the Amber Room

TEN

Knoll followed Monika across the castle's ground floor to the collection hall. The space consumed the better part of the northwest tower and was divided into a public room, where Fellner displayed his notable and legal items, and the secret room, where only he, Fellner, and Monika ventured.

They entered the public hall and Monika locked the heavy wooden doors behind them. Lighted cases stood in rows like soldiers at attention and displayed a variety of precious objects. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Frescoes adorned the ceiling with images depicting Moses giving laws to the people, the building of Babel, and the translation of the Septuagint.

Fellner's private study was off the north wall. They entered, and Monika strolled across the parquet to a row of bookcases, all inlaid oak and gilded in heavy baroque style. He knew the volumes were all collectibles. Fellner loved books. His ninth-century Beda Venerabilis was the oldest and most valuable he possessed, Knoll had been lucky enough to find a stash in a French parish rectory a few years back, the priest more than willing to part with them in return for a modest contribution to both the church and himself.

Monika withdrew a black controller from her jacket pocket and clicked the button. The center bookcase slowly revolved on its axis. White light spilled from a room beyond. Franz Fellner was standing amidst a long windowless space, the gallery cleverly hidden between the junction of two grand halls. High-pitched ceilings and the castle's oblong shape provided more architectural camouflage. Its thick stone walls were all soundproofed and a special handler filtered the air.

More collection cases stood in staggered rows, each illuminated by carefully placed halogen lights. Knoll wove a path through the cases, noticing some of the acquisitions. A jade sculpture he'd stolen from a private collection in Mexico, not a problem since the supposed owner had likewise stolen it from the Jalapa City Museum. A number of ancient African, Eskimo, and Japanese figurines retrieved from an apartment in Belgium, war loot thought long destroyed. He was especially proud of the Gauguin sculpture off to the left, an exquisite piece he'd liberated from a thief in Paris.

Paintings adorned the walls. A Picasso self-portrait. Correggio's Holy Family. Botticelli's Portrait of a Lady. Durer's Portrait of Maximillian I. All originals, thought lost forever.

The remaining stone wall was draped in two enormous Gobelin tapestries, looted by Hermann Goring during the war, recovered from another supposed owner two decades ago, and still hotly sought by the Austrian government.

Fellner stood beside a glass case containing a thirteenth-century mosaic depicting Pope Alexander IV. He knew it to be one of the old man's favorites. Beside him was the enclosure with the Faberge match case. A tiny halogen light illuminated the strawberry-red enamel. Fellner had obviously polished the piece. He knew how his employer liked to personally prepare each treasure, more insurance to prevent strange eyes from seeing his acquisitions.

Fellner was a lean hawk of a man with a craggy face the color of concrete and emotions to match. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that framed suspicious eyes. Surely, Knoll had often thought, they once bore the bright-eyed look of an idealist. Now they carried the pallor of a man approaching eighty, who'd built an empire from magazines, newspapers, television, and radio, but lost interest in making money after crossing the multibillion-dollar mark. His competitive nature was currently channeled into other, more private ventures. Activities where men with lots of money and limitless nerve could superachieve.

Fellner yanked a copy of the International Daily News off the collection case and thrust it forward. "You want to tell me why this was necessary?" The voice bore the rasp of a million cigarettes.

He knew the newspaper was one of Fellner's corporate possessions, and that a computer in the outer study was fed daily with articles from around the world. The death of a wealthy Italian industrialist was certainly something that would catch the old man's eye. At the bottom of the front page was the article:

Pietro Caproni, 58, founder of Due Mori Industries was found in his northern Italian estate yesterday with a fatal knife wound in the chest. Also found stabbed to death was Carmela Terza, 27, identification at the scene listing her residence as Venice. Police found evidence of a forced entry from a ground-floor door but have so far discovered nothing missing from the villa. Caproni was retired from Due Mori, the conglomerate he built into one of Italy's premier producers of wool and ceramics. He remained active as a major shareholder and consultant, and his death leaves a void in the company.

Fellner interrupted his reading. "We've had this discussion before. You've been warned to indulge your peculiarities on your own time."

"It was necessary, Herr Fellner."

"Killing is never necessary, if you do your job correctly."

He glanced over at Monika, who was watching with apparent amusement. "Signor Caproni intruded on my visit. He was waiting for me. He'd become suspicious from my previous trip. Which I made, if you recall, at your insistence."

Fellner seemed to immediately get the message. The older man's face softened. He knew his employer well.

"Signor Caproni did not want to share the match case without a fight. I simply obliged, concluding you desired the piece regardless. The only alternative was to leave without it and risk exposure."

"The signor did not offer the opportunity to leave? After all, he couldn't very well telephone the police."

He thought a lie better than the truth. "The signor actually wanted to shoot me. He was armed."

Fellner said, "The newspaper makes no mention of that."

"Evidence of the press's unreliability," he said with a smile.

"And what of the whore?" Monika said. "She armed, too?"

He turned toward her. "I was unaware you harbored such sympathy for working women. She understood the risks, I'm sure, when she agreed to become involved with a man like Caproni."

Monika stepped closer. "You fuck her?"

"Of course."

Fire lit her eyes. But she said nothing. Her jealousy was almost as amusing as it was surprising. Fellner broke the moment, conciliatory as always.

"Christian, you retrieved the match case. I appreciate that. But killing does nothing but draw attention. That's the last thing we desire. What if your semen is traced by DNA?"

"There was no semen other than the signor's. Mine was in her stomach."

"What about fingerprints?"

"I wore gloves."

"I realize you are careful. For that I'm grateful. But I am an old man who merely wants to pass what I have accumulated to my daughter. I do not desire to see any of us in jail. Am I clear?"

Fellner sounded exasperated. They'd had this discussion before, and he genuinely hated disappointing him. His employer had been good to him, generously sharing the wealth they'd meticulously accumulated. In many ways he was more like a father than Jakob Knoll had ever been. Monika, though, was nothing like a sister.

He noticed the look in her eyes. The talk of sex and death was surely arousing. Most likely she'd visit his room later.

"What did you find in St. Petersburg?" Fellner finally asked.

He reported the references to yantarnaya komnata, then showed both of them the sheets he'd stolen from the archives. "Interesting the Russians were still inquiring about the Amber Room, even recently. This Karol Borya, though, `Yxo, is somebody new."

"Ears?" Fellner spoke perfect Russian. "A strange designation."

Knoll nodded. "I think a trip to Atlanta may be worth the effort. Perhaps `Yxo is still alive. He might know where Chapaev is. He was the only one I did not find five years ago."

"I would think the reference to Loring is also further corroboration, " Fellner said. "That's twice you have found his name. The Soviets were apparently quite interested in what Loring was doing."

Knoll knew the history. The Loring family dominated the Eastern European steel and arms market. Ernst Loring was Fellner's main rival in collecting. He was a Czech, the son of Josef Loring, possessed of an air of superiority bred since youth. Like Pietro Caproni, a man definitely accustomed to having his way.

"Josef was a determined man. Ernst, unfortunately, did not inherit his father's character. I wonder about him," his employer said. "Something has always troubled me about him--that irritating cordiality he thinks I accept." Fellner turned to his daughter. "What about it, liebling? Should Christian head for America?"

Monika's face stiffened. At these moments she was most like her father. Inscrutable. Guarded. Furtive. Certainly, in the years ahead, she'd do him proud. "I want the Amber Room."

"And I want it for you, liebling. I've searched forty years. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've never understood how tons of amber could simply vanish." Fellner turned toward him. "Go to Atlanta, Christian. Find Karol Borya, this ` Yxo. See what he knows."

"You realize that if Borya is dead we are out of leads. I have checked the depositories in Russia. Only the one in St. Petersburg has any information of note."

Fellner nodded.

"The clerk in St. Petersburg is certainly on someone's payroll. He was once again attentive. That's why I kept the sheets."

"Which was wise. I'm sure Loring and I are not the only ones interested in yantarnaya komnata. What a find that would be, Christian. You'd almost want to tell the world."

"Almost. But the Russian government would want it returned, and if found here, the Germans would surely confiscate. It would make an excellent bargaining chip for the return of treasure the Soviets carted away."

"That's why we need to find it," Fellner said.

He leveled his gaze. "Not to mention the bonus you promised."

The old man chuckled. "Quite right, Christian. I have not forgotten."

"Bonus, Father?"

"Ten million euros. I promised years ago."

"And I'll honor it," Monika made clear.

Damn right she would, Knoll thought.

Fellner stepped from the display case. "Ernst Loring is surely looking for the Amber Room. He could well be the benefactor of that technocrat in St. Petersburg. If so, he knows about Borya. Let's not delay on this, Christian. You need to stay a step ahead."

"I intend to."

"Can you handle Suzanne?" the old man quizzed, a mischievous smile on his gaunt face. "She will be aggressive."

He noticed Monika openly bristle at the mention. Suzanne Danzer worked for Ernst Loring. Highly educated and possessed of a determined intent that could be lethal if necessary, only two months back she'd raced him across southwestern France looking for a pair of nineteenth-century jeweled Russian wedding crowns. More "beautiful loot" hidden away for decades by poachers. Danzer had won that race, finding the crowns with an old woman in the Pyrenees near the Spanish border. The woman's husband had liberated them from a Nazi collaborator after the war. Danzer had been unrelenting in securing the prize, a trait he greatly admired.

"I would expect no less of her," he said.

Fellner extended his hand. "Good hunting, Christian."

He accepted the gesture, then turned to leave, heading for the far wall. A rectangle parted in the stone as the bookcase on the other side swung open again.

"And keep me informed," Monika called out.