The Amber Room

THIRTY-ONE

Kehlheim, Germany

11:30 a.m.

Paul glanced in the rearview mirror. A car rapidly approached, its lights flashing and siren hee-hawing. The green-and-white compact, POLIZEI on the doors in blue letters, zoomed past in the opposite lane and disappeared around a bend.

He drove on, entering Kehlheim ten kilometers later.

The quiet village was littered with brightly painted buildings that ringed a cobbled square. He wasn't much of a traveler. Only one trip overseas to Paris two years ago for the museum--a chance to tour the Louvre had been too enticing to pass up. He'd asked Rachel to go with him. She'd refused. Not a good idea for an ex-wife, he remembered her saying. He was never quite sure what she meant, though he sincerely thought she would have liked to go.

He'd been unable to get a flight out of Atlanta until yesterday afternoon, taking the children to his brother's house early in the morning. The lack of a call from Rachel worried him. But he'd not checked the answering machine since 9 A.M. yesterday. His flight was protracted by stops in Amsterdam and Frankfurt, which didn't get him into Munich until two hours ago. He'd cleaned up the best he could in an airport bathroom, but could definitely use a shower, shave, and change of clothes.

He cruised into the town square and parked in front of what appeared to be a grocery market. Bavaria obviously wasn't a Sunday place. All the buildings were closed down. The only activity was centered near the church, whose steeple was the highest point in the village. Parked cars hunched in tight rows across uneven cobbles. A group of older men stood on the church steps talking. Beards, dark coats, and hats predominated. He should have brought a jacket himself, but he'd packed in a hurry with only the essentials.

He walked over. "Excuse me. Any of you speak English?"

One man, seemingly the oldest of the four said, "Ja. A little."

"I'm looking for a man named Danya Chapaev. I understand he lives here."

"Not anymore. Dead now."

He was afraid of that. Chapaev had to have been old. "When did he die?"

"Last night. Killed."

Had he heard right? Killed? Last night? His greatest fear welled up inside him. The question immediately formed in his mind. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Nein. Just Danya."

He remembered the police car. "Where did this happen?"

He motored out of Kehlheim and followed the proffered directions. The house appeared ten minutes later, easy to spot with four police cars angled in front. A uniformed, stone-faced man stood guard at the open front door. Paul approached, but was stopped immediately.

"Nicht eintreten. Kriminelle szene," the policeman said.

"English, please."

"No entrance. Crime scene."

"Then I need to speak to the person in charge."

"I'm in charge," a voice said from inside, the English laced with a guttural German accent.

The man who approached the front doorway was middle-aged. Tufts of unruly black hair crowned a craggy face. A dark blue overcoat draped his thin frame down to the knees, an olive suit and knit tie showing underneath.

"I am Fritz Pannik. Inspector with the federal police. And you?"

"Paul Cutler. A lawyer from the United States."

Pannik brushed past the door guard. "What is a lawyer from America doing here on a Sunday morning?"

"Looking for my ex-wife. She came to see Danya Chapaev."

Pannik cut a look at the policeman.

He noticed the curious expression. "What is it?"

"A woman was asking directions to this house yesterday in Kehlheim. She is a suspect in this murder."

"You have a description?"

Pannik reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a notepad. He flipped open the leather flap. "Medium height. Reddish-blond hair. Big breasts. Jeans. Flannel shirt. Boots. Sunglasses. Hefty."

"That's not Rachel. But it could be somebody else."

He quickly told Pannik about Jo Myers, Karol Borya, and the Amber Room, describing his female visitor as she appeared. Thin, moderately chested, chestnut hair, brown eyes, a pair of octagonal gold frames. "I got the impression the hair wasn't hers. Call it lawyer intuition."

"But she read the letters Chapaev and this Karol Borya sent to one another?"

"Thoroughly."

"Did the envelopes note this location on them?"

"Only the town name."

"Is there more to the story?"

He told the inspector about Christian Knoll, Jo Myers's concerns, and his own.

"And you came to warn your ex-wife?" Pannik asked.

"More to see if she was okay. I should have come with her in the first place."

"But you considered her trip a waste of time?"

"Absolutely. Her father expressly asked her not to get involved." Beyond Pannik's shoulders, two policemen moved about inside. "What happened in there?"

"If you have the stomach, I'll show you."

"I'm a lawyer," he said, as if that meant anything. He didn't mention that he'd never handled a criminal case in his life and had never visited a crime scene before. But curiosity drove him. First Borya dead, now Chapaev murdered. But Karol had fallen down the stairs.

Or had he?

He followed Pannik inside. The warm room carried a peculiar, sickeningly sweet odor. Mystery novels always talked about the smell of death. Was that it?

The house was small. Four rooms. A den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. From what he could see the furniture was old and tattered, yet the place was clean and cozy, the tranquillity shattered by the sight of an old man sprawled across a threadbare carpet, a large splotch of crimson leading from two holes in the skull.

"Shot point-blank," Pannik said.

His eyes were riveted on the corpse. Bile started to rise in his throat. He fought the urge, but to no avail.

He rushed from the room.

He was bent over, retching. The little bit he'd eaten on the plane was now puddled on the damp grass. He took a few deep breaths and got hold of himself.

"Finished?" Pannik asked.

He nodded. "You think the woman did that?"

"I don't know. All I know is that a female asked where Chapaev lived, and the grandson offered to show her the way. They left the marketplace together yesterday morning. The old man's daughter got concerned last night when the boy did not come home. She came over and found the boy tied up in the bedroom. Apparently the woman had a problem killing children, but didn't mind shooting an old man."

"The boy okay?"

"Shook up, but all right. He confirmed the description, but could offer little more. He was in the other room. He remembers hearing voices talking. But he couldn't determine any of the conversation. Then his papa and the woman came in for a moment. They spoke in another language. I tried a few sample words, and it appears they were speaking Russian. Then the old man and the woman left the room. He heard a shot. Silence after that till his mother arrived a few hours later."

"She shot the man square in the head?"

"At close range, too. The stakes must be high."

A policeman walked from inside. "Nichts im haus hinsichtlich des Bernstein-zimmer."

Pannik looked at him. "I had them search the house for anything on the Amber Room. There's nothing there."

A radio crackled from the hip of the German standing guard at the front door. The man slipped the transmitter from his waist, then approached Pannik. In English the policeman said, "I have to go. A call has come for search and rescue. I'm on duty this weekend."

"What's happened?" Pannik asked.

"Explosion in one of the mines near Warthberg. An American woman has been pulled out, but they're still searching for a man. Local authorities have requested our help."

Pannik shook his head. "A busy Sunday."

"Where's Warthberg?" Paul immediately asked.

"In the Harz Mountains. Four hundred kilometers to the north. They sometimes use our Alpine rescue teams when there are mishaps."

Wayland McKoy and Karol's interest in the Harz Mountains flashed through his mind. "An American woman was found? What's her name?"

Pannik seemed to sense the point of the inquiry and turned to the officer. Words passed between them, and the officer talked back into the radio.

Two minutes later, the words came through the speaker: "Die frau ist Rachel Cutler. Amerikanerin."