The Romanov Ransom

7

Having to make a last-minute trip to Marrakesh had not been on Tatiana’s agenda, but there was little she could do once she’d gotten word that Rolfe had arrived and was very close to finding the plane. And so it was that she’d taken the first flight from Russia to meet with him. Getting him to invite her over for dinner was the easy part. Keeping him from discovering her interest in the plane while trying to find out what he knew? That had been a challenge.

She’d taken a calculated risk this evening, asking about the plane, but, in the end, it seemed the only way she could think to get the information as quickly as she needed. It surprised her, though, that Rolfe had given it up so easily, and she wondered if his undue interest made him prone to the same mistakes his father had made. For a man with so many successful criminal enterprises, Rolfe hadn’t struck her as someone so careless as to leave a note such as that out in the open where anyone could see it. Then again, maybe that had more to do with her part in carefully nurturing a relationship with him over the last six months in order to keep tabs on his hunt for the missing courier pouch.

His loss, her gain, she thought after Rolfe’s driver dropped her off. She took out her telephone and made a call the moment the car drove off.

“I’m back at the hotel now,” she said, speaking Russian, as she walked through the lobby. “I think I stumbled across something that I wasn’t meant to see. Two names. Remi Fargo. The other name is Sam, I assume same last name. I want to know everything on them as soon as possible.”

“Has to be the American couple we saw them meeting with tonight when we followed Rolfe’s men. They stole the woman’s purse, no doubt to find out who she was. I’ll get started on it. How’d the dinner go?”

“Flawless. Although he knows that I’m aware of his interest, I believe it will work to our advantage.”

“You let him know you knew about the plane?”

“I felt it was necessary.”

“And he didn’t seem suspicious? Or even suspect that you’re the other buyer that Durin Kahrs had contacted?”

“Not in the least.” She glanced at the three clocks over the hotel’s front desk, each giving a different time for that part of the world. Here, in Marrakesh, it was past midnight. “Keep me informed. I have a feeling that we can trust Durin Kahrs as much as we trust Rolfe. Not at all.”

“On that we agree,” he said, then bid her good night.

She dropped the phone into her purse and took the elevator up to her room. Finally, she thought, all this time searching was going to pay off.