The Amber Room

FIFTY-FOUR

Knoll gained entrance to the back passages more easily than he expected, watching from a cracked-open door while a maid released a hidden panel in one of the ground-floor corridors. He figured he was in the south wing of the west building. He needed to cross to the far bastion and move northeast to where he knew the public rooms were located.

He entered the passage and stepped lightly, hoping not to encounter any of the staff. The lateness of the day seemed to lessen the chances of that happening. The only people drifting about now would be chambermaids making sure any guests' needs were taken care of for the night. The dank corridor was lined overhead with air ducts, water pipes, and an electrical conduit. Bare bulbs lit the way.

He negotiated three spiral staircases and found what he thought was the north wing. Tiny Judas holes dotted the walls, set in recessed niches and shielded by rusty lead covers. Along the way, he slid a few open and spied a view into various rooms. The peepholes were another holdover from the past, an anachronism when eyes and ears were the only way to learn information. Now they were nothing but ready navigation markers, or a delicious opportunity for a voyeur.

He stopped at another viewpoint and twisted open a lead cover. He recognized the Carolotta Room from the handsome bed and escritoire. Loring had named the space for the mistress of King Ludwig I of Bavaria, and her portrait adorned the far wall. He wondered what decoration disguised the peephole. Probably the wood carvings he recalled from having been assigned the chamber one night.

He moved on.

Suddenly, he heard voices vibrating though the stone. He searched for a look. Finding a Judas hole, he peered inside and saw the figure of Rachel Cutler standing in the middle of a brightly lit room, maroon towels wrapped around her naked frame and wet hair.

He stopped his advance.

"I told you McKoy was up to something," Rachel said.

Paul was sitting before a polished rosewood escritoire. He and Rachel were sharing a room on the castle's fourth floor. McKoy had been given another room farther down. The steward who brought their bag upstairs had explained that the space was known as the Wedding Chamber, in honor of the seventeenth-century portrait of a couple in allegorical costume that hung over the sleigh bed. The room was spacious and equipped with a private bath, and Rachel had taken the opportunity to soak in the tub for a few minutes, cleaning up for dinner that Loring informed them would be at six.

"I'm uncomfortable with this," he said. "I imagine Loring is not a man to take lightly. Especially to blackmail."

Rachel slipped the towel from her head and stepped back into the bathroom, dabbing her locks dry. A hair dryer came on.

He studied a painting on the far wall. It was a half-figure of a penitent St. Peter. A da Cortona or maybe a Reni. Seventeenth-century Italian, if he remembered correctly. Expensive, provided one could even be found outside a museum. The canvas appeared original. From what little he knew about porcelain, the figurines resting on corbels attached to the wall on either side of the painting were Riemenschneider. Fifteenth-century German and priceless. On the way up the staircase to the bedroom they'd passed more paintings, tapestries, and sculptures. What the museum staff in Atlanta would give to display just a fraction of the items.

The hair dryer clicked off. Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, fingers teasing her auburn hair. "Like a hotel room," she said. "Soap, shampoo, and hair dryer."

"Except that the room is decorated with fine art worth millions."

"This stuff's original?"

"From what I can see."

"Paul, we have to do something about McKoy. This is going too far."

"I agree. But Loring bothers me. He's not at all what I expected."

"You've been watching too many James Bond movies. He's just a rich old man who loves art."

"He took McKoy's threat too calmly for me."

"Should we call Pannik and let him know we're staying over?"

"I don't think so. Let's just play it by ear right now. But I vote to get out of here tomorrow."

"You won't get any grief from me on that."

Rachel undraped the towel and slipped on a pair of panties. He watched from the chair, trying to remain impassive.

"It's not fair," he said.

"What's not?"

"You dancing around naked."

She snapped her bra in place, then walked over and climbed in his lap. "I meant what I said last night. I want to try again."

He stared at the Ice Queen, seminaked in his arms.

"I never stopped loving you, Paul. I don't know what happened. I think my pride and anger just took hold. There came a point when I felt stifled. It's nothing you did. It was me. After I went on the bench, something happened. I can't really explain."

She was right. Their problems had escalated after she was sworn in. Perhaps the mollification from everyone saying "Yes, ma'am" and "Her Honor" all day was hard to leave behind at the office. But to him she was Rachel Bates, a woman he loved, not an item of respect or a conduit to the wisdom of Solomon. He argued with her, told her what to do, and complained when she didn't do it. Perhaps, after a while, the startling contrast between their two worlds became difficult to delineate. So difficult that she'd ultimately rid herself of one side of the conflict.

"Daddy's death and all this has brought things home to me. All of Mama's and Daddy's family were killed in the war. I have no one other than Marla and Brent . . . and you."

He stared at her.

"I mean that. You are my family, Paul. I made a big mistake three years ago. I was wrong."

He realized how hard it was for her to say those words. But he wanted to know, "How so?"

"Last night when we were darting though that abbey, hanging from the balcony, that's enough to bring anything home. You came over here when you thought I was in danger and risked a lot for me. I shouldn't be so difficult. You don't deserve that. All you ever asked was a little peace and quiet and consistency. All I ever did was make things hard."

He thought of Christian Knoll. Though Rachel had never admitted anything, she'd been attracted to him. He could feel it. But Knoll had left her to die. Perhaps that act had served as a reminder to her analytical mind that not everything was as it appeared. Her ex-husband included. What the hell. He loved her. Wanted her back. Time to put up or shut up.

He kissed her.

Knoll watched as the Cutlers embraced, aroused by the sight of a half-dressed Rachel Cutler. He'd concluded during the car trip from Munich to Kehlheim that she still cared for her ex-husband. Which was most likely why she rebuked his advances in Warthberg. She was definitely attractive. Full bosom, thin waist, inviting crotch. He'd wanted her in the mine and fully intended to have her until Danzer intruded with the explosion. So why not rectify the situation tonight? What did it matter anymore? Fellner and Monika were dead. He was unemployed. And none of the other club members would hire him after what he was about to do.

A knock on the bedchamber door caught his attention.

He stared hard through the Judas hole.

"Who is it?" Paul asked.

"McKoy."

Rachel hopped up and grabbed her clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Paul stood and opened the door. McKoy stepped in, dressed in a pair of evergreen corduroy pants and a striped crew shirt. Brown chukkas wrapped his big feet.

"Kind of casual, McKoy," he said.

"My tux is at the cleaners."

Paul slammed the door shut. "What were you doing with Loring?"

McKoy faced him. "Lighten up, counselor. I wasn't tryin' to shake the old fart down."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Yeah, McKoy, what was all that about?" Rachel asked, stepping from the bathroom, now dressed in pleated jeans and a tight-fitting turtleneck.

McKoy eyed her up and down. "You dress down well, Your Honor."

"Get to the point," she said.

"The point was to see if the old man would crack, and he did. I pushed to see what he was made of. Get real. If there was nothin' to Loring's involvement, he would have said sayonara, get the hell out of here. As it was he couldn't hardly wait for us to spend the night."

"You weren't serious?" Paul asked.

"Cutler, I know you two think I'm pond scum, but I do have morals. True, they're relatively loose most of the time. But I still have 'em. This Loring either knows somethin' or wants to know somethin'. Either way, he's interested enough to put us up for the night."

"You think he's part of that club Grumer rambled about?" Paul asked.

"I hope not," Rachel said. "That could mean Knoll and that woman are around."

McKoy was unconcerned. "That's a chance were goin' to have to take. I got a feelin' about this. I've also got a bunch of investors waitin' in Germany. So I need answers. My guess is the old bastard downstairs has got 'em."

"How long can your people hold off the partners' curiosity?" Rachel asked.

"Couple of days. No more. They're goin' to start on that other tunnel in the mornin', but I told 'em to take their time. Personally, I think it's a total waste."

"How do we need to handle dinner?" Rachel asked.

"Easy. Eat the man's food, drink his liquor, and turn on the information vacuum cleaner. We need to get more than we give. Understand?"

Rachel smiled. "Yeah, I understand."

Dinner was cordial, Loring leading his guests in pleasant conversation about art and politics. Paul was fascinated by the extent of the old man's art knowledge. McKoy stayed on his best behavior, accepting Loring's hospitality, profusely complimenting their host on the meal. Paul watched it all carefully, noting Rachel's intense interest in McKoy. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to cross the line.

After dessert, Loring escorted them on a tour of the castle's expansive ground floor. The decor seemed a mixture of Dutch furniture, French clocks, and Russian chandeliers. Paul noticed an emphasis on classicism along, with realistically clear images in all the carvings. There was a well-balanced composition throughout, an almost plastic-perfect shape and form. The craftsmen had certainly known their trade.

Each space carried a name. The Walderdorff Chamber. Molsberg Room. Green Room. Witches' Room. All were decorated with antique furniture--most originals, Loring explained--and art, so much that Paul was having trouble taking it all in, and he wished a couple of the museum's curators were there to explain. In what Loring called the Ancestors' Room the old man lingered before an oil painting of his father.

"My father was descended from a long line. Amazingly, all from the paternal side. So there have always been Loring males to inherit. It is one reason we have dominated this site for nearly five hundred years."

"What about when the Communists ruled?" Rachel asked.

"Even then, my dear. My family learned to adapt. There was no choice. Either change or perish."

"Meanin' you worked for the Communists," McKoy said.

"What else was there to do, Pan McKoy?"

McKoy did not reply and simply returned his attention to the painting of Josef Loring. "Was your father interested in the Amber Room?"

"Very much."

"Did he see the original in Leningrad before the war?"

"Actually, Father saw the room prior to the Russian Revolution. He was a great admirer of amber, as I am sure you already know."

"Why don't we cut the crap, Loring."

Paul cringed at the sudden intensity of McKoy's voice. Was it genuine or more games?

"I got a hole in a mountain a hundred fifty kilometers west of here that cost a million dollars to dig. All I got for the trouble are three trucks and five skeletons. Let me tell you what I think."

Loring sank into one of the leather chairs. "By all means."

McKoy accepted a glass of claret from a steward balancing a tray. "There's a story Dolinski told me, about a train leavin' occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945. The crated Amber Room was supposedly on board. Witnesses said the crates were offloaded in Czechoslovakia, near T ynec-nad-Sazavou. From there the crates were supposedly trucked south. One version says they were stored in an underground bunker used by Field Marshal von Schorner, commander of the German army. Another version says they headed west to Germany. A third version says east to Poland. Which one's right?"

"I, too, have heard such stories. But if I recall, that bunker was extensively excavated by the Soviets. Nothing there, so that eliminates one choice. As to the version east to Poland, I doubt it."

"Why's that?" McKoy said, sitting, too.

Paul remained standing, Rachel beside him. It was interesting watching the two men spar. McKoy had handled the partners expertly, and was doing equally well now, apparently intuitive enough to know when to push and when to pull.

"The Poles have not the brains or the resources to harbor such a treasure," Loring said. "Somebody would surely have discovered it by now."

"Sounds like prejudice to me," McKoy said.

"Not at all. Just a fact. Throughout history Poles have never been able to collate themselves into a unified country for long. They are the led, not the leaders."

"So you say west to Germany?"

"I say nothing, Pan McKoy. Only that of the three choices you offered, west seems the most likely."

Rachel sat down. "Mr. Loring--"

"Please, my dear. Call me Ernst."

"Okay . . . Ernst. Grumer was convinced that Knoll and the woman who killed Chapaev were working for members of a club. He called it the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. Knoll and the woman were supposedly Acquisitors. They steal works of art that have already been stolen, members competing with one another on what can be found."

"Sounds intriguing. But I can assure you I am not a member of such an organization. As you can see, my home is filled with art. I am a public collector and openly display my treasures."

"How about amber? Haven't seen much of that," McKoy said.

"I have several beautiful pieces. Would you like to see?"

"Damn right."

Loring led the way out of the Ancestors' Room and down a twisting corridor deeper into the castle. The room they finally entered was a tight square with no windows. Loring flicked a switch embedded in the stone that lighted wooden display cases lining the walls. Paul paraded down the cases, immediately recognizing Vermeyen vessels, Bohemian glass, and Mair goldsmithing. Each piece was three-hundred-plus years old and in mint condition. Two cases were filled entirely with amber. Among the collection was a casket case, chessboard and pieces, a two-tiered chest, snuffbox, shaving basin, soap dish, and lather brush.

"Most are eighteenth century," Loring said. "All from the Tsarskoe Selo workshops. The masters who crafted these beauties worked on the Amber Room panels."

"They are the best I've ever seen," Paul said.

"I am quite proud of this collection. They each cost me a fortune. But, alas, I have no Amber Room to go with them, as much as I would like to."

"Why don't I believe you?" McKoy asked.

"Frankly, Pan McKoy, it matters not whether you believe me. The more important question is how are you to prove otherwise. You come into my home and make wild accusations--threaten me with exposure in the world media--yet have nothing to substantiate your allegations except a manufactured picture of letters in the sand and the ramblings of a greedy academician."

"I don't recall saying anythin' about Grumer being an academic," McKoy said.

"No, you did not. But I am familiar with the Herr Doktor. He was possessed of a reputation that I would not consider enviable."

Paul noticed the shift in Loring's tone. No longer congenial and conciliatory. Now the words came slow and deliberate, the meaning clear. The man's patience was apparently running thin.

McKoy seemed unimpressed. "I'd think, Pan Loring, a man of your experience and breedin' could handle a rough-by-the-edges sort like me."

Loring smiled. "I do find your frankness refreshing. It is not often a man speaks to me as you have."

"Given any more thought to my offer from this afternoon?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Would a million dollars U.S. solve your investment problem?"

"Three million would be better."

"Then I assume you will settle for two without the need for haggling?"

"I will."

Loring chuckled. "Pan McKoy, you are a man after my own heart."