Mystery of the Amber Room

Chapter 27

In Riga, Latvia, Klaus, and his small crew moored for the next leg of their journey. There was little time to get everything ready for the acquisition and transport of the Amber Room panels. There was not much time to waste, and Kemper was a very impatient man. He barked orders out on the deck while Sam listened from his steel prison. Kemper's choice of words hounded Sam immensely — hive — the thought made him shudder, but more so because he did not know what Kemper was up to and that was enough reason for emotional turmoil.

Sam had to concede; he was afraid. Plain and simple, image and self-respect aside, he was terrified of what was coming. Based on the little information he had been given, it already felt like he was doomed beyond salvation this time. Many times before he had escaped what he had feared to be certain death, but this time felt different.

‘You can’t give up, Cleave,’ he scolded himself from the pit of depression and hopelessness. ‘This defeatist shit is not for the likes of you. What harm could possibly trump the hell on board of that teleporting ship you were trapped on? Do they even have the slightest idea of the things you endured while it made its hellish voyage over and over through the same traps of physics?' But when Sam gave his own coaching some thought, he soon realized that he could not remember what happened on the DKM Geheimnis during his detention there. What he did recall was the deep despair it cultivated deep in his soul, the only remnant of the whole affair he could still consciously feel.

Above him, he could hear the men unload heavy equipment onto what must have been some large heavy-duty vehicle. Had he not known better, Sam would have guessed it was a tank. Rapid footsteps approached the door of his room.

‘Now or never,’ he told himself, gathering his courage to make an escape attempt. If he could manipulate those coming to get him, he could make his way off the boat stealthily. The locks clicked from the outside. His heart pounded wildly as he got ready to pounce. When the door opened, Klaus Kemper himself stood in it, smiling. Sam lunged forward to tackle the loathsome captor. Klaus uttered, “24-58-68-91.”

Sam's attack instantly ended, and he fell to the floor at the feet of his target. A deep scowl painted Sam's brow with confusion and fury, but as much as he tried, he could not move a muscle. All he could hear above his bare and bruised frame was the triumphant snickering of a very dangerous man who harbored deadly information.

“I tell you what, Mr. Cleave,” Kemper said in that tone of annoying tranquility. “Because you have shown so much determination I will fill you in on what just happened to you. But!” he patronized like a forthcoming teacher bestowing mercy on a transgressing student. “But…you have to agree to give me no more reasons to have to worry about your relentless and ridiculous efforts at fleeing my company. Let's just call it… professional courtesy. You cease your childish behavior and in turn, I will grant you the interview of the ages.”

“I am sorry. I don't interview swines,” Sam retorted. “Your kind will never get any publicity from me, so go fuck yourself.”

“And again, here is where I will give you one more chance to rethink your counterproductive behavior,” Klaus repeated with a sigh. “In plain language — I will trade your compliance for information only I hold. Do you journalists not crave the… how do you say? Scoop?”

Sam held his tongue; not because he was obstinate, but because he was giving the proposition some thought. ‘What harm could it do to make this prick believe you are playing nice? He is planning to kill you anyway. You might as well learn more about the riddle you have been dying to solve thus far,’ he reckoned. ‘Besides, it is better than parading around with your bagpipe for all to see while you get pummeled by the enemy. Take it. Just take it for now.’

“If I get my clothes back you have a deal. Although I believe you deserve the punishment of looking on something you apparently don't have much of, I really prefer to wear pants in this cold,” Sam mocked him.

Klaus had become used to the journalist's incessant insults, so he was not easily offended anymore. Once he noticed that verbal piss-taking was Sam Cleave’s defense system, it was easy to let it roll off, if not to return the favor. “Sure. I'll let you blame the cold for that,” he retorted, pointing at Sam's obviously shy genitals.

Without relishing the effect of his counter-slur, Kemper turned and called for Sam's clothing to be returned to him. He was allowed to clean up, dress, and join Kemper in his SUV. From Riga they would be leading the way over two borders toward Ukraine, followed by a mammoth military tactical vehicle carrying a container specially designed for transporting the valuable remaining panels of the Amber Room to be recovered by Sam's associates.

“Impressive,” Sam told Kemper as he joined the Black Sun commander outside the local boat yard. Kemper was overseeing the transfer of the large Perspex container, maneuvered by two hydraulic arms from the lean deck of the Polish ocean vessel onto the huge cargo truck. “What kind of vehicle is this?” he asked, examining the enormity of the hybrid truck as he strolled along its side.

“It is a prototype by Enrick Hubsch, a gifted engineer from our ranks,” Kemper bragged as he accompanied Sam. “We modeled it on the American made Ford XM656 cargo vehicle from the late 1960's. However, in true German fashion, we improved it vastly by extending the original design with 10 meters more flatbed space and reinforced tensile steel welded along the axles, see?”

Proudly Kemper pointed out the construction above the powerful tires paired along the stretch of the vehicle. “The spacing of the wheels is expertly calculated to bear the exact weight of the container with structural leniency to permit the inevitable rocking brought on by a rocking water tank, so stabilizing the truck while driving.”

“And what is the giant aquarium for, exactly?” Sam asked as they watched the enormous box of water being hoisted onto the back of the military grade cargo monster. Thick bulletproof exterior Perspex was joined at each of the four corners by angled copper plates. The water flowed freely through twelve narrow compartments which were framed in copper as well.

Running along the width of the cube, the slots were prepared for one single amber panel to be inserted in each of them and kept separate from the next. As Kemper explained the contraption and its purpose, Sam could not help but wonder obsessively about the incident in the door of his holding quarters on the boat an hour before. He was eager to remind Kemper to disclose what he had promised, but for now, he tempered their tumultuous relationship by playing along.

“Is there some chemical compound in the water?” he asked Kemper.

“No, just water,” the German commander answered plainly.

Sam shrugged, “So what is this plain water for? What does it do to the Amber Room's panels?”

Kemper smiled. “Think of it as a containment measure.”

Sam locked eyes with him and asked nonchalantly, “To contain, say, a swarm from a hive of sorts?”

“How melodramatic,” Kemper replied, his arms folded confidently across his chest as the men secured the container with cable and cloth. “But you are not altogether wrong, Mr. Cleave. It is just a precaution. I do not dabble in risk unless I have considerable alternatives.”

“Noted,” Sam nodded affably.

Together they watched Kemper's men complete the loading process, neither engaging in conversation. Inside his mind, Sam wished he could tap into Kemper's thoughts, but not only could he not read minds, but the Nazi spin doctor already knew Sam's secret — and evidently more to boot. It would be superfluous to pry covertly. Something peculiar struck Sam about the way in which the small crew was laboring. There was no specific foreman, yet each man moved as if governed by particular commands to assure that their respective tasks were executed fluently and concluded at the same time. It was uncanny how they moved swiftly, efficiently and without any verbal exchange.

“Come, Mr. Cleave,” Kemper urged. “It is time to go. We have two countries to cross and very little time. With a cargo this delicate we cannot traverse the Latvian and Belarusian landscape in less than 16 hours.”

“Holy crap! How bored are we going to be?” Sam exclaimed, already fatigued by the prospect. “I don’t even have a magazine. Better yet, with a trip this long I could probably read through the entire Bible!”

Kemper laughed, clapping his hands in amusement as they climbed into the beige SUV. “Now reading that would be a colossal waste of time. It would be like reading contemporary fiction to determine the history of the Mayan civilization!”

They shifted into the back of the vehicle, which waited ahead of the cargo truck to lead it along a secondary route to the Latvia/ Belarus border. Once they started moving at a snail's pace, the luxurious interior of the car started filling with cool air to alleviate the midday heat, accompanied by soft classical music.

“I hope you don't mind Mozart,” Kemper said purely out of propriety.

“Not at all,” Sam accepted the formality. “Although I am more of an ABBA man myself.”

Once again Kemper was highly amused at Sam's entertaining indifference. “Really? You play!”

“I do not,” Sam insisted. “There is something irresistible to Swedish retro pop with one’s impending death on the menu, you know.”

“If you say so,” Kemper shrugged. He got the hint, but he was not in a hurry to entertain Sam Cleave’s curiosity on the subject at hand. He knew full well that the journalist was shocked by the inadvertent reaction his body exhibited when he attacked. Another fact he kept from Sam was the information pertinent to Kalihasa and the fate that awaited him.

While traveling through the remainder of Latvia, the two men hardly spoke. Kemper had his laptop computer open, mapping strategic locations for unknown purposes Sam could not spy from his seat. But he knew it had to be nefarious — and it had to involve his part in the insidious agenda of the sinister commander. For his own part, Sam refrained from prying about the pressing matters on his mind, electing to spend the time relaxing. After all, he was almost certain he would not get the chance to do it again anytime soon.

After crossing the border into Belarus, things changed. Kemper offered Sam a drink for the first time since they had left Riga, having tested the endurance of body and will of the investigative journalist who was so highly regarded in the United Kingdom. Sam accepted readily, receiving a sealed can of Coca-Cola. Kemper took one as well, putting Sam at ease about being duped into drinking a laced beverage.

“Prost!” Sam said before emptying a quarter of the can in one big gulp, relishing the bubbly burn of the drink. Of course, Kemper drank his steadily, retaining his refined composure at all times. “Klaus,” Sam unexpectedly addressed his captor. Now that his thirst was quenched, he had summoned his courage. “The numbers trick if you please.”

Kemper knew he owed Sam an explanation. After all, the Scottish journalist was not going to survive past the next day anyway, and he was rather tolerable. A pity that he was going to meet his end by suicide.