The Amber Room

by Steve Berry

“Your father wouldn’t want to hear that.”

  “I don’t think he’d care right now. It’s you he’s rather upset with. He has a copy of the Rome newspaper. There’s a front-page story on the death of Pietro Caproni.”

  “But he also has the match case.”

  She smiled. “You think success smooths anything?”

  “I’ve found it to be the best insurance for job security.”

  “You didn’t mention killing Caproni in your note yesterday.”

  “It seemed an unimportant detail.”

  “Only you would consider a knife in the chest unimportant. Father wants to talk with you. He’s waiting.”

  “I expected that.”

  “You don’t seem concerned.”

  “Should I be?”

  She stared hard. “You’re a hard bastard, Christian.”

  He realized that she possessed none of her father’s sophisticated air, but in two ways they were much alike—both were cold and driven. Newspapers linked her with man after man, wondering who might eventually snag her and the resulting fortune, but he knew that no one would ever control her. Fellner had been meticulously grooming her the past few years, readying her for the day when she’d take over his communications empire along with his passion for collecting, a day that would surely soon arrive. She’d been educated outside Germany in England and the United States, adopting an even sharper tongue and brassy attitude along the way. But being rich and spoiled hadn’t helped her personality either.

  She reached out and patted his right sleeve. “No stiletto tonight?”

  “Do I need it?”

  She pressed close. “I can be quite dangerous.”

  Her arms went around him. Their mouths fused, her tongue searching with excitement. He enjoyed her taste and savored the passion she freely offered. When she withdrew, she bit his lower lip hard on the way. He tasted blood.

  “Yes, you can.” He dabbed the wound with a handkerchief.

  She reached out and unzipped his trousers.

  “I thought you said Herr Fellner was waiting.”

  “There’s plenty of time.” She pushed him down on the floor, directly atop her grandfather’s grave. “And I didn’t wear any underwear.”

  TEN

  Knoll followed Monika across the castle’s ground floor to the collection hall. The space consumed the better part of the northwest tower and was divided into a public room, where Fellner displayed his notable and legal items, and the secret room, where only he, Fellner, and Monika ventured.

  They entered the public hall and Monika locked the heavy wooden doors behind them. Lighted cases stood in rows like soldiers at attention and displayed a variety of precious objects. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Frescoes adorned the ceiling with images depicting Moses giving laws to the people, the building of Babel, and the translation of the Septuagint.

  Fellner’s private study was off the north wall. They entered, and Monika strolled across the parquet to a row of bookcases, all inlaid oak and gilded in heavy baroque style. He knew the volumes were all collectibles. Fellner loved books. His ninth-century Beda Venerabilis was the oldest and most valuable he possessed, Knoll had been lucky enough to find a stash in a French parish rectory a few years back, the priest more than willing to part with them in return for a modest contribution to both the church and himself.

  Monika withdrew a black controller from her jacket pocket and clicked the button. The center bookcase slowly revolved on its axis. White light spilled from a room beyond. Franz Fellner was standing amidst a long windowless space, the gallery cleverly hidden between the junction of two grand halls. High-pitched ceilings and the castle’s oblong shape provided more architectural camouflage. Its thick stone walls were all soundproofed and a special handler filtered the air.

  More collection cases stood in staggered rows, each illuminated by carefully placed halogen lights. Knoll wove a path through the cases, noticing some of the acquisitions. A jade sculpture he’d stolen from a private collection in Mexico, not a problem since the supposed owner had likewise stolen it from the Jalapa City Museum. A number of ancient African, Eskimo, and Japanese figurines retrieved from an apartment in Belgium, war loot thought long destroyed. He was especially proud of the Gauguin sculpture off to the left, an exquisite piece he’d liberated from a thief in Paris.

  Paintings adorned the walls. A Picasso self-portrait. Correggio’sHoly Family . Botticelli’sPortrait of a Lady . Dürer’sPortrait of Maximillian I . All originals, thought lost forever.

  The remaining stone wall was draped in two enormous Gobelin tapestries, looted by Hermann Göring during the war, recovered from another supposed owner two decades ago, and still hotly sought by the Austrian government.

  Fellner stood beside a glass case containing a thirteenth-century mosaic depicting Pope Alexander IV. He knew it to be one of the old man’s favorites. Beside him was the enclosure with the Fabergé match case. A tiny halogen light illuminated the strawberry-red enamel. Fellner had obviously polished the piece. He knew how his employer liked to personally prepare each treasure, more insurance to prevent strange eyes from seeing his acquisitions.

  Fellner was a lean hawk of a man with a craggy face the color of concrete and emotions to match. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that framed suspicious eyes. Surely, Knoll had often thought, they once bore the bright-eyed look of an idealist. Now they carried the pallor of a man approaching eighty, who’d built an empire from magazines, newspapers, television, and radio, but lost interest in making money after crossing the multibillion-dollar mark. His competitive nature was currently channeled into other, more private ventures. Activities where men with lots of money and limitless nerve could superachieve.

  Fellner yanked a copy of theInternational Daily News off the collection case and thrust it forward. “You want to tell me why this was necessary?” The voice bore the rasp of a million cigarettes.

  He knew the newspaper was one of Fellner’s corporate possessions, and that a computer in the outer study was fed daily with articles from around the world. The death of a wealthy Italian industrialist was certainly something that would catch the old man’s eye. At the bottom of the front page was the article:

  Pietro Caproni, 58, founder of Due Mori Industries was found in his northern Italian estate yesterday with a fatal knife wound in the chest. Also found stabbed to death was Carmela Terza, 27, identification at the scene listing her residence as Venice. Police found evidence of a forced entry from a ground-floor door but have so far discovered nothing missing from the villa. Caproni was retired from Due Mori, the conglomerate he built into one of Italy’s premier producers of wool and ceramics. He remained active as a major shareholder and consultant, and his death leaves a void in the company.

  Fellner interrupted his reading. “We’ve had this discussion before. You’ve been warned to indulge your peculiarities on your own time.”

  “It was necessary, Herr Fellner.”

  “Killing is never necessary, if you do your job correctly.”

  He glanced over at Monika, who was watching with apparent amusement. “Signor Caproni intruded on my visit. He was waiting for me. He’d become suspicious from my previous trip. Which I made, if you recall, at your insistence.”

  Fellner seemed to immediately get the message. The older man’s face softened. He knew his employer well.

  “Signor Caproni did not want to share the match case without a fight. I simply obliged, concluding you desired the piece regardless. The only alternative was to leave without it and risk exposure.”

  “The signor did not offer the opportunity to leave? After all, he couldn’t very well telephone the police.”

  He thought a lie better than the truth. “The signor actually wanted to shoot me. He was armed.”

  Fellner said, “The newspaper makes no mention of that.”

  “Evidence of the press’s unreliability,” he said with a smile.

  “And what of the whore?” Monika said. “She
armed, too?”

  He turned toward her. “I was unaware you harbored such sympathy for working women. She understood the risks, I’m sure, when she agreed to become involved with a man like Caproni.”

  Monika stepped closer. “You fuck her?”

  “Of course.”

  Fire lit her eyes. But she said nothing. Her jealousy was almost as amusing as it was surprising. Fellner broke the moment, conciliatory as always.

  “Christian, you retrieved the match case. I appreciate that. But killing does nothing but draw attention. That’s the last thing we desire. What if your semen is traced by DNA?”

  “There was no semen other than the signor’s. Mine was in her stomach.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “I wore gloves.”

  “I realize you are careful. For that I’m grateful. But I am an old man who merely wants to pass what I have accumulated to my daughter. I do not desire to see any of us in jail. Am I clear?”

  Fellner sounded exasperated. They’d had this discussion before, and he genuinely hated disappointing him. His employer had been good to him, generously sharing the wealth they’d meticulously accumulated. In many ways he was more like a father than Jakob Knoll had ever been. Monika, though, was nothing like a sister.

  He noticed the look in her eyes. The talk of sex and death was surely arousing. Most likely she’d visit his room later.

  “What did you find in St. Petersburg?” Fellner finally asked.

  He reported the references toyantarnaya komnata , then showed both of them the sheets he’d stolen from the archives. “Interesting the Russians were still inquiring about the Amber Room, even recently. This Karol Borya, though, `Yxo, is somebody new.”

  “Ears?” Fellner spoke perfect Russian. “A strange designation.”

  Knoll nodded. “I think a trip to Atlanta may be worth the effort. Perhaps `Yxois still alive. He might know where Chapaev is. He was the only one I did not find five years ago.”

  “I would think the reference to Loring is also further corroboration, “ Fellner said. “That’s twice you have found his name. The Soviets were apparently quite interested in what Loring was doing.”

  Knoll knew the history. The Loring family dominated the Eastern European steel and arms market. Ernst Loring was Fellner’s main rival in collecting. He was a Czech, the son of Josef Loring, possessed of an air of superiority bred since youth. Like Pietro Caproni, a man definitely accustomed to having his way.

  “Josef was a determined man. Ernst, unfortunately, did not inherit his father’s character. I wonder about him,” his employer said. “Something has always troubled me about him—that irritating cordiality he thinks I accept.” Fellner turned to his daughter. “What about it,liebling ? Should Christian head for America?”

  Monika’s face stiffened. At these moments she was most like her father. Inscrutable. Guarded. Furtive. Certainly, in the years ahead, she’d do him proud. “I want the Amber Room.”

  “And I want it for you,liebling . I’ve searched forty years. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ve never understood how tons of amber could simply vanish.” Fellner turned toward him. “Go to Atlanta, Christian. Find Karol Borya, this `Yxo . See what he knows.”

  “You realize that if Borya is dead we are out of leads. I have checked the depositories in Russia. Only the one in St. Petersburg has any information of note.”

  Fellner nodded.

  “The clerk in St. Petersburg is certainly on someone’s payroll. He was once again attentive. That’s why I kept the sheets.”

  “Which was wise. I’m sure Loring and I are not the only ones interested inyantarnaya komnata . What a find that would be, Christian. You’d almost want to tell the world.”

  “Almost. But the Russian government would want it returned, and if found here, the Germans would surely confiscate. It would make an excellent bargaining chip for the return of treasure the Soviets carted away.”

  “That’s whywe need to find it,” Fellner said.

  He leveled his gaze. “Not to mention the bonus you promised.”

  The old man chuckled. “Quite right, Christian. I have not forgotten.”

  “Bonus, Father?”

  “Ten million euros. I promised years ago.”

  “And I’ll honor it,” Monika made clear.

  Damn right she would, Knoll thought.

  Fellner stepped from the display case. “Ernst Loring is surely looking for the Amber Room. He could well be the benefactor of that technocrat in St. Petersburg. If so, he knows about Borya. Let’s not delay on this, Christian. You need to stay a step ahead.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Can you handle Suzanne?” the old man quizzed, a mischievous smile on his gaunt face. “She will be aggressive.”

  He noticed Monika openly bristle at the mention. Suzanne Danzer worked for Ernst Loring. Highly educated and possessed of a determined intent that could be lethal if necessary, only two months back she’d raced him across southwestern France looking for a pair of nineteenth-century jeweled Russian wedding crowns. More “beautiful loot” hidden away for decades by poachers. Danzer had won that race, finding the crowns with an old woman in the Pyrenees near the Spanish border. The woman’s husband had liberated them from a Nazi collaborator after the war. Danzer had been unrelenting in securing the prize, a trait he greatly admired.

  “I would expect no less of her,” he said.

  Fellner extended his hand. “Good hunting, Christian.”

  He accepted the gesture, then turned to leave, heading for the far wall. A rectangle parted in the stone as the bookcase on the other side swung open again.

  “And keepme informed,” Monika called out.

  ELEVEN

  Woodstock, England

  10:45 p.m.

  Suzanne Danzer sat up from the pillow. The twenty-year-old slept soundly beside her. She took a moment and studied his lean nakedness. The young man projected the assurance of a show horse. What a pleasure it had been screwing him.

  She stood from the bed and crept across hardwood planks. The darkened bedroom was on the third floor of a sixteenth-century manor house, the estate owned by Audrey Whiddon. The old woman had served three terms in the House of Commons and eventually acquired the title of lady, purchasing the manor house at foreclosure after the previous owner defaulted on a minor mortgage. The elder Whiddon still sometimes visited, but Jeremy, her only grandson, was now its main resident.

  How easy it had been to latch on to Jeremy. He was flighty and spirited, more interested in ale and sex than finance and profit. Two years at Oxford and already dropped twice for academic deficiencies. The old lady loved him dearly and used what influences she still retained to get the boy back in, hoping for no more disappointments, but Jeremy seemed unaccommodating.

  Suzanne had been searching nearly two years for the last snuffbox. Four constituted the original collection. There was a gold box with a mosaic on the cover. An oval one trimmed with translucent green and red berries. Another fashioned of hard stone with silver mounts. And an enameled Turkish market box adorned with a scene of the Golden Horn. All were created in the nineteenth century by the same master craftsman—his mark distinctively etched into the bottom—and looted from a private collection in Belgium during World War II.

  They were thought lost, melted for their gold, stripped of their jewels, the fate of many precious objects. But one surfaced five years ago at a London auction house. She’d been there and bought it. Her employer, Ernst Loring, was fascinated by the intricate workmanship of antique snuffboxes and possessed an extensive collection. Some legitimate, bought on the open market, but most covertly acquired from possessors like Audrey Whiddon. The box bought at auction had generated an ensuing court battle with the heirs of the original owner. Loring’s legal representatives finally won, but the fight was costly and public, her employer harboring no desire of a repeat. So the acquisition of the remaining three was delegated to her surreptitious acquiring.

  S
uzanne had found the second in Holland, the third in Finland, the fourth quite unexpectedly when Jeremy tried to peddle it at another auction house, unknown to his grandmother. The alert auctioneer had recognized the piece and, knowing that he couldn’t sell it, profited when she paid him ten thousand pounds to learn its whereabouts. She possessed many such sources at auction houses all over the world, people who kept their eyes open for stolen treasure, things they couldn’t legally handle but could sell all too easily.

  She finished dressing and combed her hair.

  Fooling Jeremy had been easy. Like always, her fashion-model features, saucer-round azure eyes, and trim body played well. All masked a mien of controlled calm and made her appear as something other than what she was, something not to be feared, something easy to master and contain. Men quickly felt comfortable with her, and she’d learned that beauty could be a far better weapon than bullets or blades.

  She tiptoed from the bedroom and down a wooden staircase, careful to minimize the squeaks. Dainty Elizabethan stencils decorated the towering walls. She’d once imagined living in a similar house with a husband and children. But that was before her father taught her the value of independence and the price of dedication. He’d also worked for Ernst Loring, dreaming one day of buying his own estate. But he never realized that ambition, dying in a plane crash eleven years ago. She’d been twenty-five years old, just out of college, yet Loring never hesitated, immediately allowing her to succeed her father. She’d learned her craft on the job and quickly discovered that she, like her father, instinctively possessed the ability to search, and she greatly enjoyed the chase.

  She turned at the bottom of the stairs, slipped through the dining hall, and entered an oak-paneled piano room. The windows highlighting the adjacent grounds loomed dark, the white Jacobean ceiling muted. She approached the table and reached for the snuffbox.

  Number four.

  It was eighteen-carat gold, the hinged cover enameleden plein with an impregnation of Danaë by Jupiter in a shower of even more gold. She drew the tiny box close and gazed at the image of the plump Danaë. How had men once believed such obesity attractive? But apparently they had, since they found the need to fantasize that their gods desired such a butterball. She flipped the box over and traced her fingernail over the initials.