“Ready?” McKoy asked.
Grumer nodded.
So was he.
The sight inside each bed should be of wooden crates hastily assembled 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 Nazis. 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, or da Vinci’s Christ’s Head, or Monet’s 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 fuckin’ god,” he said. “Shut those damn 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 hell 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 goddamn beds are empty. Not one son-of-a-bitchin’ thing in any of ’em. I just spent a million dollars to retrieve three rusted trucks. How the fuck 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 bastards 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 damn.”
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, passing 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 assisting 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 Füssen 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 massaged 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 cocked 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 brass 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.
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 God,” 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. She folded the note.
“I’ll see Herr Doktor Grumer receives it,” the clerk said.
She smiled and handed him five euros for his trouble.
Knoll stood inside the Christinenhof’s lobby and carefully parted the sheers for a ground-floor view of the street. He watched while less than a hundred feet away Suzanne Danzer stopped and looked around.
Did she sense him?
She was good. Her instincts sharp. He’d always liked Jung’s comparisons of how the ancients viewed women as either Eve, Helen, Sophia, or Mary—corresponding to impulsive, emotional, intellectual, and moral. Danzer certainly possessed the first three, but nothing about her was moral. She was also one other thing—dangerous. But her guard was probably down, thinking he was buried under tons of rock in a mine forty kilometers away. Hopefully, Franz Fellner passed the word to Loring that his whereabouts were unknown, the ploy buying the time he’d need to figure out what was going on. Even more important, it would buy time to decide how to settle the score with his attractive colleague.
What was she doing here, out in the open, headed into the Hotel Garni? It was too much of a coincidence that Stod happened to be the headquarters for Wayland McKoy, that particular hotel where McKoy and his people were staying. Did she have a source on the excavation? If so, nothing unusual there. He’d many times cultivated sources on other digs so Fellner could have first crack at whatever might be uncovered. Adventurers were usually more than eager to sell at least some of their bounty on the black market, no one the wiser since everything they found was thought lost anyway. The practice avoided unnecessary government hassles and annoying seizures. The Germans were notorious for confiscating the best of what was pulled from the ground. Strict reporting requirements and heavy penalties governed violators. But greed could always be counted on to prevail, and he’d made several excellent purchases for Fellner’s private collection from unscrupulous treasure hunters.
A light rain began to fall. Umbrellas sprouted. Thunder rolled in the distance. Danzer appeared back out of the Garni. He retreated to the window’s edge. Hopefully, she wouldn’t cross the street and enter the Christinenhof. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped lobby.
He was relieved when she casually rolled up her jacket collar and strolled back down the street. He headed for the front door and cautiously peered out. Danzer entered another hotel just down the street, the Gebler, as the sign out front announced, its cross-beamed facade sagging from the weight of centuries. He’d passed it on his way to the Christinenhof. It made sense she’d stay there. Nearby, convenient. He retreated back into the lobby and watched through the window, trying not to appear conspicuous to the few people loitering around. Fifteen minutes passed, and still she did not reappear.
He smiled.
Confirmation.
She was there.
THIRTY-EIGHT
1:15 p.m.
Paul studied alfred grumer with his lawyer eyes, examining every facet of the man’s face, gauging a reaction, calculating a likely response. He, McKoy, Grumer, and Rachel were back in the shed outside the mine. Rain peppered the tin roof. Nearly three hours had passed since the initial find, and McKoy’s mood, like the weather, had only dampened.
“What the fuck’s going on, Grumer?” McKoy said.
The German was perched on a stool. “Two possible explanations. One, the trucks were empty when they were driven in the cavern. Two, somebody beat us inside.”
“How could somebody beat us to it? It took four days to bore into that chamber, and the other way out is sealed shut with tons of crap.”
“The violation could have happened long ago.”
McKoy took a deep breath. “Grumer, I have twenty-eight people flyin’ in here tomorrow. They’ve invested a shitload of money into this rat hole. What am I suppose to say to ’em? Somebody beat us to it?”
“The facts are the facts.”
McKoy shot from the chair, rage in his eyes. Rachel cut him off. “What good is that going to do?”
“It’d make me feel a whole lot better.”
“Sit down,” Rachel said.
Paul recognized her court voice. Strong. Firm. A tone that allowed no hint of doubt. A tone she’d used too many times in their own home.
The big man backed off. “Jesus Christ. This is some shit.” He sat back down. “Looks like I might need a lawyer. The judge here certainly can’t do it. You available, Cutler?”
He shook his head. “I do probates. But my firm has a lot of good litigators and contract-law specialists.”
“They’re all across the pond and you’re here. Guess who’s elected.”
“I assume all the investors signed waivers and acknowledgments of the risk?” Rachel asked.
“Lot of damn good that’ll do. These people have money and lawyers of their own. By next week, I’ll be waist deep in legal bullshit. Nobody’ll believe I didn’t know this was a dry hole.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Rachel said. “Why would anyone assume you’d dig knowing there was nothing to find? Sounds like financial suicide.”
“Maybe that little hundred-thousand-dollar fee I’m guaranteed whether we find anythin’ or not?”
Rachel turned toward Paul. “Maybe you should call the firm. This guy does need a lawyer.”
“Look, let me make somethin’ clear,” McKoy said. “I have a business to run back home. I don’t do this for a livin’. It costs to do this kind of shit. On the last dig, I charged the same fee and made it back with more. Those investors got a good return. Nobody complained.”
“Not this time,” Paul said. “Unless those trucks are worth something, which I doubt. And that’s assuming you can even get them out of there.”
“Which you can’t,” Grumer said. “That other cavern is impassable. It would cost millions to clear it.”
“Fuck off, Grumer.”
Paul stared at McKoy. The big man’s expression was fam
iliar, a combination of resignation and worry. Lots of clients looked that way at one time or another. Actually, though, he wanted to stay around. In his mind he saw Grumer in the cavern again, brushing letters from the sand. “Okay, McKoy. If you want my help, I’ll do what I can.”
Rachel gave him a strange gaze, her thoughts easy to read. Yesterday he’d wanted to go home and leave all this intrigue to the authorities. Yet here he was, volunteering to represent Wayland McKoy, piloting his own chariot of fire across the sky at the whim of forces he did not understand and could not control.
“Good,” McKoy said. “I can use the help. Grumer, make yourself useful and arrange rooms for these folks at the Garni. Put them on my tab.”
Grumer did not appear pleased at being ordered around, but the German did not argue, and he headed for the phone.
“What’s the Garni?” Paul asked.
“Where we’re staying in town.”
Paul motioned to Grumer. “He there, too?”
“Where else?”
Paul was impressed with Stod. It was a considerable city interlaced with venerable thoroughfares that seemed to have been taken straight from the Middle Ages. Row after row of black-and-white half-timbered buildings lined the cobbled lanes, pressed tight like books on a shelf. Above everything, a monstrous abbey capped a steep mountain spur high—the slopes leading up thick with larch and beech trees bursting in a spring flourish.
He and Rachel drove into town behind Grumer and McKoy, their path winding deep into the old town, ending just before the Hotel Garni. A small parking lot reserved for guests waited farther down the street, toward the river, just outside the pedestrian-only zone.
Inside the hotel he learned that McKoy’s party dominated the fourth floor. The entire third floor had already been reserved for investors arriving tomorrow. After some haggling by McKoy and palm pressing of a few euros, the clerk made a room available on the second floor. McKoy asked if they wanted one or two rooms, and Rachel had immediately said one.