Double Deception

by Merline Lovelace

  OMEGA’s Offensive Tactics Course had him worried, though. He had to admit he hadn’t previously considered either a bootlace or a wire coat hanger as lethal weapons. He was thinking of all the ways he might learn to strangle someone when the light on the console flashed.

  “Morning,” he said after Blade’s biometrics cleared him through. “You and Rebel have a good night?”

  The silence at the other end of the comm link lasted only a few seconds.

  “Very good.”

  No fool, Tank gave a soundless whistle but kept his conclusions to himself as Blade continued.

  “I need you to do some digging for us.”

  “Dodge warned me to keep my shovel handy 24/7.”

  He could hear the smile in Blade’s reply.

  “Good. See what you can find on the Yantarny Mine.”

  He spelled the name and added the interesting information that the mine had most likely provided the amber for the priceless panels a U.S. Army sergeant might or might not have located.

  “I’m looking for schematics or architectural drawings with the layout of the plant,” Blade related. “Also any record of rail spurs that might have connected the mine to the city of Königsberg.”

  “I’ll start digging.”

  “We’re meeting with Thomas Bauer’s cousin at one our time,” Blade reminded him. “Should be done by two or three, then we might head back out to the mine. Call me if you find anything.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks.”

  The search ate up the better part of two hours. The Russians were understandably reluctant to share information about an operation that had spewed more than a hundred million tons of waste into the Baltic before the sea itself flooded the mine and shut it down. Tank waded through the few available environmental assessments and read a grim medical report on workers who’d lost their jobs when the mine closed. Apparently, a good number of them had camped out for months at the mouths of the waste pipes, sifting for amber in the toxic effluent that seeped down from the abandoned mine until that, too, played out.

  Sobered by the variety of fatal illnesses afflicting the scavengers, Tank tried a search of pre-WWII East Prussian mine operations. He got luckier there. In the late 1850s, a German by the name of Moritz Becker had apparently holidayed on the Baltic Coast near what was then Königsberg. Becker saw the locals collecting amber and formed a partnership with one Wilhelm Stantien to systematically rape the sea of its precious by-product. Becker and Stantien financed two mines. One soon proved unprofitable and was shut down. The second provided the partners untold riches until the Soviets invaded and took over operations.

  Fascinated, Tank dug deeper. His search turned up 1890s-era German cartoons that featured the Yantarny Amber Mine. In one, miners stood knee-deep in gray water, pickaxes over their shoulders and their faces scrunched up against the stench of sulfur. Another showed heavily muscled men struggling to wrestle shoring timbers into place. A third depicted a long line of workers standing barefoot while uniformed officials searched their boots and coat pockets for pilfered amber.

  Tank was still digging when a low beep indicated an incoming message. Bookmarking his search, he switched to secure messaging. His pulse kicked up when he saw it was an update to the message Interpol had sent in response to his inquiry several days ago. Quickly, he skimmed the new information.

  Their initial run had found no current open file on males with a scar above his left eye but a surveillance photo just in from the field revised their profile on a small-time thug with known ties to the Russian mafia. When Tank clicked on the attachment, a digitized photo painted across the screen. It had obviously been taken from some distance and was shot across a busy street. Rain came down in sheets and obscured the faces of most of the pedestrians not sheltered by umbrellas.

  The high-powered camera lens had captured two men in fairly vivid detail, though. One had his face turned away and his shoulders bunched against the rain. The other was gesturing with one arm and was obviously speaking to his companion. He’d been silhouetted against a restaurant or shop window displaying tobacco products and gold Cyrillic lettering. The still-livid scar above his left eye showed in precise detail.

  Tank zinged back a request for information on the Bulgarian’s current whereabouts. He then forwarded the photo and list of known aliases to U.S. intelligence agencies with an urgent request to verify whether Scarface had made a trip to the States anytime in recent weeks.

  He glanced at the clock and saw it was just past 1:00 p.m. Kaliningrad time. Rebel and Blade should be with Bauer’s cousin now. Hopefully, he’d have something solid to send them by they time they finished the interview.

  Chapter 9

  Clara Bauer Soloff possessed a bent, arthritic body and a keen mind unclouded by time. Unfortunately, she also exhibited the inbred distrust of all Westerners that characterized most Soviets who’d grown to adulthood during the worst of the Cold War. The feelings had been mutual, of course. Americans’ paranoia about all things Communist had found a rabid mouthpiece in Senator McCarthy and had dominated U.S./U.S.S.R. relations for decades.

  Nor did it help that Ms. Soloff had lived through the horrific purges of the Stalin era, when millions of Soviets were rounded up on the mere suspicion of disloyalty to the party and disappeared into death camps. Tortured by the secret police, brothers had been forced to inform on brothers and sons on fathers. Given those historical perspectives, Rebel wasn’t surprised Clara Soloff eyed them with a mix of curiosity and suspicion when a nurse wheeled her into the visitors’ lounge.

  The attendant shared her charge’s reservations about Westerners. She braked the wheelchair and stood behind it, arms crossed, while Rebel introduced herself and Blade.

  “My name is Victoria Talbot, Mrs. Soloff. This is my associate, Clint Black.”

  They’d debated whether to use a translator. During her assignment to Moscow Rebel had picked up all kinds of interesting tidbits from locals who didn’t know she could understand them. But she’d suspected Mrs. Soloff might be reluctant to discuss an American cousin who’d operated behind the lines in front of others. If she would talk to them at all, that is.

  “These are for you.”

  Hoping the woman wasn’t diabetic, Rebel passed her the paper-wrapped bouquet and tin of chocolates they’d picked up at the hotel’s gift shop. A sepia-toned picture of Königsberg Castle in its full glory decorated the tin’s lid. Soloff thanked them for the gifts but her expression remained wary.

  “Why do you come?”

  “We just want to talk to you.”

  “Why? I’m an old woman. No one cares what an old woman has to say about anything.”

  “It’s a personal matter. We would like to speak in private, if that’s acceptable.”

  She considered that for some moments. Finally, curiosity overcame suspicion and she passed the flowers to the nurse. “Please put these in water for me, Galina.”

  “Are you sure, Clara?”

  “I’m sure.” She flapped a liver-spotted hand. “Go. Go.”

  The attendant squeaked off in her thick-soled Adidas. Rebel waited until she was out of earshot to begin with the opening she and Blade had decided to use.

  “We’re investigating the murder of an American woman.”

  “An American was killed here, in Kalinigrad?” Soloff shook her head. “The Bratva grows more vicious every day.”

  “She’s talking about the Brotherhood,” Rebel translated. “The Russian mafia.”

  “Those Georgians,” the woman continued in disgust. “They and the Chechens and the Bulgarians sell drugs and guns on the streets. And the police—the oblast—they turn a blind eye. Half of them are in the pay of the gangs. No one is safe anymore.”

  “The woman I mentioned wasn’t killed here,” Rebel explained. “She was murdered in America. Her name was Vivian Bauer. She was the granddaughter of your cousin, Thomas Bauer.”

  Soloff looked blank for a moment. But only a moment. Rebel
could tell the instant the name connected.

  “Thomas’s grandchild was killed?”

  “Murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that but…” She made a fluttery gesture with her hands. “I don’t see what her death has to do with me.”

  “We think it may be connected to your cousin’s activities during World War II.”

  The wariness came back, adding sharpness to her eyes and years to her lined face.

  “Thomas’s father and yours were brothers, weren’t they?”

  She darted a furtive glance at the desk and didn’t reply.

  Rebel tried again. “We’re told your cousin’s family emigrated to the United States when Kaliningrad was still the East Prussian province of Königsberg. Is that right, Mrs. Soloff?”

  Still she remained silent. Rebel had almost given up hope of getting any information from her when Blade leaned forward to take one of the older woman’s hands in his. His gaze held Clara’s as he wrapped her in a cloak of quiet sincerity.

  “Tell her we know her cousin came back to Königsberg in the last months of the war,” he instructed Rebel. “If he contacted anyone in her family, they must have been terrified the Nazis would find out and execute them all. We understand why she wouldn’t want to talk about his activities then. Or even after the war, when she said having a relative who’d trained as an American spy might cast doubt on her own loyalty as a Soviet citizen.”

  Clara never took her eyes off his. She didn’t say anything, but as Rebel put his words into Russian she could see the older woman’s misgivings melt by perceptible degrees. What was it about the man that got him past the barriers of any and all females? Rebel wondered ruefully.

  Not that he’d slipped past hers last night. He’d bulldozed right through them. She had the whisker burns to prove it. She was surprised her butt didn’t sport a few burns, too, given all the friction it and the wall had generated.

  “We think there’s a possibility her cousin may have stumbled on the missing Amber Room panels.”

  With a wrench, she resumed her translating duties.

  “If so,” Blade continued, “and she helps us find them, she’ll be doing a great service to both Germany and to Russia.”

  It might have been the mention of the Amber Room that got her to talk. Or the calm voice that said she could trust this stranger who’d walked in off the street and asked her to share long-hidden secrets. Or the strong, sure hand that held hers. God knew his hands had elicited responses from Rebel she’d never imagined herself giving. Whatever the reason, Clara Bauer Soloff let her breath out on a rippling sigh.

  “You have to understand how it was after the war. There was much hatred toward the Prussians. So much hatred. The Soviet Army executed many when they took the city. Then, just months later, the remaining citizens of Königsberg were given only hours to gather what they could carry and leave homes they had lived in all their lives. Soviet families who’d lost their homes in the war soon arrived by trainload.”

  A distant look came into her eyes while Rebel gave Blade the gist of what she’d said.

  “My papa and mama and brother had died in the last days of the shelling,” Soloff continued quietly. “When the order came down to leave, I was all alone. And I was pregnant. I had been raped, you see, and couldn’t bear to go on. I tried to drown myself in the river.”

  She stared down at her hand with its papery, spotted skin and arthritic knuckles, still clasped in Blade’s.

  “Janik Soloff dragged me out. He was a good man, a private in the Red Army. He convinced me to marry him and bribed the authorities to let me stay. But the others, the ones who’d survived the air raids and the shelling and the hand-to-hand fighting, were forced to leave. Those few of us who remained never spoke of our German roots.”

  She lifted her gaze to her visitors.

  “It was not safe, you understand. After the war, during the purges that followed, even today.”

  “I understand,” Rebel said. “But you don’t need to be afraid to talk to us. Whatever you tell us will remain in strictest confidence.”

  “Do you think so?” Her voice took on a dry note. “Then you do not know the FSB.”

  She eased her hand from Blade’s. Rebel thought that might be the end of their discussion but Soloff surprised her by returning to the reason for their visit.

  “I saw Thomas only once during the war. I didn’t recognize him at first. None of us did. He showed up at our door covered in gray dust, carrying a pickax on his shoulder like one of the miners from Yarntany.”

  Blade caught the name and shot Rebel a swift look. She translated quickly before prompting Clara to continue.

  “Thomas came to see my papa. To ask him about the tunnels.”

  “What tunnels?”

  “Those beneath the castle.” She traced a fingertip over the design on the tin of chocolates. “Thomas had a map. His papa had drawn it for him. But with the air raids and constant shelling, many buildings had collapsed and whole streets were obliterated. Thomas could no longer make any sense of his map.”

  “Did your father help him decipher it?”

  Her finger stilled. Even after so many years, the terror and uncertainty of those last months of the war echoed in her stark account.

  “We all knew the end was near. The bombs rained down like fire from the sky. The Russians—my own Janik among them—were advancing. My papa was a loyal Prussian but he thought… He hoped…” She drew in a quivering breath. “Thomas promised he would tell his superiors in the American Army that papa aided him. See that our family was taken care of. But my parents and brother died and then, after the Russians took the city, I married Janik. There was no one left for Thomas to take care of.”

  “You didn’t see him again after that one night?”

  “No.”

  “Even after the war? He didn’t come back? Or try to contact you?”

  “There was one letter. It was addressed to my papa and had been routed through several refugee camps in Germany. It took two years to come into my hands.”

  “Do you remember what it said?”

  “Only that Thomas had asked Red Cross officials to search for us and, if this letter found us, we were to contact him.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I had my husband and my baby. And with the purges still going on…”

  She left it at that. Disappointed, Rebel tried a different tack.

  “My friend mentioned the Amber Room. Did you see it when it was on display here in Königsberg?”

  “Of course. Such a magnificent work of art. Everyone was so thrilled to have it back in Prussia, where it was first crafted. Papa took us to see it,” she recalled with a misty smile. “Mama and my brother and me. We walked up to the castle. It was Saturday. Saturday afternoon. Sunny and bright and still early in the war, so there were no ruins or bomb craters to hinder us. Afterward, we ate klopse at mama’s favorite restaurant.”

  “Do you remember if your cousin said anything about the amber panels the night he came to your house?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t. I would have remembered…”

  “Clara?” The rubbery squeak of sneakers preceded the nurse’s return. “You shouldn’t tire yourself like this.” She directed the comment to the woman in the wheelchair but made sure the visitors got the message. “Shall I take you back to your room?”

  “In a minute, Galina.” She held up an arthritic hand. “My cousin didn’t mention the Amber Room. I’m sure of that. But I think… He said something…” Her face screwed into a frown. “Something about the mine reclaiming its treasures.”

  The mine again! Rebel was becoming more and more convinced the answer to the puzzle lay somewhere in its murky depths. She didn’t look forward to another close encounter of the bat variety but couldn’t see any way out of it.

  Blade confirmed her glum supposition after they’d thanked Clara Soloff and said goodbye. The sun burned in a bright blue sky and their
hotel was within walking distance, so they decided to hoof it.

  “We can stop on the way and pick up some high-powered flashlights. Better change, too, before we tackle that abandoned tunnel.”

  They would have to face the tunnel sooner rather than later, but Rebel yielded to the craven impulse to put it off a little longer. “Maybe we should check out the museum first. I bet it’ll have information on mine operations.”

  “Fine by me. You remember how to get there?”

  “It was part of the old city walls. We’ll have to cross the river and head back toward the House of Soviets.” Smiling, she quoted their cab driver. “The ugliest building in all Russia.”

  She could see it across the river. The square, blue-painted concrete tower provided a sad contrast to the stained-glass windows and ornate red brick of Kaliningrad’s lovingly restored cathedral. The cathedral’s conical steeples rose above the shimmery, lime-green lindens and provided a clearly visible landmark.

  They kept it in their line of sight as they passed the shops lining this side of the river. The goods in store windows gave fascinating glimpses into Kaliningrad’s past. Amber was everywhere. In fine jewelry, in furniture, in cheap souvenirs. One shop proudly displayed a whole selection of Elvis amber products. Key chains, statuettes, even imitation vinyl records with his song labels picked out in bits of yellow.

  Antique shops offered a wealth of insight into the city’s long and often turbulent history. Prussian helmets topped with iron spikes or sweeping horsetails sat side-by-side with military memorabilia inscribed with red swastikas. Dented brass samovars vied for space with mismatched pieces of Meissen china. A set of military beer steins marched across one window, each topped with incredibly detailed infantry or cavalry figures.

  Fascinated by the displays, Rebel almost missed the sign pointing to another shop tucked at the back of a narrow alley.

  “Hey! We should check out this shop. They specialize in antique maps. Bet they have some of Königsberg before the war.”