The Romanov Ransom (Fargo Adventures 9)

“Klaus!” Uncle Ludwig yelled. “Get over here!”

He kept the gun pointed at them. “Stay away,” he said, grabbing at the ladder, climbing with one hand, as he kept an eye on them. He poked his head into the cockpit, saw the pilot at the controls, either unaware of what had transpired at the back of the plane or too busy trying to fly it to worry.

Klaus took a deep breath, looking down at his uncle.

“No!” Ludwig yelled, running forward. “Stop him!”

Someone grabbed Klaus’s leg as he swung around. Too late. He shot the pilot. The man slumped over, and the plane jolted. Klaus fell into the cockpit. The black sky turned white as they spiraled toward the snowy mountainside, the roar of engines drowning out the screams.

In those few moments, Klaus’s last thought was not of death but of his mother.

And that he would see her again very soon.

1

LAGUNA MOUNTAINS

SAN DIEGO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

To the left!”

“Copy that. Moving to the left. Five . . . four . . .”

The helicopter hovered near the sheer rock face, the tethered basket swinging from the cable, as one of the rescuers radioed, “Don’t come any closer. You’re one-zero from the wall.”

“Copy that.”

Sam Fargo watched as the two search-and-rescue volunteers, a man and woman, both wearing khaki uniforms and yellow helmets, guided the helicopter basket closer to where his wife, Remi, lay on an outcropping of rock, her left leg stabilized with a makeshift splint. The turbulence from the rotors whipped her auburn hair about her face, her green eyes tearing up from all the dirt blowing around. The man glanced up at the hovering helicopter. “We got it!” he radioed.

Sam took note of every move they made, resisting the urge to step in and take over. And even though he knew his wife was in good hands, it was difficult to stand there and do nothing. Within a few minutes, they had her secured in the basket, then stood back as she was lifted from the mountainside. No sooner was she safely on her way than his phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but when he saw it was Selma Wondrash, the head of his and Remi’s research team, he answered. “Selma.”

“How’s Mrs. Fargo?”

“Doing better than the rest of us. She at least gets to ride out of here. The rest of us have to climb.”

“You can always volunteer to be the victim next time,” she said, then got right to the point. “You recall my cousin’s nephews you and Mrs. Fargo were backing for that documentary they were making on the ratlines?”

Because he and Remi sponsored so many educational and archaeological ventures through the Fargo Foundation, the charitable organization that they had founded, he sometimes lost track of who they were funding. In this case, though, being a World War II history buff, he distinctly recalled the young men and their project, a documentary on the ratline—a system of escape routes used by the Nazis and Fascists who fled Europe after the war. Even so, it to

ok him a moment to bring up their names. “Karl and Brand. I remember. Why?”

“Their uncle hasn’t been able to get in touch with them for a couple of days. He’s worried. Especially after getting an odd message on his voice mail.”

“Any idea what it was?”

“Something about them finding a lost plane in Morocco, and people were after them. He can’t get any help from the authorities, because the boys didn’t register with the consulate, and no one seems to know where they are. I told him that you might be able to pull some strings and get someone to look into it. I know you and Remi have a date tonight, but—”

“Your family’s our family,” he said, grabbing his backpack from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. “Have our plane ready to go. As soon as Remi and I get home, we’ll pack and head to the airport.”

—

SAM AND REMI FARGO were not the usual multimillionaires content to rest on the laurels of good business decisions that had netted them more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. Sam had earned an engineering degree from Caltech, spent seven years at DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, then left to start his own company, where he’d made a fortune developing a number of inventions used by the military and intelligence agencies. Remi, an anthropologist and historian with a focus on ancient trade routes, graduated from Boston College. Her background came in handy during the pursuit of their particular passion, searching for lost treasures around the world. It also helped that she had a near-photographic memory, was proficient in several languages, and was a world-class sharpshooter when it came to firearms. As many scrapes as they’d been in over the years, there was no one Sam would rather have as his partner than Remi.

There was, however, one slight issue about leaving tonight. It happened to be the anniversary of the day they met at the Lighthouse Cafe, a jazz bistro in Hermosa Beach. To them, it was even more important than their wedding anniversary, and they honored it each year by having a date at the very table where they’d spent their first evening talking the night away.

Remi was waiting for Sam at the car when he finally got there after the climb up the cliffside with the volunteers.

“Took you long enough,” she said, looking at her watch. “We’re going to get stuck in commuter traffic if we don’t hit the road soon.”