The Romanov Ransom

60

Sam and Remi followed Laurenz out of the office, down the stairs, then across the castle’s courtyard. He looked over at the key Sam held. “That is amazing. Where did you find it?”

“In Poland,” Sam said, deciding it would be much easier to keep it vague. “An old Nazi office.”

“Who knows how many Nazis were in and out of the castle in those days. Anyone could have taken it. It does, however, answer the question of what happened to it. During the war, most of the furniture, paintings, and valuables were moved to an underground, shell-proof mine. A wise move, since more than seventy percent of the castle was destroyed during the air raids. As you can see, it’s since been rebuilt.”

“What does the key belong to?” Remi asked as Laurenz opened the door to the castle.

“The writing desk that originally belonged to Marie Christine, sister of Prince Carl Theodor Otto. From the seventeenth century. But a lock was added to it sometime after the First World War. The key has been missing for as long as I’ve been here.”

He led them through a door into a small room with a fireplace whose surround was made of Delft blue tiles, then on past into a library filled with thousands of volumes locked behind glass doors. “I’m only assuming it’s the key since the desk is the only piece of furniture I know of in the castle that is missing one. Here,” he said, stopping in front of a windowed alcove to the left that was barricaded from public access by a velvet rope. Inside was a desk, stationery, and writing instruments, set up to show what it might have looked like centuries ago. “Here it is. Shall we see if it fits?”

Sam handed the key over. Laurenz removed the rope barricade, then stepped around the desk, inserting the key into the lock and turning it. “Perfect fit. Though I’m not sure how this will help you.”

Sam and Remi watched as he opened the drawer, Remi saying, “We need to know what is inside it.”

“The drawer? Empty, I’m afraid. We had a locksmith open it long ago, when they decided to allow tours. I don’t recall anything of value ever being mentioned. Just some of the writing tools you see on the desktop.”

He stepped out of the narrow space so that they could see for themselves. Sam examined the desk, as well as the empty drawer. “Any hidden compartments?” Sam asked.

“I don’t believe so. But feel free to check for yourself.”

Sam felt around inside the drawer, then beneath the desk. “Remi, take a look. You seem to have better luck with this sort of thing.”

Remi took his place but, after a few minutes, shook her head. “Nothing.”

“What is it you’re searching for? I’m familiar with many of the family heirlooms. Perhaps I can help.”

Sam showed him the cell phone photo of the tin.

“That would explain it,” Laurenz said. “The display here was for historical value, as you can see from the pen and ink set. Had they found a typewriter ribbon, they would have either thrown it out or taken it to the office where the typewriter was located.”

“Any chance you have a typewriter and ribbon set up anywhere?”

“Unfortunately, no. You have my curiosity piqued, though. What’s so important about a typewriter ribbon tin? I can’t imagine it’d be worth all that much on the antique market.”

“Probably not,” Sam said. “In this case, it was one of a set of three. We think that, together, the three tins are part of a code or message. Possibly the items were used in some sort of spy operation. We checked for hidden messages on the spools. Nothing.”

“As a history buff, I happen to know a bit about that sort of thing. May I see the photo again?”

Sam brought up the picture, then handed him the phone.

He looked at the tin, his expression one of mild curiosity as he enlarged the picture, staring at it for a few seconds. “Are there more photos of the tins?”

“Several. Feel free to look.”

The man swiped his finger across the screen, accessing the next photo, enlarging it, then moving on to the next, until he’d looked at each in that file. “Interesting… It’s definitely not a method I’ve seen… but it makes sense…”

“What does?” Sam asked, unable to see the actual photos and what he seemed to be focusing on.

“If I had to guess, these tins were chosen precisely because they appeared innocuous. What was your first inclination when you found them?”

“To see what was inside.”

“And not pay attention to the tin itself beyond a cursory glance, no doubt.” He showed them the photo of the underside of one tin. “Pay particular attention to the manufacturer’s stamp on both the tins. At first glance, they appear identical.”

Sam took the phone, noting the small diamond stamped on the bottom. The rust made it difficult to see, but there was definitely something in the center of the diamond. He enlarged it, showing it to Remi. “Numbers.”

“Yes,” Laurenz said. “Now, look at the other.”

Sam swiped through the photos to the second tin from the Project Riese tunnels. The bottom of this one, having been in the desk in the cave, had no rust at all, and it was easy to see what was stamped inside the diamond. “Roman numerals.”

“Exactly,” Laurenz replied. “That is your message.”

“Two-thirds of our message,” Remi said. “We’re still missing the third tin.”

Sam took one last look at the photos before putting the phone in his pocket. “Any idea what it might mean?”

“I can’t help you there.”

Sam shook hands with him. “Definitely more than we knew before we got here. Thank you. We appreciate your time.”

Remi shook hands as well. “At least the key is back where it belongs.”

“For which we’d like to thank you,” Laurenz said. “We have a very nice restaurant that overlooks the water. Take a tour of the castle and stay for lunch. Our treat.”

“As much as we’d like to,” Sam said, “we really have to get going. Thank you again for your time.”

Sam called Selma the moment he and Remi stepped out the door and started walking back to the car.

“The key led to the third tin?” Selma asked.

“No. The key was a red herring.”

“A red herring that saved Tatianna’s life,” Remi chimed in.

“Right as usual, Remi,” Sam said as he eyed her. “But, even better, the manager at the castle noticed differences in the manufacturer’s stamps on the bottoms of the tins. Take a look. See if you can get Pete or Wendy to clean up the rust on the digital images,” he said, referring to Selma’s assistants. “Maybe if we get a clear view of the characters, we can figure out what the code is.”

“Say no more.”

He pocketed his phone, taking one last look at the castle before getting into the car. “Let’s hope they figure it out.”

Remi looked at the map on the car’s navigation screen. “We’re not too far from the Netherlands. Winterswijk is right across the border.”

“Winterswijk — why does that town sound familiar?”

“The Mondrian House museum is there. Really, Sam, how is it you don’t remember these things?”

“Could be the thousands of museums you’ve dragged me through over the years. Mondrian… Which artist is he?”

“Primary colors, cubist painter.”

“Don’t we have a Mondrian cow in our kitchen?” Sam asked. A porcelain figurine sat on a shelf above the stovetop.

“You’re trying to change the point,” Remi replied. “I didn’t hear you complaining when we were at the British Museum.”

“That’s different. We were looking for King John’s Treasure. There was a purpose.”

“We’re not too far. Date night in Winterswijk? We could go to the Strand Lodge for dinner. Remember how wonderful the food was?”

Sam suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. “Not this time.”

“What’s wrong?” Remi asked.

“Get Selma on the phone. I just realized what the tins are for.”