The Amber Room

by Steve Berry

  He raised his hand. A slight breeze drifted from the left fork. Should he take the chance? Too many more turns and he’d never find his way back. Total darkness possessed no reference points, his present position known only because of the main shaft’s orientation. But he could easily lose that frame of reference with a couple of indiscriminate moves.

  What should he do?

  He stepped left.

  Fifty meters and the tunnel forked again. He held up his hand. No breeze. He recalled reading once that the miners designed their safety routes all in the same direction. One left turn meant all left turns until you were out. What choice did he have? Go left.

  Two more forks. Two more lefts.

  A shaft of light appeared ahead. Faint. But there. He scurried forward and turned the corner.

  Daylight loomed a hundred meters away.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Kehlheim, Germany

  11:30 a.m.

  Paul glanced in the rearview mirror. A car rapidly approached, its lights flashing and siren hee-hawing. The green-and-white compact,POLIZEI on the doors in blue letters, zoomed past in the opposite lane and disappeared around a bend.

  He drove on, entering Kehlheim ten kilometers later.

  The quiet village was littered with brightly painted buildings that ringed a cobbled square. He wasn’t much of a traveler. Only one trip overseas to Paris two years ago for the museum—a chance to tour the Louvre had been too enticing to pass up. He’d asked Rachel to go with him. She’d refused. Not a good idea for an ex-wife, he remembered her saying. He was never quite sure what she meant, though he sincerely thought she would have liked to go.

  He’d been unable to get a flight out of Atlanta until yesterday afternoon, taking the children to his brother’s house early in the morning. The lack of a call from Rachel worried him. But he’d not checked the answering machine since 9A .M. yesterday. His flight was protracted by stops in Amsterdam and Frankfurt, which didn’t get him into Munich until two hours ago. He’d cleaned up the best he could in an airport bathroom, but could definitely use a shower, shave, and change of clothes.

  He cruised into the town square and parked in front of what appeared to be a grocery market. Bavaria obviously wasn’t a Sunday place. All the buildings were closed down. The only activity was centered near the church, whose steeple was the highest point in the village. Parked cars hunched in tight rows across uneven cobbles. A group of older men stood on the church steps talking. Beards, dark coats, and hats predominated. He should have brought a jacket himself, but he’d packed in a hurry with only the essentials.

  He walked over. “Excuse me. Any of you speak English?”

  One man, seemingly the oldest of the four said, “Ja.A little.”

  “I’m looking for a man named Danya Chapaev. I understand he lives here.”

  “Not anymore. Dead now.”

  He was afraid of that. Chapaev had to have been old. “When did he die?”

  “Last night. Killed.”

  Had he heard right? Killed? Last night? His greatest fear welled up inside him. The question immediately formed in his mind. “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Nein.Just Danya.”

  He remembered the police car. “Where did this happen?”

  He motored out of Kehlheim and followed the proffered directions. The house appeared ten minutes later, easy to spot with four police cars angled in front. A uniformed, stone-faced man stood guard at the open front door. Paul approached, but was stopped immediately.

  “Nicht eintreten. Kriminelle szene,”the policeman said.

  “English, please.”

  “No entrance. Crime scene.”

  “Then I need to speak to the person in charge.”

  “I’m in charge,” a voice said from inside, the English laced with a guttural German accent.

  The man who approached the front doorway was middle-aged. Tufts of unruly black hair crowned a craggy face. A dark blue overcoat draped his thin frame down to the knees, an olive suit and knit tie showing underneath.

  “I am Fritz Pannik. Inspector with the federal police. And you?”

  “Paul Cutler. A lawyer from the United States.”

  Pannik brushed past the door guard. “What is a lawyer from America doing here on a Sunday morning?”

  “Looking for my ex-wife. She came to see Danya Chapaev.”

  Pannik cut a look at the policeman.

  He noticed the curious expression. “What is it?”

  “A woman was asking directions to this house yesterday in Kehlheim. She is a suspect in this murder.”

  “You have a description?”

  Pannik reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a notepad. He flipped open the leather flap. “Medium height. Reddish-blond hair. Big breasts. Jeans. Flannel shirt. Boots. Sunglasses. Hefty.”

  “That’s not Rachel. But it could be somebody else.”

  He quickly told Pannik about Jo Myers, Karol Borya, and the Amber Room, describing his female visitor as she appeared. Thin, moderately chested, chestnut hair, brown eyes, a pair of octagonal gold frames. “I got the impression the hair wasn’t hers. Call it lawyer intuition.”

  “But she read the letters Chapaev and this Karol Borya sent to one another?”

  “Thoroughly.”

  “Did the envelopes note this location on them?”

  “Only the town name.”

  “Is there more to the story?”

  He told the inspector about Christian Knoll, Jo Myers’s concerns, and his own.

  “And you came to warn your ex-wife?” Pannik asked.

  “More to see if she was okay. I should have come with her in the first place.”

  “But you considered her trip a waste of time?”

  “Absolutely. Her father expressly asked her not to get involved.” Beyond Pannik’s shoulders, two policemen moved about inside. “What happened in there?”

  “If you have the stomach, I’ll show you.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” he said, as if that meant anything. He didn’t mention that he’d never handled a criminal case in his life and had never visited a crime scene before. But curiosity drove him. First Borya dead, now Chapaev murdered. But Karol had fallen down the stairs.

  Or had he?

  He followed Pannik inside. The warm room carried a peculiar, sickeningly sweet odor. Mystery novels always talked about the smell of death. Was that it?

  The house was small. Four rooms. A den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. From what he could see the furniture was old and tattered, yet the place was clean and cozy, the tranquillity shattered by the sight of an old man sprawled across a threadbare carpet, a large splotch of crimson leading from two holes in the skull.

  “Shot point-blank,” Pannik said.

  His eyes were riveted on the corpse. Bile started to rise in his throat. He fought the urge, but to no avail.

  He rushed from the room.

  He was bent over, retching. The little bit he’d eaten on the plane was now puddled on the damp grass. He took a few deep breaths and got hold of himself.

  “Finished?” Pannik asked.

  He nodded. “You think the woman did that?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that a female asked where Chapaev lived, and the grandson offered to show her the way. They left the marketplace together yesterday morning. The old man’s daughter got concerned last night when the boy did not come home. She came over and found the boy tied up in the bedroom. Apparently the woman had a problem killing children, but didn’t mind shooting an old man.”

  “The boy okay?”

  “Shook up, but all right. He confirmed the description, but could offer little more. He was in the other room. He remembers hearing voices talking. But he couldn’t determine any of the conversation. Then his papa and the woman came in for a moment. They spoke in another language. I tried a few sample words, and it appears they were speaking Russian. Then the old man and the woman left the room. He heard a shot. Silence after that till his mother arrived a few
hours later.”

  “She shot the man square in the head?”

  “At close range, too. The stakes must be high.”

  A policeman walked from inside.“Nichts im haus hinsichtlich des Bernstein-zimmer.”

  Pannik looked at him. “I had them search the house for anything on the Amber Room. There’s nothing there.”

  A radio crackled from the hip of the German standing guard at the front door. The man slipped the transmitter from his waist, then approached Pannik. In English the policeman said, “I have to go. A call has come for search and rescue. I’m on duty this weekend.”

  “What’s happened?” Pannik asked.

  “Explosion in one of the mines near Warthberg. An American woman has been pulled out, but they’re still searching for a man. Local authorities have requested our help.”

  Pannik shook his head. “A busy Sunday.”

  “Where’s Warthberg?” Paul immediately asked.

  “In the Harz Mountains. Four hundred kilometers to the north. They sometimes use our Alpine rescue teams when there are mishaps.”

  Wayland McKoy and Karol’s interest in the Harz Mountains flashed through his mind. “An American woman was found? What’s her name?”

  Pannik seemed to sense the point of the inquiry and turned to the officer. Words passed between them, and the officer talked back into the radio.

  Two minutes later, the words came through the speaker:“Die frau ist Rachel Cutler. Amerikanerin.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  3:10 p.m.

  The police chopper knifed north through the may afternoon. Past Würzburg it started to rain. Paul sat next to Pannik, a team of search-and-rescue personnel strapped in behind them.

  “A group of hikers heard the explosions and alerted authorities,” Pannik said over the roar of the turbine. “Your ex-wife was pulled out near an entrance to one of the shafts. She’s been taken to a local hospital, but managed to tell her rescuers about the man. His name is Christian Knoll, Herr Cutler.”

  He listened with great concern. But all he could see was Rachel lying in a hospital, bleeding. What was going on? What had Rachel gotten into? How had Knoll found her? What happened in that mine? Were Marla and Brent in any danger? He needed to call his brother and alert him.

  “Seems Jo Myers was right,” Pannik said.

  “Did the reports mention Rachel’s condition?”

  Pannik shook his head.

  The helicopter flew first to the scene of the explosion—the mine entrance was deep in the forest at the base of one of the higher mounds. The nearest clearing opened a half kilometer to the west, and the rescue personnel were deposited there to hike back. He and Pannik remained in the chopper and flew east of Warthberg to a regional hospital, where Rachel had been taken.

  Inside, he headed straight for her fourth-floor room. Rachel was dressed in a blue gown. A large bandage lay across her scalp. She smiled from the bed when she saw him. “Why did I know you’d be here?”

  He stepped closer. Her cheeks, nose, and arms were scraped and bruised. “I didn’t have much else to do this weekend, so why not a trip to Germany.”

  “The children okay?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I left yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  Before he could explain, Pannik, standing quiet at the door, stepped closer. “Frau Cutler, I’m Inspector Fritz Pannik, federal police.”

  Paul told Rachel about Jo Myers, Christian Knoll, and what happened to Danya Chapaev.

  Shock invaded Rachel’s face. “Chapaev’s dead?”

  “I need to call my brother,” Paul said to Pannik, “and have him watch the kids closely. Maybe even alert the Atlanta police.”

  “You think they’re in danger?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what to think, Rachel. You’ve got yourself into something really bad. Your father warned you to stay out of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play coy. I can read Ovid. He wanted you to stay the hell out of this. Now Chapaev is dead.”

  Her face tightened. “That’s not fair, Paul. I didn’t do that. I didn’t know.”

  “But perhaps you pointed the way,” Pannik made clear.

  Rachel stared at the inspector, the realization clear on her face. Suddenly, Paul regretted chastising her. He wanted to help shoulder the blame, like always. “That’s not entirely true,” he said. “I showed the woman the letters. She learned about Kehlheim from me.”

  “And would you have done that if you did not think Frau Cutler to be in danger?”

  No, he wouldn’t have. He looked at Rachel. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Paul’s right, Inspector. It’s my fault. I wouldn’t leave well enough alone. He and my father warned me.”

  “What of this Christian Knoll?” Pannik asked. “Tell me about him.”

  Rachel reported what she knew, which wasn’t much. Then she said, “The man saved me from getting run down by a car. He was charming and courteous. I sincerely thought he wanted to help.”

  “What happened in the mine?” Pannik asked.

  “We were following Chapaev’s map. The tunnel was fairly wide, and all of a sudden it felt like an earthquake and an avalanche bisected the shaft. I turned back toward the entrance and started running. I only made it about halfway when the rocks knocked me down. Luckily, I wasn’t buried. I lay there till some hikers came in and got me.”

  “And Knoll?” Pannik asked.

  She shook her head. “I called out to him after the cave-in stopped, but nothing.”

  “He’s probably still in there,” Pannik said.

  “Was it an earthquake?” Paul asked.

  “We have no earthquakes here. Probably explosives from the war. The shafts are full of them.”

  “Knoll said the same thing,” Rachel said.

  The hospital room door opened, and a stocky policeman motioned to Pannik. The inspector excused himself and stepped outside.

  “You’re right,” Rachel said. “I should have listened.”

  He wasn’t interested in her concessions. “We need to get out of here and back home.”

  Rachel said nothing, and he was about to press the point when Pannik returned.

  “The shaft has been cleared. No one else was found inside. There was another entrance, unblocked, out a far tunnel. How did you and Herr Knoll get to the mine?”

  “We drove a rental car, then hiked.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A maroon Volvo.”

  “No car was found at the highway,” Pannik said. “This Knoll is gone.”

  The inspector seemed to know something more. Paul asked, “What else did that policeman tell you?”

  “That shaft was never used by the Nazis. No explosives were inside. Yet this is the second explosion there in three years.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning something quite strange is going on.”

  Paul left the hospital and hitched a ride in a police car to Warthberg. Pannik tagged along. Being a federal inspector gave him certain rank and privileges.

  “Similar to your FBI,” Pannik said. “I work for the nationwide police force. The locals cooperate with us all the time.”

  Rachel told them Knoll rented two rooms in the Goldene Krone. Pannik’s badge gained immediate access to Rachel’s room, which was tidy, bed made, suitcase gone. Knoll’s room was empty, too. No maroon Volvo anywhere in sight.

  “Herr Knoll left this morning,” the hotel proprietor said. “Paid for both rooms and left.”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten-thirty.”

  “You didn’t hear about the explosion?”

  “There are many explosions in the mines, Inspector. I don’t pay much attention to who is involved.”

  “Did you see Knoll return this morning?” Pannik asked.

  The man shook his balding head. They thanked the proprietor and stepped out
side.

  Paul said to Pannik, “Knoll’s got a five-hour head start, but maybe the car could be spotted by a bulletin.”

  “Herr Knoll doesn’t interest me. The most he’s done right now is trespass.”

  “He left Rachel to die in that mine.”

  “That’s no crime either. The woman is the one I seek. A murderess.”

  Pannik was right. But he realized the inspector’s quandary. No accurate description. No real name. No physical evidence. No background. No nothing.

  “Any idea where to look?” he asked.

  Pannik stared out at the quiet village square. “Nein,Herr Cutler. Not a one.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Castle Loukov, Czech Republic

  5:10 p.m.

  Suzanne accepted the pewter goblet from Ernst Loring and wedged herself comfortably into an Empire chair. Her employer seemed pleased with the report.

  She said, “I waited a half hour at the scene and left when the authorities started to arrive. No one emerged from the mine shaft.”

  “I will check with Fellner tomorrow on the pretense of something else. Perhaps he will say if something happened to Christian.”

  She sipped her wine, pleased with the day’s activity. She’d driven straight from central Germany to Czech, crossing the border and speeding south to Loring’s castle estate. The three hundred kilometers had been an easy two-and-a-half-hour trek in the Porsche.

  “Very clever, maneuvering Christian like that,” Loring said. “He is a difficult one to lead.”

  “He was too eager. But I have to say, Chapaev was quite convincing.” She sipped more wine. The fruity vintage was Loring’s own. “A shame. The old man was dedicated. He’d kept quiet a long time. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to silence him.”

  “It was good to leave the child unharmed.”