He had to get out of there.
He had to think.
He grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, shoving his feet into his boots and lacing them up.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Just for a walk. I’ll be back shortly.”
He unlocked the door and left, leaving his poor, confused wife inside. He buttoned up his jacket as he hurried down the stairs, taking the rear entrance to avoid the Gestapo out front.
Then paused.
Would this make him appear guilty?
He rushed back inside and exited the front of the building, in full view of the car the detective has spotted, and its occupants. He turned left, walking toward the main street, toward the market where he might reasonably be expected to head at this hour, though it would normally be his wife.
But if they were listening in, then they would already know it was a lie.
He used the excuse of crossing the street to check on the car behind him. It was following him, slowly, though that wasn’t what had his heart hammering.
It was the two men in leather trench coats that were now crossing the street, making no effort to conceal themselves.
They’re going to kill you!
He picked up his pace, and the footfalls behind him did as well. He had nowhere to go. He had to try and lose them somehow, then get back to the apartment and save his wife.
But how?
They were four men, he was just one.
And they would have weapons.
He spotted an alleyway narrow enough that he could at least eliminate the car from the equation. It opened into another street that if he could just reach it first, he might lose them in the heavy foot traffic.
He bolted.
The engine roared behind him, but it didn’t matter. He ducked into the alleyway and sprinted toward the end, checking over his shoulder to see his pursuers close behind.
His foot hit something and he tripped, crying out as he slammed into the cold, hard ground.
And they were on him.
Boots rained down on him, kicking him and stomping him. He curled into a ball, crying out for help, yet no one would come. They’d see who was delivering the beating, then go about their business, terrified they could be next.
A heel crushed the side of his head and he began to pass out, a welcome respite from the excruciating pain.
Please, God, please save my wife!
He opened his eyes for one last look at evil, a heel filling his vision before his world went dark.
Forever.
18
South of Kwidzyn (formerly Marienwerder), Poland
Present Day
Acton stretched with an exaggerated groan, eliciting smiles from those around him. They were all feeling the burn of having worked through most of the night. Two members of the Gdansk University’s security team were stationed outside to keep any nosy neighbors out, but beyond being bouncers, they weren’t of much use.
Almost a dozen faculty and students from Lisowski’s university were now here helping catalog what was turning into an incredible find. Twenty-seven crates, all on the boxcars, were confirmed to contain panels from the Amber Room and nothing else. They had obviously been transported in a hurry, just before this chamber was sealed to the outside world.
After documenting the scene with photographs and video, local officials collected the bodies, some German soldiers, but most appearing to be miners, probably local, finally ready to be reunited with their families.
They had been somber moments, observed by all as each body was removed, reminding him of 9/11 when the entire recovery operation was halted each time another of the fallen heroes was recovered.
He still choked up at the memories.
Working through the night, and with the extra personnel, they had managed to catalog most of the discovery beyond the train. Hundreds of pieces of priceless artwork from paintings to sculptures, had been discovered, many of which they recognized. It was stunning.
And yes, there had been gold.
But despite there being stacks of it, it couldn’t compare to the treasure trove of creations from skilled artisans over the centuries.
It was the discovery of a lifetime.
Something echoing from the shaft leading to the entrance had him spinning and raising a hand. “Everyone quiet!”
Everyone froze, and he cocked an ear, not hearing anything else.
“What is it?” asked Laura, tiptoeing beside him.
“I thought I heard something.”
“What?”
“I could have sworn it was gunshots.”
The room noticeably tensed, even Acton’s heart hammering, his encounters with the evil of this world happening far too frequently for his liking, and they were sitting on a find so valuable, that few thieves could resist its lure if they knew it existed.
“I’m going to check it out.”
Laura grabbed his arm, holding him back as footfalls echoed from the tunnel, one set joined by another, then another. Soon the chamber was filled with a cacophony of heavy footsteps, sending Acton’s heart racing as he held out an arm and gently pushed Laura behind him.
What I’d give for a Glock right now.
Yet even if he were armed, it sounded like there were too many for one person to make a difference.
The first emerged, dressed casually, a submachine gun strapped around his neck, bold as brass as if he had nothing to fear.
And he didn’t, not with the three other men behind him, their weapons aimed at the terrified academics.
“Who’s in charge here?” asked the man in a thick accent Acton guessed was Russian.
Lisowski stepped forward. “I am.”
The man pulled a pistol and shot Lisowski in the thigh. She cried out in agony, collapsing to the ground as Acton and Laura rushed toward her.
“I’ll ask again, who’s in charge?”
Acton glared up at him as the rest of Lisowski’s staff cowered in fear, whimpers and sobs already breaking out. He rose, stepping toward the man.
“You are.”
“Exactly.” The man eyed him up and down, as if assessing whether Acton was a threat. “Identify yourself.”
Acton decided there was no point in lying. “Professor James Acton.”
One of the henchmen pulled out a tablet, typing something, then held up the result for the leader to see. He nodded, then looked at Laura, tending to Lisowski’s wound. “Then you must be Professor Laura Palmer.”
Laura glanced over at him. “I am.”
“It says here you are both archaeology professors.”
Acton suppressed a frown, his stomach flipping as he realized where this might be heading. “We are.”
“Then you are who I need.” He motioned to his men. “Tie the rest up.” They rushed forward, bundles of zip ties pulled out and tossed to the others.
Laura glared at the man who tossed two zip ties at her. “This woman needs medical attention.”
The leader stepped forward. “And she’ll get it, as soon as we’re gone, so the quicker you cooperate, the quicker we’re out of here. Understood?”
Laura turned her head away, likely to hide her disdain for the man. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” The leader turned toward Acton. “You know what we’re here for. Where is it?”
Acton shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
The man shook his head, tapping his watch. “Tick tock, Doc. We’re here for the Amber Room. Which crates contain it?”
Acton was tempted to make the man look for it himself, but as the blood continued to pool beside a pale Lisowski, he decided any delaying tactics would merely put his colleague’s life at risk. He pointed at the two boxcars. “The entire room is contained in the crates aboard these two boxcars.”
“Is there anything else on them?”
Acton shook his head. “No.”
The lea
der climbed into the back, examining several of the opened crates, a smile spreading.
And it enraged Acton to think that after seventy years, what had been thought lost to humanity forever, was about to be lost again. He hated thieves with a passion, and would have no problem if men like this were simply summarily executed for their crimes.
But that was fantasy, and he had to deal with reality.
And that meant asking why the man had said he and Laura were what he needed.
The man hopped down and nodded at another of his team, a radio raised with something said. Engines roared at the opposite end of the tunnel almost immediately. A forklift and small truck appeared moments later, the leader pointing at the two boxcars. “Let’s make this quick, gentlemen. We’re on a timeline.”
19
Kriminalpolizei Headquarters
Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, Berlin, Nazi Germany
January 31, 1945
Vogel sat at his desk, neatly stacked with papers, his inbox empty, everything he was responsible for already taken care of from a paperwork perspective. He still had open cases. They all did. But in today’s Germany, you always made sure your paperwork was up to date.
And there was one piece of paper he wasn’t sure what to do with.
His note from Dieter Maier, scribbled in secret in case someone was listening.
What a horrible notion. To fear that one’s most private conversations with those closest to you could be listened in upon by strangers was almost unfathomable. If you were a criminal or a traitor, then you should have no expectations of privacy, and probably watched what you said.
But a husband and wife, innocent of all things the state could be concerned about, listened to only because they were friends with someone else of interest?
It was disgusting.
This war can’t end soon enough.
He wanted to get back to being a cop again, investigating crimes without worrying about being investigated himself. He missed speaking openly and freely about whatever he wanted, to associate with whoever he wanted to, and to travel without papers. And he was tired of the bombings, of the maimed and starving in the streets, of not being with his family, of wondering if he’d see them again.
And seeing people like Frau Lang wondering what had happened to their husbands.
It was a world gone mad, and he wanted out.
He sighed.
There is no way out.
He reread the scribbled note for the umpteenth time.
In Marienwerder on January 28, Polish partisans attacked train, killing engineer. Might have been Hermann. I brought locomotive back.
There was nothing special about the note. If it were true, it was a tragedy, though not an unfamiliar one. Germany had, after all, invaded Poland, the war was going poorly on both fronts, and partisan activity was picking up across the Reich.
But if this were merely an innocent tragedy, why should the Gestapo be watching the engineer’s wife? And more importantly, why, after she visited the wife of the second engineer, was he too put under surveillance?
It made little sense.
A loyal subject of the Reich killed by partisans was a tragedy, though hardly a state secret worthy of two teams of Gestapo. If how he died was an embarrassment to the Reich, then simply tell the wife her husband died in an accident. She’d never know the difference, but she’d have an answer, even if it were a lie. Life would go on.
Surveilling the second engineer was more understandable now that he thought about it. If the first engineer, Hermann Lang, was killed by partisans, and they wanted that fact covered up, Dieter Maier might have been the only one who saw any evidence of how his colleague died when he was sent to retrieve the locomotive. There was no certainty that Lang was indeed the engineer killed, though he wasn’t one to put much faith in coincidences.
He could make some calls and try to find out what had happened to Lang. A distraught wife didn’t carry any weight with the railroad, but a detective inspector should. All he wanted to know was whether the man was dead. There was no crime committed here, not if it were Polish partisans.
That was war.
He simply wanted to give his neighbor an answer, even if it were bad news.
He took a sip of coffee, only to find his cup empty. He rose and headed for the pot at the far end of the office, two uniformed officers standing nearby, waiting to meet with someone, an animated conversation about a beating victim catching his attention.
“Dead. Beat to a pulp. I haven’t seen something like that in quite some time,” said the more junior officer.
His older partner laughed. “Not since there were still Jews around to beat.”
Junior tossed his head back, roaring with laughter. “Too true, my friend. I doubt there’s a single one of them left in the city.”
“Not unless they’re crawling with the rats.”
“Then they must feel right at home!”
More laughter, and the grip on Vogel’s coffee cup tightened with the desire to break it over both their heads.
“It’s sad, though. Bernauer Street used to be a safe neighborhood.”
The senior man agreed. “Nowhere is safe anymore,” he whispered, but Vogel was no longer listening. He returned to his desk, his coffee forgotten, and grabbed his jacket, heading for the parking lot. As he drove to the morgue, his gut told him he wouldn’t like what he found when he got there. Someone beaten to death was no longer as shocking as it would have been just a year ago, but now, fear and desperation gripped the capital.
Even in decent neighborhoods like the one Dieter Maier lived in.
On Bernauer Street.
20
South of Kwidzyn (formerly Marienwerder), Poland
Present Day
Acton’s heart sank as the truck and forklift disappeared, the last crate containing the Amber Room offloaded only moments ago. The operation had been executed swiftly, with military precision, and the manner in which these men conducted themselves, despite their attire, suggested they were ex-forces of some type, the accents suggesting to him Spetsnaz.
A terrifying prospect.
Lisowski moaned as Laura loosened the tourniquet, the only treatment they had been able to provide for the poor woman. She was pale and weak, and Acton wasn’t sure how much time she had left, though with the operation now complete, he hoped help might be here soon.
He still had no answer to the question of why the leader had said he needed them, and he feared what that answer might be. He decided to risk asking after Lisowski gasped when Laura tightened the tourniquet again. “Now that you’ve got what you came for, can we call for help?”
The leader addressed the others lined up against the far end of the chamber, their hands and feet zip-tied. “There’s a cellphone jammer hidden outside.” He dropped a knife next to him, the blade sticking into the dirt beside a pile of confiscated cellphones, Acton’s and Laura’s purposefully destroyed, perhaps to cause confusion as to where they were. “You’ll have to work together to get to this and use it. By then, we’ll be gone. Once you free yourselves and walk far enough away from the jammer, you’ll be able to get a signal and call for help.”
Acton held out his hands, asking a question he feared he already knew the answer to. “Aren’t you going to tie us up too?”
The man turned to him. “No, professor, you and your lovely wife are coming with us.”
Acton’s chest tightened, the answer exactly as he had expected. “Why?”
“We need someone to authenticate the find for our client. He’s paying a lot of money, and he’s going to want to know he’s getting the genuine article before he pays us. Two unwilling professors of archaeology are exactly what I need to do that.”
Acton glanced at Laura. “Leave my wife. I’m all you need.”
The man chuckled. “So gallant. I do believe you were born in the wrong era, professor. But no, you’re both coming with me.”
Acton stepped toward him, glaring into his eyes. “I must
insist.”
The man smiled, tapping his shoulder holster. “Professor, if you continue to insist on delaying me, I can allow one of you to remain behind.” His smiled disappeared. “Dead.”
“It’s okay, James.”
Acton turned to his wife, feeling helpless. They had no leverage. None. These thieves already had what they had come for, had all the guns, and were in complete control.
The leader held his hand out toward the tunnel, as if inviting them to join him. “Shall we?”
Acton frowned, holding out a hand for Laura. He turned to Lisowski. “Hang in there, Aleksandra. Help will be here soon.”
“I-I think I should be telling you the same thing.”
Acton smiled then followed the thieves down the tunnel and out into the fresh morning air, his chest aching at the sight of the two unarmed security guards, dead inside the entranceway. He glared at the leader. “Was that really necessary?”
“In the end, no, but we had assumed they were armed.”
“And that makes it all right?”
The man shrugged. “Do you really think I care?”
Acton frowned. “I guess not.” He stared at two large curtain side transport trucks with a beer company logo emblazoned on their fabric-clad sides, there nothing whatsoever to indicate the actual precious cargo they both contained. Two black SUVs filled with the henchmen pulled out after them, a third with only a driver, waited for the leader of the operation and his two prisoners.
“Get in.”
Acton opened the rear door and Laura climbed in, sliding over behind the passenger seat. He followed, closing the door, the leader sitting in the front. He leaned out the window and raised a device that looked suspiciously like a detonator.
Acton gasped as a button was pressed.
A massive explosion erupted behind them, and he and Laura spun in their seats, staring out the rear window dumbfounded at the sight, the entire mine entrance collapsed, and any hope of rescue along with it.
Acton spun toward the man as he motioned for the driver to proceed. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“We can’t exactly have your friends telling anyone what just happened, can we?”
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