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“You mean the treasures that were taken from the castle after the bombing?”
“Precisely,” Sam said. “What is it you know?”
“Only what my grandfather told me. The most valuable treasures were kept belowground, out of the public eye. They survived the Allied bombing and remained there up until Hitler ordered their removal.”
“The Amber Room?” Remi asked. “Any chance it survived and was moved?”
“We can always hope. Unfortunately, recent excavations of the subterranean levels have turned up bits of amber . . .” He nodded toward the castle grounds, his smile bittersweet. “Still, being that my grandfather told me tales of a line of trucks waiting in the courtyard to be loaded at the end of the war, one never knows. Perhaps they got the Amber Room out in time. But I was under the impression that you were interested in something else entirely.”
“We are,” Sam said. “Have you heard of the Romanov Ransom?”
“Of it, yes. What was in it . . . ?” He shrugged. “I don’t precisely know.”
“Is there anything you can tell us?” Remi asked.
“A bit. My grandfather remembered seeing Nazi officers loading crates from the castle onto numerous trucks one night. Two officers inspected each truck, then removed four smaller chests from one. They opened the chests to see what they contained, then carried them to a different vehicle. The last truck in the line.”
He stared through the chain-link toward the excavation site, taking a deep breath, then letting out a sigh. “So long ago . . . My grandfather used to bring me here when I was a boy, telling me what the castle looked like before the war. The pictures. They don’t do it justice.” He lifted his cane, pointing with it. “Over there, you can see the fence surrounding the excavation where some of the treasure was believed to have been stored. And over there is where the trucks pulled up and the men loaded everything from the castle’s remains. I loved hearing the tale from my grandfather.” His soft smile faded when he looked back at them. “As a boy, I dreamed of following the trail that my grandfather had seen on their map. I was going to find the treasure.”
“Map?” Remi asked.
“I assumed that’s why you were here. You had to have found the map.”
A loud screeching of tires caught their attention. Sam spun around as a blue sedan sped through the adjoining parking lot toward them. Bright sunlight glinted off the black-tinted windows as the car slowed and the rear window rolled down—and someone pointed a handgun in their direction.
26
Get down!” Sam yelled.
He grabbed Miron, pulling him behind a parked delivery van. Remi and Sergei dove behind a Fiat as the first shot was fired. A second shot ricocheted off the ground just a few inches from Sam’s leg. The car sped off, its tires squealing on the pavement as it whipped around the corner. Sam peered around the side of the van. The gunman’s car sped through the parking lot, the back end fishtailing as the driver whipped it around for a second pass.
Sam helped Miron to his feet. “We need to find cover.”
“The excavations,” Miron said as Sergei supported him from the other side. They reached the chain-link fence that surrounded it. Plywood and tin walls encompassed the perimeter, but the gate was open for the workers, who were climbing up from the dig site to see what was going on.
Sam looked back, saw the blue car stopping near the gate. The gunman in the backseat threw open the door, about to follow, when the high-low whine of police sirens sent him scurrying back. The car sped off as the police arrived just in time to give chase.
“That was close,” Remi said.
Miron gripped his cane, his hand shaking. “I suggest we get out of here before the police come back. Unless you don’t mind being questioned for hours about why someone was shooting at us.”
“I like your way of thinking,” Sam said. They’d already dealt with the police that morning after the incident at the museum. Having their names come up again was likely to result in a lot more red tape and valuable time lost.
“Where to?” Sergei asked, pulling the keys from his pocket.
“My house, if you don’t mind. It’ll save me a taxi ride.”
It took about twenty minutes. Sergei drove while Sam, gun in hand, kept an eye on the side mirror and on every car they passed. Finally, they pulled up to an ivy-covered gabled house on a cobbled road. A brick walk led to Miron’s front door, which he unlocked, allowing them in. After locking the door behind them, he leaned his brass-headed cane against the wall, then took off his gloves, scarf, and hat. “I’ll turn on the heater to take the chill off. Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, crossing the room to the thermostat.
“Earlier,” Sam said, “you mentioned something about a map? You assumed that’s why we were here.”
“The map . . . Yes.” Miron tapped the button and the heater kicked on, bringing with it the scent of burnt dust, leading Sam to believe that he didn’t run it all that often. Judging from the peeling paint and general state of disrepair, Sam gathered that money was tight. “Rather a long story, so perhaps you should take a seat.” He directed them to sit at a round, scarred mahogany table, protected, oddly enough, with a glass top, which did nothing to hide the markings and gouges on the surface.
“According to my grandfather, the map—I’m assuming it’s the same one you found—showed the route they were plotting for the trucks to take the treasure that had been stored up until then at Königsberg castle.”
“There wasn’t a route drawn on the map we found,” Sam said. “Königsberg was circled, but that was it.”
“If I’m not mistaken, the route was actually traced onto paper from the original map.”
