The Romanov Ransom

74

After putting considerable distance between themselves and the ruins, Sam, Remi, and Nando set up camp. When it was Sam’s turn to sleep, he leaned back against his pack, covering his eyes with his hat to eliminate the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of leaves. The next thing he knew, something was nudging his foot. He shifted position. When it continued, he reached up, shoving his hat back, squinting at the silhouette of his wife, looking down at him.

“Rise and shine, Fargo. We have a lot of miles to cover before nightfall.”

He lowered the hat again.

She kicked the bottom of his boot with a bit more force. “Up and at ’em.”

“Okay, okay…” When he sat up and looked around, he realized they were alone. “Where’s Nando?”

“Exploring.”

That got him to his feet. “He shouldn’t be out there alone.”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said, pointing. “Just on the edge of camp.”

Sam looked that direction, seeing Nando just a few feet outside the clearing, bending down, picking up something from the ground, then reaching up and shaking a vine. A few minutes later, Nando returned with an armful of passion fruit. “Breakfast!”

“Perfect,” Remi said.

They sat down to a meal of protein bars, passion fruit, and water. The tart, wrinkled dark purple fruit had a scent that was a cross between overripe apple and banana. A refreshing addition to what they’d been eating the past few days, Sam thought, tossing the rind out into the jungle.

He took a drink from the canteen, then turned his attention to Nando. They’d had little opportunity to talk the night before. “You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Nando said.

“Tell Sam what you told me while he was sleeping.”

“They’re called the Wolf Guard. I heard them talking around the campfire last night. They’re all being called in for the arrival of a captain of the Guard from Germany.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised,” Sam said. “The tattoo I saw on the man’s arm… As big a Nazi enclave as Argentina was after the war, it makes sense they’d have a branch of the Guard here.”

Remi tightened the top on the canteen. “Must mean we’re on the right track? That Ludwig Strassmair came here?”

“At the moment,” Sam said, “all it means is that we’ve got more Nazi wolves to deal with, and Leopold is probably headed this way.” He looked at his watch. It was after eight. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we find Dietrich, the better.”

They reached the village the following afternoon, chickens scattering as they traveled along the dirt road leading up to the first few houses. A woman sweeping the porch of a green bungalow paused to watch them.

“Might as well start here,” Sam said. He smiled at the woman, then, in Spanish, asked if she knew Dietrich Fischer.

She shook her head and went back to sweeping.

The three continued up the road toward a man loading something into a donkey cart. When they reached him, he was tying a canvas over baskets piled high in the back of the cart.

Sam repeated the same question he’d asked the woman.

“Dietrich?” the man said. “No. But if anyone knows of him, it would be Avi.”

“Would you know where to find him?”

“Sí. At el avión.”

“The plane?” Remi said in English.

“El Avión, la cantina.” He pointed farther down the road. “You will find a lot of the men there when they come down from the river. That is where Avi tends bar.”

The cantina was about a half mile up the dirt road. There was no sign in the window, but there was a faded painting of a 1940s era propeller airplane on the front.

Sam pulled open the door, looked inside, then held it for Remi and Nando. The brown-haired, blue-eyed bartender looked up from the drink he was making, saw them, and nodded. Behind him, an old plane propeller was attached to the wall, with shelves around it holding liquor bottles. The three approached as the man squeezed a slice of lime into a drink, the citrus scent drifting toward them. Sam held a chair for Remi as he and Nando took a seat on either side of her.

Sam ordered three beers, then asked, “Any chance you know where we can find Avi?”

“And you are?”

“Sam Fargo, my wife, Remi, our friend Nando.”

“He expecting you?”

“No. But we’re hoping he can help us. His name came up as someone who might know someone we’re looking for.”

The bartender slid the drink toward the man at the end of the counter, then held a glass beneath a tap. “Something I can answer for you?”

“Maybe you can pass a message on to him? We’re looking for Dietrich Fischer.”

The man stopped mid-pour, his gaze widening.

“You’ve heard the name,” Sam said. “Perhaps you know where to find him?”

“In regards to…?”

“A relative of his. Ludwig Strassmair.”

“I’m Dietrich. I’m just not used to anyone using my given name unless it’s trouble. Definitely not in combination with my great-great-uncle’s name.” He finished pouring the beers, handing Sam one of the glasses. “What is it you want to know?”