The Romanov Ransom

by Clive Cussler

  Realizing he couldn’t see the men from where he stood, she pointed in their direction.

  He nodded just as a monkey screamed above him. The men stopped, looking in that direction. The moment they saw Nando, all three pulled their guns.

  “Who are you?” one asked in Spanish.

  Nando froze, then slowly raised his hands, telling them his name.

  “Who else is with you?” one of the men demanded as the other two turned their weapons to cover both directions of the trail.

  Remi stepped back into the shadows, ducking down, fully expecting Nando to look toward her. But he shook his head, saying, “No one. I’m a student at the university. I’m hiking alone.”

  They didn’t believe him. One reached out, grabbed him by his collar, while another shoved the barrel of his rifle against Nando’s chest. The third turned about, searching for signs of anyone else in the area.

  Apparently satisfied that Nando was truly alone, one said, “Search him.”

  They did, taking his machete.

  “Bring him along.”

  The first man shoved Nando forward, forcing him down the trail.

  And just as Remi drew her gun, figuring she could take them out as they headed down the trail, two more men arrived, and, from the sound of it, there was at least one or more farther down the trail.

  And all of them were headed in Sam’s direction.

  69

  Sam didn’t like the look of the trail, even more so now that he’d had a better view of it. When he saw the trip wire up ahead, his suspicions were confirmed. Drug runner trail, if ever he saw one.

  So much for this path, he thought, turning back. He hadn’t gone more than a few feet when he heard voices coming toward him. Men talking loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of insects and birds.

  He drew his gun and stepped off the trail, ducking behind a broad-fronded fern. Finger on the trigger, he tried to hear what they were saying, their heavily accented English making it difficult to understand—until one voice stood out. And this one he recognized—Nando, their guide.

  The first two men walked into view, followed by Nando, and then a third man, who seemed to relish shoving his gun into the guide’s back.

  Sam listened, trying to find out what happened, and where Remi was.

  His patience paid off when he heard Nando saying, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up,” the man at his back said.

  “Just leave me here. I’m alone. One man against six. How can I possibly harm you?”

  “By sending someone after us.” He shoved Nando, causing him to stumble forward. “Now, shut up before I change my mind and kill you where you stand.”

  “Hold up,” the lead man said. “Wait for the others.”

  A minute later, three more men came up from behind, each carrying a fully automatic rifle. Sam knew the moment he saw them, saw the way they covered the trail on either side as well as front and back, that they were highly trained. Had it not been for Nando’s warning—and Sam was sure he’d worked their number into the conversation as a warning—Sam might have tried to take out the first three before he realized there were more men. He might get off two decent shots, but they’d have little difficulty taking him out before he got off a third.

  He’d be dead.

  Parting the fronds slightly, he watched as they walked past. When they stopped to step over the trip wire, Sam caught sight of a tattoo on the forearm of the man bringing up the rear.

  A wolf’s head.

  What were the chances?

  He waited for them to pass, listening until their footsteps and voices faded in the distance. Confident that no one else was on the trail, he stepped out, then made his way back to where he’d left Remi, grateful that there was no sign of any struggle or that she’d been harmed.

  “Remi?” he whispered.

  Nothing but the sound of the birds and insects filling the air around him.

  “Remi?” he said a little louder.

  A rustle to his right. And then the welcome sight of his auburn-haired wife as she emerged through a curtain of vines. “They have Nando,” she said, stepping into his arms.

  “I saw.”

  “I was right here, across from him, and he told them he was alone. We have to go after him.”

  “We will,” he said. “Where’s your pack?”

  “Over here,” she said, pushing back through the vines.

  He followed her to the banyan tree where she’d left her gear.

  “Drug runners?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I saw a wolf’s head tattoo on the arm of one of the gunmen.”

  “You’re kidding . . .” She looked over at him. “They can’t possibly be related to the group in Europe? I know Tatiana warned us, but—”

  “Why not? Argentina’s known for being a safe haven for Nazis after the war. Why wouldn’t they have a branch of the Wolf Guard here, too?”

  “You’re right,” she said, picking up her pack. “But first things first.”

  “Get Nando out of there.”

  Remi smiled, leaned over, and kissed him. “And that’s why I love you, Sam Fargo.”

  —

  THE TRIP WIRES made Sam and Remi’s progress slower than Sam had anticipated, but he soon realized that they were marked with stones off to one side of the trail, allowing them to pick up speed. After a couple of hours, they heard raindrops hitting the treetops above them. “A good time for a break,” he said, pulling off his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Let’s see if we can’t find somewhere to rest.”

  They found a place far enough off the trail to avoid being seen and, they hoped, to stay dry. The rain added to the already thick humidity, and, within a few minutes, rivulets of water started running down the branches.

  Remi, watching a tree frog make its way up a nearby tree trunk, wiped her sweat-soaked forehead with the scarf she’d tied in her hair. “What do you think they’ll do to him?”

  Trying to stay positive, he didn’t tell her his worst fears. That he’d be tortured to find out what he was doing in an area he shouldn’t have been. “It’s a good sign they didn’t kill him right off.”

  “You think they’ll hold him for ransom?”

  “Hard to say.” The rain finally stopped. Sam held out his hand to her, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s get moving.”

  Unfortunately, the edge of the trail wasn’t clear-cut and finding anything that resembled a footprint after the rain wasn’t going to be easy. The moist forest floor was layered with fallen leaves, creating a spongy surface that seemed to bounce back after each step. If the men veered from the path, he and Remi might miss it if they weren’t careful.

  After another hour of walking, the trail ended at a clearing. There was a momentary silence in the jungle as they stepped into it. A monkey screamed at them from a nearby tree and scampered off, and suddenly it was back to normal, the constant chirping, clicking, ticking, and buzzing surrounding them like a white noise machine.

  Sam slapped at a mosquito on his neck as he took a look around. “I don’t know about you, but dinner and a glass of wine right now would be nice.”

  “How does hot water sound?” Remi asked, opening her canteen and taking a sip, before handing it to him.

  “Not something I want to hear unless it’s followed up with the words long shower.”

  “Sorry, Fargo. The closest we’re going to get is the tropical kind.”

  “Let’s hope it’s done for the day.” He took a drink, eyeing the area around the clearing before returning the canteen. They walked a few feet farther, about to turn around, when he noticed where some animal had dug a shallow hole in the ground, the center still filled with water from that afternoon’s rain. There, in the mud at the very edge, was a partial footprint. He walked over, crouched down, taking a closer look.


  “What is it?” Remi asked, coming up behind him.

  “Someone’s been here since the rain.” He pointed at the print, before glancing in the direction of travel. “That way,” he said, nodding to their right. This trail was more obscured. Sam led, parting the thick leaves of a canna, holding them until Remi stepped through, blocking them with her arms. The late afternoon sun angled in through the canopy above, turning the steam rising up from the ground into a silver mist. The thick humidity trapped the cloying smell of decay as they trekked along, sweat dripping down their necks and sapping their strength. It was slow going, trying to follow the trail of broken leaves and vines. By the time the sun neared the horizon, plunging the jungle into a mass of noise-filled shadows, they had a hard time seeing any evidence that they were on the right path.

  Just as Sam was about to suggest that they’d have to stop for the night, they pushed through the thick foliage, coming across a crumbling, vine-covered wall. Just visible, dead center on the bricks, the paint faded and peeling, a swastika—and above it, the skull and crossbones of the Wolf Guard.

  70

  Sam and Remi peered through a tree fern at the faded swastika painted on the ruins. “Any chance,” Remi said quietly, “that we’re looking at graffiti instead of some Nazi hideaway?”

  “Anything’s possible,” he said. “But the stonework looks more European than South American.” At least what was left of it, he thought, eyeing the heavy philodendron vines creeping over the crumbling stones of the remaining roofline. Had it not been for the thickness of the walls, no less than three feet, the jungle would have destroyed the structure long ago. “Whatever this place was, it was built for defense.”

  “Like a bunker?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Unable to see into the ruins, he drew his gun and motioned for Remi to stay where she was. He took a closer look, watching for any booby traps or trip wires. As far as he could tell, the drug runner’s trail veered around the ruins. All that was left of the stairs leading up to the doorway were loose stones, roots, and fist-sized vines.

  After a quick check of the inside, the remnants of three partial walls, he waved to Remi and she joined him, picking her way up the root-bound stairs. She stood there for several moments, looking around at the lush, green vines that had grown up along the inside of the walls, spilling over the top to the outside. Off to the right, the late-afternoon sun filtered through the lace-like hollowed trunk of a strangler fig, the host tree it had killed having rotted out long ago. “It’s really quite beautiful,” she said.

  “Especially now that it’s empty of any Nazis.” Staying close to the wall, Sam moved to the edge, looking in the direction of the trail. Satisfied that they wouldn’t be seen, he returned to Remi’s side. “As good a place as any to spend the night.”

  “You think this really was a World War Two Wolf Guard holdout?”

  “Or a hideout for Nazi officers being hunted,” he said, removing his pack and leaning it against the stone wall.

  Remi did the same. “I suppose a fire is out of the question?”

  “So is chilled pinot grigio and fresh fish for dinner,” he said, taking off his hat and setting it on his pack.

  After protein bars, they sat side by side against their respective packs. Remi leaned her head back, looking up. “The stars are out,” she said. “Too bad the moon is full or we’d have a better view.”

  Sam followed her gaze, seeing only a couple of stars through the canopy of leaves. “I’ll take the first watch,” he told her, getting up, moving out to the edge of the wall again. He looked out into the jungle, listening. The constant sound of birds and insects, prevalent during the day, had been replaced with a different chorus of insects and night creatures moving around. From the northeast, another sound—faint singing. He was almost able to make out the words being sung . . .

  If he could hear their music, they were much closer than he’d thought.

  He backed toward the ruins, returning to Remi’s side, gently shaking her shoulder. “Remi . . .”

  She opened her eyes. “It can’t be my turn already.”

  “I hear music.”

  “Music?”

  “Let’s go have a look.”

  “What about trip wires?”

  “We’ll carefully have a look.”

  —

  THE GOOD NEWS was, the trail was wider, and the full moon shining down made it easy to navigate. The bad news was, the trail was wider, and the full moon lit up everything in its path. That meant they had to move low and slow, with the hope that no one was standing guard.

  The singing Sam heard grew louder, covering any noise they were making as they neared even if someone could hear them over the constant buzz of insects and crickets. Soon, they heard talking and laughing, noise loud enough to give the impression that this group wasn’t worried about anyone stumbling on their location.

  Probably because they were the type to shoot first, ask questions later.

  “Over here,” Sam said, crouching behind the long, sword-shaped leaves of a bromeliad. When Remi joined him, he pointed toward the clearing. “Look due east. See it?”

  “I see a lot of trees.”

  “Just beyond that. You can see the glow of a fire. Let’s try to get closer.”

  They hadn’t gone more than a few feet when Sam saw the signature pattern of rocks hidden beneath a large fern. He pointed, Remi nodded, and the two stepped over the wire, working their way farther east. They found a patch of bromeliads—pineapples, by the looks of the softball- and larger-sized crowns growing from the plants. Hoping the fruit would help camouflage their heads, he and Remi crouched down, looking through the bromeliads’ leaves. The six men who’d kidnapped Nando sat in a clearing around a fire, while Nando, feet tied, hands bound behind him, sat against the trunk of a tree.

  “One thing in our favor,” Sam said quietly. “Their compound has to be at least a day’s walk from here or they wouldn’t be camping for the night. Assuming that’s where they’re headed.”

  He scanned the area, his gaze returning to the gunmen, who sat in a circle around the fire. As highly trained as they seemed on the trail, he was surprised by their relaxed attitude, not only in leaving their hostage positioned behind them but in not posting a guard to watch the perimeter. Of course, any area frequented by drug runners armed with fully automatic weapons tended to be a good deterrent to intruders. And they were relying on the trip wires to serve as warning.

  Two of the men started singing again while another passed around a bottle. Sam looked at Nando, eyeing the tree he was seated against, the thick jungle behind him, and then the unripe pineapples growing everywhere. “I have an idea . . .”

  71

  Remi listened while Sam outlined the plan, then detailed exactly what they’d need to do in order to pull it off.

  “You’re in?” he said.

  “You have to ask?” If there was one thing she knew, it was that her husband weighed everything, including the risks. “When do you want to start?”

  “The first part we can do now. The rest let’s wait until at least a few of them have dozed off. I like the odds better that way.”

  They worked their way back down the trail, passing the first trip wire, then stopping at the second. Remi kept watch in the direction of the camp while Sam picked up the stones marking the location of the wire, moving them beneath another fern about twelve inches closer to the clearing. “Let’s hope it trips them up,” he said, examining his work.

  “Pun intended?”

  He gave a quick grin. “As long as we don’t forget where it is.”

  “Good point.” Something rustled in the leaves behind them and they both pivoted, aiming their guns at a five-foot boa constrictor gliding out onto the trail. The moonlight glistened off its smooth scales as it slithered past, disappearing from view into the plants on
the other side. Remi lowered her gun, eyeing the pile of stones. “Let’s hope this works.”

  “Have my plans ever failed?”

  “There was that time in—”

  “Never mind. Let’s go see what our friends are doing.”

  They returned to their hiding place behind the thicket of pineapples. The men were passing around a bottle of amber liquid, their talk growing louder the more they drank. One glanced back at Nando, the man’s comment causing the others to look back at him, then laugh. After nearly an hour and another bottle, they seemed to do less talking and more staring at the fire. Eventually, five of the men leaned back against their packs to sleep while the lone guard—his back to Sam and Remi—lit a cigarette, the smoke drifting up to join that of the dying campfire.

  “Now?” Remi whispered.

  “Now.”

  Remi, close enough to smell the faint, acrid scent of the guard’s cigarette, made her way around the edge of the clearing toward Nando’s tree. When she felt enough time had passed for Sam to be in position, she crept out to where Nando was tied, crouching down behind him. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized he was actually awake and trying to loosen his ties.

  “Nando,” she whispered. “We’re here.”

  His hands stilled.

  She pulled the knife from her belt and cut his ties. When he started to rise, she grasped his hand, holding him back. “Not yet,” she said, leaning out just far enough to see around his shoulder. The guard hadn’t moved. Her glance shifted to the right, where she knew Sam was waiting. A moment later, Sam threw a baseball-sized pineapple down the trail. The thump, as it hit the ground, and the rustle of leaves, as it rolled, drew the guard’s attention.

  The man stood and ventured toward the sounds, stopping at the edge of the clearing. Remi gripped Nando’s hand even harder. “Keep still,” she whispered.

  The guard gave one last look into the jungle before returning to his spot by the fire.

  Sam threw a second, larger pineapple at one of the trip wires. An explosion ripped through the air, debris flying up. The guard jumped to his feet, slinging his rifle from his shoulder, aiming toward the trail. The other men scrambled for their weapons. One started toward Nando.