by Gayle Lynds
There was a creak. Julia recalled that, too. She watched three of the wood-slatted interior walls roll up. A golden glow suddenly appeared at the base where the hidden walls were being exposed. The room was silent, hushed. The horizontal wood slats rose more quickly now, folding out of sight into the space between the ceiling and the peaked roof.
Someone gasped with awe. As the rays of the setting sun flooded in, the air danced with golden light. Sam jumped up, excited. His breath was ragged. He hurried to the center of the room, impelled to be at the heart of this strange and glorious sight that was taking shape all around them.
As the wood façade vanished into the ceiling, Sam cradled his bandaged arm and began to speak. His voice and face were jubilant. "Each panel contains thousands of hand-carved pieces worked into scrolls, heraldry, ornate busts, and royal crests and then mounted on heavy wood backing. Sometimes when the artists etched images on the back of the clear amber pieces, they'd apply gold foil to make their designs stand out. Some carvings are so small you need a magnifying glass to really be able to comprehend the art." He turned and pointed. "Those are gilt candelabra on the mirrored pilasters. That's a hand-carved, gilded frieze that's circling the room."
"I had the panels restored," Lyle said, his faded eyes gleaming as he drank in the sight.
"The Amber Room." Julia's voice was reverent.
Breath seemed to catch in Sam's throat as he feasted upon the spectacular beauty. He'd waited his entire life for this moment, and it was as magnificent as he'd imagined. "In all of human history, there's never been anything like it. People traveled from around the globe just to see this room back in the days when that sort of thing was nearly impossible. Poets rhapsodized about it. It was more than a legend. It was . . . it is the Eighth Wonder of the World."
The room was awash in shimmering light. Sunshine caught in the huge panels of amber and made them glow, almost as if they were alive. The rich light reverberated everywhere, echoing like visual music. Whatever monetary value the room had, it was far outweighed by its magical beauty, which seemed to envelop its human visitors in an almost mystical cloak.
Julia's eyes felt enormous as she absorbed it all. It reminded her again of how fortunate she was to be able to see. "It's spectacular, Sam. It's everything you said. Unforgettable. A masterpiece."
"How did you do it?" Sam asked the old man.
Lyle Redmond's voice was distant, remembering. "Dan and I flipped for the room. He wanted it because it was art. I wanted it to own. I won, but he got visiting privileges. Then I paid him extra out of our business for twenty years. When I bought Arbor Knoll, there were POWs from the Italian army still being held on Governors Island. They could get paroles to work for Americans, so I had a crew of them dig the tunnel and build my 'retreat.' Then they went back to Italy with their pockets full of U.S. greenbacks to buy their silence."
Brice stared around. He grumbled, "Some rustic little retreat."
The old man grinned wickedly. "Hell, I had a king's palace out here, all my own, and nobody was the wiser." Then he sighed. "Before when I tried to set up my foundation, I was trying to make amends without revealing anything. I was wrong about almost everything. I screwed it up." He looked at the glowing walls, then at Julia and Sam, and then once more around the whole dazzling Amber Room. He nodded solemnly. "I'm giving it back to the Russians. It never did belong to me. I just wanted to see it one more time. Call it the last sin of an old sinner."
Sam was watching Julia. He took her hand and squeezed it. The Amber Room had meant a lot to him, but in the end it wasn't her equal.
He kissed her hair and whispered, "It's over, Julia."
She leaned back and smiled up into his face. More thoughts had been coming to her. She traced the line of his jaw. "No, darling. It's not quite over yet."
60
9:04 PM
OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK
After making formal statements, everyone had been released from Arbor Knoll except David and Brice. The FBI took them into custody as accessories to murder. No surviving Janitors had been found. Limos, luxury cars, and sleek sports cars carried the shocked guests out of the compound.
The press was relegated to a clamorous vigil outside the gates. Lyle Redmond spoke to them, telling them in his colorful language about Creighton's plot to win the presidency. He appealed to the public to vote for Douglas Powers, not for the Redmond-Friedman ticket. According to law, it was technically possible for Creighton to be elected president, but then his vice presidential nominee would automatically become president instead of Douglas Powers. Old Lyle didn't think that was right.
As TV cameras recorded him, Lyle said, "Doug Powers will make a hell of a president. Vote for him."
Julia tried to convince him to leave with them.
He was adamant. "I'm going to sell the joint, might as well put in a few nights here. See what good memories I can catch. With luck, there're still some shirts in my drawers. After Reilly and his goddamn pajamas, I'm looking forward to real clothes."
Julia told Sam to drive them back to Oyster Bay and the rectory of Saint Dominic's. When they arrived, he parked in back. There was light in the window of the sitting room where they'd talked with Father Michael and her grandfather. In the yellow lamplight the Franciscan was sitting at the desk, his head bent over, writing.
When he came to answer the doorbell, Father Michael nodded in greeting. "I was expecting you, my children. I have been listening to the news. There is very little else on any station. I am sorry about your uncle's death, Julia. And I am very sad for you that you had to kill him." Father Michael felt the weight of all his sixty-five years. His jowly face sagged with his burden. Still, he radiated kindness and concern for her, and Julia was touched.
He took them into the sitting room, closed the door, and asked them to tell him exactly what had happened. As they sat and talked, he bowed his head, and they had a sense he was praying.
Julia said, "Grandpa asked me to tell you he'll be by tomorrow after he votes. He says he's done what he needed to do. He wants to make his confession. He says it's going to be a very long one, so be prepared."
The priest's head lifted. He smiled. "That is wonderful. It is another step toward his salvation. It has been a long road for him, and I know he is tired. But he has a boundless spirit, and now that he asks God to place His hand on his shoulder, he will not feel so alone."
Sam grinned. "He swears he's not going to swear anymore."
The priest chuckled. "That is good." He sat back in the chair, his brown habit brushing the carpet. His long face became somber, and he examined Julia with a questioning gaze. "You wish to ask me a question, Julia?"
She nodded. "You said something to Grandpa that's stayed with me. It was: 'You did not tell them Selvester Maas had intended to give the treasure back.' Grandpa didn't know what you were talking about. He blamed it on his bad memory, but it makes sense to me . . . if you were there and knew what happened." She paused. "I think you were that little boy Grandpa saw running away from the warehouse after Grandfather Austrian killed Maas. And then I remembered what Sam had found when he was looking into Maas's background. Maas had a son, apparently his only surviving child. But Sam could find no trace of him. It made me wonder. Maybe the son didn't disappear at all. Maybe he went into a calling—the church—that took him to other countries. You have a German accent, and Zurich is a German-speaking area. . . . Are you Michael Maas? Is it true what you said about your father?"
The priest closed his eyes. Pain crumpled his aging features. But when he opened them again, his gaze was clear and soft.
He said, "It is all true. My father was a sinner, but when he realized the enormity of what he was doing with Himmler's plunder, he changed. He had wanted the Second Himmler Treasure to be returned to the Soviet Union because that was where it originated. Himmler was an evil man. In the end, my father had no wish to compound that."
Sam told Father Michael his theory of how Himmler had shipped the loot from Königs
berg to Zurich.
The priest nodded. "From what my father told me, you are correct. It was a long and arduous rail journey. My father went to meet the train in Germany to help it into Switzerland." The priest told them his mother had begged him to be quiet about his father's murder and the Second Himmler Treasure. "Apparently he had stolen a few pieces earlier in the war from other accounts, and my mother feared the Swiss government would confiscate all her inheritance in compensation. So I kept silent. I went into the priesthood to expiate my guilt." He smiled sadly at Julia. "We are not so different, you and I. There is an old saying—'the children are doomed to inherit the unresolved problems of the parents.' "
"Did you send letters ten years ago to my father and Creighton about what my grandfathers did?" Julia asked. "That was why they got into the fight the night of my debut—"
Shock stretched Father Michael's face. "I am responsible for your father's death? I did not know—"
"But you're also responsible for my grandfather's redemption." Julia smiled sadly. "You tried to do what's right. You set the whole thing in motion. After that, the choices people made were their own responsibilities. You don't have anything to feel guilty about. In fact, I'm grateful to you for a lot of it. If you hadn't encouraged Grandpa to reform, Creighton surely would've ended up as president."
The priest thought about it. Then he nodded. "Your words are a gift. Thank you."
Afterwards, Julia and Sam sat in their rented Mustang in the parking lot behind the beautiful stone church. The moon was high, and the sea air was quiet. There was a scent of snow, as if the pale clouds floating across the black sky were bringing a change of weather. They were again in the Salvation Army clothes Sam had bought in Manhattan. His arm throbbed, but he was full of painkillers so he was able to ignore it. They leaned together, their breaths entwined.
"Will you come back to New York with me?" she asked. "It's close. It's convenient. There's food in the freezer."
He chuckled. He put a hand on her cheek and turned her so he could see her clearly.
"Your skin is so soft." He ran a finger along her throat. "Do you believe in love?"
"Funny you should ask. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. But if we admit it, we'll have to give up some of our old ideas."
He kissed her, and she pressed against him. He held her tightly with his uninjured arm, amazed and grateful. He drank in the sweet taste of her mouth.
He pulled away a few inches and gazed into her lapis lazuli eyes. "If you're talking about commitment, I think I'm ready to broaden my horizons."
She slid her hand up his jacket, wriggled it under his sweatshirt, and pressed it against his heart. Its beat reverberated through her, sending waves of heat and desire. She loved the way he smelled, the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he made love.
She said, "I love the way you think."
"I love you," he said softly.
She thought about her mother and how many times she'd said she hoped Julia would find a good man to love. It made her. happy and sad at the same time, and she longed for her mother to be alive so she could meet Sam and enjoy him for all his wonderful strengths and characteristics. Her father would've liked him, too. They would've enjoyed sharing their fascinations—art, music, knowledge. She could see them in her mind, sitting together, talking for hours and hours—
Her parents were gone, and she would always miss them. But at least she'd stopped their killers, and now she had Sam. He couldn't take their place, and she didn't want him to. She smiled deep into her heart. "I love you, darling." They'd build a new life together. In the quiet shadows of the car, she kissed him a long time.
A YEAR LATER, DECEMBER
NEW YORK CITY
Snow made the city dazzle. Red bunting, evergreen ropes, and colored lights decorated stores, streetlights, and the medians on Park Avenue. The city was alive with holiday cheer. The usual noises of traffic and voices were hushed by a blanket of snow. It lay fresh and clean over cars and fire hydrants and gathered in soft drifts against buildings. Julia and Sam strode hand in hand in the invigorating air. Pedestrians were out in force, enjoying the season and the weather. Shopping bags rustled, and the air reverberated with holiday greetings.
"How does it feel to be back?" Sam asked. He was watching her closely, wondering whether she was as comfortable living in Washington as she claimed. They'd bought a house together in Dupont Circle, but New York had been her home. Now they'd returned for the first time in months—
"I'll always love New York." She smiled. "But I love you more."
"That's good. I'm glad I made that investment in a ring."
She laughed.
After the events at Arbor Knoll, the DCI had offered to put Sam back in the field. Any job he wanted. But he knew he'd crossed back over the River Styx on that. He hated the lying, the violence, the death. He'd been right all those years ago to transfer into research and analysis. If Irini had lived, he'd have done it anyway.
And now he was the head of it. He had Vince's old job as deputy director of intelligence. He was adjusting to the aches and annoying pains of being a top manager. He missed Julia while she was off on tour, but he had a passion for his work. When she returned, his life was complete.
And Pink was back in it. Pink had already been in Bosnia by the time election day had rolled around. As soon as he'd heard the news about what had really been going on, that Sam had been right and Vince had not only been wrong but a criminal, he'd taken personal time to fly back to the States to annoy Sam until he'd forgiven him. It'd taken quite a while. But now Pink was back in Eastern Europe, and Sam knew the next time Pink was home he'd go straight to Sam's office to suggest food, sports, and movies to renew their friendship.
Sam and Julia strode east on Sixty-first Street and went inside a somber brownstone that rose five stories. A big law firm occupied the entire building. They sat in the walnut-paneled lobby until Lyle Redmond appeared.
He entered in a bustle of cold air. He slapped his gloves together and peeled them off.
Julia kissed his cheek. "Hello, Grandpa. Merry Christmas."
He held her a long time. "Merry Christmas, Julia."
Sam said, "Merry Christmas, Grandpa."
Lyle frowned. "Call me Lyle."
"I like 'Grandpa' more."
"Yeah, you would." But secretly he was pleased.
They rode the elevator up to the top floor. Julia hadn't seen her grandfather since their wedding. He looked good. His skin was pink, and his broad, bony face was wreathed in a smile. This was a big day for them.
For quite a while she'd lived in the painful shadow of the people she'd killed, wondering whether she'd been right. She'd see the faces of her parents in her dreams and asked herself whether she could've done something to prevent their deaths. She remembered how much she'd wanted to kill Maya Stern and Creighton, but when she'd actually done it, she'd known if she'd had any other choice, she'd have taken it. After a while, she'd poured her questions and her guilt into her music, and the answers had come back in chords of love from Sam. Love healed, the old saying went. And she was healing. Now, today, she and her grandfather would seal their pact with the future.
Lyle and Sam were talking. "You kids have got to visit," the old man said. "I'm getting the nursing home whipped into shape. Everybody gets to wear real clothes. The popcorn's buttered. We come and go as we please. And . . . we've got R-rated movies!" John Reilly and his men were in jail awaiting trial, and Lyle had fired the rest of the staff that had been hired to keep him under control.
"In that case," Sam decided, "we'll definitely be there."
"Do you miss Arbor Knoll?" Julia asked.
The old man shook his silvery hair. "Heck, no. Well, maybe a little. I liked being waited on. I got to admit that. And I liked the Amber Room, but the Russians are putting it to good use. Now that they have that and my paintings and the works Dan Austrian held on to, I figure we should fly over there and visit." He chuckled. "It'd kinda be like goi
ng home."
The secretary ushered them into their attorney's office. He offered coffee and tea.
"I'll take a brandy," the old man decided. "Bring it for everybody. This is a celebration. Make sure it's not crap brandy. I want something good." As the secretary left, Lyle looked at Julia. "Do you think 'crap' is swearing? I've been debating it."
"Grandpa, saying 'crap' occasionally isn't going to keep you out of heaven."
"No," Sam agreed. "But I'd worry about those R-rated movies."
Lyle grinned. "You've got a couple of smart mouths."
The fallout from Creighton Redmond's violent quest for the presidency was coming to an end. Douglas Powers had been elected by a landslide, and David and Brice were being tried on accessory-to-murder charges. The old man again had control of his fortune, and Julia's inheritance had been turned over to her.
In the elegant corner office, the attorney was making it a ceremony. His name was Joseph Kattleman, and he was a dignified man with a deliberate voice. He explained the points of the document again. "You understand that you are transferring all of your assets to the foundation, Mr. Redmond? You will have only your social security to live on."
"That's what I want." The old man nodded. "I'm doing great. I own the nursing home, so I don't have to pay rent. I think that was a stroke of my old genius to turn the nut house over to the inmates." He swirled his brandy and drank. "This is darn good," he proclaimed.
Father Michael had accompanied Redmond to Switzerland, where the priest had given his eyewitness account of his father's murder. The court—not eager to attract more attention to scandalous Swiss behavior during the war—had fined Lyle five hundred thousand dollars and released him for humanitarian reasons because of his advanced age. In the United States, he'd faced nearly eight hundred million dollars in back taxes and penalties for not declaring his loot, plus there'd been State Department fines for illegally bringing stolen art into the country.
Lyle had amazed himself by paying without a grumble. He had his mind on tougher issues, like even more repenting and making amends. He visited as many as he could find of the people he'd screwed over the years. It was a humbling experience, and he refused to talk about it. But deep inside he'd known he had their insults and anger coming. When every once in a while someone said "thank you" for his apologies and the checks he wrote, he figured maybe that's what it was really about.
