The Romanov Ransom

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.”