The Romanov Ransom

30

In the neighborhood below the castle, everyone seemed to know who the man was — Crazy Gustaw — but no one seemed to know 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.