The Amber Room Part 25

"The f.u.c.k you talkin' about?"

"Like I said, Herr McKoy, the Berlin material was transported by rail then by truck to the mine. The Germans would not have discarded the vehicles. They were far too valuable, needed for other tasks."

"We don't know what the h.e.l.l happened, Grumer. Could be the f.u.c.kin' krauts decided to leave the trucks, who knows?"

"How did they get inside the mountain?"

McKoy got close in the German's face. "Like you said earlier, there could be another way in."

Grumer shrank back. "As you say, Herr McKoy."

McKoy rammed a finger forward. "No. As you you say." The big man turned his attention to the video crew. Lights blazed. Two cameras were shouldered. An audio man arched a boom mic and stood back out of the way. "I go in first. Film it from my perspective." say." The big man turned his attention to the video crew. Lights blazed. Two cameras were shouldered. An audio man arched a boom mic and stood back out of the way. "I go in first. Film it from my perspective."

The men nodded.

And McKoy stepped into the blackness.

[image]

Paul was the last to enter. He followed two workers who dragged light bars into the chamber, blue-white rays evaporating the darkness.

"This chamber is natural," Grumer said, his voice echoing.

Paul studied the rock, which rose to an arch at least sixty feet high. The sight reminded him of the ceiling in some grand cathedral, except that the ceiling and walls were draped in helicities and speleothems that sparkled in the bright light. The floor was soft and sandy, like the shaft leading in. He sucked in a breath and did not particularly care for the stale smell in the air. The video lights were aimed at the far wall. Another opening, or at least what was left of one, came into view. It was larger than the shaft they'd used, more than enough room to admit the transports, rock and rubble packed tight in the archway.

"The other way in, huh?" McKoy said.

"Ja." Grumer said. "But strange. The whole idea of hiding was to be able to retrieve. Why shut it off like that?" Grumer said. "But strange. The whole idea of hiding was to be able to retrieve. Why shut it off like that?"

Paul turned his attention to the three trucks. They were parked at odd angles, all eighteen tires deflated, the rims crushed from the weight. The dark canvas awnings draped over the long beds were still there but moldy, the steel cabs and frames heavily rusted.

McKoy moved deeper into the room, a cameraman following. "Don't worry about the audio. We'll dub that over later, get video right now."

Rachel walked ahead.

Paul stepped close behind her. "Strange, isn't it? Like walking through a grave."

She nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking."

"Look at this," McKoy said.

The lights revealed two bodies sprawled in the sand, rock and rubble on either side. Nothing was left but bones, tattered clothes, and leather boots.

"They were shot in the head," McKoy said.

A worker brought a light bar close.

"Try not to touch anything until we have a full photographic record. The Ministry will require that." Grumer's voice was firm.

"Two more bodies are over here," one of the other workers said.

McKoy and the camera crew moved in that direction. Grumer and the others followed, as did Rachel. Paul lingered with the two bodies. The clothing had rotted, but even in the dim light the remnants appeared to be some type of uniform. The bones had grayed and blackened, flesh and muscle long since yielding to dust. There definitely was a hole in each skull. Both appeared to have been lying on their backs, their spine and ribs still neatly arranged. A knife bayonet lay to one side, attached to what was left of a st.i.tched belt. A leather pistol holder was empty.

His eyes drifted farther to the right.

Partially covered by the sand, in the shadows, he noticed something black and rectangular. Ignoring what Grumer said, he reached down and grabbed it.

A wallet.

He carefully parted the cracked leather fold. Tattered remnants of what appeared to have once been money lined the bill compartment. He slipped a finger into one of the side flaps. Nothing. Then the other. Bits of a card slid out. The edges were frayed and fragile, most of the ink faded, but some of the writing remained. He strained to read the letters.

AUSGEGEBEN 15-3-51. 15-3-51. VERF VERFaLLT 15-3-55. 15-3-55. GUSTAV M GUSTAV MuLLER.

There were more words, but only scattered letters had survived, nothing legible. He cradled the wallet in his palm and started back toward the main group. He rounded the rear of a transport and suddenly spotted Grumer off to one side. He was about to approach and ask about the wallet when he saw that Grumer was bent over another skeleton. Rachel, McKoy, and the others were gathered ten meters off to the left, their backs to them, cameras still whining, McKoy talking to the lens. Workers had erected a telescopic stand and hoisted a halogen light bar at the center, generating more than enough light to see Grumer searching the sand around the bones.

Paul retreated into the shadows behind one of the trucks and continued to watch. Grumer's flashlight traced the bones embedded in the sand. He wondered what carnage had raged through here. Grumer's light finished its survey at the end of an outstretched arm, the remains of finger bones clear. He focused hard. There were letters etched in the sand. Some gone from time, but three remained, spread across with irregular s.p.a.ces in between.

O I C.

Grumer stood and snapped three pictures, his flash strobing the scene.

Then the German bent down and lightly brushed all three letters from the sand.

[image]

McKoy was impressed. The video should be spectacular. Three rusted World War II German transports found relatively intact deep inside an abandoned silver mine. Five bodies, all with holes in their heads. What a show it would make. His percentage of the residuals would be impressive.

"Got enough exterior shots?" he asked one of the cameramen.

"More than."

"Then let's see what the f.u.c.k's in these things." He grabbed a flashlight and moved toward the nearest transport. "Grumer, where are you?"

The Doktor Doktor stepped up from behind. stepped up from behind.

"Ready?" McKoy asked.

Grumer nodded.

So was he.

The sight inside each bed should be of wooden crates hastily a.s.sembled and haphazardly packed, many using centuries-old draperies, costumes, and carpets as padding. He'd heard stories of how curators in the Hermitage used Nicholas II and Alexandra's royal garb to pack painting after painting shipped east, away from the n.a.z.is. Priceless articles of clothing indiscriminately stuffed in cheap wooden crates. Anything to protect the canvases and fragile ceramics. He hoped the Germans had been equally frivolous. If this was the right chamber, the one that contained the Berlin museum inventory, the find should be the cream of the collection. Perhaps Vermeer's Street of Delft Street of Delft, or da Vinci's Christ's Head Christ's Head, or Monet's The Park The Park. Each one would bring millions on the open market. Even if the German government insisted on retaining ownership--which was likely--the finder's fee would be millions of dollars.

He carefully parted the stiff canvas and shined the light inside.

The bed was empty. Nothing but rust and sand.

He darted to the next truck.

Empty.

To the third.

Empty, as well.

"Mother of f.u.c.kin' G.o.d," he said. "Shut those d.a.m.n cameras off."

Grumer shined his light inside each bed. "I was afraid of this."

He was not in the mood.

"All the signs said this may not be the chamber," Grumer said.

The smug German seemed to almost enjoy his predicament. "Then why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell me back in January?"

"I did not know then. The radar soundings indicated something large and metallic was here. Only in the past few days, as we got close, did I begin to suspect this may be a dry site."

Paul approached. "What's the problem?"

"The problem, Mr. Lawyer, is the G.o.dd.a.m.n beds are empty. Not one son-of-a-b.i.t.c.hin' thing in any of 'em. I just spent a million dollars to retrieve three rusted trucks. How the f.u.c.k do I explain that to the people flyin' here tomorrow expectin' to get rich from their investment?"

"They knew the risks when they invested," Paul said.

"Not a one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds is goin' to admit that."

Rachel asked, "Were you honest with them about the risk?"

"About as honest as you can be when you're pannin' for money." He shook his head in disgust. "Jesus Christ Almighty d.a.m.n."

THIRTY-SEVEN.

Stod 12:45 p.m.

Knoll tossed his travel bag on the bed and surveyed the cramped hotel room. The Christinenhof rose five stories, its exterior half timbered, its interior breathing history and hospitality. He'd intentionally chosen a room on the third floor, street side, pa.s.sing on the more luxurious and expensive garden side. He wasn't interested in ambience, only location, since the Christinenhof sat directly across from the Hotel Garni, where Wayland McKoy and his party occupied the entire fourth floor.

He'd learned from an eager attendant in the town's tourist office of McKoy's excavation. He'd also been told that tomorrow a group of investors was due in town--rooms in the Garni had been blocked off, two other hotels a.s.sisting with the overflow. "Good for business," the attendant had said. Good for him, too. Nothing better than a crowd for a distraction.

He unzipped the leather bag and removed an electric razor.

Yesterday had been a tough day. Danzer had bested him. Probably gloating right now to Ernst Loring how she lured him into the mine. But why kill him? Never before had their jousts escalated to such finality. What had raised the stakes? What was so important that Danya Chapaev, himself, and Rachel Cutler needed to die? The Amber Room? Perhaps. Certainly more investigation was needed, and he intended doing just that once this side mission was accomplished.

He'd taken his time on the drive north from Fussen to Stod. No real hurry. The Munich newspapers reported yesterday's explosion in the Harz mine, mentioning Rachel Cutler's name and the fact that she survived. There was no reference to him, only that they were still searching for an unidentified white male, but rescue crews were not hopeful of finding anything. Surely Rachel had told the authorities about him, and the police would have learned that he'd checked out of the Goldene Krone with both his and Rachel's things. Yet not a mention. Interesting. A police ploy? Possibly. But he didn't care. He'd committed no crime. Why would the police want him? For all they knew, he was scared to death and decided to get out of town, a near brush with death enough to frighten anyone. Rachel Cutler was alive and surely on the way back to America, her German adventure nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Back to the life of a big-city judge. Her father's quest for the Amber Room would die with him.

He'd showered this morning but hadn't shaved, so his neck and chin now felt like sandpaper and itched. He took a moment and retrieved the pistol at the bottom of his travel bag. He softly ma.s.saged the smooth, nonreflective polymer, then palmed the weapon, finger on the trigger. It was no more than thirty-five ounces, a gift from Ernst Loring, one of his new CZ-75Bs.

"I had them expand the clip to fifteen shots," Loring had said when he presented him with the weapon. "No ten-round bureaucrat's magazine. So it's identical to our original model. I recalled your comment on not liking the subsequent factory modification down to ten shots. I also had the safety frame-mounted and adjusted so the gun can be carried in the c.o.c.ked and locked position, as you noted. That change is now on all the models."

Loring's Czech foundries were the largest small-arms producers in Eastern Europe, their craftsmanship legendary. Only in the past few years had western markets opened fully to his products, high tariffs and import restrictions going the way of the Iron Curtain. Thankfully, Fellner had allowed him to retain the gun, and he appreciated the gesture.

"I also had the barrel tip threaded for a sound suppressor," Loring had said. "Suzanne has one identical. I thought you two would enjoy the irony. The playing field leveled, so to speak."

He screwed the sound suppressor to the end of the short barrel and popped in a fresh clip of bullets.

Yes. He greatly enjoyed the irony.

He tossed the gun on the bed and grabbed his razor. On the way into the bathroom he stopped for a moment at the room's only window. The front entrance of the Garni stood across the street, stone pilasters rose on either side of a heavy bra.s.s door, the street side rooms rising six stories. He'd learned the Garni was the most expensive hotel in town. Obviously Wayland McKoy liked the best. He'd also learned, while checking in, that the Garni possessed a large restaurant and meeting room, two amenities the expedition seemed to require. The Christinenhof's staff had been glad that they didn't have to cater to the constant needs of such a large group. He'd smiled at that observation. Capitalism was so different from European socialism. In America, hotels would have fought one another for that kind of business.

He stared through a black wrought-iron grille protecting the window. The afternoon sky loomed gray and dingy, as a thick bank of clouds rolled in from the north. From what he'd been told, the expedition personnel usually arrived back around six o'clock each day. He'd start his field work then, dining in the Garni, learning what he could from the dinner talk.

He glanced down at the street. First one way, then the next. Suddenly, his eyes locked on a woman. She was weaving a path through the crowded pedestrian-only lane. Blond hair. Pretty face. Dressed casually. A leather bag slung over her right shoulder.

Suzanne Danzer.

Undisguised. Out in the open.

Fascinating.

He tossed the razor on the bed, stuffed the gun beneath his jacket and into a shoulder harness, then bolted for the door.

[image]

A strange feeling filled Suzanne. She stopped and glanced back. The street was crowded, a midday lunch crowd milling about in full force. Stod was a busy town. Fifty thousand or so inhabitants, she'd learned. The oldest part of town spread in all directions, the blocks full of half-timbered multistory stone and brick buildings. Some were clearly ancient, but most were reproductions built in the 1950s and 1960s, after bombers left their mark in 1945. The builders did a good job, decorating everything with rich moldings, life-size statues, and bas-reliefs, everything had been specifically created to be photographed.

High above her, the Abbey of the Seven Sorrows of the Virgin dominated the sky. The monstrous structure had been erected in the fifteenth century in honor of the Virgin Mary's help in turning the tide of a local battle. The baroque building crowned a rocky bluff overlooking both Stod and the muddy Eder River, a clear personification of ancient defiance and lordly power.

She stared upward.

The abbey's towering edifice seemed to lean forward, curving slightly inward, its twin yellow towers connected by a balcony that faced due west. She imagined a time when monks and prelates surveyed their domain from that lofty perch. "The Fortress of G.o.d," she recalled one medieval chronicler proclaiming of the site. Alternating amber and white-colored stone walls lined the exterior, capped by a rust-colored tile roof. How fitting. Amber. Maybe it was an omen. And if she believed in anything other than herself, she might have taken notice. But, at the moment, the only thing she noticed was the feeling of being watched.

Certainly Wayland McKoy would arouse interest. Maybe that was it. Somebody else was here. Searching. Watching. But where? Hundreds of windows lined the narrow street, most up several stories. The cobblestones were crowded with too many faces to digest. Someone could be in disguise. Or maybe somebody was a hundred meters up on the balcony of the abbey gazing down. She could just make out tiny silhouettes in the midday sun, tourists apparently enjoying a grand view.

No matter.

She turned and entered the Hotel Garni.

She approached the front desk and told the male clerk in German, "I need to leave a message for Alfred Grumer."

"Certainly." The man pushed her a pad.

She wrote, I will be at the church of St. Gerhard, 10:00 p.m. Be there. Margarethe I will be at the church of St. Gerhard, 10:00 p.m. Be there. Margarethe. She folded the note.

"I'll see Herr Doktor Herr Doktor Grumer receives it," the clerk said. Grumer receives it," the clerk said.