“What about the curators?”
“The administrator says you’re one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on.”
He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. “How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable. The kind of guy you’d want to be in a foxhole with.”
“The kind of guy who makes sure your estate gets handled right after you’re gone?”
He’d not said anything about being a probate lawyer. Obviously, the reporter had done some homework. “Something like that.”
“You mentioned foxholes. Ever been in the military?”
“I came along after the draft. Post-Vietnam and all that.”
“How long have you practiced law?”
“Since you know I’m a probate lawyer, I assume you also know how long I’ve practiced.”
“Actually, I forgot to ask.”
An honest answer. Fair enough. “I’ve been at Pridgen and Woodworth thirteen years now.”
“Your partners speak highly of you. I talked to them Friday.”
He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “Nobody mentioned anything about that.”
“I asked them not to. At least until after today. I wanted our talk to be spontaneous.”
More patrons filed in. The chamber was getting crowded and noisy. “Why don’t we walk into the Edwards Gallery. Less folks. We have some excellent sculptures on display.” He led the way across the mezzanine. Sunlight poured past the walkways through tall sheets of thick glass laced into a white porcelain edifice. A towering jewel-toned ink drawing graced the far north wall. The aroma of coffee and almonds drifted from an open café.
“Magnificent,” the reporter said, looking around. “What did the New York Times call it? The best museum a city’s built in a generation?”
“We were pleased with their enthusiasm. It helped stock the galleries. Donors immediately felt comfortable with us.”
Ahead stood a polished red-granite monolith in the center of the atrium. He instinctively moved toward it, never passing without stopping for a moment. The reporter followed. A list of twenty-nine names was etched into stone. His eyes always gravitated to the center:
YANCY CUTLER
JUNE 4, 1936–OCTOBER 23, 1998
DEDICATED LAWYER
PATRON OF THE ARTS
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM
MARLENE CUTLER
MAY 14, 1938–OCTOBER 23, 1998
DEVOTED WIFE
PATRON OF THE ARTS
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM
“Your father was on the board, wasn’t he?” the reporter asked.
“He served thirty years. Helped raise the money for this building. My mother was active, too.”
He stood silent. Reverent, as always. It was the only memorial of his parents that existed. The airbus exploded far out to sea. Twenty-nine people dead. The entire museum board of directors, spouses, and several employees. No bodies found. No explanation for the cause other than a curt conclusion by Italian authorities that separatist terrorists had been responsible. The Italian Minister of Antiquities, on board, had been presumed the target. Yancy and Marlene Cutler were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“They were good people,” he said. “We all miss them.”
He turned, leading the reporter into the Edwards Gallery. An assistant curator raced across the atrium.
“Mr. Cutler, please wait.” The woman hurried over, a look of concern on her face. “A call just came for you. I’m sorry. Your ex-father-in-law has died.”
SEVENTEEN
Atlanta, Georgia
Tuesday, May 13
Karol Borya was buried at 11 a.m., the midspring morning cloudy and overcast with a lingering chill, unusual for May. The funeral was well attended. Paul officiated, introducing three of Borya’s longtime friends who delivered moving eulogies. He then said a few words of his own.
Rachel stood in front, with Marla and Brent at her side. The mitered priest at St. Methodius Orthodox Church presided, Karol having been a regular parishioner. The ceremony was unhurried, tearful, and enhanced by a choir performance of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov. Interment was in the Orthodox cemetery adjacent to the church, a rolling patch of red clay and Bermuda grass shaded by mushrooming sycamore trees. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the priest’s final words rang true, “From dust you come, to dust you go.”
Though Borya fully adopted American culture, he’d always retained a religious connection with his homeland, strictly adhering to Orthodox doctrine. Paul didn’t remember his ex-father-in-law as an overly devout man, just one who solemnly believed and transferred that belief into a good life. The old man had mentioned many times that he’d liked to be buried in Belarus, among the birch groves, marshlands, and sloping fields of blue flax. His parents, brothers, and sisters lay in mass graves, the exact locations dying with the SS officers and German soldiers who slaughtered them. Paul thought about talking with somebody at the State Department on the possibility of a foreign burial, but Rachel vetoed the idea, saying she wanted her father and mother nearby. Rachel also insisted the postfuneral gathering occur at her house, and about seventy-some people wandered in and out over two hours. Neighbors supplied food and drinks. She politely talked to everyone, accepted condolences, and expressed thanks.
Paul watched her carefully. She seemed to be holding up well. Around two o’clock, she disappeared upstairs. He found her in their former bedroom, alone. It’d been a while since he was last inside.
“You okay?” he asked.
She was perched on the edge of the four-poster bed, staring at the carpet, her eyes swollen from crying. He stepped closer.
“I knew this day would come,” she said. “Now they’re both gone.” She paused. “I remember when Mama died. I thought it was the end of the world. I couldn’t understand why she’d been taken away.”
He’d often wondered if that was the source of her antireligious beliefs. Resentment for a supposed merciful God who would so callously deprive a young girl of her mother. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her he loved her and always would. But he stood still, fighting back tears.
“She used to read to me all the time. Strange, but what I remember most was her voice. So gentle. And the stories she’d tell. Apollo and Daphne. Perseus’ battles. Jason and Medea. Everybody else got fairy tales.” She smiled weakly. “I got mythology.”
The comment was one of the rare times she’d ever mentioned anything specific about her childhood. The subject was not one she dwelled upon, and she’d made it clear in the past that she considered any inquiry an intrusion.
“That why you read the same kind of stuff to the kids?”
She wiped the tears from her cheek and nodded.
“Your father was a good man. I loved him.”
“Even though you and I didn’t make it, he always thought of you as his son. Told me he always would.” She looked at him. “It was his fondest wish that we get back together.”
His too, but he said nothing.
“Seems all you and I ever did was fight,” she said. “Two stubborn people.”
He had to say, “That’s not all we did.”
She shrugged. “You always were the optimist in the house.”
He noticed the family picture angled atop the chest of drawers. They’d had it taken a year before the divorce. He, Rachel, and the kids. Their wedding picture was also still there, like the one downstairs in the foyer.
“I’m sorry about last Tuesday night,” she said. “What I said when you left. You know how my mouth can be sometimes.”
“I shouldn’t have meddled. What happened with Nettles was none of my business.”
“No, you’re right. I overreacted with him. My temper gets me into more trouble.” She brushed away more tears. “I’ve got so much to do. This summer is going to be difficult. I wasn’t planning on a
contested race this time. Now this.”
He didn’t voice the obvious. Maybe if she exercised a little diplomacy the lawyers appearing before her wouldn’t feel so threatened.
“Look, Paul, could you handle Dad’s estate? I just can’t deal with that right now.”
He reached out and lightly squeezed her shoulder. She did not resist the gesture. “Sure.”
Her hand went up to his. It was the first time they’d touched in months. “I trust you. I know it’ll get done right. He would have wanted you to handle things. He respected you.”
She withdrew her hand.
He did, too. He started thinking like a lawyer. Anything to take his mind away from the moment. “You know where the will is?”
“Look around the house. It’s probably in the study. It might be in his safe deposit box at the bank. I don’t know. He gave me the key.”
She walked over to the dresser. Ice Queen? Not to him. He recalled their first encounter twelve years ago at an Atlanta Bar Association meeting. He was a quiet first-year associate at Pridgen & Woodworth. She was an aggressive assistant district attorney. Two years they dated until she finally suggested they marry. They’d been happy in the beginning and the years passed quickly. What went wrong? Why couldn’t things be good again? Maybe she was right. Perhaps they were better friends than lovers.
He hoped not.
He accepted the safe deposit key she offered and said, “Don’t worry, Rach. I’ll take care of things.”
He left Rachel’s house and drove straight to Karol Borya’s. It was less than a half-hour journey through a combination of busy commercial boulevards and hectic neighborhood streets.
He parked in the driveway and saw Borya’s Oldsmobile nestled in the garage. Rachel had given him the house key, and he unlocked the front door, his eyes immediately drawn to the foyer tiles, then up the staircase spindles, some splintered in half, others jutting at odd angles. The oak steps bore no evidence of an impact, but the police said the old man slammed into one and then tumbled to his death, his eighty-one-year-old neck breaking in the process. An autopsy confirmed the injuries and their apparent cause.
A tragic accident.
Standing in the stillness, an odd combination of regret and sadness shuddered through him. Always before he’d enjoyed coming over, talking art and the Braves. Now the old man was gone. Another link to Rachel severed. But a friend was gone, too. Borya was like a father to him. They’d become especially close after his parents were killed. Borya and his father had been good friends, linked by art. He now remembered both men with a pang in his heart.
Good men gone forever.
He decided to take Rachel’s advice and first look upstairs in the study. He knew there was a will. He’d drafted it a few years back and doubted that Borya would have gone to anyone else to modify the language. A copy was certainly back at the firm in the retired files and, if necessary, he could use that. But the original could be worked through probate faster.
He climbed the stairs and searched the study. Magazine articles lay strewn on the club chair, a few scattered on the carpet. He shuffled through the pages. All concerned the Amber Room. Borya had spoken of the object many times through the years, his conviction the words of a White Russian who longed to see the treasure restored to the Catherine Palace. Beyond that, though, he hadn’t realized the man’s rather intense interest, apparently enough to collect articles and clippings dating back thirty years.
He rifled through the desk drawers and filing cabinets and found no will.
He scanned the bookshelves. Borya loved to read. Homer, Hugo, Poe, and Tolstoy lined the shelves, along with a volume of Russian fairy tales, a set of Churchill’s Histories, and a leather-bound copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. He seemed to also like southern writers, works by Flannery O’Connor and Katherine Anne Porter formed part of the collection.
His eyes were drawn to the banner on the wall. The old man had bought it at a kiosk in Centennial Park during the Olympics. A silver knight on a rearing horse, sword drawn, a six-ended golden cross adorning the shield. The background was blood red, the symbol of valor and courage, Borya had said, trimmed in white to embody freedom and purity. It was the national emblem of Belarus, a defiant symbol of self-determination.
A lot like Borya himself.
Borya had loved the Olympics. They’d gone to several events, and were there when Belarus won the gold in women’s rowing. Fourteen other medals came to the nation—six silver and eight bronze, in discus, heptathlon, gymnastics, and wrestling—Borya proud of every one. Though American by osmosis, his former father-in-law was without a doubt a White Russian at heart.
He retreated downstairs and carefully searched the drawers and cabinets, but found no will. The map of Germany was still unfolded on the coffee table. The USA Today he’d given Borya was there, too.
He wandered into the kitchen and searched on the off chance that important papers were stashed there. He once handled a case where a woman stored her will in the freezer, so on a lark, he yanked open the refrigerator’s double doors. The sight of a file angled beside the ice maker surprised him.
He removed and opened the cold manila folder.
More articles on the Amber Room, dating back to the 1940s and 1950s, but some as recent as two years ago. He wondered what they were doing in the freezer. Deciding that finding the will was, at the moment, more important, he decided to keep the folder and head for the bank.
The street sign for the Georgia Citizens Bank on Carr Boulevard read 3:23 P.M. when Paul rolled into the busy parking lot. He’d banked at Georgia Citizens for years, ever since working for them prior to law school.
The manager, a mousy man with fading hair, initially refused access to Borya’s safe deposit box. After a quick phone call to the office, Paul’s secretary faxed a letter of representation, which he signed, attesting he was attorney for the estate of Karol Borya, deceased. The letter seemed to satisfy the manager. At least there was something now in the file to show an heir who complained that the safe deposit box was empty.
Georgia law contained a specific provision that allowed estate representatives access to safe deposit boxes to search for wills. He’d utilized the law many times and most bank managers were familiar with the provisions. Occasionally, though, a difficult one came along.
The man led him into the vault and the array of stainless steel boxes. Possession of the key for number 45 seemed to further confirm his authenticity. He knew the law required the manager to stay, view the contents, and inventory exactly what was removed and by whom. He unlocked the box and slid the narrow rectangle out, metal screeching against metal.
Inside was a single bunch of paper, rubber-banded together. One document was blue-backed, and he immediately recognized the will he’d drawn years ago. About a dozen white envelopes were bound to it. He shuffled through them. All came from a Danya Chapaev and were addressed to Borya. Neatly trifolded in the stack were copies of letters from Borya to Chapaev. All the script was in English. The last document was a plain white envelope, sealed, with Rachel’s name scrawled on the front in blue ink.
“The letters and this envelope are attached to the will. Mr. Borya obviously intended them a unit. There’s nothing else in the box. I’ll take it all.”
“We’ve been instructed in situations like this to release only the will.”
“It was bound together. These envelopes may relate to the will. The law states that I can have them.”
The manager hesitated. “I’ll have to call downtown to our general counsel’s office for an okay.”
“What’s the problem? There’s nobody to complain about anything. I wrote this will. I know what it says. Mr. Borya’s only heir was his daughter. I’m here on her behalf.”
“I still need to check with our lawyer.”
He’d had enough. “You do that. Tell Cathy Holden that Paul Cutler is in your bank being jacked around by somebody who obviously doesn’t know the law. Tell her if I have to go to court and ge
t an order allowing me to have what I should have anyway, the bank’s going to compensate me the two hundred and twenty dollars an hour I’m going to charge for the trouble.”
The manager seemed to consider the words. “You know our general counsel?”
“I used to work for her.”
The manager pondered his predicament quietly, then finally said, “Take ’em. But sign here.”
EIGHTEEN
Danya,
How my heart aches every day for what happened to Yancy Cutler. What a fine man, his wife such a good woman. All the rest of the people on that plane were good people, too. Good people shouldn’t die so violent or so sudden. My son-in-law grieves deeply and it pains me to think I may be responsible. Yancy telephoned the night before the crash. He was able to locate the old man you mentioned whose brother worked at Loring’s estate. You were right. I should never have asked Yancy to inquire again while in Italy. It wasn’t right to involve others. The burden rests with you and me. But why have we survived? Do they not know where we are? What we know? Maybe we’re no longer a threat? Only those who ask questions and get too close draw their attention. Indifference is perhaps far better than curiosity. So many years have passed, the Amber Room seems more a memory than a wonder of the world. Does anybody really care anymore? Stay safe and well, Danya. Keep in touch.
Karol
Danya,
The KGB came today. A fat Chechen who smelled like a sewer. He said he found my name in the Commission records. I thought the trail was too old and too cold to follow. But I was wrong. Be careful. He asked whether you are still alive. I told him the usual. I think we are the only two of the old ones left. All those friends gone. So sad. Maybe you’re right. No more letters, just in case. Particularly now, since they know where I am. My daughter is about to have a child. My second grandchild. A girl this time, they tell me. Modern science. I liked the old ways when you wondered. But a little girl would be nice. My grandson is such a joy. I hope your grandchildren are well. Be safe, old friend.
Karol