the Amber Room

FORTY

Tuesday, May 20, 9:10 a.m.

Paul followed Rachel down the dank shaft to the chamber harboring the three trucks. He'd learned in the shed that McKoy had been underground since 7 A.M. Grumer had yet to appear at the site, which was nothing unusual according to the man on duty, since Grumer rarely appeared before midmorning.

They entered the lit chamber.

He took a moment and studied the three vehicles more closely. In yesterday's excitement there'd been no time for a detailed look. All the headlights, rearview mirrors, and windshields were whole. The barrel-shaped canvas beds were likewise relatively intact. Except for an icing of rust, the flattened tires, and moldy canvas, it was as though the vehicles could have been driven right out of their rocky garage.

Two of the cab doors were open. He glanced inside one. The leather seat was ripped and brittle from decay. The dials and gauges on the instrument panel were silent and still. Not a scrap of paper or anything tangible lay in sight. He found himself wondering where the trucks came from. Had they once transported German troops? Or Jews headed for the camps? Did they bear witness to the Russian advance on Berlin, or the Americans' simultaneous rush from the west? Strange, this surreal sight so deep inside a German mountain.

A shadow flared across the rock wall, revealing movement from the other side of the farthest vehicle.

"McKoy?" he called out.

"Over here."

He and Rachel rounded the trucks. The big man turned to face them.

"These are without a doubt Bussing NAGs. Four-and-half-ton diesels. Twenty feet long. Seven and a half feet wide. Ten feet high." McKoy moved close to a rusted side panel and banged it with his fist. Brownish-red snow fluttered to the sand below, but the metal held. "Solid steel and iron. These things can carry almost seven tons. Slow as hell, though. No more than twenty, twenty-one miles per hour, tops."

"What's the point?" Rachel asked.

"The point, Your Honor, is these damn things weren't used to haul a bunch of paintin's and vases. These were precious. Big haulers. For heavy loads. And the Germans sure didn't just dump 'em in a mine."

"Meaning?" Rachel said.

"This whole thing doesn't make a damn bit of sense." McKoy reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Paul. "I need you to look at this."

He unfolded the sheet and walked close to one of the light bars. It was a memorandum. He and Rachel read it in silence:

GERMAN EXCAVATIONS CORPORATION

6798 Moffat Boulevard

Raleigh, North Carolina 27615

To: Potential Partners

From: Wayland McKoy, CEO

Re: Own a Piece of History and Get a Free Vacation to Germany

German Excavations Corporation is pleased to be a sponsor and partner of the following program along with these contributing companies: Chrysler Motor Company (Jeep Division), Coleman, Eveready, Hewlett-Packard, IBM, Saturn Marine, Boston Electric Tool Company, and Olympus America, Inc.

In the waning days of World War II, a train left Berlin loaded with 1,200 art treasures. It reached the outskirts of the city of Magdeburg and was then diverted southward toward the Harz Mountains and was never seen again. We have an expedition now ready to locate and excavate that train.

Under German law, the rightful owners have ninety days to claim their artworks. Unclaimed works are then put up for auction with 50 percent of the proceeds going to the German government and fifty percent to the expedition and its sponsoring partners. An inventory list of the train can be provided on request. Minimum estimated value of the artwork, $360 million--with 50 percent going to the government. The partners' remaining sum of $180 million will be divided according to units purchased, less art claimed by original owners, less auction fees, taxes, etc.

All the partners' monies will be returned by funds of the presold media rights. All partners and spouses will be our guests in Germany for the expedition. Bottom line: We have found

the proper place. We have the contract. We have the research. We have the media sold. We have the experience and the equipment to effect excavation. German Excavations Corporation has a 45-day permit to dig. So far, the rights to 45 units at $25,000 per unit for the final stage of the expedition (Phase III) have been sold. We have about 10 units left at $15,000 per unit. Please feel free to call me if you're interested in this exciting investment.

Sincerely,

Wayland McKoy

President,

German Excavations Corporation

"That's what I sent to potential investors," McKoy said.

"What do you mean by 'All the partners' monies will be returned by funds of the presold media rights'?" Paul asked McKoy.

"Just what it says. A bunch of companies paid for the rights to film and broadcast what we find."

"But that presupposes you find something. They didn't pay you up front, did they?"

McKoy shook his head. "Shit, no."

"Trouble is," Rachel said, "you didn't say that in the letter. The partners could think, and rightfully so, that you already have the money."

Paul pointed to the second paragraph. " 'We have an expedition ready to excavate that train.' That sounds like you actually found it."

McKoy sighed. "I thought we did. The ground radar said there was somethin' big in here." McKoy motioned to the trucks. "And there damn well is."

"This true about the forty-five units at twenty five thousand dollars each?" Paul asked. "That's $1.25 million."

"That's what I raised. Then I sold the units for the other one hundred fifty thousand. Sixty investors in all."

Paul motioned to the letter. "Partners is what you call them. That's different from investor."

McKoy grinned. "Sounds better."

"Are these other listed companies also investors?"

"They supplied equipment either by donation or at reduced rates. So, in a sense, yes. They don't expect anythin' in return, though."

"You dangled sums like three hundred sixty million dollars, half maybe going to the partners, that can't be true."

"Damn well is. That's what researchers value the Berlin museum stuff."

"Assuming the art can be found," Rachel said. "Your problem, McKoy, is the letter misleads. It could even be construed as fraudulent."

"Since we're going to be so close, why don't you two call me Wayland. And, little lady, I did what was necessary to get the money. I didn't lie to anybody, and I wasn't interested in bilkin' these people. I wanted to dig and that's what I did. I didn't keep a dime, except what they were told I'd get up front."

Paul waited for a rebuke on "little lady," but none came. Instead, Rachel said, "Then you've got another problem. There's not a word in that letter about any hundred-thousand-dollar fee to you."

"They were all told. And, by the way, you're a real ray of sunshine through this storm."

Rachel did not back down. "You need to hear the truth."

"Look, half that hundred thousand went to Grumer for his time and trouble. He was the one who got the permit from the government. Without that, there'd have been no dig. The rest I kept for my time. This trip is costin' me plenty. And I didn't take my cut till the end. Those last units paid me and Grumer, along with our expenses. If I hadn't raised that, I was prepared to borrow it, that's how strong I felt about this venture."

Paul wanted to know, "When are the partners getting here?"

"Twenty-eight with their spouses are due after lunch. That's all that accepted the trips we offered."

He started thinking like a lawyer, studying each word in the letter, analyzing the diction and syntax. Was the proposal fraudulent? Maybe. Ambiguous? Definitely. Should he tell McKoy about Grumer and show him the wallet? Explain about the letters in the sand? McKoy was still an unknown commodity. A stranger. But weren't most clients? Perfect strangers one minute, trusted confidants the next. No. He decided to keep quiet and wait a little longer and see what developed.

Suzanne entered the garni and climbed a marble staircase to the second floor. Grumer had called ten minutes ago and informed her that McKoy and the Cutlers had left for the excavation site. Grumer waited at the end of the second floor hall.

"There," he said. "Room Twenty-one."

She stopped at the door, a slab of paneled oak stained dark, its jamb tattered from time and abuse. The lock was part of the doorknob, a tarnished piece of brass that accepted a regular key. No dead bolt. Lock picking had never been her specialty, so she slipped the letter opener commandeered from the concierge's desk into the jamb and worked the point, easily sliding the latch bolt out of the strike plate.

She opened the door. "Careful with our search. Let's not announce our visit."

Grumer started with the furniture. She moved to the luggage and discovered only one travel bag. She rifled through the clothes--mainly men's--and found no letters. She checked the bathroom. The toiletries were also mainly men's. Then she searched the more obvious places. Under the mattress and bed, on top of the armoire, beneath the drawers in the nightstands.

"The letters are not here," Grumer said.

"Search again."

They did. This time not caring about neatness. When they finished the room was a wreck. But still, no letters. Her patience was running thin. "Get to the site, Herr Doktor, and find those letters or there'll be not one euro paid to you. Understand?"

Grumer seemed to sense she was in no mood and only nodded before leaving.