The Romanov Ransom (Fargo Adventures 9)

“Actually,” Nando said, “I was hoping I could go up with you. I want to help.”

“If you had more climbing experience, I’d agree. It’s dangerous.”

“And so are the men coming after you. I’m strong. I’ve always dreamed of going up to the mountains where my namesake saved so many. Maybe I’ll be good luck?”

Remi gave a supportive smile. “Hard to argue with that.”

Sam’s instinct was to tell him no. And yet, the fact Nando had saved Remi in the jungle by refusing to tell the kidnappers that she was in the vicinity was enough to convince Sam that he had the fortitude to persevere even in the face of danger. “Dietrich? You’re familiar with the area. Exactly how difficult are we talking?”

The bartender eyed Nando. “He seems fit. Considering that we’re bypassing the worst of it on a helicopter, an extra body at base camp will be welcome. It should be safe enough there.”

“And,” Remi said, “he cooks. So it’s agreed? I’ll call Selma and make sure she adds Nando’s list to what we’ll need in Mendoza.”

“Why do I get the feeling she already has it?” Sam asked.

Remi gave a not-so-innocent smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

—

AT SAM’S INSISTENCE, Dietrich left a false travel plan with one of his employees who’d be running the bar in his absence—in case anyone came around, asking. Three days later, they set up base camp at the foot of the glacier in the Andes Mountains. That evening, Sam and Remi stole a moment alone from Nando and Dietrich, who were sitting at a table, playing cards, in the largest tent, which would serve as their headquarters and dining area. This time of year, the area below Tupungato was a colorful and bustling tent city, with dozens upon dozens of men and women prepared to make the trek up into the Andes. In the short time they’d been there, Sam had heard several languages. Spanish, German, French, and Italian.

“Quite the tourist attraction,” he said, nodding toward the twinkling lights of the tent city.

Sam put his arm around his wife as they looked up toward the summit. The half-moon cast a pale blue glow across the snow-covered valley below, the steep peaks silhouetted above them, as the stars glittered against an ink black sky. “If the plane continued on the direct route from Buenos Aires to Santiago . . .” He pointed up and to their left.

Remi looked that direction. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“You have anything better to do?”

“Turns out, I’m free for the next few days,” she said as Nando and Dietrich joined them.

“You’re going up tomorrow?” Nando asked.

“Not too far,” Sam said. “Take it slow, get acclimated.”

“It’s not like the jungle,” Dietrich said. “A lot less oxygen up here.”

Nando laughed. “And a lot more snow.”

—

THE NEXT MORNING, Sam, Remi, and Dietrich set out, arriving several hours later at the area where Dietrich thought the propeller had been found. “Granted, I wasn’t here when they made the discovery, but I returned here with the man who was. This was the location he pointed out to me.”

Sam looked around the valley, seeing nothing but the spires at the foot of the melting glacier. Unless the plane had completely disintegrated on impact—which was highly possible—there didn’t appear to be anywhere a fuselage could be hiding, even one partially intact. “What direction do you think the plane was traveling?”

“Over there,” Dietrich said, pointing to their right. “I figured if it came from that direction, it might have clipped a propeller on that ridge, knocking it off. But there’s nothing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been through this area, even with a metal detector.”

Sam took out his binoculars for a better view, looking at the high ridge Dietrich had pointed out. The sun glared against the snow, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Dietrich was right. The plane could have clipped the propeller there. He scanned the valley again, a different idea forming. “What if it didn’t come from that direction?”

“Then where?” Dietrich asked.

“Up there.” He pointed straight ahead to the summit. “What if the plane clipped the propeller on the summit as it was flying over it? As many years ago as it went down, that propeller would have moved with the glacier.”

“Where’s the rest of the plane, then?” Remi asked, the icy wind blowing against the fur trimming the hood of her red parka. “Even if the plane was in pieces, you’d think the debris would have traveled together.”

“You’re assuming it crashed on this side of the summit.”

Dietrich and Remi both looked at him in surprise, before Remi said, “But the propeller was found way down here. That’s a long way from the summit.”