The Amber Room

FORTY-NINE

Nebra, Germany

2:10 p.m.

Knoll sat in the silence of a tiny hotel room and thought about die Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitaten, the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were nine of the wealthiest men in Europe. Most were industrialists, but there were two financiers, a land baron, and one doctor among its current membership. Men with little to do except search the world for stolen treasure. Most of them were well-known private collectors, and their interests varied: old Masters. Contemporary. Impressionist. African. Victorian. Surrealist. Neolithic. Diversity was what made the club interesting. It also defined specific territories where a member's Acquisitor concentrated his or her collecting. Most times, those territorial lines were not crossed. Occasionally, members vied with one another to see who could locate the same object faster. A race for acquisition, the challenge lying in finding what was thought lost forever. In short, the club was an outlet. A way for rich men to dispense a competitive spirit that rarely knew any bounds.

But that was okay. He knew no bounds either and liked it that way.

He thought back to last month's gathering.

Club meetings rotated between members' estates, the locales varying from Copenhagen south to Naples. It was customary that an unveiling occur at each gathering, preferably a find by the host's Acquisitor. Sometimes that wasn't possible and other members would volunteer an unveiling, but Knoll knew how each member longed to show off something new when it was their turn to entertain. Fellner particularly liked the attention. As did Loring. Just another facet of their intense competition.

Last month had been Fellner's turn. All nine members had traveled to Burg Herz, but only six Acquisitors had been free to attend. That was not unusual, since quests took precedence over the courtesy of appearing at another Acquisitor's unveiling. But jealousy could also account for an absence. Exactly, he assumed, why Suzanne Danzer had skipped the affair. Next month was Loring's turn in the rotation and Knoll had planned to return the courtesy, boycotting Castle Loukov. That was a shame, since he and Loring got along well. Loring had several times rewarded him with gifts for acquisitions that ultimately ended up in the Czech's private collection. Club members routinely stroked another's Acquisitor, thereby multiplying by nine the pairs of eyes scouring the world in search of treasure they found particularly enticing. Members routinely traded or sold among themselves. Auctions were common. Items of collective interest were bidded out at the monthly gathering, a way for a member to raise funds from acquisitions of no particular personal interest while keeping the treasures within the group.

It was all so orderly, so civilized.

So why was Suzanne Danzer so eager to change the rules?

Why was she trying to kill him?

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He'd been waiting nearly two hours after driving west from Stod to Nebra, a tiny hamlet halfway to Burg Herz. He stood and opened the door. Monika immediately stepped inside. The scent of sweet lemons accompanied her entrance. He closed and locked the door behind her.

She surveyed him up and down. "Rough night, Christian?"

"I'm not in the mood."

She plopped on the bed, cocking one leg in the air, the crotch of her jeans exposed.

"For that, either," he said. His groin still ached from Danzer's kicks, though he was not about to tell her that.

"Why was it necessary that I drive here to meet you?" she asked. "And why can't Father be involved?"

He told Monika what happened in the abbey, about Grumer, and the chase through Stod. He left out the final street confrontation and said, "Danzer got away before I could reach her, but she mentioned the Amber Room. She said the chamber in that mountain was where Hitler hid the panels in 1945."

"You believe her?"

He'd considered that point all day. "I do."

"Why didn't you go after her?"

"No need. She's headed back to Castle Loukov."

"How do you know that?"

"Years of sparring."

"Loring called again yesterday morning. Father did as you asked and told him we hadn't heard from you."

"Which explains why Danzer so openly traipsed around Stod."

She was studying him closely. "What are you thinking of doing?"

"I want permission to invade Castle Loukov. I want to go into Loring's preserve."

"You know what Father would say."

Yes, he did. Club rules expressly forbade one member from invading the privacy of another. After an unveiling, the whereabouts of any acquisition was nobody's business. The glue that bound their collective secrecy was the mere knowledge of acquisition that all nine possessed on each other. Club rules also forbade revelations of sources unless the acquiring member desired to say. That secrecy protected not only the member but the Acquisitor, as well, assuring that cultivated information could be harvested again without interference. Privacy was the key to their entire union, a way for similar men of similar interests to exact similar pleasure. The sanctity of their individual estates was an inviolate rule, any breach of which required instant expulsion.

"What's the matter?" he said. "No nerve? Are you not now in charge?"

"I have to know why, Christian."

"This is way beyond a simple acquisition. Loring has already violated club rules by having Danzer try to kill me. More than once, I might add. I want to know why, and I believe the answer is in Volary."

He hoped he'd gauged her correctly. Monika was proud and arrogant. She'd clearly resented her father's usurpation yesterday. That anger should cloud her better judgment, and she didn't disappoint him.

"Fucking right. I want to know what that bitch and old fart are doing, too. Father thinks we're imagining all this, that there was some sort of misunderstanding. He wanted to talk to Loring, tell him the truth, but I talked him out of it. I agree. Do it."

He saw the hungry look in her eye. To her, competition was an aphrodisiac.

"I'm heading there today. I suggest no more contact until I'm in and out. I'm even willing to accept the blame, if caught. I was acting on my own, and you know nothing."

Monika grinned. "How noble, my knight. Now come over here and show me how much you missed me."

Paul watched Fritz Pannik stroll into the garni's dining room and walk straight to the table he and Rachel occupied. The inspector sat down and told them what he knew so far.

"We have checked the hotels and learned that a man matching Knoll's description was registered across the street in the Christinenhof. A woman matching the description of this Suzanne was registered a few doors down at the Gebler."

"You know anything more about Knoll?" Paul asked.

Pannik shook his head. "Unfortunately, he is an enigma. Interpol has nothing in their files, and without fingerprint identification there is no realistic way to learn more. We know nothing of his background, or even where he resides. The mention of an apartment in Vienna to Frau Cutler was certainly false. To be safe, I checked the information. But nothing suggests Knoll lives in Austria."

"He must have a passport," Rachel said.

"Several probably, and all under assumed names. A man such as this would not register his true identity with any government."

"And the woman?" Rachel asked.

"We know even less about her. The crime scene for Chapaev was clean. He died of nine-millimeter wounds from close range. That suggests a certain callousness."

He told Pannik about the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities and Grumer's theory about Knoll and the woman.

"I have never heard of such an organization, but will make inquiries. The name Loring, though, is familiar. His foundries produce the best small arms in Europe. He also is a major steel producer. One of the leading industrialists in Eastern Europe."

"We're going to see Ernst Loring," Rachel said.

Pannik cocked his head in her direction. "And the purpose of the visit?"

She told him what McKoy said about Rafal Dolinski and the Amber Room. "McKoy thinks he knows something about the panels, maybe about my father, Chapaev, and--"

"Herr Cutler's parents?" Pannik asked.

"Maybe," Paul said.

"Forgive me, but don't you believe that this matter should be handled by the proper authorities? The risks appear to be escalating."

"Life's full of risks," Paul said.

"Some are worth taking. Some are foolish."

"We think it's worth taking," Rachel said.

"The Czech police are not the most cooperative," Pannik said. "I would assume that Loring has enough contacts in the justice ministry to make any official inquiry difficult at the least. Though the Czech Republic is no longer Communist, remnants of secrecy remain. Our department finds official information requests are many times delayed beyond what we consider reasonable."

"You want us to be your eyes and ears?" Rachel said.

"The thought did occur to me. You are private citizens on a purely personal mission. If you happen to learn enough for me to institute official action, then so much the better."

He had to say, "I thought we were taking too many risks."

Pannik's eyes were cold. "You are, Herr Cutler."

Suzanne stood on the balcony that jutted from her bedchamber. A late afternoon sun burned blood orange and gently warmed her skin. She felt safe and alive at Castle Loukov. The estate spread for miles, once the domain of Bohemian princes, the surrounding woods game preserves, all the deer and boar exclusively for the ruling class. Villages also once dotted the forests, places where quarrymen, masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths lived while working on the castle. It took two hundred years to finish the walls and less than an hour for the Allies to bomb them to rubble. But the Loring family rebuilt, this latest incarnation every bit as magnificent as the original.

She stared out over the rustling treetops, her lofty perch facing southeast, a light breeze refreshing her. The villages were all gone, replaced by isolated houses and cottages, residences where generations of Loring's staff had lived. Housing had always been provided for stewards, gardeners, maids, cooks, and chauffeurs. About fifty all total, the families perpetually residing on the estate, their children simply inheriting the jobs. The Lorings were generous and loyal to their help--the life beyond Castle Loukov was generally brutal--so it was easy to see why employees served for life.

Her father had been one of those people, a dedicated art historian with an untamable streak. He became Ernst Loring's second Acquisitor a year before she was born. Her mother died suddenly when she was three. Both Loring and her father spoke of her mother often, and always in glowing terms. She'd apparently been a lovely lady. While her father traveled the world acquiring, her mother tutored Loring's two sons. They were much older, she'd never really been close with either, and by the time she was a teenager they were gone to university. Neither returned to Castle Loukov much. Neither knew anything of the club, or of what their father did. That was a secret only she and her benefactor shared.

Her love of art had always endeared her to Loring. His offer to succeed her father came the day after he was buried. She'd been surprised. Shocked. Unsure. But Loring harbored no doubts on either her intelligence or resolve, and his unfettered confidence was what constantly inspired her to succeed. But now, standing alone in the sun, she realized that she'd chanced far too many risks over the past few days. Christian Knoll was not a man to take lightly. He was well aware of her attempts on his life. She'd twice made a fool of him. Once in the mine, the other with the kick in the groin. Never before had their quests risen to this level. She was uncomfortable with the escalation, but understood its need. Still, this matter required resolution. Loring needed to talk with Franz Fellner and reach some accommodation.

A light knock came from inside.

She reentered her bedchamber and answered the door. One of the house stewards said, "Pan Loring si preje vas videt. Ve studovne."

Loring wanted to see her in his study.

Good, she needed to talk with him, as well.

The study was two floors down at the northwest end of the castle's ground floor. Suzanne had always considered it a hunter's room, since the walls were lined with antlers and horns, the ceiling decorated with the heraldic animals of Bohemian kings. A huge seventeenth-century oil painting dominated one wall and depicted muskets, game bags, hog spears, and powder horns in astonishingly realistic terms.

Loring was already comfortable on the sofa when she walked in. "Come here, my child," he said in Czech.

She sat beside him.

"I have thought long and hard about what you reported earlier, and you are right, something needs to be done. The cavern in Stod is most certainly the place. I thought it would never be found, but it now apparently has."

"How can you be sure?"

"I cannot. But from the few things Father told me before he died, the location certainly appears genuine. The trucks, bodies, the sealed entrance."

"That trail is cold again," she made clear.

"Is it, my dear?"

Her analytical mind took over. "Grumer, Borya, and Chapaev are dead. The Cutlers are amateurs. Even though Rachel Cutler survived the mine, what does it matter? She knows nothing other than what was in her father's letters, and that isn't much. Fleeting references, easily discounted."

"You said her husband was in Stod, at the hotel, with McKoy's group."

"But, again, there is no trail leading here. Amateurs will make little progress, as in the past."

"Fellner, Monika, and Christian are not amateurs. I'm afraid we have tickled their curiosity a bit too much."

She knew of Loring's conversations with Fellner over the past few days, conversations where Fellner had apparently lied and said he knew nothing of Knoll's whereabouts. "I agree. Those three are certainly planning something. But you can handle the matter with Pan Fellner, face-to-face."

Loring pushed himself up from the couch. "This is so difficult, draha. I have so few years left--"

"I won't hear talk like that," she said quickly. "You are in good health. Many productive years to go."

"I'm seventy-seven. Be realistic."

The thought of him dying bothered her. Her mother died when she was too young to feel the loss. The pain from when her father died was still quite real, the memories vivid. Losing the other father in her life would be more than difficult.

"My two sons are good men. They run the family businesses well. And when I am gone, all that will belong to them. It is their birthright." Loring faced her. "Money is so transparent. There is a certain thrill from the making of it. But it simply remakes itself if invested and managed wisely. Little skill is needed to perpetuate billions in hard currency. This family is proof of that. The bulk of our fortune was made two hundred years ago and simply passed down."

"I think you underestimate the value of your and your father's careful steerage through two world wars."

"Politics does sometimes interfere, but there will always be refuges where currency can be safely invested. For us, it was America."

Loring came back and sat on the edge of the couch. He smelled of bitter tobacco, as did the entire room. "Art, though, draha, is much more fluid. It changes as we change, adapts as we do. A masterpiece of five hundred years ago might be frowned upon today.

"Yet, amazingly, some art forms can and do last the millennia. That, my dear, is what excites me. You understand that excitement. You appreciate it. And because of that, you have brought great joy to my life. Though my blood does not course through your veins, my spirit does. There is no doubt that you are my daughter in spirit."

She'd always felt that way. Loring's wife had died nearly twenty years ago. Nothing sudden or unexpected. A painful bout with cancer that slowly claimed her. His sons left decades ago. He had few pleasures, other than his art, gardening, and woodworking. But his tired joints and atrophied muscles severely restricted those activities. Though he was a billionaire, residing in a castle fortress and possessed of a name known throughout Europe, she was, in many ways, all this old man had left.

"I've always thought of myself as your daughter."

"When I am gone, I want you to have Castle Loukov."

She said nothing.

"I am also bequeathing you a hundred and fifty million euros so you can maintain the estate, along with my entire art collection, public and private. Of course, only you and I know the extent of the private collection. I have also left instructions that you are to inherit my club membership. It is mine to do with as I please. I want you to succeed in my place."

His words were too much. She struggled to speak. "What of your sons? They are your rightful heirs."

"And they will receive the bulk of my wealth. This estate, my art, and the money are nowhere near what I possess. I have discussed this with both of them, and neither offered any objection."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you will do me proud and let all this live on."

"There is no doubt."

He smiled and lightly squeezed her hand. "You have always done me proud. Such a good daughter." He paused. "Now, though, we must do one final thing to ensure the safety of what we have worked so hard to achieve."

She understood. She'd understood all day. There really was only one way to solve their problem.

Loring stood, walked to the desk, and calmly dialed the phone. When the connection was made with Burg Herz he said, "Franz, how are you this evening?"

A pause while Fellner spoke on the other end. Loring's face was knotted. She knew this was difficult for him. Fellner was not only a competitor, but also a longtime friend.

Yet it had to be done.

"I very much need to talk with you, Franz. It is vitally important. . . . No, I would like to send my plane for you and talk this evening. Unfortunately, there is no way I can leave the Republic. I can have the jet there within the hour and have you back home by midnight. . . . Yes, please bring Monika--this concerns her, as well--and Christian, too. . . . Oh, still have not heard from him? A shame. I'll have the plane at your landing field by five-thirty. I'll see you soon."

Loring hung up and sighed. "Such a pity. To the end, Franz continues to maintain the charade."