The Romanov Ransom

by Clive Cussler

  “Poland?” He eyed the vodka in his glass, mulling it over. “Forty percent.”

  “Half or I find the Fargos and the map on my own.”

  “You forget that you don’t have the Guard working alongside you. Considering that Russia no longer controls Poland, the advantage is mine.”

  “Guard?”

  “Perhaps you know them by their older name. Werwolf. Leopold’s men are as bloodthirsty as their title implies.”

  Trying to hide her surprise, she flicked her gaze toward Leopold, then back at Rolfe. “And what makes them special?”

  “The Guard,” Leopold said, his cold blue eyes staring at her as though he’d be glad to rip out her throat right there, “have men in every country in Europe. You tell me where in Poland and I will have twenty men ready at a moment’s notice waiting for the Fargos before they even arrive.”

  She studied the bearded man before returning her gaze to Rolfe. “Fine. Forty percent. But I’m coming with you.”

  “You don’t trust me?” Rolfe asked.

  “I expect the feeling is mutual. Like you, I’ve been searching for this for too long. I’m not about to let it slip away.” She made a point of looking at her watch. “It’s late. I have a few business matters that can’t wait.”

  “You can’t leave,” Rolfe said, following her to the door. “You haven’t told me where in Poland the Fargos are headed.”

  She wasn’t about to pass on that information, yet. “Since Leopold said he only needed a moment’s notice, I insist on waiting until we’re ready to leave. I’m sure you understand. That whole trust issue. Shall we meet back here in, say, two hours?”

  He reluctantly agreed, and she left. Outside, she found Viktor waiting, the engine running. “Where’s the old man?”

  “In the trunk.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Turns out, he was far more cooperative than I could have hoped for. What happened after I left?”

  “I’m in for forty percent.”

  “Forty?”

  “I wasn’t in a position to bargain. How can I, when I know nothing about this Wolf Guard? Werwolf. Did you know they still existed?”

  “I’d heard rumors of them in Germany, and even Poland. But not in Russia.”

  “Well, Leopold, obviously, runs them. He came from somewhere.” She glanced at the house as they pulled away and saw the very man in question watching from a window. “I want to know everything there is about this Leopold Gaudecker and his group. He claims given any location, he can send men to find the Fargos with very little notice.”

  29

  The Fargos’ flight to Wrocław early the next morning took a little over two hours. Sam invited Sergei, who happened to be fluent in Polish, to come along with them.

  As usual, the ever-efficient Selma had their rental car waiting for them the moment they cleared the airport. From there, they drove straight to Wałbrzych, catching sight of the majestic pink and gray thirteenth-century cliff-top Castle Książ as they neared the city. It was even more impressive up close as they walked through its vast courtyard and ornamental gardens.

  Sam looked around the gardens, then into the castle. “Divide and conquer?”

  “Good idea,” Remi said.

  While she knew enough Polish to get by on her own, Sam was going to need Sergei’s help. “You check inside, Remi. Sergei and I will see if we can find someone out here who knows him.”

  She left. Eventually, he and Sergei found a gardener, tending a bed of roses.

  “Excuse me,” Sam said. “We’re looking for someone named Renard Kowalski.”

  The gardener glanced over, his gaze taking them in, before turning back to the flowers, clipping off the faded red blooms.

  Sergei repeated the question in Polish. Their conversation was short and, apparently, from the expression on Sergei’s face, surprising. He turned to Sam, lowering his voice. “Didn’t see that coming. The guy’s dead.”

  “Kowalski? What happened?”

  “A hunting accident. He says they don’t talk about it. No one does.”

  Sam eyed the man who seemed a little too eager to get back to work. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. He wouldn’t even give me the name of anyone who knew him.”

  “Let’s find someone else who can help.” But the pattern repeated with the next two employees. “It’d be nice to find out what’s going on. Maybe Remi’s having better luck.” He texted her, and she answered, saying she’d be about fifteen more minutes. When she did emerge from the castle, walking down the stairs, it was with a group of tourists led by a guide.

  Remi waved them over. “Very knowledgeable,” she whispered as Sam and Sergei joined her at the back of the group. “Talking about access to the tunnels being out here. Maybe when she’s finished, she’ll be able to tell us something.”

  The young woman waited for everyone to gather around. “Here,” she said, her English thickly accented, “at the conclusion of our tour, in what is called the Honorary Courtyard, is another of the access points to the chambers. One is fifteen meters down, the other fifty. Both were part of Project Riese, a vast series of tunnels built by the Nazis using prisoners of war from the nearby camps. The headquarters for the project was located in the castle. Beneath our very feet,” she said, sweeping her hand in front of her, “the Nazis built a lift that led to the chambers below. The shaft has since been filled. To this day, no one knows the true purpose of the tunnels.” She answered several questions from the group, told them to enjoy the gardens, then waited patiently as they wandered off. Finally, noticing Remi, Sam, and Sergei still standing there, she smiled. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes,” Remi said. “We’re looking for someone who might have known Renard Kowalski.”

  An almost imperceptible look clouded the woman’s eyes. Sam couldn’t tell if it was fear, sadness, or a combination of the two. “I honestly can’t tell you,” she said.

  “Can’t?” Sam asked. “Or won’t? The man worked here. I’d think someone might know something about him.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My understanding is, it was more that his presence was tolerated. He came many days out of the year, searching the castle and the grounds for evidence of the Gold Train—which he never found. He became something of a legend around here for it. But, no, he never worked here.”

  “He was killed, though?” Sam asked.

  “A hunting accident. Tragically, his hobby searching the woods for evidence of this train is what killed him.”

  She started to turn away, clearly in a hurry to get out of there.

  Remi reached out, touching her arm. “Please. Is there anyone who might help us? Anyone who knew him and what he was working on?”

  The woman hesitated, looking around—perhaps to see who was watching—before focusing on Remi. “There is one man who knew him well.”

  “How do we get in touch with him?”

  “You don’t. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He’s—how do you say it . . . ? The word for someone who lives alone, avoiding society . . . ?”

  “Recluse?”

  “That’s it. But . . . crazy. Dangerous, even. Some even say he’s the one who killed Renard Kowalski.”

  “Does he have a name?” Sam asked.

  “If you were to ask in town about the crazy recluse, someone might know.”

  “Where would—?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you. I really have to go.”

  She quickly walked up the stairs and into the castle, never looking back.

  “Odd,” Remi said.

  Sam agreed. “Makes you wonder if that hunting accident was really a hunting accident.”

  30

  In the neighborhood below the castle, everyone seemed to know who the man was—Crazy Gustaw—but no one seemed to k
now where he lived. Sam was grateful that enough people in the area spoke English to make it easy to ask questions. Unfortunately, no one wanted to talk about the man. Their best source was at a newsstand. “You don’t find him,” the man working there said. “Gustaw finds you. If that happens, watch out.”

  “How?”

  The man shrugged.

  After a frustrating morning of their polite inquiries being avoided, Sam pulled out several bills, placing them on the newsstand counter. “Is there anyone who can help us locate him?”

  “Possibly at the pub,” he said, picking up the money and pocketing it, then pointing down the street. “After they closed the mines, some of the old miners still meet there. You’ll recognize them. They sit at the tables in the corner, playing dice. Gustaw used to drink with them. Not anymore. Not since his friend was killed.”

  “We appreciate your help.”

  “You may not. They aren’t too friendly to strangers.”

  Sam agreed with his assessment when they walked into the dark-paneled pub. The group of men in the corner, ranging in age from mid-fifties to late sixties, continued playing their game, ignoring them, as Sam asked if anyone knew where to find Gustaw.

  Sergei repeated the question in Polish. A gray-haired man sitting closest to them swept his gaze across the room, before landing on Sergei, then Sam, in English, saying, “Better you leave.”

  “We’re looking for a guide,” Sam said. “Someone who knows the history on some of the tunnels in the mountains and who might be able to interpret an old map to current locations.”

  “Sorry you wasted your time. The government has moratorium on digging in area. Too many people trying to find Nazi Gold Train.”

  “We’re not after the train,” Sam said. “Just trying to find some information—”

  “No information. The Guard always watching.” He turned his back to them, reaching for the dice cup.

  “What can we do to change your mind?”

  “Nothing,” he said without turning around. “You should leave. Before anything happens.”

  “Like what?”

  “Getting shot.” He covered the top of the cup and began shaking it, the dice rattling inside. No one else at the table would even look at them.

  Sam glanced around the dimly lit bar, noticing the handful of other patrons sitting about, their expressions wary, looking the other way when Sam tried to make eye contact.

  The bartender, drying glasses with a white towel, watched the proceedings in silence.

  “Let’s see what he knows,” Sam said quietly. They crossed the room, taking a seat at the bar. “Three pints of whatever lager you have on tap,” Sam said. “And some information.”

  “Americans?”

  Sam nodded.

  “The pints I get you. Information . . . ?” He went back to wiping the counter down. “What is it you want to know?”

  “We’re looking for a guide who knows something about the tunnels in the mountains. A friend of Renard Kowalski,” Sam said. “Some describe him as a recluse who lives in the woods.”

  The moment Sam mentioned Renard’s name, the bartender stilled, then went back to wiping the counter. “The man you look for. Crazy Gustaw,” he said as a loud scrape came from behind them. “Better you not to go.”

  Sam glanced back, saw a tall, dark-haired man from a table near the door eyeing them as he rose from his chair. “We’ll take our chances,” Sam said as the man walked out the door. He slid several large bills onto the counter.

  “Your life.” He tossed the towel over his shoulder, picked up the money, then took a napkin and drew a map. “Be smart, wait for morning. Gustaw might shoot. Actually, that’s true all time. To him, everyone is enemy.”

  “What sort of enemies?”

  “You ask Gustaw. If he not kill you first.” He slid the napkin toward Sam, then filled three mugs from the tap.

  They took the beer to an empty table.

  “So where does he live?” Remi asked.

  Sam showed her the napkin. The castle was drawn at the top left corner for reference. “Not too far from here, apparently.”

  They finished their drinks, then left. As the three crossed the street, Sam saw the dark-haired man from the bar standing in front of a store, talking to someone else. Something about the way both men were watching them bothered Sam. “I’m getting the idea that we’re the subject of their conversation.”

  Remi glanced over, then back. “Any earlier in the day, I’d say let’s give them something to talk about. Right now, I’d rather get to the hotel. I hear a hot bath and a glass of champagne calling my name.”

  “Why, Remi. How absolutely decadent. Couldn’t think of anything better.” With the reception they seemed to be receiving in town, it was probably best to get off the streets before dark. They checked into their room, Sergei occupying one down the hall.

  That night, before they went to bed, Sam turned off the lights, then stood by the window. They were on the second floor, facing the street. A man with a dog on a leash walked past, his glance straight ahead. About a block up, his dog alerted on a parked van. Any number of things could have caught the dog’s attention, even the scent of another dog. Sam, however, liked to operate on the theory that a dog’s nose should never be ignored. Despite the crisp, cool autumn weather, he opened the window, closed the curtains, then informed Remi that he’d be taking the first watch.

  About two hours later, he heard the slightest sound outside their window. Glancing over, he saw the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the part in the curtains. He got up and, standing to one side, peered out. Two men stood across the street by a car, and two more were crossing toward the hotel.

  “Remi.” He leaned over, touching her on her shoulder.

  She stirred.

  “Wake up.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “We have company. Better get dressed. Time to get out of here.”

  They’d barely slipped their shoes on when he heard a creak in the hallway. There was a fifth person because no way could they have gotten up there that fast. Another floorboard creaked, this one farther down the hall. Make that six.

  Didn’t matter.

  They were trapped.

  31

  Sam knew what they were after.

  They wanted Miron’s map. He hoped that meant they were bypassing Sergei’s room completely. His gun gripped in one hand, he stood at the open window, spying through the slit in the curtains. The men in the street seemed to be watching the front entry of the hotel. They weren’t the ones he was worried about.

  He looked over at Remi, pointing toward the bathroom. She nodded, grabbed her gun and phone, while Sam slipped Miron’s map from his pack, circling the other locations in the vicinity of the Project Riese tunnels. Hoping it would buy them some time, he left the map on the table, placing his pack on top, making sure it was visible beneath it. After a quick look around, he joined Remi behind the bathroom door, leaving it open far enough to reveal the toilet and empty shower.

  The soft clicks as someone picked the lock gave way to the sound of the knob turning and the door opening. The security chain rattled, then went tight. For several seconds, the only sound Sam heard was Remi breathing beside him and the ticking of the furnace blowing heat into the room.

  Whoever was out there wasn’t moving.

  No doubt testing the waters, making sure their victims weren’t wakened, before they busted through.

  Sam gripped his gun, ready to fire.

  He heard the chain move, then the sound of screws ripping from wood as one of the intruders shoved his weight against the door. The men rushed in, flashlights sweeping the room.

  “They’re gone,” someone said in English, his German accent thick.

  Loud footsteps crossed the room. “They went out the window,” another s
aid, his accent sounding more Russian.

  “They knew we were coming.”

  “Dump their bags. Find the map.”

  Sam heard them ruffling through their things, then someone saying, “I have it.”

  “What’s that?” Silence, then, “A siren?”

  “Go! Go!”

  As quickly as they came in, they left.

  Sam didn’t move. He and Remi remained behind the bathroom door for several seconds until the heavy footsteps receded down the hallway. The faint siren grew louder.

  Outside, he heard the sound of men running and car doors closing, followed by the rev of engines as the vehicles sped off.

  Sam moved to the window, looking out. The street was clear. “Have to say, that was a very convenient siren.”

  “Sergei got my text,” Remi said, holding up her cell phone.

  He eyed the gun she held at her side. “You can text with one hand?”

  “Can’t you?”

  He almost laughed. If it weren’t for autocorrect, his texts would probably be unreadable. And that was using two hands. “Nicely done, Mrs. Fargo.” He glanced out the window again. “Cops are here. We should probably stash the guns.”

  “And let Sergei know we’re okay.”

  —

  THE POLICE LEFT sometime after sunrise, with a stern warning that this was the very reason why the government was set against people looking for this Gold Train. Sam, Remi, and Sergei packed up their things, found an open café, and sat down to an early breakfast. They were walking to their car when Remi pulled out her phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Sam asked.

  “Miron,” she said, putting the phone to her ear. “I tried to reach him last night after dinner to let him know about his friend. He wasn’t home.”