“Because we like living more than we like golden caskets.” In one sweeping motion he took in the tall pines rising up between them and the steepest cliffs, and the bone-colored stone looming up beyond them. “Look. The SS brought Buchenwald prisoners up here, had them dig caves. Not cave. Caves. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. Nobody knows, see? Not how many, not even where. Some were used to store bombs from the munitions factory in Arnah. Why? Because bombers can come and find a building and bomb it. Harder to target a seven-kilometer-wide cliff face.
“Some caves for bombs, and some for treasures. At least, that’s what the legends say. My father used to talk about the truck convoys that came through Arnstadt after the night curfew forced everybody indoors. Truck after truck after truck without lights, grinding through our city, all headed for the Jonas Valley. Official propaganda said all the trucks were full of bombs, and there was less danger of air raids hitting the trucks at night. But there were stories. Still are. Too many to be just smoke, for my mind.”
He stabbed the air with an angry gesture. “But which caves were for bombs? And which for treasures?”
The faint breeze stopped. In that moment of utter stillness, snowflakes drifted down from a leaden sky. Kurt searched the cliffside. “So why don’t I see any cave openings?”
“Because when they pulled out, the SS set off dynamite charges along the crest of the cliffs,” the man replied. “See all those hills of rubble behind the pines? Man-made avalanches, the lot. Covered over all the cave openings.”
Kurt nodded. “So you don’t know where to dig.”
“Not so fast. See how white the cliffs are? Chalk. Softest stone there is. The Nazis’ dynamite shifted the mountains, not just the openings. The caves are rubble.”
The man lifted his white construction helmet, wiped at the stress that knotted his brow. “While the Wessies were all crowding around down here, making speeches for the press and getting in the way, we pounded steel rods fifteen meters long into the cliff face at likely looking places. Three men getting paid five times normal wage and sweating bullets, holding the rods in place, while two men with hammers took turns banging the rods in five centimeters at a time, and all the while waiting for a bomb to turn the rod into a giant’s spear.
“They found three caves. In two and a half weeks. Three caves from how many, a thousand? All empty as far back as they could go, which wasn’t far.” He shook his head. “We cleared out the openings with shovels and a backhoe, a bottle of schnapps between each team before they started and another two when they stopped. They sent in bomb demolition experts with maybe fifty kilos of lead clothing and equipment per man. The experts got in about ten meters, and the rock overhead shifted a little—they shift all the time, these cliffs. They’re permanently destabilized by the dynamite. There was this little rumble and a little puff of dust out the cave mouth, then screams and six men in lead blankets came running out so fast they didn’t hardly touch earth.”
Kurt was truly sorry he had missed that. “What happens now?”
“They stop, what else? You can’t bulldoze a cliff filled with half a million tons of forty-five-year-old unexploded bombs in caves that could shift any minute.”
“Buried forever, then.”
“Until we develop something that can see through solid rock, that’s my guess.”
“If it’s here at all.”
“Oh, something’s here. They didn’t go to all that trouble just to hide some bombs.” The man shook his head. “Raise a tombstone to the Nazi treasures, let the SS have the last laugh; that’s my answer. There’s already been enough blood spilled over whatever’s buried there.”
* * *
Kurt drove back into the worn-down drabness of Arnstadt and called Ferret from the safety of one of the new telephone boxes the Wessies were planting in every city square. “It’s impossible to tell,” he reported.
“No matter,” the little man replied in his flat, childlike lisp. “What did you find?”
Kurt relayed the events of the afternoon. “The chalk cliffs stretch for maybe seven, eight kilometers. It’s an impossible task. It’d take years to sift through a tenth of the area.”
“But as yet they have found nothing?”
“Three empty caves.” Kurt admitted to doubt with, “How can you be sure that this Amber Room of yours is not buried there?”
“I’m sure,” came the quiet reply.
“Then why must I travel to Weimar?”
“To be even more certain. As long as they have not found the first treasure, we can proceed with the knowledge that our treasure is elsewhere.”
Our treasure. Kurt felt the thrill of sudden wealth. “So where is elsewhere?”
“That we shall soon discuss upon your return,” Ferret replied. “And remember what we discussed before you departed Schwerin.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“The first order their workers will receive,” Ferret went on, “once something has been found, is to deny everything. So don’t listen to their words. Watch their eyes. Their eyes won’t lie.”
CHAPTER 11
Jeffrey made his way down Mount Street from the printer’s, barely able to see above the boxes stacked in his arms. He kicked at the shop door until Alexander emerged from the back to usher him in.
“Thank you, thank you. Another trip and I do believe my back would have sought refuge in traction.”
“Don’t even joke like that.” Jeffrey dropped the load and looked around the shop. Engraved invitations in matching envelopes were stacked like ivory mountains on two Empire side tables. “Those are ready to go?”
“Nine hundred,” Alexander replied with tired satisfaction. “Your four are all that remain.”
“I bet you’ll be glad to see the last of this.”
“On the contrary, I’ve quite enjoyed the effort.” Alexander gave a weary smile. “Several times I’ve caught myself wondering why this aspect of godly service was not granted more attention.”
“That service is fun?”
Alexander shook his head. “No, that it is fulfilling.” He bent over one of Jeffrey’s boxes, slit the tape with a practiced motion, and held one of the cards up to the light. “Marvelous,” he declared. “Simply marvelous quality, wouldn’t you say?”
The invitation was a large folded card of textured ivory with gilt edging. On the cover was a splendid color photograph of the chalice. Alexander opened the invitation and read in dramatic tones, “Patrons of the Religious Heritage of Poland request the honour of your presence at a gala banquet on Saturday, the twenty-fifth of February, in the Main Ballroom of the Ritz Hotel, Piccadilly, London W1.” He tapped out the smaller type with the edge of his pen. “Black tie, R.S.V.P., et cetera, et cetera.”
He separated the reply card, read off, “Kindly reserve so many places for the gala banquet hosted by the Patrons of the Religious Heritage of Poland. Enclosed is our cheque for so much at two hundred and fifty pounds per reservation.”
He replaced the card. “I think our response will be very good indeed. Just today I received word that some royalty expect to attend.”
“That’s great.”
“Minor royalty, mind you. But their presence will certainly add a nice touch to the program, don’t you think?”
Jeffrey followed him into the back office, where every seat but one was covered in a deluge of papers and forms. “The Brits sure love their royals.”
The sound of the doorbell brought a moan from Alexander. He raised his head from the pile of documents, printouts, address lists, and menu forms, and threw his assistant a harried look. “For the next three weeks, until this gala is behind us, you shall have to deal with all but the emergencies. Except for your trip to East Germany, of course, which I am beginning to regret.”
Jeffrey looked to the corner mirror that afforded a view of the shop’s front door. “It’s Sydney Greenfield.”
“Not an emergency by any stretch of the imagination,” Alexander replied, dropping h
is head back to his work. “He’s all yours.”
Sydney Greenfield owned no shop of his own, yet managed to eke an income from offering the goods of others to buyers in and around London. Jeffrey had not seen him since hearing news of his changed fortunes. As he walked toward the entrance, he observed that Sydney had replaced his shiny broadcloth for an elegant outfit whose hand-tailored lines did much to mask his girth. Sydney entered with his usual panache, yet looked oddly unbalanced without his sidekick, a little parrot of a man known to the world simply as Ty.
Jeffrey shook hands and led Sydney to a pair of eighteenth-century walnut armchairs. Once his guest was seated and had been offered coffee, Jeffrey asked, “Where’s Ty?”
“Down with a case of the throat, poor man.” Greenfield sipped from the delicate porcelain with his little finger cocked at a ridiculous angle. He waved a careless hand toward the back of the shop. “Might have a buyer for that little item there in the corner. That is, if the price is right.”
The piece in question was a French side cabinet made in Paris around 1855, the interior lined in fragrant cedar and the exterior in highly polished ebony. What made this cabinet so extraordinary was the high-quality boulle, or brass and tortoise shell inlay, that adorned the facade. The pair of front doors were bound with shining hinges and corners and keyholes, their central panels decorated with shimmering maidens playing lyres. The top and central pillar featured trios of angels fashioned of such gentle hues as to vanish and reappear with the passage of light.
“That’s a rather pricey item,” Jeffrey warned.
“I’m sure it is, lad,” Greenfield replied easily. “But if the article was going into the home of an old and trusted associate, I imagine you might be willing to lop off a nought or two.”
Jeffrey lifted his eyebrows. “Andrew told me you were on to something big.”
“Oh yes.” Greenfield showed vast pleasure. “It’s amazing how many people are out there with more money than taste.”
“He was wondering if you’d actually crossed the line.”
“Andrew’s a fine man, one of the few I’d take such a question from without getting my hair up. I haven’t, lad, and that’s the truth. On my honor, I haven’t.” He drained his cup, held it aloft for a refill. “No need to, as a matter of fact.”
“People will buy your creations knowing they’re rubbish?”
“Pay good money for them in the process,” he replied. “You see, lad, I’ve spent donkey’s years dealing with people who’ve scrabbled all their lives for the filthy lucre, as it were. Never had time to learn taste, they didn’t. So here they are, finally striding along the top of the muck heap, and some bloke comes by and offers them a pretty bauble for their living room at sixty thousand quid. They go right through the ruddy roof, they do.”
“I’m with you,” Jeffrey said.
“ ’Course you are. Always knew you for a sharp lad. So up I pop with a pretty little dresser or chaise lounge or what have you, maybe not quite so pretty but not bad all the same.”
“And the price is half the other.”
“Not even, lad. Not even. Both are old, though, you see. Both have that scent of class to them.”
“After a fashion.”
Greenfield waved at the words as though swatting flies. “Details, lad. Mere details, in their eyes at least, and that’s where it counts. Dealers in the genuine articles and people in the know aren’t likely to be invited into homes of such as these, you see. So they look from one item to the other, and most times decide they’d just as soon have what I’m selling and pocket the extra.”
Jeffrey thought it over, decided, “Smart. Very smart idea.”
“I agree,” Alexander called from his alcove.
“Thank you both. I take that as high praise, indeed, coming from professionals such as your good selves.” Greenfield set down his cup, glanced around the shop, went on, “Mind you, if I’d been given the choice, I’d much rather spend my days surrounded by such beauties.”
Alexander emerged to walk over and shake Sydney’s hand. “You are always welcome here. Always.”
“You’re a real gentleman, you are, Mr. Kantor. And I’ve said the same to anyone who listens.”
Alexander accepted the compliment with a solemn nod. “We don’t always have a choice as to which cards life deals us, though, do we?”
“No, Mr. Kantor, we don’t. And more’s the pity.”
“Of course, if you are as successful as it sounds, you might have an opportunity to fill your own life with the genuine articles.”
“Just what I’m hoping to do,” Greenfield replied, eyeing the cabinet.
Alexander smiled briefly. “You yourself are certainly one of those able to appreciate works of art for what they are.”
“Kind of you to say so, Mr. Kantor. I try to be.”
“Well, if anything in this shop ever takes your fancy, I believe we could make you a special offer of twenty percent off our price.” Frosty gray eyes twinkled. “Don’t you think that would be appropriate, Jeffrey?”
“A special dealer’s discount,” Jeffrey agreed.
Greenfield looked from one to the other and said gravely, “I’m touched, gentlemen. I truly am.”
“Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I am literally over my head in preparations for this gala.”
“Of course, of course.” Greenfield stood and shook the proffered hand, hesitated, then pointed toward the glass-sided Art Deco display case where the chalice stood in solitary splendor. “I hope you gentlemen won’t mind me saying this, but it seems passing strange that you’d leave that article on display in your shop like this.”
“What makes you say that? Our security is exemplary.” Alexander had already turned and retreated to his alcove. “Besides, everything here is heavily insured.”
“Maybe so, but this isn’t your own goods, now, is it?” Greenfield walked over to the cabinet. “It’s one thing to run a risk with something that’s here to be sold. Holding a priceless item you’re supposed to return is another kettle of fish, far as I see it.”
“We’ve never had any trouble before,” Jeffrey said.
“But these ads and the invitations you’ve done with the chalice in all its glory,” Greenfield objected. “You’re announcing to all the world you’ve got this medieval artifact here in your shop. Sounds dodgy to me.”
Jeffrey turned to where Alexander stood by the alcove’s entrance. “Maybe we should arrange for a night security guard.”
“No good, lad,” Greenfield replied. “You’d just be erasing all doubt that the chalice is here. What I’d suggest is, lay it low in a vault. Myself, I use Barclay’s up by Charing Cross. Best security in the business, by my vote. They know how to deal with works such as these.”
“Coutts is our bank,” Jeffrey said doubtfully.
“We’re not talking about banking business, now, are we? This is security. Offer it to the biggest museums, they do. Make a professional job of it. They’ll rent you guards, armored security display cases for the event, cart it over in an armored car, bring it back, no muss, no fuss.”
“Another problem.” Alexander wiped a weary brow. “Just when I need it least.”
“Handling it that way would be a load off our mind,” Jeffrey pointed out.
“What you’ve got here is priceless, irreplaceable,” Greenfield said, bending down for a closer look. “An incredible risk. If you allow, I’ll have them come by to collect this beauty and put it in storage until your gala evening. Armored car would take it both ways, set you up with a portable alarm system, display case, guards for the evening. Just say the word.”
“Maybe we ought to move it,” Jeffrey agreed.
“See to it, then,” Alexander complied.
“That’s the spirit,” Greenfield straightened. “Be a pleasure to help out gentlemen like yourselves, take part in a worthy deed. I’ll just go have a word with the men in charge and get back to you.”
Once Jeffrey had ushered Greenfield o
ut of the shop, he returned to Alexander. “Did you mean what you said, about regretting this East Germany trip?”
Alexander did not raise his head from the sheaf of papers. “You must admit, it does come at a rather inopportune time.”
“Do you want me to put it off?”
“No, of course not. I simply wish for the impossible, to have you go and at the same time have you stay and help.”
“I suppose I could call and put them off.”
“No, you cannot,” Alexander replied firmly. “Business like this simply cannot be postponed. You are building what may prove to be lifelong business relationships.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Take whatever time is required,” Alexander said. “I’ll muddle on along here quite adequately, I assure you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help out now?”
“There is, as a matter of fact.” Alexander hefted a ream of faxed pages. “I’ve received these menu suggestions from the Ritz, but I have so much going on I can’t seem to decide on anything. Could you and Katya possibly meet with the banqueting manager and take care of it for me?”
“Any chance we could ask for samples?”
But Alexander was already buried once more in his work. “Just no heavy sauces, that’s all I ask. I would rather our guests go home inspired than bloated.”
Jeffrey reached for his coat. “No problem.”
“Oh, and chocolate. We must have some chocolate for dessert. I’ve already been forewarned that one of our honored honorables throws quite a tiff unless indulged with a chocolate finale.”
* * *
Jeffrey walked over to where Katya waited in the Ritz Hotel’s marbled foyer, watching the bustling scene with bright eyes. He told her, “Even the bellhops in this place sound as if they’ve graduated from Cambridge.”
“I’ve spotted two film stars in the past five minutes.” She gave herself an excited little hug. “I almost forgot there was a world out there beyond my exam papers, and now look at me.”
The Amber Room Page 10
