The Amber Secret

by David Leadbeater

  Into happiness? Or into madness? How deep was he into stage-three dementia?

  His legs ached. The sun was beating down. He rested wearily on a low wall, bending his neck and staring at his feet. Life had never been good to him, but he’d expected more when he’d beaten it. When he’d won. But now every relationship he’d ever fostered here in Siena had slapped him in the face.

  After a while, it seemed only one course of action remained. He remembered Anna warning him that nobody would believe this story, his latest of many. He vaguely understood why nobody would finance and embark on a long journey. But . . . the treasure is out there. Why couldn’t they see that?

  Close to the bar he’d visited earlier, Caruso found his favorite café, ordered a large black coffee, and sat down behind one of the establishment’s computers. They were old, grubby machines, their keyboards thick with dust and germs, but Caruso’s hands were always stained, and he did not notice. Quickly, he logged into the biggest online forum dedicated to treasure seeking and relic hunting. It was an international business. The coffee arrived, and he took a long gulp, sitting back, savoring its bitterness. Steadily, he scrolled through the index, studying the most recent threads and comments. Nothing relevant presented itself, so Caruso took some time to compose a thread of his own. The hardest part was gauging exactly how much he should reveal. How to make his discovery appear authentic and yet keep it away from the crazies, the freaks, and the bad men. Caruso racked his brains for an hour, fighting through the fog and welcoming the onset of the caffeine rush.

  Finally, he felt happy with the wording and uploaded his new thread.

  Later, Caruso wandered home at a shuffle, a deep frown on his face, his back bent as if under the stress of a heavy burden. Darkness had fallen. A slight drizzle dampened the entire city. He walked straight into the house and let the door close behind him.

  The only thing in the world that could cut instantly through his torpor greeted him.

  “Dad!”

  “Marco! Oh, you’ve grown so big. I miss you, son. I miss you so much.”

  The eight-year-old ran and leapt into his arms, his weight almost toppling Caruso. He held the soft, warm boy close for several perfect seconds and then let him down gently to the floor. Marco planted his hands on his hips and gave his father a child’s critical stare. “Where have you been?”

  Caruso knelt to meet his son’s eyes. “Seeking our fortune,” he said seriously.

  Marco’s eyes widened. He’d heard his father say that phrase before. “Did you find it?”

  “I hope so.” Caruso ruffled his son’s dark hair. “I really, really hope so.”

  He caught sight of Anna over the top of Marco’s head, her hard stare telling him that he was by no means safe from her ire. He also saw Anna’s mother, a sixty-six-year-old white-haired lady with a considerable temper, and felt his heart sink.

  Not tonight. I really need to rest now.

  He pulled away from Marco, and within a minute Anna was ushering the boy to bed, ordering him to change into pajamas and brush his teeth before they came to tuck him in.

  She glared at Dante as the moments slipped by. “Well? What happened? I’ve heard tales of your ramblings all day long.”

  “Me too,” his mother-in-law added. “People come to me; they say, ‘Greta, has Dante finally lost his last few marbles? Is this world too much for him?’” She shook her head despairingly.

  “I can’t make my old friends believe me,” he admitted. “I wish I understood why. Despite my . . . disease, haven’t I always told them that one day I will bring back the greatest treasure in history?”

  “Yes,” Anna sighed. “You have.”

  “Pah,” Greta spat.

  He tried to navigate through their condescension. “I remember the start point,” he muttered. “And the mountains. That is all we need. What more could my friends want from me? But don’t worry, Anna. We’re not finished yet. I have other contacts I can use.”

  “Other contacts?”

  “I am waiting for their reply.”

  “Be careful, Dante. Your ramblings one day will get you—”

  “Stop!” Caruso snapped. “They are not ramblings. You make me out to be senile, a failure. I have found . . . I have found . . .”

  “What have you found?”

  “The Amber Room,” he whispered.

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  He nodded. “Nazi treasure,” he said. “Stolen in the war. Considered to be a modern wonder. It was loaded onto a train one stormy night and never seen again. Anna, I have found that which other treasure hunters have been seeking all their lives. I just need you to have faith, my Anna.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “Faith that I can and will provide for my family.”

  She allowed him to touch her but screwed up her nose as he stepped closer. “You still stink,” she said. “Go take a bath.”

  “And I am going to bed.” Greta stalked from the room without another word.

  He nodded, allowing himself to relax for just one second. Marco shouted from his bedroom that he was ready for them. His son’s voice acted like a balm to Caruso’s jumbled disquiet. The demons faded, and he saw his surroundings with complete clarity: the tiny, disheveled kitchen where Anna proudly made the best cannelloni that had ever crossed his lips, the dirty windows that she didn’t have time to clean, the way his precious family remained aloof from him, as if expecting that tomorrow he would be gone.

  It almost broke his heart. But the treasure was real, and it called to him. It was there. All he had to do was—

  The kitchen door flew open behind him, crashing back on its hinges with a thud that rattled the glass. Caruso whirled to see four large men pushing through, one after another. They wore leather jackets over T-shirts and black trousers. They were all practically bald and clean shaven. They moved with purpose and with confidence. His first thoughts were for Marco and Anna, and he cried out a warning before stepping across the doorway that led deeper into the house. “What do you want?”

  One of the intruders stared as if studying a photograph. “Yes, this is the right place. That is him.” The man’s voice was barely more than a growl. “Take him now.”

  “We have nothing,” Caruso said. “We are only poor. Please, don’t hurt my family.”

  “Then come quietly,” the trespasser replied.

  “What is going on?” Anna’s voice was full of terror behind him. His heart flipped as he heard Marco asking his mother why she sounded so scared.

  Caruso faced the men. “I don’t see how we can help you.”

  “You’ll find out very soon.”

  “And the family?” another man asked the first trespasser.

  “Take them too. That should crush any urge to escape that he might develop.”

  “And the old hag?” One of the men laughed.

  Caruso cringed and glanced around once more. Greta had walked quietly to Anna’s side, behind Marco. She was holding the boy around the shoulders, trying to comfort him.

  “Only the boy and the mother will be useful,” the first trespasser said. “Do what you have to.”

  A flurry of activity made Caruso’s head spin. He saw one of the large men grab Marco and pull him away. Anna followed immediately, which was what they wanted. That left Greta alone with another man, who approached from the side.

  “Old lady,” he said, “I take no pleasure in this.”

  “Wait.” Caruso still couldn’t comprehend the suddenness with which these invaders had ruined his life. He couldn’t understand their indifference, how they were so calculating and cold in their violence.

  Someone grabbed his arms from behind. He was held fast as the man beside Greta produced an eight-inch military knife and stabbed her through the ribs, twisting as the blade rammed up to the hilt. The old woman shrieked and then fell. The man dropped with her, withdrawing the knife and stabbing her again.

  Then he cut her throat.

  Anna st
ruggled and tried to scream, but her captor punched her hard in the face. Marco was being led away, thankfully not a witness to the terrible murder of his grandmother.

  “Do as we say,” a voice whispered next to Caruso’s right ear, “or we’ll do exactly the same to your wife and kid.”

  Caruso frowned. The words didn’t make sense. What was this all about? Why were these men in his house?

  He didn’t see the hammerblow coming from the right. It connected solidly with his temple and laid him out cold.

  The last thing he knew was his head hitting the hard kitchen floor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hey,” Heidi Moneymaker said softly. “What are you thinking, Guy?”

  Bodie blinked, looking over at the curly-haired, blonde CIA agent. It had been a difficult two weeks since they had found Atlantis. Bodie had found himself zoning out on more than one occasion after the loss of Eli Cross.

  “It’s all different without him,” he said.

  The room stilled. They were in the safe house’s lounge: Cassidy, Jemma, and Gunn at a small circular coffee table with steaming mugs in front of them, Lucie and Yasmine on the floor in front of a leather couch, large glasses of water clasped in their hands.

  Nobody said a word.

  What can they say that hasn’t been said? Bodie thought.

  Cross had died protecting Yasmine, and now, two weeks later, they were living in a safe house. Attending the master thief’s funeral had been one of the hardest things Bodie had ever done. Saying goodbye to a friend with such a good nature, watching as his coffin was lowered into the ground. Cross had been Bodie’s only family, a man he’d learned to trust through years of danger and delight and world-class thievery. And Bodie had always chosen his family very carefully, ever since the tragic death of his parents, which had cruelly wrenched him away from his childhood friends. The Forever Gang, they’d called themselves. He thought about his old friends now as he thought about the death of Cross. Somehow, the losses felt related.

  I can’t protect my family.

  Bodie took a breath before walking over to the drinks cabinet. He poured a shot and drank it quickly. “But he’d want us to carry on,” he said to the room in a gruff voice. “To finish this. How are we going to steal this bloody statue?”

  The plan to steal the statue back from the merciless Ritter family had taken up most of their attention during the last ten days and had provided a timely distraction. Some time ago, the Ritters had hired Bodie and his team of relic hunters to steal a certain statue from an American Bratva family. It had turned out that the statue was, in itself, worthless, but it had held deep sentimental value for the aging Bratva head honcho. The old man had suffered a heart attack and died following the theft, which had put Bodie on the gang’s hit list.

  Through Heidi and her CIA contacts, they knew the Floridian Bratva leaders still sought them, blaming Bodie and his colleagues for the death of their father. This had led to Jack Pantera—Bodie’s mentor—being compromised and Bodie being thrown into a Mexican prison. Now, the well-hidden safe house was all that kept them from the hands of the Russian brotherhood looking to settle the old score.

  “We steal the statue back from the Ritters,” Cassidy said. “And find a way to return it to the Bratva. Simple.”

  “Simple?” Jemma was busy tying her long dark hair into a bun. “I’ve planned easier gold heists than this.”

  “And there’s no guarantee they will accept it in return for our lives,” Gunn said a little nervously.

  “The CIA will help facilitate that,” Heidi said. “We can’t meet the Bratva without the statue. They’d kill us outright. Returning the statue will speak deeply to their code of honor. Once we have done this, we have assets who can broker a face-to-face talk with them. Whoever returns the statue to the Bratva won’t be going in blind.”

  To Bodie’s mind, that person would be him.

  Cassidy was trying to catch his eye, and he knew that she would insist on being his bodyguard. Ex–cage and street fighter, she was their most capable warrior and one of his best friends.

  The only warrior, Bodie admitted to himself. Though he was practiced, his combat talents were limited. On the other hand, when it came to relieving anyone in the world of a prized possession—there was nobody better than Guy Bodie. At least, not since they’d lost Eli Cross.

  He nodded at Cassidy. “You okay?”

  “I thought we were invincible,” she said softly. “Yeah, we got cuts, bruises, sometimes worse. But we never got dead before. I don’t know if I want to put myself, and others, in that position anymore.”

  Bodie frowned. This wasn’t the old Cass. Ever since he’d first met her, she’d been a gung ho kind of girl, always up for the risk. “It’ll take time,” he said. “For all of us. We’re poorer as a team now too. Cross was our master thief. He’ll never be replaced.”

  “I wouldn’t want him replaced,” Cassidy said. “And I think something’s changed for me.”

  “We’re still working for the CIA,” Bodie reminded her.

  “For now,” Cassidy said quietly.

  “So where are we?” Bodie turned to the others, gripping the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I have to admit it, guys—I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”

  Heidi nodded. “Just being cooped up in this safe house all day is hard labor,” she said. “We should get out. Take a break.”

  “Disney World?” Gunn asked.

  Bodie attempted a smile. Cassidy forced out a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. But then Lucie Boom rose to her feet and, ever candid and emotionally detached, waved a folder at them. “This is our best chance,” she said. “The Bratva are going to find us sooner or later. We have three-quarters of a plan to steal back the statue from the Ritters here. Let’s get it finished.”

  Bodie knew the newcomer to their team was right. He also knew that if you looked past the blunt manner, the blonde ponytail, and the curious choice in sweaters, you would see a scared, fatalistic young woman. Lucie had proved invaluable to their team during the search for Atlantis. A savvy historian, she knew her history in the same way Bodie knew his safecracking.

  “Miami,” he said, and they all knew what he meant. The Ritter family lived just outside the sprawling city, only an hour’s drive from where they were right now.

  The team appeared ready to start thrashing out the final details of their plan when Yasmine, who had been quiet until now, cleared her throat. Bodie could see by the taut look on her face that the Moroccan needed to vent.

  “Should the Bratva truly be our first priority? Are you all forgetting the Frenchman, Lucien, who was responsible for the death of your friend? I was Cross’s lover—the one that got away—but you all claim to have loved him too, and I say that we use all our resources to make the Frenchman pay. Then we can deal with the Bratva.”

  Heidi stared at her. “But you can’t do that right now. And what do you mean by ‘pay’?”

  “There is nothing that I—” Yasmine began, but Bodie thought it prudent to cut her off.

  “We all want that,” he said. “Believe me, Yasmine, nothing matters more than seeing the man ultimately responsible for Cross’s death . . . brought to justice.” He paused. He didn’t want to talk about this right now. Didn’t want to admit to everyone how emotional he really felt about the death of his friend. “But it can’t happen just yet. We will deal with Lucien after we handle the Bratva; you have my word.”

  Yasmine looked ready to say more, her tanned face still rigid with grief, but then she chose diplomacy and took a long gulp of water. Bodie jumped in to fill the deathly silence.

  “Let’s get back to the Ritters and the statue that we stole for them, which we now have to take back. We know they are the poisonous head of a serpentine network of ruthless gunrunners. We know they are a long-standing Miami-based family, coming from old money. We know they have a daughter, whose twentieth birthday party is in two days. Preparations are vast and intricate. Even the guards
are helping.” His uninterrupted flow of words seemed to help calm the room, which was his intention. It even helped calm him.

  Lucie waved her folder again. “Armed guards,” she warned. “Eighteen of them. Plus, family members and friends who will know their way around a firearm. We have no idea where the statue is. Hence . . .”

  “The first incursion,” Gunn continued; Bodie was relieved, as this was the longest conversation they’d had regarding their next mission, “is to locate the statue. The second incursion is to steal it. To match our own exacting standards, the Ritters should never know who has taken it from them.” He paused. “Or at least never know it was us.”

  “The FBI have had the Ritters under surveillance for years,” Heidi said, “but haven’t been able to find anything concrete to help put them away. It’s always the usual barriers we’re faced with—they’re well connected, have influence, and will brutally retaliate against anybody who crosses them. But . . . I have been given access to a bunch of recent surveillance photos”—she waved her own folder at Lucie with a slight grin—“which will help in more ways than you can imagine.”

  Bodie smiled at her. Heidi’s deep-blue eyes returned the sentiment. Their feelings were complicated, muddied by their principal relationship—the CIA were compelling the relic hunters to locate ancient artifacts in return for breaking Bodie out of a Mexican prison. Heidi was in effect his boss and the person who could help to support or damage all their futures. But that didn’t change how he felt.

  He recalled a meaningful exchange they’d had a few days ago, when Heidi had tried to contact her daughter but had twice been rejected.

  “She’ll open up one day,” he’d said. “I’m sure she loves you.”

  Heidi had regarded him with sad eyes for a moment before visibly shrugging off her sorrow. “How are you doing?” she’d asked. “I know what Cross meant to you. I know he was a father figure. And I know . . . it must be incredibly hard to lose him now.”

  Bodie had tensed, unwilling to open up too much. “I can’t speak about it. It’s just too raw.”