the Amber Room

FIFTEEN

Suzanne Danzer watched through the window and heard the crack as Knoll snapped the old man's neck. She saw the body go limp, the head left at an unnatural angle.

Knoll then shoved Borya aside and kicked the man's chest.

She'd picked up Knoll's trail this morning, after arriving in Atlanta on a flight from Prague. His actions so far had been predictable, and she initially located him as he cruised the neighborhood on a scouting mission. Any competent Acquisitor always studied the landscape first, making sure a lead was not a trap.

And if Knoll was anything, he was good.

He'd stayed downtown in his hotel most of the day, and she'd followed him earlier when he first visited Borya. But instead of returning to his hotel, Knoll waited in a car three blocks over and then backtracked to the house after dark. She'd watched as he entered through a rear door, the entrance apparently unlocked as the knob turned on the first try.

Obviously, the old man had been uncooperative. Knoll's temper was legendary. He'd tossed Borya down the stairs as casually as one tossed paper into the trash, then snapped the neck with apparent pleasure. She respected her adversary's talents, knew of the stiletto he sported on his forearm and his unhesitating ability to use it.

But she was not without talents of her own.

Knoll stood and looked around.

Her vantage point provided a clear view. The black jumpsuit and black cap she wore over her blond hair helped blend her into the night. The room the window opened into, a front parlor, was unlit.

Did he sense her?

She shrank below the sill into the tall hollies surrounding the house, careful with the prickly leaves. The night was warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead at the edge of the cap's elastic. She cautiously edged back up and saw Knoll disappear up the stairs. Six minutes later he returned, his hands empty, his jacket was once again smooth, his tie perfect. She watched as he bent down and checked Borya's pulse and then moved toward the back of the house. A few seconds later she heard a door open and close.

She waited ten minutes before creeping around to the rear of the house. With gloved hands, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and old age lingered in the air. She crossed the kitchen and headed toward the foyer.

In the dining room a cat suddenly bisected her path. She stopped, her heart pounding, and cursed the creature.

She sucked in a breath and entered the den.

The decor hadn't changed since her last visit, three years ago. The same hand-tufted camelback sofa, chiming wall clock, and iron Cambridge lamps. The lithographs on the wall had initially intrigued her. She'd wondered if any might be originals, but a close inspection last time revealed all to be copies. She'd broken in one evening after Borya left, her search revealing nothing on the Amber Room other than some magazine and newspaper reports. Nothing of any value. If Karol Borya knew anything of substance on the Amber Room, he certainly hadn't written it down or did not keep the information in his house.

She bypassed the body in the foyer and mounted the stairs. Another quick check in the study revealed nothing except that Borya had apparently been reading some of the Amber Room material recently. Several articles were strewn across the same tan chair she remembered from before.

She crept back downstairs.

The old man lay facedown. She tried for a pulse. None.

Good.

Knoll saved her the trouble.