The Amber Room Part 7

"I saw you in the piano room. You're not some woman who just got out of a bad marriage, are you?"

"Does it matter, Jeremy? You enjoyed yourself." She continued to stroke him. "You're enjoying yourself now, aren't you?"

He sighed.

"And everything here is your grandmother's anyway. What do you care?"

"I don't."

She released her hold. His organ stood at attention. She kissed him gently on the lips. "I'm sure we'll be seeing one another again." She brushed past him and headed for the front door.

"If I hadn't given in, would you have harmed me to get the book and the box?"

She turned back. Interesting that someone so immature about life could be perceptive enough to understand the depths of her desires. "What do you think?"

He seemed to genuinely consider the inquiry. Perhaps the hardest he'd considered anything in a while.

"I think I'm glad I f.u.c.ked you."

TWELVE.

Volary, Czech Republic Friday, May 9, 2:45 p.m.

Suzanne angled the porsche hard to the right, and the 911 Speedster's coil-spring suspension and torque steering grabbed the tight curve. She'd earlier hinged the gla.s.s-fiber hood back, allowing the afternoon air to whip her layered bob. She kept the car parked at the Ruzyne airport, the 120 kilometers from Prague to southwestern Bohemia an easy hour's drive. The car was a gift from Loring, a bonus two years ago after a particularly productive year of acquisitions. Metallic slate gray, black leather interior, plush velvet carpet. Only 150 of the model were produced. Hers bore a gold insigne on the dash. Draha. Draha. "Little darling," the nickname Loring bestowed upon her in childhood. "Little darling," the nickname Loring bestowed upon her in childhood.

She'd heard the tales and read the press on Ernst Loring. Most portrayed him as baleful, stern, and dismissive, with the energy of a zealot and the morals of a despot. Not far off the mark. But there was another side of him. The one she knew, loved, and respected.

Loring's estate occupied a three-hundred-acre tract in southwestern Czech, only kilometers from the German border. The family had flourished under Communist rule, their factories and mines in Chomutov, Most, and Teplice vital to the old Czechoslovakia's once supposed self-sufficiency. She'd always thought it amusing that the family uranium mines north in Jachymov, manned with political prisoners--the worker death toll nearly 100 percent--were officially considered irrelevant by the new government. It was likewise unimportant that, after years of acid rain, the Sad Mountains had been transformed into eerie graveyards of rotting forests. A mere footnote that Teplice, once a thriving spa town near the Polish border, was renowned more for the short life expectancy of its inhabitants than for its refreshing warm water. She'd long ago noticed that no photos of the region were contained in the fancy picture books vendors hawked outside Prague Castle to the millions who visited each year. Northern Czech was a blight. A reminder. Once a necessity, now something to be forgotten. But it was a place where Ernst Loring profited, and the reason why he lived in the south.

The Velvet Revolution of 1989 a.s.sured the demise of the Communists. Three years later Czech and Slovakia divorced, hastily dividing the country's spoils. Loring benefited from both events, quickly allying himself with Havel and the new government of the Czech Republic, a name he thought dignified but lacking in punch. She'd heard his views about the changes. How his factories and foundries were in demand more than ever. Though sp.a.w.ned in Communism, Loring was a tried and true capitalist. His father, Josef, and his grandfather before that had been capitalists.

What did he say all the time? All political movements need steel and coal. All political movements need steel and coal. Loring supplied both, in return for protection, freedom, and a more than a modest return on investment. Loring supplied both, in return for protection, freedom, and a more than a modest return on investment.

The manor suddenly loomed on the horizon. Castle Loukov. A former knight's hrad hrad, the site a formidable headland overshadowing the swift Orlik Stream. Built in the Burgundian-Cistercian style, its earliest construction began in the fifteenth century, but it wasn't finished until the mid-seventeenth century. Triple sedilia and leaf capitals lined the towering walls. Oriels dotted vine-covered ramparts. A clay roof flashed orange in the midday sun.

A fire ravaged the entire complex during World War II, the n.a.z.is confiscating it as a local headquarters, and the Allies finally bombing it. But Josef Loring wrestled back t.i.tle, allying himself with the Russians who liberated the area on their way to Berlin. After the war the elder Loring resurrected his industrial empire and expanded, ultimately bequeathing everything to Ernst, his only surviving child, a move the government wholly supported.

Clever, industrious men were also always in demand, her employer had said many times. her employer had said many times.

She downshifted the Porsche to third. The engine groaned, then forced the tires to grab dry pavement. She twisted up the narrow road, the black asphalt surrounded by thick forest, and slowed at the castle's main gate. What once accommodated horse-drawn carriages and deterred aggressors had been widened and paved to easily accept cars.

Loring stood outside in the courtyard, dressed casually, wearing work gloves, apparently tending his spring flowers. He was tall and angular, with a surprisingly flat chest and strong physique for a man in his late seventies. Over the past decade she'd watched the silkened ash blond hair fade to the point of a lackl.u.s.ter gray, a matching goatee carpeting his creased jaw and wrinkled neck. Gardening had always been one of his obsessions. The greenhouses outside the walls were packed with exotic plants from around the world.

"Dobriy den, my dear," Loring called out in Czech. my dear," Loring called out in Czech.

She parked and exited the Porsche, grabbing her travel bag out of the pa.s.senger's seat.

Loring clapped dirt from his gloves and walked over. "Good hunting, I hope?"

She withdrew a small cardboard box from the pa.s.senger's seat. Neither Customs in London nor Prague questioned the trinket after she explained that it had been bought at a Westminister Abbey gift shop for less than thirty pounds. She was even able to produce a receipt, since she'd stopped by that very shop on the way to the airport and bought a cheap reproduction, one she trashed at the airport.

Loring yanked off his gloves and lifted the lid, studying the snuffbox in the graying afternoon. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Perfect."

She reached back into her bag and extracted the book.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A surprise."

He returned the gold treasure to the cardboard box, then gingerly cradled the volume, unfolding the front cover, marveling at the book plate.

"Draha, you amaze me. What a wonderful bonus." you amaze me. What a wonderful bonus."

"I recognized it instantly and thought you'd like it."

"We can certainly sell or trade this. Herr Greimel loves these, and I would very much like a painting he possesses."

"I knew you'd be happy."

"This should make Christian take notice, huh? Quite an unveiling at our next gathering."

"And Franz Fellner."

He shook his head. "Not anymore. I believe now it's Monika. She seems to be taking over everything. Slowly but surely."

"Arrogant b.i.t.c.h."

"True. But she's also no fool. I spoke to her at length recently. A bit impatient and eager. Seems to have inherited her father's spirit, if not his brains. But, who knows? She's young--maybe she'll learn. I'm sure Franz will teach her."

"And what of my benefactor. Any similar thoughts of retirement?"

Loring grinned. "What would I do?"

She gestured to the blossoms. "Garden?"

"Hardly. What we do is so invigorating. Collecting carries such thrills. I am as a child at Christmas opening packages."

He cradled his two treasures and led her inside his woodworking shop, which consumed the ground floor of a building adjacent to the courtyard. "I received a call from St. Petersburg," he told her. "Christian was in the depository again Monday. In the Commission records. Fellner obviously is not giving up."

"Find anything?"

"Hard to say. The idiot clerk should have gone through the boxes by now, but I doubt he has. Says it will take years. He seems far more interested in getting paid than working. But he was able to see that Knoll discovered a reference to Karol Borya."

She realized the significance.

"I don't understand this obsession of Franz's," Loring said. "So many things waiting to be found. Bellini's Madonna and Child Madonna and Child, gone since the war. What a find that would be. Van Eyck's altarpiece of the Mystical Lamb. The twelve old masters stolen from the Treves Museum in '68. And those impressionist works stolen in Florence. There are not even any photos of those for identification purposes. Anyone would love to acquire just one of them."

"But the Amber Room is at the top of everyone's collection list," she said.

"Quite right, and that seems to be the problem."

"You think Christian will try to find Borya?"

"Without a doubt. Borya and Chapaev are the only two searchers left alive. Knoll never found Chapaev five years ago. He's probably hoping Borya knows Chapaev's whereabouts. Fellner would love the Amber Room to be Monika's first unveiling. There is no doubt in my mind that Franz will send Knoll to America, at least to try to find Borya."

"But shouldn't that be a dead end?"

"Exactly. Literally. But only if necessary. Let's hope Borya still has a tight lip. Maybe the old man finally died. He has to be approaching ninety. Go to Georgia, but stay out of the way unless forced to act."

A thrill ran through her. How wonderful to battle Knoll again. Their last encounter in France had been invigorating, the s.e.x afterwards memorable. He was a worthy opponent. But dangerous. Which made the adventure that much more exciting.

"Careful with Christian, my dear. Not too close. You may have to do some unpleasant things. Leave him to Monika. They deserve one another."

She pecked the old man on the cheek with a soft kiss. "Not to worry. Your draha draha will not let you down." will not let you down."

THIRTEEN.

Atlanta, Georgia Sat.u.r.day, May 10, 6:50 p.m.

Karol Borya settled into the chaise longue and read again the one article he always consulted when he needed to remember details. It was from the International Art Review International Art Review, October 1972. He'd found it on one of his regular forays downtown to the library at Georgia State University. Outside of Germany and Russia, the media had shown little interest in the Amber Room. Fewer than two dozen English accounts had been printed since the war, most rehashes of historical facts or a pondering on the latest theory on what might have happened. He loved how the article began, a quote from Robert Browning, still underlined in blue ink from his first reading: Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

That observation was particularly relevant to the Amber Room. Unseen since 1945, its history was littered with political turmoil and marked by death and intrigue.

The idea came from Frederick I of Prussia, a complicated man who traded his precious vote as an elector of the Holy Roman Emperor to secure a hereditary kingship of his own. In 1701, he commissioned panels of amber for a study in his Charlottenburg palace. Frederick amused himself daily with amber chessmen, candlesticks, and chandeliers. He quaffed beer from amber tankards and smoked from pipes fitted with amber mouthpieces. Why not a study faced ceiling to floor with carved amber paneling? So he charged his court architect, Andreas Schulter, with the task of creating such a marvel.

The original commission was granted to Gottfried Wolffram, but in 1707, Ernst Schact and Gottfried Turau replaced the Dane. Over four years Schact and Turau labored, meticulously searching the Baltic coast for jewel-grade amber. The area had for centuries yielded tons of the substance, so much that Frederick trained whole details of soldiers in its gathering. Eventually, each rough chunk was sliced to no more than five millimeters thick, polished, and heated to change its color. The pieces were then fitted jigsaw style into mosaic panels of floral scrollwork, busts, and heraldic symbols. Each panel included a relief of the Prussian coat of arms, a crowned eagle in profile, and was backed in silver to enhance its brilliance.

The room was partially completed in 1712, when Peter the Great of Russia visited and admired the workmanship. A year later Frederick I died and was succeeded by his son, Frederick William I. As sons sometimes do, Frederick William hated everything his father loved. Harboring no desire to spend any more crown money on his father's caprice, he ordered the amber panels dismantled and packed away.

In 1716, Frederick William signed a Russian-Prussian alliance with Peter the Great against Sweden. To commemorate the treaty, the amber panels were ceremonially presented to Peter and transported to St. Petersburg the following January. Peter, more concerned with building the Russian Navy than with collecting art, simply stored them away. But, in grat.i.tude, he reciprocated the gift with 248 soldiers, a lathe, and a wine cup he crafted himself. Included among the soldiers were fifty-five of his tallest guardsmen, this in recognition of the Prussian king's pa.s.sion for tall warriors.

Thirty years pa.s.sed until Empress Elizabeth, Peter's daughter, asked Rastrelli, her court architect, to display the panels in a study at the Winter Place in St. Petersburg. In 1755 Elizabeth ordered them carried to the summer palace in Tsarskoe Selo, thirty miles south of St. Petersburg, and installed in what came to be known as the Catherine Palace.

It was there that the Amber Room was perfected.

Over the next twenty years, forty-eight square meters of additional amber panels, most emblazoned with the Romanov crest and elaborate decorations, were added to the original thirty-six square meters, the additions necessary since the thirty-foot walls in the Catherine Palace towered over the original room the amber had graced. The Prussian king even contributed to the creation, sending another panel, this one with a bas-relief of the two-headed eagle of the Russian Tsars. Eighty-six square meters of amber were eventually crafted, the finished walls dotted with fanciful figurines, floral garlands, tulips, roses, seash.e.l.ls, monograms, and rocaille, all in glittering shades of brown, red, yellow, and orange. Rastrelli framed each panel in a cartouche of boiserie, Louis Quinze style, separating them vertically by pairs of narrow mirrored pilasters adorned with bronze candelabra, everything gilded to blend with the amber.

The centers of four panels were dotted with exquisite Florentine mosaics fashioned from polished jasper and agate and framed in gilded bronze. A ceiling mural was added, along with an intricate parquet floor of inlaid oak, maple, sandalwood, rosewood, walnut, and mahogany, itself as magnificent as the surrounding walls.

Five Konigsberg masters labored until 1770, when the room was declared finished. Empress Elizabeth was so delighted that she routinely used the s.p.a.ce to impress foreign amba.s.sadors. It also served as a kunstkammer kunstkammer, a cabinet of curiosities for her and later Tsars, the place where royal treasures could be displayed. By 1765, seventy amber objects--chests, candlesticks, snuffboxes, saucers, knives, forks, crucifixes, and tabernacles--graced the room. In 1780, a corner table of encrusted amber was added. The last decoration came in 1913, an amber crown on a pillow, the piece purchased by Tsar Nicholas II.

Incredibly, the panels survived 170 years and the Bolshevik Revolution intact. Restorations were done in 1760, 1810, 1830, 1870, 1918, 1935, and 1938. An extensive restoration was planned in the 1940s, but on June 22, 1941, German troops invaded the Soviet Union. By July 14, Hitler's army had taken Belarus, most of Latvia, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, reaching the Liga River less than a hundred miles from Leningrad. On September 17, n.a.z.i troops took Tsarskoe Selo and the palaces in and around it, including the Catherine Palace, which had become a state museum under the Communists.

In the days before its capture, museum officials hastily shipped all the small objects in the Amber Room to eastern Russia. But the panels themselves had proved impossible to remove. In an effort to conceal them, a layer of wallpaper was slapped over, but the disguise fooled no one. Hitler ordered Erich Koch, gauleiter of East Prussia, to return the Amber Room to Konigsberg, which, in Hitler's mind, was where it rightly belonged. Six men took thirty-six hours to dismantle the panels, and twenty tons of amber was meticulously packed in crates and shipped west by truck convoy and rail, eventually reinstalled in the Konigsberg castle, along with a vast collection of Prussian art. A 1942 German news article proclaimed the event a "return to its true home, the real place of origination and sole place of origination of the amber." Picture postcards were issued of the restored treasure. The exhibit became the most popular of all n.a.z.i museum spectacles.

The first Allied bombardment of Konigsberg occurred in August 1944. Some of the mirrored pilasters and a few of the smaller amber panels were damaged. What happened after that was unclear. Sometime between January and April 1945, as the Soviet Army approached Konigsberg, Koch ordered the panels crated and hidden in the cellar of the Blutgericht restaurant. The last German doc.u.ment that mentioned the Amber Room was dated January 12, 1945, and noted that the panels were being packed for transport to Saxony. At some point Alfred Rohde, the Room's custodian, supervised the loading of crates onto a truck convoy. Those crates were last seen on April 6, 1945, when trucks left Konigsberg.

Borya set the article aside.

Each time he read the words his mind always returned to the opening line. Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

How true.

He took a moment and thumbed through the file spread across his lap. It contained copies of other articles he'd collected through the years. He casually glanced over a few, his memory triggered by more details. It was good to remember.

To a point.

He rose from the chaise longue and stepped from the patio to twist off the faucet. His summer garden glistened from a good soaking. He'd waited all day to water, hoping it might rain, but the spring so far had been dry. Lucy watched from the patio, perched upright, her feline eyes studying his every move. He knew she didn't like the gra.s.s, particularly wet gra.s.s, finicky about her fur ever since achieving indoor status.

He grabbed the file folder. "Come, little kitty, inside."

The cat followed him through the back door and into the kitchen. He tossed the folder on the counter next to his dinner, a bacon-wrapped fillet marinating in teriyaki. He was about to start boiling some corn when the doorbell rang.

He shuffled out of the kitchen and headed toward the front of the house. Lucy followed. He peered through the peephole at a man dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, and striped tie. Probably another Jehovah's Witness or Mormon. They often came by about this time, and he liked talking to them.

He opened the door.

"Karl Bates? Once known as Karol Borya?"

The question caught him off guard, and his eyes betrayed him with an affirmative response.

"I'm Christian Knoll," the man said.

A faint German accent, which he instantly disliked, laced the words. A business card reiterating the name in raised black letters along with the label PROCURER OF LOST ANTIQUITIES PROCURER OF LOST ANTIQUITIES was thrust forward but not offered. The address and phone number was Munich, Germany. He studied his visitor. Mid-forties, broad shouldered, wavy blond hair, sun-leathered skin tanned the color of cinnamon, and gray eyes that dominated an icy face--one that demanded attention. was thrust forward but not offered. The address and phone number was Munich, Germany. He studied his visitor. Mid-forties, broad shouldered, wavy blond hair, sun-leathered skin tanned the color of cinnamon, and gray eyes that dominated an icy face--one that demanded attention.

"Why you want me, Mr. Knoll?"

"May I?" His visitor indicated a desire to come in, as he repocketed the card.

"Depends."

"I want to talk about the Amber Room."

He considered a protest but decided against it. He'd actually been expecting a visit for years.

Knoll followed him into the den. They both sat. Lucy skirted in to investigate, then took up a perch in an adjacent chair.