the Amber Room

FIFTY-TWO

Thursday, May 22, 8:50 a.m.

Knoll parked in the woods about a half kilometer off the highway. The black Peugeot was a rental, obtained in Nurnberg yesterday. He'd spent the night a few kilometers to the west in a picturesque Czech village, making a point to get a good night's sleep, knowing today and tonight were going to be arduous. He'd eaten a light breakfast at a small cafe, then left quickly so no one would recall anything about him. Loring surely possessed eyes and ears everywhere in this part of Bohemia.

He knew the local geography. He was actually already on Loring land, the ancient family estate spanning for miles in all directions. The castle was situated toward the northwest corner, surrounded by dense forests of birch, beech, and poplar. The Sumava region of southwest Czech was an important timber source, but the Lorings had never needed to market their lumber.

He retrieved his backpack from the trunk and started the hike north. Twenty minutes later Castle Loukov appeared. The fortification was perched on a rocky mount, high above the treetops less than a kilometer away. To the west, the muddy Orlik Stream inched a path south. His vantage point offered a clear view of the compound's east entrance--the one used by motor vehicles--and the west postern gate used exclusively by staff and delivery trucks.

The castle was an impressive sight. A varied array of towers and buildings rose skyward behind rectangular walls. He knew the layout well. The lower floors were mainly ceremonial halls and exquisitely decorated public rooms, the upper stories littered with bedrooms and living quarters. Somewhere, hidden among the rambling stone structures, was a private collection chamber similar to what Fellner and the other seven members possessed. The trick would be finding it and determining how to get inside. He had a pretty good idea where the space might be, a conclusion he'd made at one of the club meetings based on the architecture, but he still was going to have to search. And fast. Before morning.

Monika's decision to allow the invasion was not surprising. She'd do anything to assert control. Fellner had been good to him, but Monika was going to be better. The old man would not live forever. And though he'd miss him, the possibilities Monika presented were nearly intoxicating. She was tough, but vulnerable. He could master her, of that he was sure. And by doing that he could master the fortune she'd inherit. A dangerous game, granted, but one worth the risks. It helped that Monika was incapable of love. But so was he. They were a perfect match, lust and power all the mastic they would need to bind them permanently.

He slipped off the backpack and found his binoculars. From the safety of a thick stand of poplar trees, he studied the castle's entire length. Blue sky backclothed its silhouette. His gaze angled off to the east. Two cars appeared on the paved road, both winding up the steep incline.

Police cars.

Interesting.

Suzanne dropped a freshly baked cinnamon bun on the china plate and added a dab of raspberry jam. She took a seat at the table, Loring already perched at the far end. The room was one of the castle's smaller dining spaces, reserved for the family. Oak cases filled with Renaissance goblets lined one of the alabaster walls. Another wall was encrusted with Bohemian semiprecious stones that outlined gilded icons of Czech patrons. She and Loring were eating alone, as they did every morning when she was there.

"The Prague newspaper is headlined with the explosion," Loring said. He folded the newspaper and set it on the table. "The reporter proposes no theories. Merely states the plane exploded shortly after takeoff, all aboard killed. They do name Fellner, Monika, and the pilots."

She sipped her coffee. "I am sorry about Pan Fellner. He was a respectable man. But good riddance to Monika. She would have been a blight to us all, eventually. Her reckless ways would have developed into a problem."

"I believe you are right, draha."

She savored a bite of warm bun. "Perhaps the killing may now end?"

"I certainly hope so."

"It is a part of my job I do not relish."

"I would not expect you to."

"Did my father enjoy it?"

Loring stared at her. "Where did that come from?"

"I was thinking about him last night. He was so gentle with me. I never knew he possessed such capabilities."

"Dear, your father did what was necessary. As you do. You are so much like him. He would be proud."

But she wasn't particularly proud of herself at the moment. Murdering Chapaev and all the others. Would their images linger in her mind forever? She feared they might. And what about her own motherhood? She'd once thought that a part of her future. But after yesterday that ambition might need adjustment. The possibilities now were both endless and exciting. The fact that people died to make it all possible was regrettable, but she could not dwell on it. Not anymore. It was time to move forward and her conscience be damned.

A steward appeared and crossed the terrazzo floor, stopping at the table. Loring glanced up.

"Sir, the police are here and wish to speak with you."

She glanced at her employer and smiled. "I owe you a hundred crowns."

He'd wagered her last evening, on the drive back from Prague, that the police would appear at the castle before ten. It was 9:40.

"Show them in," Loring said.

A few moments later, four uniformed men strolled briskly into the dining hall.

"Pan Loring," the lead man said in Czech, "we are so happy to learn you are well. The tragedy with your jet was awful."

Loring rose from the table and stepped toward the police. "We are all in shock. Herr Fellner and his daughter were guests here last evening for dinner. The two pilots have been in my employ many years. Their families live on the estate. I am about to visit their widows. It is tragic."

"Forgive this intrusion. But we need to ask some questions. Particularly, why this might have happened."

Loring shrugged. "I cannot say. Only that my offices reported several threats made against me during the past few weeks. One of my manu-facturing concerns is considering an expansion into the Middle East. We have been involved in some public negotiations there. The callers apparently did not desire my corporate presence in the country. We reported the threats to the Saudis and I can only assume this may be related. Beyond that I cannot say. I never realized I had so violent an enemy."

"Do you have any information on these calls?"

Loring nodded. "My personal secretary is familiar with them. I have instructed him to be available today in Prague."

"My superiors wanted me to assure you that we will get to the bottom of what happened. In the meantime, do you think it wise to reside here without protection?"

"These walls afford me ample security, and the staff has now been alerted. I will be fine."

"Very well, Pan Loring. Please be aware that we are here if you need us."

The policemen withdrew. Loring stepped back to the table. "Your impressions?"

"No reason not to accept what was said. Your connections in the justice ministry should also help."

"I will place a call later, thanking them for the visit, and pledge full cooperation."

"The club members should be called personally. Your sorrow clear."

"Quite right, I'll tend to that now."

Paul drove the Land Rover. Rachel sat in the front seat, McKoy in the back. The big man had stayed silent most of the way east from Stod. The autobahn had taken them as far as Nurnberg, then a series of two-laned highways wound across the German border into southwestern Czech.

The terrain had become progressively hilly and forested, alternating grain fields and lakes dotting the rolling countryside. Earlier, when he reviewed the road map to determine the fastest route east, he'd noticed Ceske Budejovice, the region's largest town, and recalled a CNN report on its Budvar beer, better known by its German name, Budweiser. The American company by the same name had tried in vain to purchase the namesake, but the townspeople had steadfastly refused the millions offered, proudly noting that they were producing beer centuries before America even existed.

The route into Czech led them through a series of quaint medieval towns, most adorned with either an overlooking castle or battlements with thick stone walls. Directions from a friendly shopkeeper adjusted the route, and it was a little before two o'clock when Rachel spotted Castle Loukov.

The aristocratic fortress was perched on a craggy height above a dense forest. Two polygonal towers and three rounded ones rose high above an outer stone curtain encrusted with shiny mullion windows and dark arrow slits. Casements and semicircular bastions wrapped the gray-white silhouette, and chimneys rose all around. A red, white, and blue flag flapped in the light afternoon breeze. Two wide bars and a triangle. Paul recognized it as the Czech national emblem.

"You almost expect armored knights to come storming out on horseback," Rachel said.

"Son of a bitch knows how to live," McKoy said. "I like this Loring already."

Paul navigated the Rover up a steep road to what appeared to be the main gate. Huge oak doors reinforced with iron straps were swung open, revealing a paved courtyard. Colorful rosebushes and spring flowers lined the buildings. Paul parked and they climbed out. A gray metallic Porsche sat beside a cream-colored Mercedes.

"Sucker drives good, too," McKoy said.

"Wonder where the front door is?" Paul asked.

Six separate doors opened to the courtyard from the various buildings. Paul took a moment and studied the dormers, crested gables, and richly patterned half-timbering. An interesting architectural combination of Gothic and baroque, proof, he assumed, of a prolonged construction and multiple human influences.

McKoy pointed and said, "My guess is that door there."

The arched oak door was surrounded by pillared ashlars, an elaborate coat of arms etched into the gable surmount. McKoy approached and banged a burnished metal knocker. A steward answered and McKoy politely explained who they were and why they were there. Five minutes later they were seated in a lavish hall. Stag heads, boars, and antlers sprouted from the walls. A fire raged in a huge granite hearth, the long space softly illuminated by stained-glass lamps. Massive wooden pillars supported an ornate stuccoed ceiling, and part of the walls were adorned with heavy oil paintings. Paul surveyed the canvases. Two Rubens, a Durer, and a Van Dyck. Incredible. What the High Museum would give to display just one of them.

The man who quietly entered through the double doors was nearing eighty. He was tall, his hair a lusterless gray, the faded goatee covering his neck and chin withdrawn with age. He possessed a handsome face that, for someone of such obvious wealth and stature, made little impression. Maybe, Paul thought, the mask was intentionally kept free of emotion.

"Good afternoon. I am Ernst Loring. Ordinarily I do not accept uninvited visitors, particularly those who just drive through the gate, but my steward explained your situation, and I have to say, I am intrigued." The older man spoke clear English.

McKoy introduced himself and offered his hand, which Loring shook. "Glad to finally meet you. I've read about you for years."

Loring smiled. The gesture seemed gracious and expected. "You must not believe any of what you read or hear. I am afraid the press likes to make me far more interesting than I truly am."

Paul stepped forward and introduced himself and Rachel.

"A pleasure to meet you both," Loring said. "Why don't we sit? Some refreshments are on the way."

They all took a seat in the neo-Gothic armchairs and sofa that faced the hearth. Loring turned toward McKoy.

"The steward mentioned a dig in Germany. I read a piece on that the other day, I believe. Surely that requires your constant attention. Why are you here and not there?"

"Not a damn thing there to find."

Loring's face showed curiosity, nothing more. McKoy told their host about the dig, the three transports, five bodies, and letters in the sand. He showed Loring the photographs Alfred Grumer had taken along with one more snapped yesterday morning after Paul traced the remaining letters to form LORING.

"Any explanation why the dead guy scrawled your name in that sand?" McKoy asked.

"There is no indication that he did. As you say, this is speculation on your part."

Paul sat silent, content to let McKoy lead the charge, and gauged the Czech's reaction. Rachel seemed to be appraising the older man, too, her look similar to when she watched a jury during a trial.

"However," Loring said, "I can see why you might think that. The original few letters are somewhat consistent."

McKoy grabbed Loring's gaze with his own. "Pan Loring, let me get to the point. The Amber Room was in that chamber, and I think you or your father were there. Whether you still have the panels, who knows? But I think you once did."

"Even if I possessed such a treasure, why would I openly admit that to you?"

"You wouldn't. But you might not want me to release all this information to the press. I signed several production agreements with news agencies around the world. The dig is a definite bust, but this stuff is the kind of dynamite that could allow me to recoup at least some of what my investors are out. I figure the Russians will be really interested. From what I hear they can be, shall we say, persistent in recoverin' their lost booty?"

"And you thought I might be willing to pay for silence?"

Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. A shakedown? He had no idea McKoy had come to Czech to blackmail Loring. Neither, apparently, did Rachel.

"Hold on, McKoy," Rachel said, her voice rising. "You never said a word about extortion."

Paul echoed her sentiment. "We want no part of this."

McKoy was undeterred. "You two need to get with the program. I thought about it on the way over. This guy isn't goin' to take us on a tour of the Amber Room, even if he does have it. But Grumer's dead. Five other men are dead back in Stod. Your father, your parents, Chapaev, they're all dead. Bodies littered everywhere." McKoy glared at Loring. "And I think this son of a bitch knows a shitload more than he wants us to believe."

A vein pulsed in the old man's temple. "Extraordinary rudeness from a guest, Pan McKoy. You come to my home and accuse me of murder and thievery?" The voice was firm but calm.

"I haven't accused you. But you know more than you're willin' to say. Your name has been mentioned with the Amber Room for years."

"Rumors."

"Rafal Dolinski," McKoy said.

Loring said nothing.

"He was a Polish reporter who contacted you three years back. He sent a narrative of an article he was working on. Nice fellow. Real likable. Very determined. Got blown up in a mine a few weeks later. You recall?"

"I know nothing of that."

"A mine near the one that Judge Cutler here got a real close look at. Maybe even the same one."

"I read about that explosion a few days ago. I did not realize the connection to this moment."

"I bet," McKoy said. "I think the press will love this speculation. Think about it, Loring. It's got all the aroma of a great story. International financier, lost treasure, Nazis, murder. Not to mention the Germans. If you found the amber in their territory, they're goin' to want it back, too. Would make an excellent bargainin' chip with the Russians."

Paul felt he had to say, "Mr. Loring, I want you to know Rachel and I knew nothing of this when we agreed to come here. Our concern is finding out about the Amber Room, to satisfy some curiosity Rachel's father generated, nothing more. I'm a lawyer. Rachel is a judge. We would never be a party to blackmail."

"No need for explanation." Loring said. He turned to McKoy. "Perhaps you are correct. Speculation may be a problem. We live in a world where perception is far more important than reality. I will take this urging more as a form of insurance than blackmail." A smile curled on the old man's thin lips.

"Take it any way you want. All I want is to get paid. I've got a serious cash-flow problem, and a whole lot of things to say to a whole lot of people. The price of silence is risin' by the minute."

Rachel's face tightened. Paul figured she was about to explode. She hadn't liked McKoy from the start. She'd been suspicious of his overbearing ways, concerned about their getting intertwined with his activities. He could hear her now. His doing they were in as deep as they were. His problem to get them out.

"Might I make a suggestion?" Loring offered.

"Please," Paul said, hoping for some sanity.

"I would like time to think about this situation. Surely, you do not plan to travel all the way back to Stod. Stay the night. We'll have dinner and talk more later."

"That would be marvelous," McKoy quickly said. "We were plannin' to find a room somewhere anyway."

"Excellent, I will have the stewards bring your things inside."