The Romanov Ransom

75

We heard you were a pilot,” Sam said, taking the first glass and passing it to Remi.

Dietrich laughed as he filled two other glasses with beer. “A nickname from some of my regular customers. Because of the plane painted on the front and the way it looks inside,” he said, nodding at the wooden ceiling fans shaped like plane propellers. “But you’re not here to talk about how I decorate my bar.”

“No,” Sam said as he heard the door behind them open. Light spilled in across the floor as two middle-aged men wearing cowboy hats, their faces deeply tanned, walked in. They nodded at Dietrich before their gazes flicked to Sam, Remi, and Nando, dismissing them, as they moved to the far end of the counter, sitting next to the other man seated there.

“One second,” Dietrich said, then pulled two beers, bringing them over to the men. He returned a moment later. “You were saying?”

“This uncle,” Sam replied, “what can you tell us about him?”

“Why are you asking?”

It didn’t occur to Sam until that moment how it might sound, announcing that someone’s relative was not only a Nazi war criminal but also one who had hoped to resurrect the Third Reich. Trying to be diplomatic, he said, “You’re aware of his history in the Nazi Party?”

“Unfortunately, yes. My grandfather made sure my mother knew, when she was old enough to understand, and she told me.”

“We believe Ludwig Strassmair fled from Europe to Argentina in order to resurrect the Third Reich and bring the Nazis back to power. The plan, called Operation Werewolf, was a closely guarded secret. Still protected even to this day.”

“That explains a lot.”

Not the reaction Sam was expecting. Even Remi’s brows went up at his response. “You know about Operation Werewolf?” she said.

He took a look around the bar, then lowered his voice. “It’s why I’m here. To find my great-uncle and give him a proper burial.”

“Your Uncle Strassmair?” Remi asked, surprised.

Dietrich’s expression darkened a moment. “Not that uncle,” he said. “My grandmother’s brother. My Uncle Klaus. But maybe you need to hear the whole story. Or at least what I know of it.” He glanced over at his other two customers, asking, in Spanish, if they needed anything. When they shook their heads, he directed Sam, Remi, and Nando to a table at the opposite end of the room, poured himself a beer, then took a seat with them where he could see the door and the bar.

“The short story is,” he said, “my great-grandparents fled Germany during the war to protect their middle son, Klaus, after their oldest was killed fighting the Nazis in the resistance. After the war, my great-grandmother’s brother, Ludwig Strassmair, showed up, offering to pay a good sum if Klaus would accompany him on a trip to Chile. The plane never made it. My grandfather believed it went down in the Andes Mountains, or it would have been found before now. It was after the plane was lost that people started making inquiries about what Ludwig Strassmair discussed with my great-grandfather. It’s also how I ended up here, of all places.”

“Did your grandfather know anything?” Sam asked.

“I know what he didn’t tell them. He only allowed Klaus to go with Ludwig as a paid companion. He felt guilty for taking the money, but they desperately needed it. And, of course, after the plane was lost, he suspected there was some other reason that Ludwig was taking the trip — something he didn’t know about, especially after these inquiries were made. There was no doubt in his mind that the people asking were Nazis.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “This last fact I didn’t find out until right before he died. Even my mother didn’t know. Once I was old enough, I did some digging on my own. My search eventually brought me here.”

“For what reason?”

“A number of reasons, actually. The night Klaus and Ludwig left, there was a murder at the shipping office where Ludwig worked. The newspaper reported it as a robbery, but my grandfather didn’t believe it.” He glanced over at the men at the bar, then back. “My grandfather said that the man deserved to die like the wolf he was. It wasn’t until I started researching the Nazi war criminals and read about Operation Werewolf that I realized he wasn’t speaking metaphorically. That, in turn, made me wonder about the drug runners in this area after I heard the locals referring to them as los lobos.”

“The wolves,” Sam translated. “We ran into them on the way here.”

“They have a compound in the jungle about three days west of here.”

Remi said, “I’d think this would be the last place you’d want to be.”

“I’m just the bartender. They’re so used to my presence, they tend to look right through me. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve stayed on.” He looked up at the door, then back. “I figured I might be able to turn over information about their movements to the government. My way of getting back for what happened to Klaus.”

“Rather dangerous, don’t you think?” Sam replied.

“Maybe so, but these men transport their drugs right past us on the river. The people in this village deserve better.”

Sam agreed with him. “Did you ever find out anything else on the downed plane?”

“There seems to be conflicting evidence that some sort of cover-up took place after the plane went down.”

“What sort of cover-up?”

“About who was on board. One of the reports I read said that there were only five civilian passengers and three crew, but another said six civilian passengers. Apparently, someone on the ground crew recalled seeing a man boarding when the plane was about to take off and yet there is no official record of a sixth passenger.”

“Odd,” Remi said. “Do you think that tied in with the murder at the shipping office?”

“Possibly,” Dietrich replied. “Of course, there was also the physical evidence. A propeller.” When all three of them looked at the one mounted on the wall behind the bar, he laughed. “Not that one. That was found in the jungle nearby. A much smaller plane, and much more recent. I’m talking about one found high up in the Andes near Mount Tupungato. It was from an Avro Lancastrian, the same type of plane Klaus and Ludwig were in.”

Sam and Remi exchanged glances. “Pretty conclusive evidence, I’d think,” Sam said.

He shrugged. “No one’s ever found anything else, including me. I’ve led dozens of expeditions to help fund my searches. When my money runs out, I return here, tend my bar, then head back up, listening to the stories from other climbers, hoping I might hear about more debris. So far, nothing…”

“Any chance you can show us where it was found?”

“The actual location? Not easy to get to. The conditions are extreme, between the high altitude, glacier, and unstable weather, even if we rented a helicopter to get from the base camp to the location, we could spend days up there searching. But the cost — between the helicopter, equipment, and the time, it’s expensive.”

“If you’re willing to lead it, we’re willing to fund it.”

“Beside Klaus, what exactly is so important about this plane that complete strangers are interested in it?”

“Something called the Romanov Ransom.”

“Which is what?”

After Sam told him, Dietrich leaned back in his chair, whistled, and looked at the three of them. “Looks like we have some plans to make.”