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“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Shoot us?”
“Remi, see if those nice officers are busy.”
“Politsiya!” Remi called out as the man and woman bolted in the opposite direction. “Hmm. You’d think they’d at least accept our lunch invitation.”
—
“BOTH NAMES ARE ALIASES,” Selma announced later that afternoon. “Their IDs are professional fakes.”
“Who are they?” Sam asked. He’d taken a photo of their IDs before Remi turned over everything to the two officers, reporting their suspicious behavior in a mixture of English and broken Russian. The police declared it a robbery attempt, something Sam and Remi highly doubted.
“According to the information I was able to find,” Selma replied, “your would-be robbers are associated with a Russian crime family run by Tatiana Petrov, who took it over from her father after he was murdered by a rival crime family.”
“What are they known for?” Sam asked.
“According to the newspaper articles I was able to find, drug trafficking, sex trade, the usual.”
“Even I’ve heard of the Petrovs,” Sergei said. “Very bad. I recommend you leave Kaliningrad. They’re worse than your American Mafia.”
“Why us?” Remi asked.
“Because of Durin,” Sam replied. “They have to be part of the group who attacked us at his apartment. It definitely confirms that there are two separate groups after this Romanov Ransom.”
“One more thing,” Selma said. “After going through the bibliography on Andrei’s internet book, I was able to dig up some interesting information on that retired groundskeeper of Königsberg castle. Andrei was right. You’re definitely going to want to interview the man.”
25
The once splendid Königsberg castle had completely burned after the Allied bombing in 1944, leaving only the thick walls. After the war ended, Königsberg was annexed by the Soviet Union, renamed Kaliningrad, and the castle remains were leveled by a government that wanted to erase any reminders of its Prussian past.
It was this last fact that made the presence of a groundskeeper a bit of a surprise—at least in Remi’s mind. There wasn’t much left of the grounds to keep, unless one happened to be an archaeologist. The empty rectangular courtyard was now surrounded by gray boards blocking off the area from the public. A large section of the boarded wall had fallen and a temporary chain-link fence stood in its place, allowing a view into the castle property and, at the far end, the recent excavations.
Sam checked his watch as the three stood on the sidewalk, waiting. “He did say meet here near the parking lot?”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a taxi pulled up. Remi saw a gray-haired man holding a cane get out, pay the driver, then hobble in their direction. “That’s got to be him.”
“Miron Pushkaryov?” Sam asked as he approached.
“You must be the Fargos,” he said with a thick Russian accent. “And Sergei. Forgive me for being late. I stopped by to see Andrei befo
re I came out here.”
“No worries,” Remi said. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”
“But I do worry. Ever since Andrei wrote that book, he’s had many things go wrong. I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were. Therefore, it was necessary to do so in person.” The man placed both hands on the brass head of his cane, eyeing them. “Andrei mentioned what happened to you at the museum. So you see, they’re still watching him. They’re probably watching me. They may even be watching you.”
Sam scanned the vast parking lot that ran the length of the castle grounds, not seeing anything suspicious. “Were you followed here?”
“I hope not.” He gave Remi a thorough appraisal. “Andrei never mentioned how beautiful you are.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Pushkaryov.”
“Merely observant. And, please, call me Miron,” he said, then turned to Sam. “What is it you’re looking for, Mr. Fargo?”
“Information.”
“On?”
“The treasures that might have been stored at Königsberg castle.”
