Paul started with the firm right out of law school. She’d worked first with the DA’s office, then with another Atlanta firm. They met eleven months later and married two years after that. Their courtship typical of Paul, never in a hurry to do anything. So careful. Deliberate. Afraid to take a chance, play the odds, or risk failure. She’d been the one to suggest marriage, and he readily agreed.
He was a handsome man, always had been. Not rugged, or dashing, just attractive in an ordinary way. And he was honest. Along with possessing a fanatical dependability. But his unbending dedication to tradition had slowly turned irksome. Why not vary Sunday dinner every once in a while? Roast, potatoes, corn, snap peas, rolls, and iced tea. Every Sunday for years. Not that Paul required it, only that the same thing always satisfied him. In the beginning, she’d liked that predictability. It was comforting. A known commodity that stabilized her world. Toward the end it became a tremendous pain in the ass.
But why?
Was a routine so bad?
Paul was a good, decent, successful man. She was proud of him, though she rarely voiced it. He was next in line to head the probate division. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old who needed two tries to get into law school. But Paul knew probate law. He studied nothing else, concentrating on all its nuances, even serving on legislative committees. He was a recognized expert on the subject, and Pridgen & Woodworth paid him enough money to prevent another firm from luring him away. The firm handled thousands of estates, many quite substantial, and most she knew were attributable to the statewide reputation of Paul Cutler.
She pushed through the doors and followed the maze of corridors to Paul’s office. She’d called before leaving her chambers, so he was expecting her. She went straight in, closed the door, and announced, “I’m going to Germany.”
Paul looked up. “You’re what?”
“I didn’t stutter. I’m going to Germany.”
“To find Chapaev? He’s probably dead. He didn’t even return your father’s last letter.”
“I need to do something.”
Paul stood from the desk. “Why do you always have to do something?”
“Daddy knew about the Amber Room. I owe it to him to check it out.”
“Owe it to him?” His voice was rising. “You owe it to him to respect his last wish, which was to stay out of whatever it was. If anything, by the way. Damn, Rachel, you’re forty years old. When are you going to grow up?”
She stayed surprisingly calm, considering how she felt about his lectures. “I don’t want to fight, Paul. I need you to look after the children. Will you do that?”
“Typical, Rachel. Fly off the handle. Do the first thing that comes to mind. No thought. Just do it.”
“Will you watch the kids?”
“If I said no, would you stay?”
“I’d call your brother.”
Paul sat back down. His expression signaled surrender.
“You can stay at the house,” she said. “It’ll be easier on the kids. They’re still pretty upset over Daddy.”
“They’d be even more upset if they knew what their mother was doing. And have you forgotten about the election? It’s less than eight weeks away, and you have two opponents working their asses off to beat you, now with Marcus Nettles’s money.”
“Screw the election. Nettles can have the damn judgeship. This is more important.”
“What’s more important? We don’t even know what this is. What about your docket? How can you just up and leave?”
She notched two points for a nice try, but that wasn’t going to discourage her. “The chief judge understood. I told him I needed some time to grieve. I haven’t taken a vacation in two years. I have the leave accrued.”
Paul shook his head. “You’re going on a wild goose chase to Bavaria for an old man who’s probably dead, looking for something that’s probably lost forever. You’re not the first one to search for the Amber Room. People have devoted their whole lives to looking, and found nothing.”
She wasn’t going to budge. “Daddy knew something important. I can feel it. This Chapaev may know also.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“And you’re pathetic.” She instantly regretted the words and tone. There was no need to hurt him.
“I’m going to ignore that because I know you’re upset,” he slowly said.
“I’m leaving tomorrow evening on a flight to Munich. I need a copy of Daddy’s letters and the articles from his files.”
“I’ll drop them off on the way home.” His voice was filled with total resignation.
“I’ll call from Germany and let you know where I’m staying.” She headed for the door. “Pick up the kids at day care tomorrow.”
“Rachel.”
She stopped but did not turn back.
“Be careful.”
She opened the door and left.
PART TWO
TWENTY-ONE
Thursday, May 15, 10:15 a.m.
Knoll left his hotel and caught a marta train to the Fulton County Courthouse. The KGB information sheet he’d pilfered from the St. Petersburg records depository indicated that Rachel Cutler was a lawyer and an office address was provided. But a visit to the law firm yesterday revealed that she’d left the firm four years earlier after being elected a superior court judge. The receptionist was more than courteous, providing the new phone number and office location at the courthouse. He decided that a call might bring a quick rebuke. A face-to-face unannounced visit seemed the best approach.
Five days had elapsed since he’d killed Karol Borya. He needed to ascertain what, if anything, the daughter knew about the Amber Room. Perhaps her father had mentioned something over the years. Perhaps she knew about Chapaev. A long shot, but he was rapidly running out of leads, and he needed to exhaust all the possibilities. A trail that once seemed promising was growing cold.
He boarded a crowded elevator and rose to the courthouse’s sixth floor. The corridors were lined with crowded courtrooms and busy offices. He wore the light gray business suit, striped shirt, and pale yellow silk tie bought yesterday at a suburban men’s store. He’d intentionally kept the colors soft and conservative.
He pushed through glass doors marked CHAMBERS OF THE HONORABLE RACHEL CUTLER and stepped into a quiet anteroom. A thirtyish black female waited behind a desk. The nameplate read, SAMI LUFFMAN. In his best English, he said, “Good morning.”
The woman smiled and returned the greeting.
“My name is Christian Knoll.” He handed her a card, similar to the one used with Pietro Caproni, except this one proclaimed only ART COLLECTOR, not academician, and bore no address. “I was wondering if I could speak to Her Honor?”
The woman accepted the card. “I’m sorry, Judge Cutler is not in today.”
“It’s quite important I speak to her.”
“May I ask if this concerns a pending case in our court?”
He shook his head, cordial and innocent. “Not at all. It is a personal matter.”
“The judge’s father died last weekend and—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, feigning emotion. “How terrible.”
“Yes, it was awful. She’s very upset and decided to take a little time off.”
“That’s so unfortunate, for both her and me. I am in town only until tomorrow and was hoping to talk to Judge Cutler before I leave. Perhaps you could forward a message and she could call my hotel?”
The secretary seemed to be considering the request, and he took the moment to study a framed photograph hanging behind her on the papered wall. A woman was standing before another man, right arm raised as if taking an oath. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair, an upturned nose, and intense eyes. She wore a black robe, so it was hard to tell about her figure. Her smooth cheeks were flushed with a tinge of rouge and her slight smile appeared appropriate for the solemn circumstance. He motioned to the photo. “Judge Cutler?”
“When she was sworn in, four years ago.”
/> It was the same face he’d seen at Karol Borya’s funeral Tuesday, standing in front of the assembled mourners, hugging two small children, a boy and a girl.
“I could give Judge Cutler your message, but I don’t know if you would hear from her.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s leaving town later today.”
“A long journey?”
“She’s going to Germany.”
“Such a wonderful place.” He needed to know where, so he tried the three major points of entry. “Berlin is exquisite this time of year. As are Frankfurt and Munich.”
“She’s going to Munich.”
“Ah! A magical city. Perhaps it will help with her grief?”
“I hope so.”
He’d learned enough. “I thank you, Ms. Luffman. You have been most helpful. Here is the information on my hotel.” He fabricated a place and room number, no need now for contact. “Please let Judge Cutler know I came by.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
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.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 assumed 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.
“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 glass, 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 circumstances.”
“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 bastard.”
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, TRAFFIC FINES stenciled on the outer glass 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 signs.
She’d been following Knoll since Saturday. 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 sunglasses. 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 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 bitch 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. Damn good. Fortunately, she was better.
Knoll hung up the phone and headed for the street.
She tossed the magazine aside and followed.
Knoll flagged a cab and rode back to his hotel. He’d sensed somebody Saturday 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, amassing 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 assumed, 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.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 direc
t 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 sunglasses, 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.
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.
Knoll exited the cab at Hartsfield International Airport and checked his watch—1:25 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 pass and checked his bag, then passed 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 sunglasses 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.