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Sam tossed his climbing gear into the back of their Range Rover. “Any chance you wouldn’t mind a slight change of plans . . . ?” He left the question hanging, noting the disappointment on her face.
“We’ve never missed date night at the Lighthouse.”
“Maybe we could mix it up a bit. A week of date nights somewhere else? Like Morocco?” Before she had a chance to respond, he added, “Selma’s family might be in trouble.”
“I love date night in Morocco.”
2
It was late morning, the bright sun shining on the snow-peaked Atlas Mountains in the distance, when Sam and Remi landed in Marrakesh. They rented a black four-wheel-drive Toyota Prado, then drove out to meet Selma’s cousin Albert Hoffler, who was waiting in front of the hotel as they pulled up.
“He looks like Selma,” Remi said as Sam turned the key fob over to the valet. “At least in the eyes.”
In fact, he was also about the same age as Selma, in his fifties, with brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache flecked with gray. His smile seemed strained—understandable, considering the circumstances. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I can’t thank you enough for flying all the way out here.”
“Please. It’s Sam and Remi. Save the formalities for Selma,” Sam said, shaking his hand.
“Cousin Selma’s been that way her whole life.” His smile was fleeting, and he gave a tired sigh. “We can talk over lunch. I’ve reserved us a table.”
He led them through the hotel’s spacious courtyard lobby, with a fountain and reflecting pool in the center. The restaurant was on the far side, the tables overlooking the pool. When they were seated, he said, “How much has Selma told you?”
Sam replied, “Something about a voice mail you received while the boys were here working on the documentary. And that you haven’t gotten much cooperation from the authorities.”
“It’s not that they’re not cooperating, more that they have nothing to go on. The truth is, they’re not officially missing yet, since they’re not due back for a day or so. But after that voice mail . . .”
“What can you tell us?” Sam asked.
“They landed here after finishing up in Spain, documenting the lines of escape taken by some high-ranking Nazi officers who were fleeing to South America. I believe this is the project you were funding. They were looking for shipping records in Casablanca but got sidetracked after hearing a legend about a Nazi pilot rescued after the war. Apparently, he’d parachuted from the plane before it crashed, wandered the desert for days, and was rambling on about a map.”
Sam noticed Remi perk up at the mention. Maps intrigued her. “What was it of?” she asked.
“That’s just it. Nobody knows if the story’s even real. The boys thought it might be a map of the ratline route. Naturally, they wanted it for their documentary. They left Casablanca for Marrakesh, and, from there, to a few villages located below the Atlas Mountains, to determine where the legend originated from and who knew of it. The last I heard, they were following a very promising lead on locating the plane. I’ve called their cell phones but it goes straight to voice mail, and they haven’t called back. The hotel staff here has been very gracious, letting me into their room to look for anything that might help. Their suitcases, extra cameras and equipment are there, but their backpacks and climbing gear are gone. They’re excellent climbers.” He stopped to thank the waiter who poured water infused with mint leaves into their glasses. When they were alone again, he said, “Their rooms are booked until the end of the week, and the hotel manager feels that if they don’t return by then, he would be more concerned. They told him they were going to be gone for a while.”
“How long ago was this?” Sam asked.
“He thinks about five days. I know what you’re thinking. They said they were going to be gone. But if you’d heard that message . . .”
“Do you have it?”
“I can play it for you. I think their reception was poor. Some of it cuts out. It’s in German, though.”
“Remi speaks German.”
He took out his cell phone, pulled up the voice mail message, then hit PLAY, laying it on the table.
They leaned in close to listen. Remi asked him to play it a second time so that she could write it down for Sam. “We found it! The plane! At camel . . . not sure. Shooting at . . . Maybe someone . . . out there . . . days.”
“You hear the excitement?” Albert asked her.
“Or panic,” Remi said.
“Panic. That’s what I meant. And why I came. With the spotty reception, who knows what really happened.”
Sam asked, “When did this message come in?”
“Maybe two days after they left the hotel for the trip to the mountains.” He picked up the phone, giving a ragged sigh. “That’s the last I heard from them.” He looked away a moment, his gaze drifting to the lobby. Suddenly, he stiffened. “That’s who they were with! I’m sure of it!”
“What?”
