The Romanov Ransom

77

The Fargos were looking for a pilot.”

“You’re sure?” Rolfe asked Leopold, who was studying the information he’d just received from a lengthy text. “What on earth are we doing out here in the middle of the jungle, then?”

“This is hardly the middle of the jungle,” Leopold said without looking up.

“Close enough,” Rolfe replied, eyeing the Wolf Guard compound with distaste. They were seated in a Quonset hut, camouflaged on the outside to avoid being detected from the air. They’d spent the last couple of nights here in order to interview the survivor who’d managed to escape the assault by whoever it was who rescued the tour guide. And while they were no closer to learning anything, there was no doubt in Rolfe’s mind who it was. The very thought angered him, and he pulled at the collar of his shirt, sweat dripping down his neck. “Back to this pilot — how do you know that’s who they were looking for?”

“Because the men I sent out to make inquiries about this so-called student they found wandering in the jungle were able to confirm he was actually a guide who was hired to take a married couple to find the man.”

“So we were right.”

“More important, the man they were looking for was a descendent of Ludwig Strassmair.”

“Then why aren’t we going after him?”

“No need. He was the owner of a bar in a village to the east of here. I’ve already sent someone out there.”

“And how long until we hear back?”

“Anytime now.”

The news struck Rolfe as highly suspicious. “How far is this village?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he said. Because, right now, it didn’t. It was more important to find the Fargos and figure out what they were up to. Later, he’d have to take into consideration exactly how much it was that Leopold was keeping from him. Clearly, more than he was letting on.

Rolfe got up, walking to the open door, wondering if it was possibly cooler outside. He watched the Argentine Guardsmen in the yard, resting beneath camouflaged netting. Turning back toward Leopold, who was now talking on his phone in Spanish, Rolfe pulled out his own phone and hit RECORD, so he could translate Leopold’s side of the conversation, to make sure he wasn’t being left out of the loop.

He stood there, pretending to read email, until Leopold finally ended the call. “Well?” Rolfe asked, looking up from his phone.

“We found them. Or where they went. Mendoza.”

“Mendoza?”

“It’s a popular destination for anyone headed toward the Andes.”

“Why would they be headed from the jungle to there?”

Leopold gave him a look that bordered on incredulousness. “Naturally, they have to be looking for a plane crash site.”

“You’re sure?”

“Ludwig Strassmair was killed in a plane crash. They must have a lead on where it went down or they wouldn’t be there.”

At last, Rolfe thought. That much closer to the Romanov Ransom.

And eliminating the Fargos.