The Romanov Ransom

by Clive Cussler

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.

  “A little bigger,” Sam said.

  “Are you sure?” Remi said. “A little smaller, wasn’t it?”

  Sergei, standing behind them, said, “Maybe we can find something similar online. There’s plenty of World War Two memorabilia around.”

  “No time,” Sam said. “That looks pretty close. Let’s print it out and put it together.”

  Remi sighed. “The things you don’t think about when you turn over the original . . .”

  “This will have to do.”

  Fortunately, Miron had an accurate sketch on acetate paper that he’d traced directly from the route drawn on the tabletop. He brought it out, laying it on top of the newly printed map. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to overlay it on various World War Two maps of Europe. So far, no luck.”

  Sam positioned the tracing paper so that one end of the Z mark rested atop Königsberg castle. “The moment of truth.”

  Remi watched as he turned the tracing paper about, trying to match the other end of the Z to some city. “And what truth would that be?”

  “That we still don’t know where it leads. Not unless we can figure out how the map was positioned on the table when that tracing was made.”

  “Actually,” Miron said, “I believe we can. It makes sense that the map would be positioned with north at the top, and the person making the tracing would be standing at the south.”

  “Agreed,” Sam said. “But it’s a round table. How do we know where they were standing?”

  “Because the same man who drew the route on the original map that my grandfather copied, signed his name on the requisition order for the trucks to take the treasure there. Chances are good that, being in charge, he sat in the same chair each time. That would be here,” he said, pointing to the edge of the table near Sam’s right elbow. “You can see his signature. Obermann Ludwig Strassmair.”

  Almost at once, Sam, Remi, and Sergei leaned in, examining the tabletop, trying to see what it was Miron was talking about. Sure enough, the signature, though faint, was there for all to see. Signed and dated 31 January 1945. Sam moved the map so the bottom was positioned near the man’s signature, then slid it up so that the edge of the bottom of the zigzag line started where Königsberg castle was circled on the map. The top of the zigzag landed between the two German cities of Breslau and Waldenburg, both now part of Poland and currently known as Wrocław and Wałbrzych.

  “Ludwig Strassmair,” Miron said, “commanded one of the prison camps in that area. It makes sense he’d move the treasure to somewhere familiar to him.”

  “What else do you know about him?” Sam asked.

  “At the end of the war, he was one of several officers instrumental in the deaths of thousands of German civilians. Strassmair and the others refused to allow them to flee Königsberg before the Russians invaded.” Miron let out a tired sigh. “The treasures stored at the castle were another matter entirely. That, he made sure, was saved before the Russians came. Most, my grandfather believed, was to finance something called Unternehmen Werwolf. Have you heard of it?”

  “Operation Werewolf,” Sam said. It was supposed to be an elite troop of Germans trained to use clandestine guerrilla tactics against the Allied Forces behind enemy lines. “Everything I’d read suggested that the program failed. More propaganda than reality.”

  “It definitely existed,” Miron said. “Not quite how they planned or how history painted it. At the close of the war, those operatives who weren’t discovered by the Allied Forces ended up helping run the ratlines to assist the Nazis’ escape. The reason I bring it up is that I believe Obermann Ludwig Strassmair, the officer who requisitioned the trucks, was a member of this group. The trucks with their treasures, with the Romanov Ransom, were meant for this operation. More important, the Nazis intended that there’d be no survivors. They executed every person who was aware of the trucks’ existence.”

  “But your grandfather . . . ?” Sergei said. “How did he survive?”

  “The bullet only grazed him,” Miron replied, touching the left side of his chest to indicate where his grandfather had been shot. “When a Nazi guard fell on top of him, he played dead, staying beneath the body until the last truck was gone.”

  “And Obermann Strassmair?” Sam asked.

  “Declared a Nazi war criminal after the war. Never arrested—not that they didn’t search, mind you.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I think he succeeded in his mission. To secure the Romanov Ransom and the other treasures, laying the groundwork for their retrieval after the war. Their sole purpose was to make sure they could recover it all when they needed to for Unternehmen Werwolf.”

  He tapped the map. “History paints the Werwolf members as more a nuisance than any real threat. To his dying day, my grandfather believed the Werwolf guard continued on, passing their secrets to subsequent generations for one sole purpose: to watch over the stolen treasures of the Third Reich for whatever purpose they’ve deemed. What that is, I don’t know.”

  “And what do you think?” Sam asked.

  “I believe the threat of the Guard is real, even to this day. I think they’re behind the attacks on Andrei and his book. They’re dangerous. And that doesn’t take into account anyone else on the search for this treasure. There could very well be others.”

  “So we’ve found out,” Remi said.

  Sam eyed the tracing paper, with its route landing right between both cities. There was a lot of space between the two, and the accuracy of the location depended on guesswork. “Bottom line. Where would you be looking for this treasure? Wrocław or Wałbrzych?”

  “Personally, I’d go with Wałbrzych. It is, after all, home of the legendary Gold Train in Poland.”

  “But so many have looked,” Sergei said. “They found nothing there.”

  “And yet, the rumors still persist. There must be a reason.” He removed the tracing paper from the map, then took a pen and circled one area. “Here, near Książ castle, is where I’d start. It was part of Project Riese, a network of tunnels and bunkers that the Nazis built throughout the mountains, including beneath the castle.”

  “Great,” Remi said to Sam. “More tunnels.”

  “Show me a country in Europe that doesn’t have them,” Sam said.

  “Still,” Sergei added, “it’s a good place to hide a treasure.”

  Remi made a scoffing noise. “What about a good old-fashioned desert island?”

  “Ignore her,” Sam said. “She’s a little tunnel weary after getting lost in a few below Nottingham.” They’d been searching for King John’s Treasure at the time. “About this Castle Książ,” he said, returning his attention to the map and Miron, “why there and not at the sixty-fifth-kilometer marker on the line from Wrocław to Wałbrzych? If we’re going with rumors, isn’t that where everyone else thinks the Gold Train is? Even our attempt at placing the route on the map shows it’s somewhere in between.”

  “And maybe it is. But Renard Kowalski, an expert on the tunnels of Project Riese, works at the castle. At least he was still working there a couple of years ago when I spoke to him. He’s the one you’ll want to talk to.”

  Sam picked up the map, where Castle Książ was circled, showing it to Remi. “Date night in Wałbrzych?”

  “So romantic. Tunnels, flashlights! I can wear my designer boots again!”

  28

  Tatiana stepped outside the airport doors into the crisp autumn air, took one look at Viktor’s face, and knew there was a problem involving the Fargos.

  Taking the suitcase from her, he placed it into the trunk, then opened her car door, closing it for her after she was seated.

  “What happened?” she asked once he was behind th
e wheel.

  He checked his mirror, pulled out, before answering. “I won’t bore you with the details other than to say we underestimated the Fargos. They realized they were being followed and managed to lose our tail.”

  “The Fargos bested you?” she said, looking over at him in surprise. “What happened to all these highly trained men working for you? Surely you had more than one set of eyes on them?”

  “We did. But they were . . . distracted by the shooting at Königsberg castle.”

  “I thought I told you—”

  “It wasn’t us.”

  “Then who?” she asked.

  “No doubt Rolfe or someone from his entourage.”

  “He’s here? How?”

  “If I had to guess, he flew into Gdańsk, then drove over the Polish border. Had he flown directly into Kaliningrad, we would’ve known.”

  If the Fargos were here, it stood to reason that Rolfe would also be here. He had the courier bag, after all. “I should have anticipated.”

  Several seconds of silence passed. She glanced over at him, saw his jaw clenching and his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Clearly, he was blaming himself.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Rolfe? We followed him to a house about thirty minutes’ drive outside of town.”

  “And the Fargos?”

  “They’ve left Kaliningrad.”

  “To where?”

  “We’re still working on that.”

  She weighed her phone in her hand, thinking about how to salvage this mess. “I have an idea.” She called a number, letting it ring. “Rolfe, darling . . .”

  “Tatiana? To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, sounding anything but pleased.

  “I’ve just arrived in Kaliningrad for business. I understand you’re here as well.”

  “How is it you know this?”

  “Did you really think that a man of your reputation can just waltz into my territory without anyone noticing?”

  There was a slight hesitation on the line, then Rolfe asked, “What is it you want?”

  “To meet, of course. I feel we have unfinished business. When is a good time for you?”

  “I’m currently busy with—”

  “Later this afternoon, then?” she said, not giving him a chance to back out. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask. Shall I come to you, or would you like to meet me?” she said, naming a location far enough away from where she was told he was staying so as not to arouse suspicion. “I’m just leaving the airport.”

  As expected, he chose to meet her at his location and gave her the address.

  “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she said.

  —

  SHE AND VIKTOR drove out to the secluded house and were met at the door by Gere, who limped as he led them down a hallway toward a dark-paneled salon. Rolfe was seated in a leather armchair, drinking what she assumed from the gold flakes floating in the clear liquid was Goldwasser vodka.

  “Tatiana,” he said, rising.

  “Rolfe.” She walked up to him, smelling the strong alcohol on his breath as she let him kiss her on both cheeks.

  He glanced at Viktor and, as expected, promptly ignored him. Looking at Tatiana, he waved her toward the matching chair opposite him.

  She sat, looking around the room. The heavy, dark wooden furnishings appeared expensive, including the paintings on the wall: bloody battle scenes from the Middle Ages. “Charming,” she said, eyeing the artwork with distaste. “How did you find this place?”

  He returned to his chair, picking up his glass. “It belongs to a business associate of mine.”

  “You have business associates in Kaliningrad?”

  “I have business associates all over Europe.”

  “Perhaps you should introduce me to some of them.”

  He took a sip of his drink, then set it on the chairside table. “What is it you’re doing here, Tatiana?”

  She studied the man for a moment. There was a definite change about him. Normally, he was eager to see her, wanting to foster a relationship that he hoped would tie their two businesses together. That thought always amused her mostly because she was the one who’d planted the idea in his head. Today, though, his eyes held a slight annoyance, and there was a stubborn tilt to his chin.

  It galled her that she had to handle it this way, but she had no choice and so she just came out with it. “I’ve come to make a deal. I want in on the Romanov Ransom.”

  His brows rose slightly as he picked up his glass, swirling the liquid so that the gold flakes spun about. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “You need me.”

  “The moment I find out what I want to know, I won’t need anyone.”

  “I thought that’s what the contents of the courier bag were supposed to have told you?”

  This time, he couldn’t hide his surprise. “How do you know about that?”

  “I make it my business. Your man—what was his name?”

  “Gere?”

  “Not him, the other one.” She glanced over her shoulder at Viktor, who stood stock-still behind her. “What was his name?”

  “Durin,” Viktor said.

  “Yes. Durin . . .” She focused on Rolfe. “The courier bag he stole from the plane was supposed to be on its way to me. Had he not been killed, I’d have it now, not you.”

  Rolfe stared at her for several seconds, the only reaction was the bulge of a vein beating fast at his temple. He drained his glass, then set it on the table, as a muffled thump came from the room next door.

  It sounded to her as though someone had fallen against the wall. “What was that?” she asked, standing.

  “Nothing.”

  She eyed Rolfe’s telling temple vein pounding away. Before he could object, she walked over to the door and pulled it open, surprised to see the tall, bearded man holding an old man by his throat.

  Tatiana, recognizing the aggressor as Leopold Gaudecker, stormed into the room, stepping over a brass-headed cane on the floor, as Leopold raised his hand, about to strike.

  “Stop!” she demanded, grabbing Leopold’s arm. “What are you doing?”

  Leopold, still holding the old man by the throat, glared at her. “I’d suggest you remove your hand from my arm before I hit you instead.”

  “Try it,” she said, whipping out a stiletto, holding it just below his sternum. “Exactly what is going on here?”

  He looked down at the point piercing his shirt, then at Rolfe. “Your Russian princess annoys me.”

  “Regardless, I’d do what she says,” Rolfe said. “I’ve heard assassination is one of her specialties.”

  She pressed the point farther, drawing blood. “Let him go.”

  Leopold stepped away, both hands raised. “You’re crazy.”

  “So they say.” She waited until Viktor entered the room before closing and putting away her knife in its hidden sheath. When he positioned himself between her and Leopold, she rounded on Rolfe. “You have no idea what you’re involving yourself with by bringing that man here.”

  “The groundskeeper? You know him?”

  She wasn’t about to admit that she had no clue as to who he was. “You forget what country you’re in. I make it my business to know. Why is he here?”

  “He knows where the Fargos are.”

  “Does he?” She looked at the old man with renewed interest. “And you think beating him is going to work? As old as he is, you’re likely to kill him first.”

  “You have a better way?” Leopold asked. “By all means. Show us how it’s done.”

  “Clear the room,” she said, “and I’ll be glad to.”

  No one moved.

  She leveled her gaze on Rolfe. “I’m sorry. Was my German a little rusty?”

  He studi
ed her a moment, then gave a sharp nod to Leopold. “Go,” he said.

  The man stalked out, not happy about taking orders from her.

  Rolfe hesitated.

  “You, too.” She walked up to him, putting her hand on his arm, guiding him from the room.

  “Just curious how you plan on getting this information.”

  “We have our ways,” she said, then turned to Viktor. “You know what to do.”

  He gave a slight nod.

  She glanced at the old man, his eyes widening in fright as Viktor approached. Closing the door, she returned to her seat. Leopold stood, arms crossed, glaring at her. Ignoring him, she turned to Rolfe, who was pouring himself another drink. “It shouldn’t take long,” she said.

  Five minutes later, Viktor opened the door. The old man sat in a chair, his gaze on the ground. Viktor walked up to Tatiana and whispered the information in her ear.

  “Thank you,” she told him, then to Rolfe said, “I now know where the Fargos are.”

  Leopold eyed the old man through the open door. “How?”

  Tatiana took her time, pleased to see that Rolfe’s gaze was fixed only on her. “Here in Kaliningrad, it’s easy to forget you’re in Russia. But being Russian, we know it’s not the beating or killing that buys cooperation. It’s the threat of what can be done to their family once they’re no longer around.” She glanced at Leopold, who quickly looked away. Apparently, he was sore at being bested. She turned her attention back to Rolfe. “I have contacts everywhere, including the police and the government.”

  “Impressive,” Rolfe said.

  “As I mentioned, Rolfe, you need me.”

  “For now.”

  “Perhaps I should clarify. You need me if you want to do business in my country. Ever.” When he said nothing in response, she knew she’d won the immediate battle and nodded for Viktor to remove the man from the room. “Should there be any more information to be had, we’ll find out and let you know. Assuming we have a deal?”

  Rolfe watched as Viktor led the old man toward the front door. “What did you learn?” he asked after they were gone.

  “As I said, I know where the Fargos are.” She waited a beat to let that settle in. “That is what you were trying to discover, was it not? Of course I must assume you know that the Fargos are also searching for this treasure. They have a map in their possession with a specific location marked on it. In Poland.”