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 passed 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 space 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 passengers 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 pass 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 unassuming, 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.
“You’re an art investigator?” Cutler asked. “Must be interesting work.”
“It can be. But I’m sure your job is equally challenging.”
She quickly took in the room’s decor. A framed Winslow print hung over a leather settee, a Kupka watercolor on either side. Diplomas dotted another wall, along with numerous professional memberships and awards from the American Bar Association, Society of Probate Lawyers, and the Georgia Trial Lawyers Association. Two color photographs were apparently taken in what looked to be a legislative chamber—Cutler shaking hands with the same older man.
She motioned to the art. “A connoisseur?”
“Hardly. I do a little collecting. I’m active, though, with our High Museum.”
“You must derive a lot of pleasure from that.”
“Art is important to me.”
“Is that why you agreed to see me?”
“That, and simple curiosity.”
She decided to get down to business. “I went by the Fulton County Courthouse a little while ago. The secretary at your ex-wife’s office indicated Judge Cutler was out of town. She wouldn’t tell me where she’d gone and suggested I come talk to you.”
“Sami called a little while ago and said this concerns my former father-in-law?”
“Yes, it does. Judge Cutler’s secretary confirmed to me that a man visited yesterday, looking for your ex-wife. A tall, blond European. He used the name Christian Knoll. I’ve been tailing Knoll all week, but lost him yesterday afternoon at the airport. I fear he might be following Judge Cutler.”
Concern waved across her host’s face. Excellent. She’d guessed right.
“Why would this Mr. Knoll follow Rachel?”
She was gambling by being frank. Maybe fear would lower his barriers and she could learn exactly where Rachel Cutler had gone. “Knoll came to Atlanta to talk with Karol Borya.” She decided to omit any reference that Kno
ll actually talked to Borya Saturday night. No need to make too much of a connection. “He must have learned that Borya died and sought out the daughter. It’s the only logical explanation why he went to her office.”
“How did he, or you, know anything about Karol?”
“You must know what Mr. Borya did when he was a Soviet citizen.”
“He told us. But how do you know?”
“The records for the Commission Mr. Borya once worked for are now public in Russia. It’s an easy matter to study the history. Knoll is looking for the Amber Room, and was probably hoping Borya knew something about it.”
“But how did he know where to find Karol?”
“Last week Knoll perused records in a depository in St. Petersburg. These have become available for inspection only recently. He learned the information there.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“As I indicated, I followed Knoll.”
“How did you know Karol died?”
“I didn’t until I arrived in town Monday.”
“Ms. Myers, what’s all the interest in the Amber Room? We’re talking about something that’s been lost for over fifty years. Don’t you think if it could have been found, it would have by now?”
“I agree, Mr. Cutler. But Christian Knoll thinks otherwise.”
“You said you lost him in the airport yesterday. What makes you think he’s following Rachel?”
“Just a hunch. I searched the concourses but never could find him. I noted several international flights that left within a few minutes after Knoll dodged me. One was to Munich. Two to Paris. Three to Frankfurt.”
“She was on the one to Munich,” he said.
Paul Cutler appeared to be warming to her. Starting to trust. To believe. She decided to take advantage of the moment. “Why is Judge Cutler going to Munich so soon after her father died?”
“Her father left a note about the Amber Room.”
Now was time to press. “Mr. Cutler, Christian Knoll is a dangerous man. When he’s after something, nothing gets in the way. I’d wager he was on that flight to Munich, too. It’s important I speak with your ex-wife. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“She said she’d call from there, but I haven’t heard from her.”
Concern laced the words. She glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly three-thirty in Munich.”
“I was thinking the same thing before you arrived.”
“Do you know exactly where she was headed?” He didn’t answer. She pressed harder. “I understand I’m a stranger to you. But I assure you I’m a friend. I need to find Christian Knoll. I can’t go into the details because of confidentiality, but I strongly believe he is looking for your ex-wife.”
“Then I think I ought to contact the police.”
“Knoll would mean nothing to local law enforcement. This is a matter for the international authorities.”
He hesitated, as if considering her words, weighing the options. Calling the police would take time. Involving European agencies even more time. She was here now, ready to act. The choice should be an easy one, and she wasn’t surprised when he made it.
“She went to Bavaria to find a man named Danya Chapaev. He lives in Kehlheim.”
“Who is Chapaev?” she asked, innocently.
“A friend of Karol’s. They worked together at the Commission years ago. Rachel thought Chapaev might know about the Amber Room.”
“What would lead her to believe that?”
He reached into a desk drawer and removed a bundle of letters. He handed them to her. “See for yourself. It’s all there.”
She took a few minutes and scanned each letter. Nothing definite or precise, just hints to what the two might have known or suspected. Enough, though, to cause her concern. There was no question now that she had to stop Knoll from teaming up with Rachel Cutler. That was exactly what the bastard planned to do. He learned nothing from the father, so he tossed him down the stairs and decided to charm the daughter to see what he could learn. She stood. “I appreciate the information, Mr. Cutler. I’m going to see if your ex-wife can be located in Munich. I have contacts there.” She extended her hand to shake. “I want to thank you for your time.”
Cutler stood and accepted the gesture. “I appreciate your visit and the warning, Ms. Myers. But you never did say what your interest is.”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that, but suffice it to say that Mr. Knoll is wanted for some serious charges.”
“Are you with the police?”
“Private investigator hired to find Knoll. I work out of London.”
“Strange. Your accent is more East European than British.”
She smiled. “Quite right. Originally, I’m from Prague.”
“Can you leave a phone number? Perhaps if I hear from Rachel, I can put the two of you in touch.”
“No need. I’ll check back with you later today or tomorrow, if that’s all right.”
She turned to leave and noticed the framed picture of an older man and woman. She motioned. “A handsome couple.”
“My parents. Taken about three months before they died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He accepted her condolences with a slight nod of the head, and she left the office without saying anything more. The last time she’d seen that same older couple they, and twenty or so others, were climbing out of the rain into an Alitalia airbus, preparing to leave Florence for a short hop across the Ligurian Sea to France. The explosives she’d paid to store on board were safe in the luggage compartment, the timer ticking away, set for zero thirty minutes later over open water.
TWENTY-FOUR
Munich, Germany
4:35 p.m.
Rachel was amazed. She’d never been in a beer hall. An oompah band, complete with trumpets, drums, an accordion, and cowbells blasted an earsplitting din. Long wooden tables were knotted with revelers, the aroma of tobacco, sausage, and beer thick and strong. Perspiring waiters in lederhosen and women in flaring dirndl dresses eagerly served one-liter tankards of dark beer. Maibock, she heard it called, a seasonal brew served only this time of year to herald the arrival of warm weather.
Most of the two hundred or so people surrounding her appeared to be enjoying themselves. She’d never cared for beer, always thought it an acquired taste, so she ordered a Coke along with a roasted chicken for dinner. The desk clerk at her hotel suggested the hall, discouraging her from the nearby Hofbrauhaus where tourists flocked.
Her flight from Atlanta arrived earlier that morning and, disregarding advice she’d always heard, she rented a car, checked into a hotel, and enjoyed a long nap. She would drive tomorrow to Kehlheim, about seventy kilometers to the south, within shouting distance of Austria and the Alps. Danya Chapaev had waited this long, he could wait another day, assuming he was even there to find.
The change of scenery was doing her good, though it was strange to look around at barrel-vaulted ceilings and the colorful costumes of the beer garden employees. She’d traveled overseas only once before, three years ago to London and a judicial conference sponsored by the State Bar of Georgia. Television programs about Germany had always interested her, and she’d dreamed about one day visiting. Now she was here.
She munched her chicken and enjoyed the spectacle. It took her mind off her father, the Amber Room, and Danya Chapaev. Off Marcus Nettles and the coming election. Maybe Paul was right and this was a total waste of time. But she felt better just being here, and that counted for something.
She paid her bill with euros obtained at the airport and left the hall. The late afternoon was cool and comfortable, sweater weather back home, a midspring sun casting the cobblestones in alternating light and shadows. The streets were crowded with thousands of tourists and shoppers, the buildings of the old town an intriguing mix of stone, half-timber, and brick, a villagelike atmosphere of the quaint and medieval. The entire area was pedestrian only, vehicles limited to an occasional delivery truck.
> She turned west and strolled back toward the Marienplatz. Her hotel sat on the far side of the open square. A food market lay between, the stalls brimming with produce, meat, and cooked specialties. An outdoor beer garden spread out to the left. She remembered a little about Munich. Once the capital of Bavaria, home of the Duke and Elector, seat of the Wittelsbachs who ruled the area for 750 years. What had Thomas Wolfe called it? A touch of German heaven.
She passed several tourist groups with guides spouting French, Spanish, and Japanese. In front of the town hall she encountered an English group, the accent twinged with the cockney twang she remembered from her previous trip to England. She lingered at the back of the group, listening to the guide, staring up at the blaze of Gothic ornamentation rising before her. The tour group inched across the square, stopping on the far side, opposite the town hall. She followed and noticed the guide studying her watch. The clock face high above read 4:58 P.M.
Suddenly, the windows in the clock tower swung open and two rows of brightly colored enameled copper figurines danced out on a turntable. Music flooded the square. Bells clanged for five o’clock, echoed by more bells in the distance.
“This is the glockenspiel,” the guide said over the noise. “It comes to life three times a day. Eleven, noon, and now at five. The figures on top are reenacting a tournament that used to accompany sixteenth-century German royal weddings. The figures below are performing the Dance of the Coppers.”
The colorful figures twirled to the tune of lively Bavarian music. Everyone in the street stopped, their necks craned upward. The vignette lasted two minutes, then stopped, and the square sprang back to life. The tour group moved off and crossed one of the side streets. She lingered for a few seconds and watched the clock windows fully close, then followed across the intersection.