The Amber Room Part 13

He turned to leave but gave the framed photograph on the wall one last look, freezing the image of Rachel Cutler in his mind.

He left the sixth floor and descended to street level. A bank of pay phones spread across one wall. He stepped over and dialed overseas to the private line in Franz Fellner's study. It was almost 5 P P.M. in Germany. He wasn't sure who would answer or even who he was reporting to now. Power was clearly in transition--Fellner was phasing himself out while Monika a.s.sumed control. But the old man was not the type to let go easily, especially with something like the Amber Room at stake.

"Guten tag," Monika answered after two rings. Monika answered after two rings.

"You on secretary duty today?" he asked in German.

"About time you called in. It's been a week. Any luck?"

"We should get something straight. I don't check in like a schoolboy. Give me a job and leave me alone. I'll call when necessary."

"Touchy, aren't we?"

"I require no supervision."

"I'll remind you of that the next time you're between my legs."

He smiled. Hard to back her down. "I found Borya. He said he knew nothing."

"And you believed him?"

"Did I say that?"

"He's dead, right?"

"A tragic fall down the stairs."

"Father will not like this."

"I thought you were in charge?"

"I am. And frankly it matters not. But Father's right--you take too many risks."

"I took no unnecessary risks."

In fact, he'd been quite cautious. Careful on his first visit to touch nothing other than the tea gla.s.s, which he removed on the later visit. And when he returned the second time his hands were gloved.

"Let's say I decided the course necessary under the circ.u.mstances."

"What did he do, insult your pride?"

Amazing how she could read him even from four thousand miles away. He never realized himself to be so transparent. "That's unimportant."

"One day your luck will run out, Christian."

"You sound like you look forward to the day."

"Not really. You'll be hard to replace."

"In which way?"

"Every way, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He smiled. Good to know he got under her skin, too. "I've learned Borya's daughter is on her way to Munich. She might be going to see Chapaev."

"What makes you think that?"

"The way Borya dodged me, and something he said about the panels."

Maybe better stay lost.

"The daughter could simply be vacationing."

"I doubt that. Too much of a coincidence."

"You going to follow her?"

"Later today. There's something I need to handle first."

TWENTY-TWO.

Suzanne watched Christian Knoll from across the mezzanine. She was seated inside a crowded waiting room, CLERK OF COURT CLERK OF COURT, TRAFFIC FINES TRAFFIC FINES stenciled on the outer gla.s.s wall. About seventy-five people waited their turn to approach a Formica counter and dispose of citations, the whole scene chaotic, stale cigarette smoke lingering in the air despite several stenciled on the outer gla.s.s wall. About seventy-five people waited their turn to approach a Formica counter and dispose of citations, the whole scene chaotic, stale cigarette smoke lingering in the air despite several NO SMOKING NO SMOKING signs. signs.

She'd been following Knoll since Sat.u.r.day. Monday, he'd made two trips to the High Museum of Art and one to a downtown Atlanta office building. Tuesday, he attended Karol Borya's funeral. She'd watched the graveside service from across the street. He'd done little yesterday, a trip to the public library and a shopping mall, but today he was up early and on the move.

Her short blond hair was stuffed beneath a tendriled, brownish-red wig. Extra makeup splotched her face, and her eyes were shielded by a pair of cheap sungla.s.ses. She wore tight jeans, a collarless 1996 Atlanta Olympics jersey, and tennis shoes. A cheap black bag was slung over one shoulder. She fit right in with the crowd, a People People magazine open in her lap, her eyes constantly shifting from the page to the phone bank across the hectic mezzanine. magazine open in her lap, her eyes constantly shifting from the page to the phone bank across the hectic mezzanine.

Five minutes ago she'd followed Knoll to the sixth floor and watched while he entered Rachel Cutler's chambers. She recognized the name and knew the connection. Knoll was obviously not giving up, most likely now reporting to Monika Fellner what he learned. That b.i.t.c.h would definitely be a problem. Young. Aggressive. Hungry. A worthy successor to Franz Fellner, and a nuisance in more ways than one.

Knoll hadn't stayed long in Rachel Cutler's office, certainly not long enough to meet with her. So she'd backed off, fearful he might notice her presence, unsure if the disguise would be effective camouflage. She'd worn a different ensemble each day, careful not to repeat anything he might recognize. Knoll was good. d.a.m.n good. Fortunately, she was better.

Knoll hung up the phone and headed for the street.

She tossed the magazine aside and followed.

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Knoll flagged a cab and rode back to his hotel. He'd sensed somebody Sat.u.r.day night at Borya's house after he twisted the old man's neck. But he definitely detected Suzanne Danzer on Monday, and every day since. She'd disguised herself well. But too many years in the field had honed his abilities. Little escaped him now. He'd almost been expecting her. Ernst Loring, Danzer's employer, wanted the Amber Room as much as Fellner did. Loring's father, Josef, had been obsessed with amber, ama.s.sing one of the largest private collections in the world. Ernst had inherited both the objects and his father's desire. Many times he'd heard Loring preach on the subject, and watched while he traded or bought amber pieces from other collectors, Fellner included. Surely Danzer had been dispatched to Atlanta to see what he was doing.

But how did she know where to find him?

Of course. The nosy clerk in St. Petersburg. Who else? The idiot must have stolen a look at the KGB sheet before he tabled it. He was certainly on the take, with Loring one of several likely benefactors--now the primary benefactor, since Danzer was here, and had been, he a.s.sumed, since Friday.

The cab pulled up to the Marriott and Knoll jumped out. Somewhere behind, Danzer was certainly following. She was probably registered here, as well. She would most likely duck into one of the ground-floor rest rooms and modify her disguise, switching wigs and accessories, maybe making a quick run to change clothes, probably paying one of the bellboys or concierges to alert her if he left the building.

He headed straight for his eighteenth-floor room. Inside, he dialed Delta reservations.

"I need a flight from Atlanta to Munich. Is there one leaving today?"

Computer keys were punched.

"Yes, sir, we have an outbound at 2:35 P P.M. A direct flight to Munich."

He had to be sure there were no other flights. "Anything sooner or later?"

More keys were punched. "Not with us."

"How about another airline?"

More punching. "That's the only direct flight from Atlanta to Munich today. You could connect, though, on two others."

He gambled she was on the direct flight and not another to New York, Paris, Amsterdam, or Frankfurt with a connection into Munich. He confirmed the reservation, then hung up and quickly packed his travel bag. He needed to time his arrival at the airport precisely. If Rachel Cutler wasn't on the flight he'd chosen, he'd have to pick up her trail another way, perhaps when she called her office to let her secretary know where she could be reached. He could call back, give a correct phone number, and tickle her curiosity until she returned his call.

He headed down to check out. The lobby was busy. People rushing everywhere. But he quickly noticed a pixie brunette, fifty yards away, perched at an outside table in one of the lounges dotting the center atrium. As he suspected, Danzer had changed clothes. A peach-colored jumpsuit and sungla.s.ses, more stylish and darker than before, replaced the grunge look.

He paid the clerk for the room, then headed outside for a cab to the airport.

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Suzanne eyed the travel bag. Knoll was leaving? There was no time to return to her room. She'd have to follow and see where he went. That was exactly why she always packed light and included nothing she couldn't do without or replace.

She stood, threw five dollars on the table for a drink she'd sipped only twice, then headed toward the revolving doors and the street.

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Knoll exited the cab at Hartsfield International Airport and checked his watch--1:25 P P.M. He would have less than an hour to evade Danzer and make it to the gate. He tossed the driver three tens, folded the leather travel bag across his right arm, and marched inside the south terminal.

The lines for Delta ticketing were long. He needed to lose Danzer farther into the terminal, so he headed straight for the electronic check-in kiosk. The stiletto was stashed inside his travel bag, the only safe place, since the blade would never have survived the metal detectors. He obtained a boarding pa.s.s and checked his bag, then pa.s.sed through a busy security checkpoint and cruised down a long escalator to the transportation mall. Danzer lingered fifty yards back. Just as he suspected, she'd been caught off guard by his sudden exit, with no time to modify her disguise. The same brunette wig, peach jumpsuit, and dark sungla.s.ses from the Marriott. A bit sloppy for her. She should carry a backup. Something to vary the look if disguise was the only means of camouflage employed. He preferred electronic surveillance. It allowed the luxury of distance between hunter and hunted.

At the bottom of the escalator, he scampered with the rest of the afternoon travelers to the automatic trains. Hundreds crisscrossed the transportation mall. He boarded a train in the front car and noticed Danzer climb into the second car, positioning herself near the doors and forward windows so she could see what was happening ahead. He knew the airport well. The trains moved between six concourses, the International Concourse being farthest away. At the first stop, Concourse A, he and a hundred other people stepped off. Danzer surely was wondering what he was doing, certainly familiar enough with Hartsfield to know that no international flights used Con-courses A through D. Perhaps he was taking a domestic flight to another American city, she might be thinking. No matter. He knew she'd follow, probably already plotting how to get on and off the plane without him noticing.

He loitered on the train platform as if waiting for somebody. Instead he silently ticked off the seconds. Timing was critical. Danzer waited too, trying to seem uninterested, using the crowd for protection. She stood fifty feet away, apparently confident he noticed nothing. He waited exactly one minute then followed the crowd to an escalator.

The steps slowly rose.

It was thirty yards up to the busy concourse. Broad skylights four stories above admitted the afternoon sun. A ten-foot angled aluminum median separated the up escalator from the down. Every twenty feet a silk plant sprouted for decoration. The down escalator heading back toward the transportation mall was not nearly as crowded. No surveillance cameras or security guards were in sight.

He waited for the precise moment, then gripped the rubber handrail and leaped across the median, pivoting off the side of one of the silk planters and hopping onto the down escalator. He was now headed in the opposite direction and, as he pa.s.sed Danzer, he tipped his head in mock salute.

The look on her face said it all.

He needed to move fast. It wouldn't be long before she copied what he did. He sidestepped the few travelers heading down and raced to ground level. His timing was perfect. A train roared into the station, heading outbound. The doors parted. A robotic voice announced, "Please move away from the doors to the center of the aisle." People streamed on. He glanced back and saw Danzer leap across the median onto the down escalator, her move not quite as graceful as his. She stumbled for a moment, then regained her balance.

He stepped onto the train.

"The doors are now closing," the robotic voice announced.

Danzer raced off the escalator straight for the train, but was too late. The doors closed and the train roared from the station.

He exited the train at the International Concourse. Danzer would eventually head that way, but the flight to Munich was surely boarding by now and he was nearly a mile from Concourse A. By the time she either ran through the transportation mall or waited for the next train he'd be lost in the crowd above, boarding the flight.

The concourse was huge and familiar. The largest international flight terminal in America. Five stories. Twenty-four gates. It would take an hour just to walk through and check every one. He stepped onto the escalator and started up. The same bright airy feel per-meated the s.p.a.ce except, periodically, recessed showcases displayed a variety of Mexican, Egyptian, and Phoenician art. Nothing extravagant or precious, just ordinary pieces, placards at the bottom noting the particular Atlanta museum or collector that made the loan.

At the top of the escalator he followed a crowd to the right. The aroma of coffee wafted from a Starbucks off to the left. A crowd was poised at WH Smith, buying periodicals and newspapers. He stopped and studied the departure screens. Over the next thirty minutes a dozen or so flights were leaving the gates. Danzer would have no way to know which one he was taking, if any. After all, he could have headed back to the terminal, the initial trick with checking his bag merely a ploy.

He scanned the screen for the flight to Munich, found the gate, and marched down the concourse. When he arrived, the flight was already boarding.

He stepped into line and said at his turn, "Any more seats available on the plane?"

The attendant concentrated on the video monitor. "No, sir. All full."

Now, even if Danzer found him, there was no way she could follow. He hoped all the pa.s.sengers showed up and no standby seats became available. He headed for the gate, thirty or so people ahead of him. He glanced toward the front of the line and noticed a woman sporting shoulder-length auburn hair dressed in a striking, dark blue pantsuit. She was handing her boarding pa.s.s to the attendant and entering the jet way.

The face was instantly recognizable.

Rachel Cutler.

Perfect.

TWENTY-THREE.

Atlanta, Georgia Friday, May 16, 9:15 a.m.

Suzanne strolled into the office. Paul Cutler rose from behind an oversize walnut desk and stepped toward her.

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me," she said.

"Not a problem, Ms. Myers."

Cutler used the surname she'd provided the receptionist. She knew Knoll liked to use his own name. More of his arrogance. She preferred anonymity. Less chance of leaving a lasting impression.

"Why don't you call me Jo?" she said.

She took the seat offered her and studied the middle-aged lawyer. He was short and lean with light brown hair, not bald, just thinning. He was dressed in the expected white shirt, dark pants, and silk tie, but the suspenders added a touch of maturity. He flashed a disarming smile and she liked his glinting slate-gray eyes. He appeared diffident and una.s.suming, someone she quickly decided could be charmed.

Luckily, she'd dressed for the part. A chestnut wig was pinned to the top of her head. Blue contact lenses tinted her eyes. A pair of octagonal clear lenses in gold frames added to the illusion. The crepe skirt with a double-breasted jacket and peak lapels had been bought yesterday at Ann Taylor and carried a distinctive feminine touch, the idea being to draw attention away from her face. When she sat, she crossed her legs, slowly exposing black stockings, and she tried to smile a bit more than usual.