The Amber Room

by Steve Berry

  He was upstairs in what was once Rachel’s room. Now it was a study where he kept his books and papers. There was an antique writing desk, an oak filing cabinet, and a club chair where he liked to sit and read. Four walnut bookcases held novels, historical treatises, and classical literature.

  He’d come upstairs after eating dinner, still thinking about Christian Knoll, and found more articles in one of the cabinets. They were all short, mainly fluff, containing no real information. The rest were still in the freezer. He needed to retrieve them, but didn’t feel like climbing back up the stairs again afterward.

  By and large the newspaper and magazine accounts on the Amber Room were contradictory. One would say the panels disappeared in January 1945, another April. Did they leave in trucks, by rail, or on the sea? Different writers offered different perspectives. One account noted that the Soviets torpedoed theWilhelm Gustloff to the bottom of the Baltic with the panels, another mentioned bombing the ship from the air. One was sure that seventy-two crates left Königsberg, the next noted twenty-six, another eighteen. Several accounts were sure the panels burned in Königsberg during the bombing. Another tracked leads implying they made it surreptitiously across the Atlantic to America. It was difficult to extract anything useful, and no article ever mentioned the source of information. It could be double to triple hearsay. Or even worse, pure speculation.

  Only one, an obscure publication,The Military Historian , noted the story of a train leaving occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945, with the crated Amber Room supposedly on board. Witness accounts vouched that the crates were offloaded in the tiny Czechoslovakian town of T´ynec-nad-Sázavou. There, they were supposedly trucked south and stored in an underground bunker that housed the headquarters of Field Marshal von Schörner, commander of the million-strong German army, still holding out in Czechoslovakia. But the article noted that an excavation of the bunker by the Soviets in 1989 found nothing.

  Close to the truth, he thought. Real close.

  Seven years ago, when he first read the article, he’d wondered about its source, even tried to contact the author, but was unsuccessful. Now a man named Wayland McKoy was burrowing into the Harz Mountains near Stod, Germany. Was he on the right track? The only thing clear was that people had died searching for the Amber Room. What happened to Alfred Rohde and Erich Koch was documented history. So were the other deaths and disappearances. Coincidence? Perhaps. But he wasn’t so sure. Particularly given what happened nine years ago. How could he forget. The memory haunted him every time he looked at Paul Cutler. And he wondered many times if two more names should not be added to the list of casualties.

  A squeak came from the hall.

  Not a sound the house usually made when empty.

  He looked up, expecting to see Lucy bound into the room, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. He laid the articles aside and pushed himself up from the chair. He shuffled out into the second-floor foyer and peered down, past an oak banister, to the foyer below. Narrow sidelights framing the front door were dark, the ground floor illuminated by a single den lamp. Upstairs was dark, too, except for the floor lamp in the study. Just ahead, his bedroom door was open, the room black and quiet.

  “Lucy? Lucy?”

  The cat did not respond. He listened hard. No more sounds. Everything appeared quiet. He turned and started back into the study. Suddenly, someone lunged at him from behind, out of the bedroom. Before he could turn, a powerful arm locked around his neck, yanking him off the ground. The scent of latex bloomed from sheathed hands.

  “Können wir reden mehr, `Yxo.”

  The voice was that of his visitor, Christian Knoll. He easily translated.

  Now we talk further, Ears.

  Knoll squeezed his throat hard, and his breath faltered.

  “Miserable damn Russian. Spit on my hand. Who the fuck you think you are? I’ve killed for less.”

  He said nothing, the experience of a lifetime cautioning silence.

  “You will tell me what I want to know, old man, or I will kill you.”

  He remembered similar words said fifty-two years ago. Göring informing the naked soldiers of their fate right before water was poured. What had the German soldier, Mathias, said?

  It is an honor to defy your captor.

  Yes, it still was.

  “You know where Chapaev is, don’t you?”

  He tried to shake his head.

  Knoll’s grip tightened. “You know wheredas Bernstein-zimmer rests, don’t you?”

  He was about to pass out. Knoll loosened his grip. Air rushed into his lungs.

  “I’m not someone to take lightly. I traveled a long way for information.”

  “I tell nothing.”

  “You sure? You said earlier that your time is short. Now it is shorter than you imagined. What of your daughter? Your grandchildren. Would you not like a few more years with them?”

  He would, but not enough to be cowed by a German. “Go fuck, Herr Knoll.”

  His frail body was launched out over the stairs. He tried to cry out, but before he could muster the breath he pounded headfirst onto oak runners and rolled. His limbs splayed. Arms and legs raked the spindles as gravity sent him tumbling end over end. Something cracked. Consciousness flickered in and out. Pain seared his back. He finally settled spine first on the hard tile, agony radiating through his upper body. His legs were numb. The ceiling spun. He heard Knoll bound down the stairs, then watched him reach down and jerk him up by his hair. Ironic. He owed his life to a German, and now a German would take it.

  “Ten million euros is one thing. But no Russian pissant will spit on me.”

  He tried to amass enough saliva to spit again, but his mouth was dry, his jaw frozen.

  Knoll’s arm encircled his neck.

  FIFTEEN

  Suzanne Danzer watched through the window and heard the crack as Knoll snapped the old man’s neck. She saw the body go limp, the head left at an unnatural angle.

  Knoll then shoved Borya aside and kicked the man’s chest.

  She’d picked up Knoll’s trail this morning, after arriving in Atlanta on a flight from Prague. His actions so far had been predictable, and she initially located him as he cruised the neighborhood on a scouting mission. Any competent Acquisitor always studied the landscape first, making sure a lead was not a trap.

  And if Knoll was anything, he was good.

  He’d stayed downtown in his hotel most of the day, and she’d followed him earlier when he first visited Borya. But instead of returning to his hotel, Knoll waited in a car three blocks over and then backtracked to the house after dark. She’d watched as he entered through a rear door, the entrance apparently unlocked as the knob turned on the first try.

  Obviously, the old man had been uncooperative. Knoll’s temper was legendary. He’d tossed Borya down the stairs as casually as one tossed paper into the trash, then snapped the neck with apparent pleasure. She respected her adversary’s talents, knew of the stiletto he sported on his forearm and his unhesitating ability to use it.

  But she was not without talents of her own.

  Knoll stood and looked around.

  Her vantage point provided a clear view. The black jumpsuit and black cap she wore over her blond hair helped blend her into the night. The room the window opened into, a front parlor, was unlit.

  Did he sense her?

  She shrank below the sill into the tall hollies surrounding the house, careful with the prickly leaves. The night was warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead at the edge of the cap’s elastic. She cautiously edged back up and saw Knoll disappear up the stairs. Six minutes later he returned, his hands empty, his jacket was once again smooth, his tie perfect. She watched as he bent down and checked Borya’s pulse and then moved toward the back of the house. A few seconds later she heard a door open and close.

  She waited ten minutes before creeping around to the rear of the house. With gloved hands, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and old age lin
gered in the air. She crossed the kitchen and headed toward the foyer.

  In the dining room a cat suddenly bisected her path. She stopped, her heart pounding, and cursed the creature.

  She sucked in a breath and entered the den.

  The decor hadn’t changed since her last visit, three years ago. The same hand-tufted camelback sofa, chiming wall clock, and iron Cambridge lamps. The lithographs on the wall had initially intrigued her. She’d wondered if any might be originals, but a close inspection last time revealed all to be copies. She’d broken in one evening after Borya left, her search revealing nothing on the Amber Room other than some magazine and newspaper reports. Nothing of any value. If Karol Borya knew anything of substance on the Amber Room, he certainly hadn’t written it down or did not keep the information in his house.

  She bypassed the body in the foyer and mounted the stairs. Another quick check in the study revealed nothing except that Borya had apparently been reading some of the Amber Room material recently. Several articles were strewn across the same tan chair she remembered from before.

  She crept back downstairs.

  The old man lay facedown. She tried for a pulse. None.

  Good.

  Knoll saved her the trouble.

  SIXTEEN

  Sunday, May 11, 8:35 a.m.

  Rachel steered the car into her father’s driveway. The mid-May morning sky was an inviting blue. The garage door was up, the Oldsmobile resting outside, dew sparkling on its maroon exterior. The sight was strange, since her father usually parked the car inside.

  The house had changed little since her childhood. Red brick, white trim, charcoal shingled roof. The magnolia and dogwoods in front, planted twenty-five years ago when the family first moved in, now loomed tall and bushy along with hollies and junipers encircling the front and sides. The shutters were showing their age, and mildew was slowly advancing up the brick. The outside needed attention and she made a mental note to talk to her father about it.

  She parked and the kids bolted out, running around to the back door.

  She checked her father’s car. Unlocked. She shook her head. He simply refused to lock anything. The morningConstitution lay in the driveway, and she walked down and retrieved it, then followed the concrete path around back. Marla and Brent were calling for Lucy in the backyard.

  The kitchen door was also unlocked. The light over the sink was on. As careless as her father was about locks, he was downright neurotic about lights, burning one only when absolutely necessary. He would surely have switched it off last night before going to bed.

  She called out, “Dad? You here? How many times do I have to tell you about leaving the door unlocked?”

  The kids called for Lucy, then pushed through the swinging door toward the dining room and den.

  “Daddy?” Her voice was louder.

  Marla ran back into the kitchen. “Granddaddy’s asleep on the floor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s asleep on the floor by the stairs.”

  She rushed from the kitchen to the foyer. The odd angle of her father’s neck instantly told her he wasn’t sleeping.

  “Welcome to the High Museum of Art,” the greeter said to each person passing through the wide glass doors. “Welcome. Welcome.” People continued to file through the turnstile one at a time. Paul waited his turn in line.

  “Morning, Mr. Cutler,” the greeter said. “You didn’t have to wait. Why didn’t you come on up?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair, Mr. Braun.”

  “Membership on the board should have some privilege, shouldn’t it?”

  Paul smiled. “You would think. Is there a reporter here waiting for me? I was to meet him at ten.”

  “Yep. Fellow’s been in the front gallery since I opened.”

  He headed off, his leather heels clicking against the shiny terrazzo. The four-story atrium was open all the way to the ceiling, semicircular pedestrian ramps girdled the towering walls on each floor, people milled up and down, and the rumble of muted conversations floated across the conditioned air.

  He could think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than at the museum. He’d never been much of a churchgoer. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe. It was just that admiring real human endeavor seemed more satisfying than pondering some omnipotent being. Rachel was the same way. He often wondered if their lackadaisical attitude toward religion affected Marla and Brent. Maybe the children needed exposure, he once argued. But Rachel had disagreed.Let them make up their own minds in their own time. She was staunchly antireligion.

  Just one more of their debates.

  He sauntered into the front gallery, its canvases a tantalizing sample of what awaited throughout the rest of the building. The reporter, a skinny, brisk-looking man with a scraggly beard and a camera bag slung over his right shoulder, stood in front of a large oil.

  “Are you Gale Blazek?”

  The young man turned and nodded.

  “Paul Cutler.” They shook hands, and he motioned to the painting. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Del Sarto’s last, I believe,” the reporter said.

  He nodded. “We were fortunate to talk a private collector into lending it to us for a while, along with several other nice canvases. They’re on the second floor with the rest of the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century Italians.”

  “I’ll make a point to see them before I leave.”

  He noticed the huge wall clock. 10:15A .M. “Sorry I’m late. Why don’t we wander around and you can ask your questions.”

  The man smiled and withdrew a microrecorder from the shoulder bag. They strolled across the expansive gallery.

  “I’ll just get right into it. How long have you been on the museum’s board?” the reporter asked.

  “Nine years now.”

  “You a collector?”

  He grinned. “Hardly. Only some small oils and a few watercolors. Nothing substantial.”

  “I’ve been told your talents lie in organization. The administration speaks highly of you.”

  “I love my volunteer work. This place is special to me.”

  A noisy group of teenagers poured in from the mezzanine.

  “Were you educated in the arts?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I earned a BA from Emory in political science and took a few graduate courses in art history. Then I found out what art historians make and went to law school.” He left out the part about not getting accepted on the first try. Not from vanity—it was just that after thirteen years it really didn’t matter any longer.

  They skirted the edge of two women admiring a canvas of St. Mary Magdalene.

  “How old are you?” the reporter asked.

  “Forty-one.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Me, too. How you handling it?”

  He shrugged. No need to make any comment on the record about that. “I get by.”

  Actually, divorce meant a sparse two-bedroom apartment and dinners eaten either alone or with business associates, except the two nights a week he ate with the kids. Socializing was confined to State Bar functions, which was the only reason he served on so many committees, something to occupy his spare time and the alternate weekends he didn’t have the kids. Rachel was good about visitation. Any time, really. But he didn’t want to interfere with her relationship with the children, and he understood the value of a schedule and the need for consistency.

  “How about you describe yourself for me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s something I ask all the people I profile. They can do it far better than I could. Who better to know you than you?”

  “When the administrator asked me to do this interview and show you around, I thought the piece was on the museum, not me.”

  “It is. For next Sunday’sConstitution magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits.”

  “What about the c
urators?”

  “The administrator says you’re one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on.”

  He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. “How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable. The kind of guy you’d want to be in a foxhole with.”

  “The kind of guy who makes sure your estate gets handled right after you’re gone?”

  He’d not said anything about being a probate lawyer. Obviously, the reporter had done some homework. “Something like that.”

  “You mentioned foxholes. Ever been in the military?”

  “I came along after the draft. Post-Vietnam and all that.”

  “How long have you practiced law?”

  “Since you know I’m a probate lawyer, I assume you also know how long I’ve practiced.”

  “Actually, I forgot to ask.”

  An honest answer. Fair enough. “I’ve been at Pridgen and Woodworth thirteen years now.”

  “Your partners speak highly of you. I talked to them Friday.”

  He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “Nobody mentioned anything about that.”

  “I asked them not to. At least until after today. I wanted our talk to be spontaneous.”

  More patrons filed in. The chamber was getting crowded and noisy. “Why don’t we walk into the Edwards Gallery. Less folks. We have some excellent sculptures on display.” He led the way across the mezzanine. Sunlight poured past the walkways through tall sheets of thick glass laced into a white porcelain edifice. A towering jewel-toned ink drawing graced the far north wall. The aroma of coffee and almonds drifted from an open café.

  “Magnificent,” the reporter said, looking around. “What did theNew York Timescall it? The best museum a city’s built in a generation?”