The Amber Room

TWENTY-SIX

Kehlheim, Germany

Saturday, May 17, 8:05 a.m.

Suzanne made good time. She'd left Paul Cutler's office yesterday and immediately flew to New York, where she caught the Concorde leaving at 6:30 for Paris. Arriving a little after 10 P.M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1 A.M. She'd managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Forggensee, east of Fussen.

The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake's east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a rambling marktplatz surrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze.

She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market. The air reeked of raw meat, damp produce, and spent tobacco. She strolled through the melange swarming with summer sojourners. Children played in noisy groups. Hammer blows echoed in the distance. An older man at one of the booths, with silver hair and an angled nose, caught her attention. He wasn't far from the age Danya Chapaev should be. She approached and admired his apples and cherries.

"Beautiful fruit," she said in German.

"My own," the older man said.

She bought three apples, smiled broadly, and warmed to him. Her image was perfect. Reddish-blond wig, fair skin, hazel eyes. Her breasts were enhanced two sizes by a pair of external silicone inserts. She'd padded her hips and thighs, as well, the fitted jeans two sizes larger to accommodate the manufactured bulk. A plaid flannel shirt and tan prairie boots rounded out the disguise. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, dark, but not enough to draw attention. Later, eyewitnesses would surely describe a busty, heavyset blonde.

"Do you know where Danya Chapaev lives?" she finally asked. "He's an old man. Lived here awhile. A friend of my grandfather. I came to deliver a present but lost directions to where he lives. I only found the village by luck."

The older man shook his head. "How careless, Fraulein."

She smiled, soaking in the rebuke. "I know. But I'm like that. My mind stays a thousand miles away."

"I don't know where a Chapaev lives. I'm from Nesselwang, to the west. But let me get someone from here."

Before she could stop him, he yelled to another man across the square. She didn't want to draw too much attention to her inquiry. The two men spoke in French, a language she wasn't overly proficient in, but she caught an occasional word here and there. Chapaev. North. Three kilometers. Near the lake.

"Eduard knows Chapaev. Says he lives north of town. Three kilometers. Right beside the lakeshore. That road there. Small stone chalet with a chimney."

She smiled and nodded at the information, then heard the man from across the square call out, "Julius! Julius!"

A boy of about twelve scampered toward the stall. He had light brown hair and a cute face. The vendor spoke to the lad, then the boy ran toward her. Behind, a flock of ducks sprang from the lake, up into the milky morning sky.

"You looking for Chapaev?" the boy asked. "That's my grandpapa. I can show you."

His young eyes scanned her breasts. Her smile broadened. "Then lead the way."

Men of all ages were so easy to manipulate.