The Romanov Ransom

3

Sam gave chase. Remi was right behind him, ignoring the curious stares of the other guests milling about the lobby. Sam ran to the right, across the cobbled drive. The man darted around the corner, then down a side street, racing toward a red Renault as he dug the key from his pocket. He held out the key, and the doors beeped as the car unlocked. Just as he opened the door, Sam caught up to him, grabbing the back of his shirt, then swinging him around, slamming him against the car.

“Please!” the man said in French. “I don’t know anything.”

Sam shot his hand up to the man’s neck, gripping it. “You speak English?”

He nodded. “Some.”

“Your name?”

“Z — Zakaria.”

“Zakaria. We’re looking for Karl and Brand Hoffler.”

“I–I’ve only spoken to them on the phone.”

“We have a picture that says otherwise.”

“A very old picture. I swear, I don’t know anything.”

Remi wandered closer to the faded-red Renault. She peered into the window as Sam asked, “You’re saying you talked to them by phone, but you never met with either of them on this trip?”

“I think they took up with another guide. They didn’t tell me who. Maybe they didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I don’t know.”

Sam eyed the twists of cables on the backseat, turning back toward Zakaria. “What do you know about audiovisual equipment?” he asked.

“Just the camera on my cell phone.”

“Then why do you have a bundle of AV cords in the back of your car?”

A sheen of perspiration appeared on Zakaria’s brow as he shook his head. “I–I don’t know.”

Sam leaned into him, pressing his fingers into his neck. “Maybe you need a little help with your memory. Where are they?”

His eyes widened in fear. “I don’t know! I swear!”

“We don’t like being lied to,” Sam said. “Not when it comes to our family being endangered.” He glanced at Remi. “In French, in case there’s any question.”

The young man’s gaze shifted to Remi’s as she translated. When she finished, Sam added, “And they’re making a film that we’re paying for. If anything happens to them—”

“Wait. You are the Fargos?”

Sam loosened his grip on Zakaria’s neck. “You know who we are?”

He nodded, then his gaze caught on Albert. “Who’s that?”

“Their uncle.”

The young man closed his eyes, sinking down as though suddenly relieved. “Please. You have to understand. I only wanted to protect them.”

“From who?” Sam asked, finally letting him go and stepping back.

Zakaria reached up, rubbing his neck, trying to swallow. “I don’t know. They called me and said they were being chased. Someone was shooting at them, but they got away. They thought it was because of their search for the plane.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About four days ago.”

“They’re not back?”

“That’s what I came here to find out. I was hoping they’d been back by now. Or called. We expect them anytime.”

“We?”

“Durin Kahrs. A friend of theirs from school in Germany. He was with them when they took off to look for the plane. He came back early, and when I told him what happened, that they were shot at, he warned me not to talk to anyone. He worried about someone trying to find them. He thinks someone doesn’t want them to find the plane.”

“They’re okay?” Albert asked.

“They were when I talked to them.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, “you should start at the beginning.”

He nodded, looking at each of them, in turn, as though to assure himself they weren’t about to attack him further. “They hired me to act as a guide, to take them out to some of the remote villages, because they’d heard the story about this downed World War Two pilot dragging his parachute through the desert.”

“How’d they get your name?” Sam asked.

“I wrote an article about the pilot that was published in the university paper when I was a student. They found a reference to it on the internet and looked me up.”

“There had to have been a lot of soldiers traipsing around the continent after the war,” Sam said. “What makes this story stand out?”

“The legend is that the pilot offered a great reward if someone could find his downed plane and take him to it. But he died, and the plane was never found. Naturally, everyone assumed it must contain gold stolen during the war. But after talking with the villagers, it seems more likely that the story was embellished over the years. None of them mentioned gold.”

“And no one’s looked since?”

“Of course they have. There are even groups that advertise it as the highlight of their tour.”

“I have a question,” Remi said. “How is it that Karl and Brand found it when no one else could?”

“I think because their interest differed from everyone else’s,” he said. “Everyone else, without exception, wanted only to know where the plane was located because they hoped to find gold. The villagers were always very happy to point them in the right direction. Of course the direction varied, depending on which villager they happened to ask. What all these people failed to realize was that anyone who saw the pilot is no longer alive. I think that’s why the directions varied so greatly.” He glanced toward Albert, then back at Sam, saying, “Unlike everyone who came before them, Karl and Brand weren’t interested in the plane right off. They were thinking documentary. Filming candid responses. They’re the first to ask if anyone was related to the villagers who actually found the pilot or those who spoke to him.”

“They were filming?” Sam asked.

He nodded. “They wanted to document how the legend was passed down from generation to generation. But later, when they went through the film footage, they realized that these particular villagers spoke of a specific place in the upper desert mountains where the pilot was found. One villager even produced the parachute. And so they thought that it was worth pursuing.” He gave a tired shrug. “No one thought they’d find it, but they did.”

“Where is this place?” Sam asked.

“The villagers called it Camel Rock. It’s somewhere up in the Atlas Mountains.”

“Can you take us?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know where it is. I wasn’t with them when they found it. But I think Durin went out with them, at some point. He might be able to show you.”

“How do we get in touch with him?”

Zakaria tried calling. “It goes right to voice mail. He’s usually with his sister. She’s very sick. Cancer. But he’s supposed to call me this evening when he returns from visiting her. I’ll set up a meeting.”

They exchanged numbers, Zakaria telling them he’d telephone as soon as he heard anything at all. As promised, he called later that afternoon, saying that Durin would meet them in the main square at the medina that night at seven.