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Sam slid the strap from his shoulder, holding up the leather pouch so Remi could see. It measured about eight inches wide and ten inches long. A steel buckle secured the front flap. The leather was dry and cracked, with embedded traces of red dirt. When he unbuckled it, it cracked even more, bits of dried leather dust drifting to the tabletop. Considering the number of years it had been sitting in the wreckage of that plane under varying temperatures, it was in surprisingly good condition.
“Look at that,” Remi said as Sam lifted the flap. She pointed to a name written in ink on the inside. Lennard Lambrecht.
“Wonder if he was the pilot.”
The front of the pouch had a space for pencils and a compass. The main compartment was divided into two. One side held a folded map and two posted letters. The other side held a small pale yellow tin about two inches square.
“That’s it?” Remi asked, picking up the tin and opening it. Inside was a perfectly preserved World War II–era typewriter ribbon.
“So it would seem.” He turned the bag upside down and shook it. Bits of yellowed, almost translucent paper fell out. A few pieces seemed to have pencil marks on them. When he picked one up, it disintegrated into even more pieces.
“A bit disappointing, considering.” She took the spool of typewriter ribbon, unwinding it. “Maybe a secret message wound up inside?”
“Worth a look.” He opened the map and spread it out on the bed. Someone had penciled a circle around the city of Königsberg. He sifted through his knowledge of World War II. The Allies and Russia had bombed Königsberg near the end of the war. Other than that, he couldn’t say why it might be significant. He looked over the letters, noting they were addressed to C. Eburhardt. At least the letters had survived, he thought, handing them to Remi. “Don’t suppose you can read any of this?”
She rewound the ribbon, then looked them over. “Definitely German . . . Some are . . . garbled, almost. The sentence structure doesn’t make sense. Maybe Selma can make something out of it.” Selma was their go-to for all things needing to be researched. In her mid-fifties and Hungarian-born, she was also multilingual. If she couldn’t come up with a translation, she knew someone who could.
“Let’s get pictures of everything,” Sam said. He and Remi photographed the items from all angles before making a video call to Selma. She answered from her computer, looking at them through her dark-framed glasses.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Good to hear from you. Back from your expedition? Anything exciting?”
“Interesting date night,” he told her. “More important, someone got to the plane before us, which brings me to my point. Assuming we have the full story here, the only thing found at the site of the downed plane beside the logbook pictures we sent was a leather courier bag containing a typewriter tin with a ribbon, map, and two posted letters dated nineteen forty-five. They look to be written in German, but Remi thinks something’s odd about them. You should have photos in your email now.”
As Selma looked down at her keyboard and typed, the desk lamp highlighted the spikes of her short hair that she’d recently started dying a subtle shade of blue and pink—something they attributed to her burgeoning romance with Professor Lazlo Kemp, who, because of his knack at cryptology, also worked for the Fargos. She nodded. “Right here. Where do you want me to start?”
“Translation, to start,” Sam said. “See if it has anything to do with the map. We’ve got an errand to run, so we’ll get back to you later.”
“Anything I should be aware of?” she asked Sam.
“Other than Zakaria being kidnapped, and breaking into a building to steal the courier bag being used as ransom to pay the kidnappers? Can’t think of anything.”
Remi leaned in, saying, “Unless you count the guy Sam killed and the bullet holes in that Toyota we rented.”
Selma eyed them over the top of her glasses, then focused on Sam. “That’s it?”
“Night’s still young, Selma.”
“Let me know if you need the cavalry sent in.”
“Will do.”
Sam disconnected. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, texting Zakaria’s phone.
I have the bag. Call for delivery.
The phone rang less than a minute later. “What took you so long?” the kidnapper asked.
“Having to dodge a few of your gunmen, for one.”
“What kind of fool do you take me for? My men are right here.”
“You’re saying you didn’t send anyone?”
“If we’d known where to go, we wouldn’t have needed a hostage, would we?”
Couldn’t argue with that. But if they weren’t the only ones looking for this thing, who else was? “Where do you want me to take it?”