Amber Beach

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Just one of my many charms.”

  Though Jake was smiling, Honor could tell he didn’t particularly care for Marju. Not too surprising. No matter what he said about being grateful not to have caught Marju’s eye, it still had to rankle.

  “Forgive me for being blunt,” Honor said, “but when was the last time you heard from Kyle?”

  “Four weeks ago. The night I gave him with my own hands a panel from the Amber Room.”

  Honor didn’t know what to say.

  Jake did. “Shit. I told Kyle that you were trouble.”

  “It is I who have trouble,” Marju said, weeping soundlessly. “He said he would sell the panel and we would live in Brazil, where we would be warm and safe for the rest of our lives. I believed him! I betrayed my family, my people, my country. All of them. For him.” She crossed herself quickly. “May God forgive me, I still love him. I still believe he will telephone me . . .”

  With a disgusted sound, Jake shoved a wad of tissues into Marju’s hand. “Here. Wipe your nose.”

  Honor just closed her eyes and tried to balance Marju’s description of Kyle with the brother she had always loved.

  It was impossible.

  An irrational anger burned through Honor, a primitive hatred for the beautiful stranger who was damning Kyle with every word, every tear. In that instant she understood completely why tyrants killed messengers who brought bad news. Right now Honor hated everything about the divine Miss “Jones.”

  “Who was Kyle going to sell the panel to?” Jake asked as Marju’s tears subsided.

  “He did not tell me.”

  Jake grunted. “How did you get your hands on this supposed piece of the Amber Room in the first place?”

  “ ‘Supposed’? There is no doubt!”

  “Bullshit. There’s always doubt.”

  “If you could see, you would not doubt,” Marju said.

  “How did you see it?” Honor asked before Jake could say anything.

  “There is an old patriotic group known as the Forest Brotherhood,” she began. “They began in the—”

  “Forget the history lesson,” Jake said impatiently. “How did they get the Amber Room?”

  “History is necessary,” Marju countered, her voice cracking with anger. “Only Americans live in a world that is new each day. The rest of us live with the past every moment!”

  “Yeah. And then you spend the future rehashing wars your ancestors lost,” Jake said.

  “You are so American!” Marju said, throwing up her hands in despair.

  “Thank you.”

  Honor cleared her throat. “About the Forest Brotherhood and the Amber Room . . . ?”

  For a moment longer Marju glared at Jake. Then she turned back to Honor. “At the end of World War Two, the Germans tried to steal the Amber Room from Russia. Some of the Forest Brotherhood worked loading German ships at Königsberg, what we now call Kaliningrad. The Brotherhood told others, loyal Lithuanians in the Russian navy, which ship to sink. Afterward, they salvaged the Amber Room from the sunken ship and hid it deep beneath the altar of an ancient church, in the catacombs. They waited for Lithuania to become free once more.” Her mouth turned down bitterly. “But the Russians conquered.”

  Honor looked at Jake. He shrugged and didn’t say anything. He had heard similar stories about the Amber Room for so many years that it was impossible to say which one was more or less plausible than the others.

  “How did the Brotherhood keep a secret for so long?” Honor asked Marju. “Especially one that big.”

  “Dead men do not gossip,” she said simply. “The Russians slaughtered all but one or two of the Brotherhood. Knowledge of the Amber Room came down through the men of my mother’s family. A cousin told me.”

  “Why?” Honor asked.

  “He wanted me.”

  Honor didn’t doubt that. “And you ran to Kyle with the good news.”

  “I did not know Kyle very well at that time.”

  “Too bad it couldn’t have stayed that way,” Jake said sardonically. “When did you tell him?”

  “Six weeks ago. That is when he talked of love and marriage and Brazil. Poor fool that I am, I b-believed—that he loved m-me!”

  Honor ripped a tissue out of the box and stuffed it into the other woman’s hand. “Blow.”

  The brisk sympathy steadied Marju. She blew into the tissue, wiped her nose, and blotted her widely spaced, incredible eyes. Part of Honor took a mean pleasure in the fact that even an exotic like Marju couldn’t cry and get away with it entirely. The red nose definitely detracted from the rest of the package.

  Marju gave a shuddering sigh, sipped coffee, and collected herself.

  “How big is the panel?” Jake asked.

  “Perhaps one by two meters,” Marju said.

  “Heavy?”

  “Not in the way of stone. But the wood backing, the frame, made the whole awkward to handle.”

  “Who helped you?” Jake asked.

  “No one! I could trust no one but my very own love. Yet I should not—should not have—t-trusted him.” Her breathing fragmented into tears.

  Jake handed her another round of tissues and waited impatiently for the storm of weeping to end. He had never understood how Kyle had put up with Marju’s tears and tirades. Among Baltic peoples, Lithuanians were famous for their low flashpoint and keen sense of personal drama. For Jake it was a wearing combination.

  “Pull yourself together,” he said finally. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

  Marju gave Honor a look of mute appeal. Honor sighed, smiled, and patted the other woman’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about Jake,” Honor said. “American men are uncomfortable around tears, but he’ll put a sock in it for now.” She gave Jake a hard glance. “Won’t you?”

  He looked at his watch, then out the window. Even in the more protected areas, whitecaps showed in a solid wall. Haro Strait would be a washboard roller coaster. The “sheltered” water around the rest of the islands wouldn’t be much better.

  “Have a good cry, Jones,” Jake said. “Get it out of your system. It’s pretty dirty out on the water right now anyway.”

  “Too much slang,” Honor said.

  “You’re assuming she’s listening to anything except her own sobbing.”

  Honor put her hands on her hips. “This may come as a rude shock to you, buttercup, but when a woman discovers she has been betrayed by the man she loves, she’s entitled to a good cry!”

  “You didn’t. But then, underneath all that feminine fury I guess you knew I didn’t really betray you.”

  “The jury is still out on that one,” she shot back. “Don’t push it.”

  “Truce, not an end to the war, is that it?”

  “Bingo.”

  Both of them became aware at the same time that Marju was watching them with a look of concentration, as though she was having trouble following their words.

  “Sorry,” Honor said. “We didn’t mean to leave you out. As you undoubtedly know, Jake can be . . . difficult.”

  “But of course,” Marju said, bewildered. “He is a man.”

  Honor laughed.

  “Right,” Jake said curtly. “So you carried the panel to Kyle in your own little hands. Then what?”

  “I used a handcart, not my hands. Together Kyle and I loaded it into the truck. After that, he went to pick up the driver at the pub near the waterfront, you remember it?”

  “I remember. Then what?”

  “I do not know. Soon Kyle’s brother—”

  “Which one,” Jake interrupted.

  “The cold one. Archer? Is that his name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was not very understanding,” Marju said, blinking against tears. “He did not want to hear that Kyle had used me—used me to—”

  “Hell,” Jake said under his breath. He waited for the crying to subside before he asked curtly, “Where is the rest of the Amber Room?”

  Marju shook her
head and spread her small hands as if to show they were empty. “I was never told. My cousin simply brought me the panel, I took it to Kyle, and we put it into the truck as I told you.”

  “So only your cousin knows where the Amber Room is now?” Jake asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I do not know.”

  The look on Jake’s face said he wasn’t surprised. “How can you get in touch with him?”

  “I? That is not possible.”

  “Sure it is. He’s your cousin. Call an aunt or grandmother or something.”

  “My whole family is against me! Would you trust the woman who betrayed everything for her lover?” she asked bitterly, tears brimming in her voice and eyes.

  Jake grunted. “Then why are you here?”

  “I thought if I could t-talk to Kyle, he would—would—” Tears overflowed. Marju’s beautiful eyes vanished behind a mound of crumpled tissues.

  “Christ,” Jake hissed.

  He looked at Honor and jerked his head toward the kitchen. After a small hesitation she left Marju and followed him.

  “I have to pick up some stuff at the cabin,” he said, “but I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  The sounds of heartbreak from the living room underlined Honor’s words.

  Jake hissed another word under his breath. “If you don’t hear from me in half an hour, call this number,” he said, pulling a business card from the pocket of his wool shirt.

  “’Ellen Lazarus, consultant,’” Honor read out loud. She looked at him questioningly. “The lady in the red jacket?”

  “Yeah. After me or Archer, she’s your best bet.”

  “For what?”

  “Getting through the fairy dust without choking to death. Half an hour, right?”

  Honor nodded. “But wh—”

  The word ended in a startled sound when Jake brushed a kiss over her lips and followed it with a quick, secret caress from the tip of his tongue.

  “Jake!”

  “Truce, remember?”

  “That’s not my idea of a truce!”

  “You’re right.” He bent his head and did a thorough job of kissing her. She didn’t respond as he had hoped. On the other hand, she didn’t fight him. Reluctantly he lifted his head. “Better, but not nearly up to the previous mark. Good thing we have lots of time to work on the fine print in this truce of ours.”

  “But I didn’t say anything about kissing or—”

  “Don’t forget,” he interrupted, opening the back door. “Half an hour. Beginning now.”

  The good news was that no one was parked on the highway across from Jake’s driveway. The bad news was that the tire tracks in the mud didn’t belong to any vehicle he had ever owned. Nor did they look like they belonged to Ellen’s snappy little four-wheel-drive rental. These tires were seriously bald. It was a wonder the vehicle had made it up the driveway without sliding off into the forest.

  Jake turned the steering wheel sharply and brought the truck to a slithering stop so that it blocked the driveway as thoroughly as a metal cork. The cabin wasn’t in sight. Neither was anything else but mud and fir trees stirring in the rain-wet wind.

  With one hand Jake stuffed the truck keys into the pocket of his jeans. With the other he popped open the glove compartment, grabbed the gun, and shoved it through a loop on his belt at the small of his back. He had been told that some people found the feel of a gun reassuring. To him, the damn thing just felt cold.

  Cursing Kyle, ancient wars, and modern fairy dust, Jake eased out of the truck and into the forest. By the time he had gone fifty feet, water was trickling down his collar from the drippy, cold-fingered caress of fir boughs weighed down by rain and pushed by the wind. Water was also trickling down his chin and over his wrists. He ignored the irritation and concentrated on the forest, the uncertain footing, and the cabin that was beginning to condense from the gloom ahead of him.

  There was no sign of a vehicle. For a moment Jake thought hopefully that someone had just gotten lost, realized it, and slid on back to the highway. But something in the scene ahead didn’t fit with that cozy idea. Jake wasn’t going to move until he figured out what was wrong.

  Concealed in the dripping embrace of the forest, he waited while wind moaned high in the treetops, masking all noise except the slap and smash of waves at the base of the nearby cliffs. Suddenly a gust of wind pushed the back door open.

  Jake stared at the dark gap. It was possible he had forgotten to lock the door and had left it ajar for the wind to play with . . . . Possible, but not very damned likely.

  He drew the gun, took off the safety, and ghosted across the small clearing near the back of the cabin. A moment later he was in the door and making a rapid survey. Nothing showed over the gun barrel but two wood kitchen chairs, an electric stove, a sink, and a table covered with mail he hadn’t bothered to open.

  Wet footprints still glistened on the floorboards. Whoever was inside hadn’t been there long.

  Letting out his breath very slowly, Jake listened. Small noises came from the direction of the bedroom. He smiled. The bastard hadn’t finished yet.

  Ignoring the mud and forest litter stuck to his boots, Jake reached the bedroom in a series of smooth, soundless strides. A quick, thorough look told him there was only one prowler in the room. The man had his back to Jake and was searching through dresser drawers with impatient movements of his hands. Yet for all his hurry, he wasn’t making a mess.

  A pro. Not good news. But then, Jake hadn’t expected any.

  The prowler didn’t know anything had gone wrong until his right cheek was mashed into the cottage wall and a gun barrel was screwed beneath his chin in such a way that no matter what he did, he couldn’t see who was holding him. Nor could he get away from the gun by throwing himself to the side or going limp.

  As soon as the prowler realized that he was trapped, he went very still.

  “Finished yet?” Jake asked in Russian.

  The man sagged in relief and started cursing in the same language, asking what his partner was doing here—they were supposed to rendezvous at the realty sign down the road, remember?

  “How’s your English?” Jake asked in that language.

  The man went stiff.

  “Good enough to understand me,” Jake said. “What are you looking for?”

  Silence.

  Jake grabbed a handful of hair and smacked the man’s head against the wall again. The gun barrel never moved from its painful niche beneath the Russian’s chin. His head was jammed back on his shoulders from the pressure.

  “Wrong answer,” Jake said calmly.

  “Money. Liquor.”

  Jake rattled the man’s teeth again. “I’m losing patience.”

  “Drugs!” the man gasped.

  This time the clock on the dresser rattled when the Russian kissed the wall.

  “They aren’t paying you enough to be a hero,” Jake said, “but so far it’s been a really bad day all around for me. If you want to play hardball, you just found your pitcher.”

  He repeated it in Russian to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

  Even then, it took five minutes for Jake to explain the ground rules. By then the prowler had decided he really didn’t want to play any more games.

  Jake dragged the Russian’s head out of the toilet and braced him against the lip of the cold porcelain bowl. Coughing, sputtering, dazed, the man gasped for air.

  “Start talking,” Jake said. “I’ve got better things to do than wash your face.”

  “The box!” the man said in Russian. “I give, not steal!”

  Jake buried his left hand in the man’s hair, jammed the gun barrel under his chin, and hauled him to his feet. The way he was being held, even if the Russian was still feeling playful, he would have a tough time laying a hand—or a foot—on Jake.

  “Where?” Jake asked.

  “Where?” The Russian blinke
d rapidly. “Where what?”

  The next time the man got his face out of the toilet, he had no trouble understanding what Jake wanted, no matter which language was used. The Russian led him promptly, if awkwardly, to the basket where Jake kept his dirty laundry. Beneath the shirts, shorts, socks, and a towel was the superbly made leather box Resnikov had offered only a few hours before.

  Jake didn’t touch the box. He just looked at it and thought about all the possibilities. No matter what kind of a spin he put on it, the day had just gone from bad to worse.

  “You need some more time to learn English,” Jake said to his captive. “When you ‘give’ somebody something like this, it’s called setting them up. But don’t worry. A few years in jail for breaking and entering should do wonders for your command of American idioms.”

  Predictably, the man didn’t think much of the idea. Jake didn’t care. He tied the Russian up with knots that got tighter the more he struggled. Then Jake picked up the phone and called Honor. She answered on the first ring.

  “Are you all right?” he asked immediately.

  “Fine, but I’m running out of Kleenex.”

  “Give her a roll of toilet paper.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “Finally figured that out, did you? I need an hour, starting now. Then if I’m not back, call—”

  “Ellen Lazarus,” Honor finished curtly. Then, as though she hadn’t meant to, she added quietly, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Just taking care of some odds and ends. See you in an hour.”

  Jake hung up and called the Chowder Keg. As he had hoped, Resnikov was having a leisurely lunch of clams and beer while he waited for his men to come back and report that the box was hidden in Jake’s cabin, awaiting discovery anytime Resnikov wanted to start whispering in the U.S. government’s ear.

  “Pete, it’s Jake.”

  “Mallory?” Resnikov’s voice was both surprised and pleased. “I did not expect you to change your mind so quickly. Or is it simply that you are no longer with the lovely Miss Donovan and thus are able to speak more freely?”

  “Listen up. This is important.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sending back your gift,” Jake said distinctly. “If I see it again—or any other amber that can be traced back to stolen Russian museum goods—I will personally burn it to dry my socks. Then I’ll come looking for you.”