria was kidnapped.”

  Her face turned pale, and her hand went to her throat. “I—I think I need to sit.” She sat on a bench near the fountain, taking a few moments to gather herself. “The police? You called them?”

  “Not officially.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sam explained about Durin’s part and the warning not to call the police.

  “Thank you. Not that our police aren’t trustworthy. But what if the kidnappers found out? They might kill him if they’re crossed.”

  “Our thoughts exactly.”

  “There must be something I can do to help?”

  “Would you mind if I had a look in Zakaria’s room? And Durin’s when he stayed here?”

  “Please.” She turned toward the door she’d come through. “Kadin?”

  The man who’d let them in stepped out from the shadows of one of the arches. She spoke to him in Arabic and he nodded, indicating that Sam should follow.

  Zakaria’s room was on the third floor. There wasn’t much to look at. A bed, a small table, and a wardrobe. It took less than five minutes to search the room, and nothing to show for it. Durin’s room was the same. Sam returned to the courtyard, where Remi and the others were sitting by the fountain.

  Remi smiled at him. “Anything?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” It occurred to him then that if Durin had conned Brand and Karl, he’d probably done the same to Zakaria, and even Lina. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Durin Kahrs?” he asked her.

  She glanced at the Hoffler brothers. “Nothing, other than he visited a few times after he and my cousin began working together.” She gave a pained smile. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. He was always polite, but there was something about him that I didn’t care for.”

  “Such as?”

  “My only interaction with him while he stayed here was when Zakaria was present. To me, though, he always seemed too secretive. Especially after Karl and Brand thought they had possibly found the area where this plane might have crashed. Zakaria told me that Durin argued with them about it.”

  This was news to Sam, and he turned to the boys. “What argument?”

  Karl said, “About going out to the plane. We wanted to leave the very next day, but he wanted to go after he visited his sister.”

  Brand nodded. “That’s when he told us she was dying of cancer. He just needed a couple of days to go see her, so we promised to wait.”

  “Durin was with you when you thought you’d discovered the location of the plane?” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” Brand said. “Or, rather, the location of Camel Rock. So after this big guilt trip about waiting for him, when we do get all the way out there, he suddenly announces that he can’t go across the gorge. He has to get back to his sister.”

  “That,” Lina said, “was what Zakaria told me as well.” She stared at the fountain, giving a tired sigh. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you about him. Perhaps Kadin might know something.” She called his name, and once again he stepped out from the arcade behind her. She asked him a few questions, listened as he answered, then translated. “The last
day he saw Mr. Kahrs he had just returned from a two-day trip visiting his sister. As usual, he was holding a backpack, but this time, when Kadin offered to carry it for him, he declined.”

  She looked at Kadin, who continued with his story, before turning back to them. “In fact,” she said, “Mr. Kahrs was very protective. He went up to his room, gathered the few things he’d left here, then departed. One thing Kadin did notice, though, was that Mr. Kahrs’s boots were covered in red dust, the same as he saw on their shoes after he, Karl, and Brand returned from their trip to the mountains after first discovering the location of Camel Rock.”

  That certainly fits with the time line, Sam thought, as Remi asked, “Have any of you ever met his sister?”

  “No,” Lina said.

  Karl shook his head. “Looking back, it’s so obvious. We only first heard of her after he tried to get us to put off hiking out to Camel Rock.”

  “What about where he lives?” Sam asked Lina. “Do you or Kadin know?”

  She asked Kadin, who shook his head. “No.”

  With nothing further to learn, they thanked her and Kadin, then left, driving Karl and Brand back to their hotel. The moment Sam dropped them off, he got a text from Rube: Have an ID on your DG.

  14

  DG?” Remi asked when Sam showed her the text.

  “Dead guy,” Sam said.

  “Quite the top secret code.”

  “Gets the job done.” He pulled to the side of the road and called Rube. “What do you have?” he asked, holding the phone so both he and Remi could listen.

  “Durin Kahrs is his real name. Definitely has a record. Believe it or not, jewel thief.”

  “A jewel thief?” Sam repeated.

  “Part of an international ring. At least according to the file the FBI has on the guy. He’s suspected in a number of heists in Europe and the U.S.”

  “Guess you can clear his warrants.”