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?”
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 th
e 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.”
76
The next afternoon, Sam stood outside Dietrich’s bar, talking to Selma on his satellite phone. “You’ve got our list?” Sam asked.
“Already sent it to your flight crew,” Selma said. “They did an inventory check right before they took off from Buenos Aires. I found a store in Mendoza that has the rest of what you need.”
“And the helicopter?”
“I called the company that Dietrich recommended and spoke to the pilot this morning. He’ll pick up the four of you downriver, then fly you into Mendoza from there.”
“And he’s agreed to be on standby?”
“Since he’s based out of Mendoza, he said it wouldn’t be an issue. The only thing that might come up is that his wife’s expecting in the next few weeks. He’ll make arrangements with his brother to take over should she go into labor early.”
“Check that off the list. What else?”
“I heard from Rube,” Selma said. “Tatiana and Viktor have followed Leopold and Rolfe to Buenos Aires. They were seen at the property manager’s office. Leopold knows that you’re looking for Dietrich. He’s on your trail.”
“Not surprising. When we rescued Nando, one of the drug runners got away. Good news travels fast.”
“I’ll give Rube your location. Good luck, Mr. Fargo.”
Sam disconnected, then returned inside the bar, joining Remi and Nando at a table. “Everything’s set,” he told Remi.
“And Nando?” she asked, looking up from the map she’d been studying. “How’s he getting home?”
“We can arrange for a car service once we get to Mendoza.”
“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.”
“Gravity,” Sam said. “Think about it. Clipped at the top, propeller bounces down the summit on this side as the plane continues on its crash course on the other side. That propeller had a lot of years to make it down here. Every time the ice melted, in fact.”
“Good theory, Sam,” Remi said.
“Only if it turns out to be true.”
“It won’t,” Dietrich said. “I’ve been up there. I’ve looked. There’s nothing on the other side.”
“If we’re lucky, you’ve missed something.”
The next day, they climbed to the top of the glacial ridge, and Sam realized not only that Dietrich was right but Sam’s theory was highly flawed. For one, they were staring at sheer cliffs, which held very little snow, and definitely no place that could hide an entire airplane. Two, the plane would have to have been on an upward trajectory to make it over the cliffs of the next ridge, which was higher t
han the one they were currently standing on.
“Next hypothesis,” Remi said.
Sam stared for several seconds longer, then turned back, looking down along the glacier, trying to picture how that propeller could have landed on it. His gaze swung to the high cliffs on their right, and he pictured the plane flying past, clipping it instead. “Maybe we’re wrong about that downward trajectory from here, where we’re standing. What if it was up there?”
The two turned and looked as Sam pointed to the higher cliff on their right. He traced the direction in the air, and they followed along, as he said, “Starboard wing, barely clears that cliff, knocks off the propeller, which lands down here, where we’re standing. Plane continues on its downward spiral . . .” He eyed the cliffs, and ridges beyond the ridge where they stood, noting a few narrow passes that a plane could have hurtled through. “And lands somewhere over there, through the pass on the left.”
“You’re sure about the angle?” Dietrich said. “Because using that theory, depending on exactly which angle the plane was traveling when it hit, any of those passes could be the one. That’s a lot of miles to cover between here and there.”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “And why we have a helicopter and pilot on retainer.”
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?”
The Romanov Ransom Page 28
