The Romanov Ransom

26

Get down!” Sam yelled.

He grabbed Miron, pulling him behind a parked delivery van. Remi and Sergei dove behind a Fiat as the first shot was fired. A second shot ricocheted off the ground just a few inches from Sam’s leg. The car sped off, its tires squealing on the pavement as it whipped around the corner. Sam peered around the side of the van. The gunman’s car sped through the parking lot, the back end fishtailing as the driver whipped it around for a second pass.

Sam helped Miron to his feet. “We need to find cover.”

“The excavations,” Miron said as Sergei supported him from the other side. They reached the chain-link fence that surrounded it. Plywood and tin walls encompassed the perimeter, but the gate was open for the workers, who were climbing up from the dig site to see what was going on.

Sam looked back, saw the blue car stopping near the gate. The gunman in the backseat threw open the door, about to follow, when the high-low whine of police sirens sent him scurrying back. The car sped off as the police arrived just in time to give chase.

“That was close,” Remi said.

Miron gripped his cane, his hand shaking. “I suggest we get out of here before the police come back. Unless you don’t mind being questioned for hours about why someone was shooting at us.”

“I like your way of thinking,” Sam said. They’d already dealt with the police that morning after the incident at the museum. Having their names come up again was likely to result in a lot more red tape and valuable time lost.

“Where to?” Sergei asked, pulling the keys from his pocket.

“My house, if you don’t mind. It’ll save me a taxi ride.”

It took about twenty minutes. Sergei drove while Sam, gun in hand, kept an eye on the side mirror and on every car they passed. Finally, they pulled up to an ivy-covered gabled house on a cobbled road. A brick walk led to Miron’s front door, which he unlocked, allowing them in. After locking the door behind them, he leaned his brass-headed cane against the wall, then took off his gloves, scarf, and hat. “I’ll turn on the heater to take the chill off. Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, crossing the room to the thermostat.

“Earlier,” Sam said, “you mentioned something about a map? You assumed that’s why we were here.”

“The map… Yes.” Miron tapped the button and the heater kicked on, bringing with it the scent of burnt dust, leading Sam to believe that he didn’t run it all that often. Judging from the peeling paint and general state of disrepair, Sam gathered that money was tight. “Rather a long story, so perhaps you should take a seat.” He directed them to sit at a round, scarred mahogany table, protected, oddly enough, with a glass top, which did nothing to hide the markings and gouges on the surface.

“According to my grandfather, the map — I’m assuming it’s the same one you found — showed the route they were plotting for the trucks to take the treasure that had been stored up until then at Königsberg castle.”

“There wasn’t a route drawn on the map we found,” Sam said. “Königsberg was circled, but that was it.”

“If I’m not mistaken, the route was actually traced onto paper from the original map.”

“That explains the bits of brittle yellowed paper we found in the courier bag,” Sam said. “A shame it didn’t survive.”

“The tin?” Miron asked.

“You know about that?”

“Only because my grandfather wrote about it in his diary.” He nodded to a black and white photo on the bookshelf of a dark-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to Miron. “He, apparently, turned the map, the tracing paper copy, and the tin over to someone named Lambrecht, who was supposed to get everything to the Allies.”

“Any idea as to the tin’s significance?”

“None. My grandfather seemed to think the items had some importance beyond the gold. Of course, some of that was to finance the escape of the Nazi officers who planned to flee the continent. But he always suspected that there was something more going on. Even before Hitler ordered that all of the stolen art be removed from Königsberg castle, my grandfather believed these officers were making plans for the treasure — he just couldn’t figure out what for. It’s why, when he found their map, he copied their route, at great risk to himself. And it’s why he kept this table. It was in their office when they made their plans,” he said, running his hand across the smooth glass surface.

“The Romanov Ransom?” Remi asked. “Did it have something to do with that?”

“Indeed it did, Mrs. Fargo. It’s what’s behind all this violence. These people trying to keep Andrei from publishing his book all these years believe his writings will help others find the treasure before they do. And yet what they don’t realize is that they’re all chasing the wrong lead.”

“Why is that?” Sam asked.

“The evidence my grandfather found and turned over to Lambrecht and the Allies. It’s all right here.”

He patted the tabletop.

Sam glanced down at it. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mahogany. Very soft, as you probably know.”

Sam examined the dark wood, noting the scratches and other marks. “What, exactly, are we looking at?”

“The route that was traced from the map. The same route on the bits of paper you found in the courier bag. Not that you’d realize it unless you know where to look,” he said, trailing his finger across some unseen mark on the table.

Sam leaned in close, seeing a faint indentation in the dark wood in the shape of a large jagged Z. “That’s the route?”

“I believe so. The only reason it’s never been examined any closer was that the original map was missing. As many times as I’ve tried to re-create the route on a modern map, it’s never worked. I expect it’s because of the size difference. But since you have the original, all we need do is overlay the tracing that I made on top. That will tell us where the treasure is.”

“One problem,” Remi said. “We no longer have it.”

Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “But we do have photos. If you have a computer, we can print it out.”