“Less than a handful,” murmured the old man.
Ferret nodded his satisfaction. “A most secret place. So secret that your three trucks did not travel with the rest of the convoy, once they were off-loaded from the train. Perhaps not even you were informed of the destination, only the SS officer who accompanied you.” Ferret leaned forward. “The one you shot.”
The old man blanched. “I killed no one.”
“Or had shot. It does not matter. What is important is that the driver who ran off into the woods, the one you shot and thought dead, was of that rarest of breeds, a patriot who survived. He described the scene to the authorities, Herr Colonel. Fortunately or unfortunately, as the case may be, it was to American authorities that he finally confessed. Interrogators in a prison camp, a lieutenant and two overworked sergeants, who paid no attention to the report of another dead SS officer. The driver died soon after, thus no one who might have pieced the puzzle together ever had the chance to question him.”
The old man remained silent, his rheumy eyes turned inward on a scene he had replayed through ten thousand sleepless nights.
“The SS officer’s demise took place at a crucial juncture in the road,” Ferret continued. “As you well know. The right-hand fork took you south of Berlin, around Dresden, and on into the heart of the dying Third Reich. Or perhaps I ought to say, it should have taken you westward. Because you chose the left-hand fork, did you not? The one which led you south, around the remains of Warsaw, past Cracow, to the Czech border and then Austria and Switzerland and—”
Ferret leaned forward and gave his dead-eyed smile. “But there is no need to dwell on what did not happen, is there? Because it was in Czestochowa that one of the overloaded trucks finally broke down, burdened as it was by half the payload from the third truck. The truck for which you had no driver after the patriot fled into the night. Payload so valuable that you refused to leave it behind. By then you had opened one of the crates, had you not? You knew that your secret cargo was simply too precious to leave stranded in a driverless truck.”
“Not a night goes by that I do not see it in my dreams,” the old man murmured.
“It must have been a hellish night,” Ferret went on. His eyes held an intense gleam in the room’s meager light. “The Russians were less than thirty kilometers away, weren’t they, Herr Colonel? The line was collapsing; the road was choked with German soldiers streaming back from the front—those who could still walk, that is. And then what should happen but that you meet an officer more concerned for his wounded men than for your papers with all their fancy stamps and empty words. How cruel fate was, Herr Colonel, to curse you with two heroes within the same night.”
“Fate,” the old man grumbled. “There is no more wicked a word.”
“The officer was not only patriotic,” Ferret continued. “He was conscientious. He took your papers, as he promised, and handed them over to the authorities, along with the report of how he forced you at gunpoint to off-load your cargo and give him the truck for his wounded.
“The petrol he siphoned from the broken truck, along with the remaining canisters, was almost sufficient to see him across to the Americans as well. He was not only patriotic, this officer, but smart. He knew that there was less chance of a summary execution from the Americans than from the Russians. But in the end he failed. Despite the siphoned petrol, the truck died before he could reach the Americans’ front line. He was held there by the love of his men, and he waited with the empty truck for the Russian tanks to catch up with him. You will no doubt be pleased to know that he ended his days in a Siberian labor camp. His men did not survive that long.”
“Pleased,” the old man muttered. “I’ll be pleased to see him in hell.”
“That can be arranged, Herr Colonel,” Ferret replied quietly. “But we had hoped you would prefer to take your share of the wealth and disappear, as we intend to. We can even offer you a passport, and a ticket to anywhere in the world. America, even.”
“Never.”
“France, then. Or Australia. South America. Iceland, as far as I am concerned.” The little eyes hardened to agate. “What concerns us, Herr Colonel, is that you help us.”
Ferret rose to stand over the old man and demanded, “Now tell us, Herr Colonel. Where did you bury the Amber Room?”
CHAPTER 24
Jeffrey responded to Alexander’s urgent fax by arriving at Heathrow Airport two hours before his Cracow flight was scheduled to land. The plane was delayed as usual, which meant that Jeffrey was fit to be tied by the time the customs doors opened to admit an Alexander burdened by more than his usual post-flight fatigue.
Jeffrey rushed forward, took hold of Alexander’s overnight bag, demanded, “What’s the matter?”
“Not just yet, please. Allow me at least a moment to recover my wits.”
“Sorry.” He directed them toward the car-park. “I decided to hire a car and drive you back myself. From the sounds of your fax, you had something to say that was for my ears only.”
“A correct observation.” Alexander showed confusion when Jeffrey stopped in front of a small stand selling freshly squeezed fruit juices at outrageous prices. “What is this?”
“Something Katya suggested. She said it would give you the stimulus you required and be much better for you than a quart of coffee.”
“How kind of her to think of me. Very well, Jeffrey. Purchase the libation and let us leave this madhouse behind.”
Jeffrey remained silent as he threaded the car through the parking deck’s maze, paid the fee, and entered the aggressive stream of rush-hour traffic pressing forward at a snail’s pace. For once, the slow speed bothered him not a whit. He was still far from comfortable driving a car on the left hand of the road, with the steering wheel on the right.
Once they were on the motorway and packed snugly between other cars and trucks on every side, Jeffrey asked, “How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thank you. I do believe Katya was correct.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Yes, I suppose there is no reason to delay the news any further.” Alexander settled back in his seat. “I arrived in Cracow yesterday afternoon and went directly to the Marian Church. As you well know, I wanted to be rid of the responsibility for the chalice as quickly as possible, and I returned it in person because I had accepted it personally from Karlovich. The curate was there waiting for me, I handed it over, thanked him as gracefully as I knew how, and departed. As far as I could tell, nothing was the matter.
“I proceeded directly to Gregor’s—he has almost completed preparations for your buying trip, by the way. We took care of a few minor items and then I went to my hotel, had dinner, and went to bed. There was no good reason for my staying the night, except that the idea of two international flights in one day positively curdled my blood.”
Alexander sighed. “The next morning, Rokovski arrived in an absolute panic.”
****
Rokovski called Alexander’s Cracow hotel room in a state of hysteria. He bluntly refused to allow Alexander to come down and meet with him in the lobby. Instead, he rushed into Alexander’s room, absolutely beside himself—his tie loosened, his hair disheveled, his face creased with worry. He walked blindly past Alexander’s outstretched hand and threw himself into the plastic-veneer chair by the window.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Rokovski announced.
“What is it, old man? What’s wrong?”
“I have some dreadful news. Dreadful. Karlovich called me first thing this morning, insisting that I come over at once. That man is not easy to deal with, I don’t need to tell you.” Rokovski mopped his brow with a crumpled handkerchief. “I went to his office immediately this morning, and said that he seemed most distressed on the telephone.
“ ‘Distressed! Distressed, indeed!’ he told me, pulling on his beard and pacing the floor. He said, ‘I am more than distressed. I am shocked. Horrified.’ ”
; “What about?” Alexander demanded.
Rokovski held up his hand. “Wait, my friend. Wait. I want to lay it out for you just as it was presented to me. Hopefully our two heads will then be able to make some sense of this matter.” Rokovski kneaded his forehead. “I asked him, ‘What is it, the chalice? I know Mr. Kantor planned to return it yesterday. Has there been some damage?’ ”
“Karlovich fell into his chair at my question. ‘Damage?’ he said. ‘No. Damage can be repaired. But such damage as this is permanent.’ ”
“I am growing more alarmed by the moment,” Alexander said.
“As was I. I demanded that he tell me what he was talking about. Karlovich fastened me with those great, glittering eyes of his and said, ‘The chalice that has been returned to me is not the chalice I was good enough to lend.’ ”
“Impossible,” Alexander exploded.
“That was exactly my reaction, but Karlovich was most insistent.”
“How can that be? Did you see it?”
“Yes, of course. It was there in his safe. He pulled it out, still in the leather carrying case, set it on his desk, and motioned for me to take it.” Rokovski pantomimed his movements. “I looked at it very carefully, placed it back down, and said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is exquisite. To think that this could be a forgery is, well—’ ”
“Positively absurd,” Alexander finished for him.
“You will understand that I did not wish to say it outright, but that is what I was thinking.”
“How could anyone have duplicated it in the short time that it was in our possession?” Alexander scoffed.
“My thoughts exactly. As you know, I have quite some experience in these matters, and this is what I told him. But the curate raised his hand and declared to me, ‘As God is my witness, this is not the chalice from the Marian Church collection.’ Then he said something equally remarkable.”
“Go on,” Alexander said impatiently.
“ ‘As I was putting the chalice away,’ the curate told me, ‘it struck me that something was amiss. I recalled the pattern of the signets around the central structure, and that two of the signets bore a different symbol. Yet with this chalice, there is the same letter in each of the faces. I wasn’t sure, of course, but I was dreadfully worried. So I went through my records and found this.’
“My dear Alexander, you should have seen the mess about his desk. Stacks and stacks of books and drawings and portfolios with half-unrolled papers all over the floor behind his desk. A pile of dusty leather-bound tomes almost as high as his table. And on top was a very old portfolio. He opened it to a page, undoubtedly ancient, of museum quality itself.”
“Get on with it, man,” Alexander snapped.
“Yes, of course.” Rokovski mopped his brow once more. “The page had detailed drawings of the chalice with explanations in Latin along the top and down both sides.”
“You are certain it was a drawing for the chalice?”
“No, of course not. How could I be? And yet Karlovich was so sure, so completely certain. He pointed to that broad center section and said, ‘You see, on this wreathlike portion surrounding the stem, there are two different emblems, just as I recalled, directly opposite each other. The other signets are all identical to those found on this chalice here. And yet what I did not know was that this central section contained a secret. One I discovered only when examining the description written here.’
“He stabbed at the writing on the left side of the page, and said, ‘Our chalice had a secret compartment. By pressing these two opposing signets, one carved with alpha, the other with omega, the cup portion of the chalice detaches to reveal a small, hollow compartment inside the stem. If you will examine this particular chalice, you will find no such compartment.’ ”
Alexander mulled it over. “And you searched.”
“Quite thoroughly, I assure you. No such symbols were carved anywhere on this chalice, and I could find no compartment. And while I searched, Karlovich kept stabbing at the bottom left corner of this diagram and talking. He said, ‘But the gravity of the matter does not hinge on the lack of the secret compartment. You cannot imagine how I shuddered with amazement and horror as I examined this small inset at the base of the drawing. This shows the contents, which now are also missing.’ ”
“And those contents are?” Alexander demanded.
“Mind you,” Rokovski cautioned. “It is a legend only. There is no evidence save for an ancient drawing, one that no one has inspected in decades. Even centuries, perhaps.”
“And save for Karlovich’s insistence that the chalice I returned is not the one I received from him.” Alexander shook his head. “To think that such a thing could happen.”
“I, too, can scarcely believe this was taking place. While I sat in the man’s office and examined what looked for all the world to be an ancient and valuable chalice, this gentleman began pacing back and forth amidst the scattered documents, bemoaning the loss. ‘Of course I knew nothing about the compartment. Or that the chalice was also a reliquary. I would not have dreamed to allow such a sacred treasure to leave Polish soil. And now, alas, I make this dreadful discovery.’ ”
“The man sounds like a bad actor,” Alexander retorted. “He actually called this supposedly missing chalice a reliquary? As if the compartment held some religious artifact?”
“He did.”
“And did he also perhaps mention what that artifact was?”
Rokovski gave him a stricken look. “ ‘A small fragment,’ he told me. ‘One about the size of your thumb. A thorn, to be precise. From the final crown worn by the Son of God.’ ”
Alexander was on his feet. “You expect me to believe that such a relic could lie forgotten for centuries in a Polish crypt?”
“I expect nothing. I am simply telling you what was reported to me.” Rokovski looked up in appeal. “Did you offend him in any way?”
Alexander thought it over. “No. Certainly not intentionally. Nor do I recall anything which might have indicated by look or word that he was offended.”
Rokovski threw up his hands. “Then I don’t know what to say.”
“My dear Dr. Rokovski, I assure you—”
“Your reputation is one bound with an honor that goes back decades, Alexander. I do not know what the answer is here, but your honor is not in question.”
“Yet the chalice is.”
“According to Karlovich, yes.”
“There must be some mistake.”
“Perhaps. But I can assure you that the chalice you returned was not the chalice in his drawings.”
“They differed only in this secret compartment and the signets?”
“And the contents,” Rokovski added. “If the drawings are indeed of the chalice that he gave to you. If he was correct about your chalice’s having those differing emblems.”
“But why would the man go to such trouble?” Alexander ran frantic fingers through his hair. “I admit to being at a complete and utter loss.”
“As am I.” Rokovski hesitated, then said, “Alexander, I hate to ask you this, but did anyone other than yourself have access to the chalice?”
“Only about eight hundred guests at my gala.” He shook his head. “No, forgive me. It was a feeble jest. Security there was impeccable. I had the chalice at my shop, which is most carefully secured and guarded, and then as an extra precaution it was removed to a vault at a leading bank.”
“Well,” Rokovski sighed. “I certainly am not going to make formal enquiries at this point. Whatever search we make must be done as discreetly as possible.”
“So you do believe that the original chalice is missing?”
“What choice do I have? Why would this man lie to me?”
Alexander settled back into his chair. To that question he had no reply.
* * *
Alexander went directly to the Marian Church and found Karlovich awaiting his arrival, the chalice still on his desk. Alexander seated himself
and examined the artifact, determined not to allow the curate’s all-pervasive energy to force him into a hasty conclusion. After quite some time, he set the chalice back on the desk and declared, “This is absolutely extraordinary handiwork. I am virtually certain that this chalice is genuine gold and silver, and that the work dates back several centuries. Possibly more.”
“Whether that is true or not,” Karlovich replied coldly, “I as a simple curate cannot say. But what I can tell you is that this is not my chalice.”
“Who else might know of this secret compartment of which you spoke to Rokovski?”
“I don’t know. I would have thought no one in all Poland. No one alive, in any case. The cellar has been closed to the public and to most priests since before the war. Secrecy over our collection was the only insurance we had against its being stolen by either the Nazis or the Russians. In fact, this collection has been kept in virtual secrecy since the Austro-Hungarian invasion two hundred years ago. Even the existence of the crypt itself was a fact known only to a handful of people.”
Alexander sat and listened intently to this dark-bearded, powerful man with the eyes of a zealot. The curate clearly felt he was telling the truth. “What do you intend to do?”
“What can I do? I certainly could not make a formal enquiry without losing my job for allowing the reliquary to travel outside Poland, not to mention perhaps causing an international outrage. And of course we must not scare the thief into some rash act. Clearly this was done with the intention of not being detected.”
“I assure you that I am a man of honor, and that I shall do whatever it takes to right this situation. What do you wish me to do?”
“Find me my chalice,” Karlovich replied. “But do not worry about your good name, Mr. Kantor. I am most willing to keep this entire matter very quiet. I understand the importance of your reputation, and I would not want to taint it with any hint of impropriety.”
The Amber Room Page 21
