The Amber Room

by Steve Berry

  Her love of art had always endeared her to Loring. His offer to succeed her father came the day after he was buried. She’d been surprised. Shocked. Unsure. But Loring harbored no doubts on either her intelligence or resolve, and his unfettered confidence was what constantly inspired her to succeed. But now, standing alone in the sun, she realized that she’d chanced far too many risks over the past few days. Christian Knoll was not a man to take lightly. He was well aware of her attempts on his life. She’d twice made a fool of him. Once in the mine, the other with the kick in the groin. Never before had their quests risen to this level. She was uncomfortable with the escalation, but understood its need. Still, this matter required resolution. Loring needed to talk with Franz Fellner and reach some accommodation.

  A light knock came from inside.

  She reentered her bedchamber and answered the door. One of the house stewards said,“Pan Loring si preje vás vidêt. Ve studovnê.”

  Loring wanted to see her in his study.

  Good, she needed to talk with him, as well.

  The study was two floors down at the northwest end of the castle’s ground floor. Suzanne had always considered it a hunter’s room, since the walls were lined with antlers and horns, the ceiling decorated with the heraldic animals of Bohemian kings. A huge seventeenth-century oil painting dominated one wall and depicted muskets, game bags, hog spears, and powder horns in astonishingly realistic terms.

  Loring was already comfortable on the sofa when she walked in. “Come here, my child,” he said in Czech.

  She sat beside him.

  “I have thought long and hard about what you reported earlier, and you are right, something needs to be done. The cavern in Stod is most certainly the place. I thought it would never be found, but it now apparently has.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I cannot. But from the few things Father told me before he died, the location certainly appears genuine. The trucks, bodies, the sealed entrance.”

  “That trail is cold again,” she made clear.

  “Is it, my dear?”

  Her analytical mind took over. “Grumer, Borya, and Chapaev are dead. The Cutlers are amateurs. Even though Rachel Cutler survived the mine, what does it matter? She knows nothing other than what was in her father’s letters, and that isn’t much. Fleeting references, easily discounted.”

  “You said her husband was in Stod, at the hotel, with McKoy’s group.”

  “But, again, there is no trail leading here. Amateurs will make little progress, as in the past.”

  “Fellner, Monika, and Christian are not amateurs. I’m afraid we have tickled their curiosity a bit too much.”

  She knew of Loring’s conversations with Fellner over the past few days, conversations where Fellner had apparently lied and said he knew nothing of Knoll’s whereabouts. “I agree. Those three are certainly planning something. But you can handle the matter withPan Fellner, face-to-face.”

  Loring pushed himself up from the couch. “This is so difficult,drahá. I have so few years left—”

  “I won’t hear talk like that,” she said quickly. “You are in good health. Many productive years to go.”

  “I’m seventy-seven. Be realistic.”

  The thought of him dying bothered her. Her mother died when she was too young to feel the loss. The pain from when her father died was still quite real, the memories vivid. Losing the other father in her life would be more than difficult.

  “My two sons are good men. They run the family businesses well. And when I am gone, all that will belong to them. It is their birthright.” Loring faced her. “Money is so transparent. There is a certain thrill from the making of it. But it simply remakes itself if invested and managed wisely. Little skill is needed to perpetuate billions in hard currency. This family is proof of that. The bulk of our fortune was made two hundred years ago and simply passed down.”

  “I think you underestimate the value of your and your father’s careful steerage through two world wars.”

  “Politics does sometimes interfere, but there will always be refuges where currency can be safely invested. For us, it was America.”

  Loring came back and sat on the edge of the couch. He smelled of bitter tobacco, as did the entire room. “Art, though,drahá , is much more fluid. It changes as we change, adapts as we do. A masterpiece of five hundred years ago might be frowned upon today.

  “Yet, amazingly, some art forms can and do last the millennia. That, my dear, is what excites me. You understand that excitement. You appreciate it. And because of that, you have brought great joy to my life. Though my blood does not course through your veins, my spirit does. There is no doubt that you are my daughter in spirit.”

  She’d always felt that way. Loring’s wife had died nearly twenty years ago. Nothing sudden or unexpected. A painful bout with cancer that slowly claimed her. His sons left decades ago. He had few pleasures, other than his art, gardening, and woodworking. But his tired joints and atrophied muscles severely restricted those activities. Though he was a billionaire, residing in a castle fortress and possessed of a name known throughout Europe, she was, in many ways, all this old man had left.

  “I’ve always thought of myself as your daughter.”

  “When I am gone, I want you to have Castle Loukov.”

  She said nothing.

  “I am also bequeathing you a hundred and fifty million euros so you can maintain the estate, along with my entire art collection, public and private. Of course, only you and I know the extent of the private collection. I have also left instructions that you are to inherit my club membership. It is mine to do with as I please. I want you to succeed in my place.”

  His words were too much. She struggled to speak. “What of your sons? They are your rightful heirs.”

  “And they will receive the bulk of my wealth. This estate, my art, and the money are nowhere near what I possess. I have discussed this with both of them, and neither offered any objection.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you will do me proud and let all this live on.”

  “There is no doubt.”

  He smiled and lightly squeezed her hand. “You have always done me proud. Such a good daughter.” He paused. “Now, though, we must do one final thing to ensure the safety of what we have worked so hard to achieve.”

  She understood. She’d understood all day. There really was only one way to solve their problem.

  Loring stood, walked to the desk, and calmly dialed the phone. When the connection was made with Burg Herz he said, “Franz, how are you this evening?”

  A pause while Fellner spoke on the other end. Loring’s face was knotted. She knew this was difficult for him. Fellner was not only a competitor, but also a longtime friend.

  Yet it had to be done.

  “I very much need to talk with you, Franz. It is vitally important. . . . No, I would like to send my plane for you and talk this evening. Unfortunately, there is no way I can leave the Republic. I can have the jet there within the hour and have you back home by midnight. . . . Yes, please bring Monika—this concerns her, as well—and Christian, too. . . . Oh, still have not heard from him? A shame. I’ll have the plane at your landing field by five-thirty. I’ll see you soon.”

  Loring hung up and sighed. “Such a pity. To the end, Franz continues to maintain the charade.”

  FIFTY

  Prague, Czech Republic

  6:50 p.m.

  The sleek gold-and-gray corporate jet rolled across the tarmac and settled to a stop. The engines whined down. Suzanne stood with Loring in the dim light of late evening as workers nestled metal stairs close to the open hatch. Franz Fellner exited first, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Monika followed, sporting a white turtleneck, navy blue silhouette blazer, and tight-fitting jeans. Typical, Suzanne thought. A vile mix of breeding and sexuality. And though Monika Fellner had just stepped off a multimillion-dollar private jet at one of Europe’s premier metropolitan airports,
her face reflected the disdain of someone clearly slumming.

  Only three years separated them, with Monika the elder. Monika started attending club functions a couple of years back, making no secret of the fact that she would someday succeed her father. Everything had come so easily to her. Suzanne’s life had been so radically different. Though she’d grown up at the Loring estate, she was always expected to work hard, study hard, acquire hard. She’d wondered many times if Knoll was a divisive factor between them. Monika had made it clear more than once that she considered Christianher property. Until a few hours ago, when Loring told her Castle Loukov would one day be hers, she’d never considered a life like Monika Fellner’s. But that reality was now at hand, and she couldn’t help but wonder what dear Monika would think if she knew they would soon be equals.

  Loring stepped forward and briskly shook Fellner’s hand. He then hugged and kissed Monika lightly on the cheek. Fellner acknowledged Suzanne with a smile and a polite nod, club member to Acquisitor.

  The drive to Castle Loukov in Loring’s touring Mercedes was pleasant and relatively quiet, the talk of politics and business. Dinner was waiting in the dining hall when they arrived. As the main course was served, Fellner asked in German, “What is so urgent, Ernst, that we need to speak this evening?”

  Suzanne noticed that, so far, Loring had kept the mood friendly, using light conversation to put his guests at ease. Her employer sighed. “It is the matter of Christian and Suzanne.”

  Monika cut Suzanne a look, one she’d seen before and grown to hate.

  “I know,” Loring said, “that Christian was unharmed in the mine explosion. As I am sure you know, Suzanne caused the explosion.”

  Fellner set his knife and fork on the table and faced his host. “We are aware of both.”

  “Yet you continued to tell me the past two days you knew nothing of Christian’s whereabouts.”

  “Frankly, I did not consider the information any of your business. At the same time I kept wondering, why all the interest?” Fellner’s tone had harshened, the need for appearances seemingly gone.

  “I know of Christian’s visit to St. Petersburg two weeks ago. In fact, that is what started all this.”

  “We assumed you were paying the clerk.” Monika’s tone was brusque, more so than her father’s.

  “Again, Ernst, what is this visit about?” Fellner asked.

  “The Amber Room,” Loring slowly said.

  “What of it?”

  “Finish your dinner. Then we will talk.”

  “Truthfully, I am not hungry. You fly me three hundred kilometers on short notice to talk, so let us talk.”

  Loring folded his napkin. “Very well, Franz. You and Monika come with me.”

  Suzanne followed as Loring led their guests through the castle’s ground-floor maze. The wide corridors wound past rooms adorned with priceless art and antiques. This was Loring’s public collection, the result of six decades of personal acquiring and another ten decades before that by his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Some of the most valuable objects in the world rested in the surrounding chambers—the full extent of Loring’s public collection was known only to her and her employer, all protected behind thick stone walls and the anonymity a rural estate in a former Communist-bloc country provided.

  And soon it would all be hers.

  “I am about to breach one of our sacred rules,” Loring said. “As a demonstration of my good faith, I intend to show you my private collection.”

  “Is that necessary?” Fellner asked.

  “I believe it is.”

  They passed Loring’s study and continued down a long hall to a solitary room at the end. It was a tight rectangle, topped by a groined vault ceiling with murals that depicted the zodiac and portraits of the Apostles. A massive delft tile stove consumed one corner. Walnut display cases lined the walls, their seventeenth-century wood inlaid with African ivory. The glass shelves brimmed with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century porcelain. Fellner and Monika took a moment and admired some of the pieces.

  “The Romanesque Room,” Loring said. “I don’t know if you two have been here before.”

  “I haven’t,” Fellner said.

  “Neither have I,” Monika said.

  “I keep most of my precious glass here.” Loring gestured to the tiled stove. “Merely for looks, the air comes from there.” He pointed to a floor grate. “Special air handlers, as I am sure you utilize.”

  Fellner nodded.

  “Suzanne,” Loring said.

  She stepped before one of the wooden cases, fourth in a line of six, and slowly said in a low voice, “A common experience resulting in a common confusion.” The cabinet and a section of the stone wall rotated on a center axis, stopping halfway, creating an entrance to either side.

  “Voice activated to my tone and Suzanne’s. Some members of the staff know of this room. It, of course, has to be cleaned from time to time. But, as I am sure with your people, Franz, mine are absolutely loyal and have never spoken of this outside the estate. To be safe, though, we change the password weekly.”

  “This week’s is interesting,” Fellner said. “Kafka, I believe. The opening line toA Common Confusion . How fitting.”

  Loring grinned. “We must be loyal to our Bohemian writers.”

  Suzanne stepped aside and allowed Fellner and Monika to enter first. Monika brushed past, casting her a look of cool disgust. She then followed Loring inside. The spacious chamber beyond was dotted with more display cases, paintings and tapestries.

  “I am sure you have a similar place,” Loring said to Fellner. “This is from over two hundred years of collecting. The past forty with the club.”

  Fellner and Monika weaved through the individual cases.

  “Marvelous things,” Fellner said. “Very impressive. I recall many from unveilings. But, Ernst, you have been holding back.” Fellner stood in front of a blackened skull encased in glass. “Peking Man?”

  “Our family has possessed it since the war.”

  “As I recall, it was lost in China during transport to the United States.”

  Loring nodded. “Father acquired it from the thief who stole it from the marines in charge.”

  “Amazing. This dates our ancestry back a half million years. The Chinese and Americans would kill to have it returned. Yet here it rests, in the middle of Bohemia. We live in odd times, don’t we?”

  “Quite right, old friend. Quite right.” Loring motioned to the double doors at the far end of the long chamber. “There, Franz.”

  Fellner walked toward a set of tall enameled doors. They were painted white and veined in gilded molding. Monika followed her father.

  “Go ahead. Open them,” Loring said.

  Suzanne noticed that, for once, Monika kept her mouth shut. Fellner reached for the brass handles, twisted them, and pushed the doors inward.

  “Mother of God,” Fellner said, stepping inside the brightly lit chamber.

  The room was a perfect square, its ceiling high and arched and covered in a colorful mural. Mosaic pieces of whiskey-colored amber divided three of the four walls into clearly defined panels. Mirrored pilasters separated each panel. Amber molding created a wainscoting effect between tall, slender upper panels and short, rectangular lower ones. Tulips, roses, sculpted heads, figurines, seashells, flowers, monograms, rocaille, scrollwork, and floral garlands—all forged in amber—sprang from the walls. The Romanov crest, an amber bas-relief of the two-headed eagle of the Russian Tsars, emblazoned many of the lower panels. More gilded molding spread like vines across the uppermost fringes and above three sets of white double doors. Cherub carvings and feminine busts dotted the spaces in between and above the upper panels, and likewise framed the doors and windows. The mirrored pilasters were dotted with gilded candelabra that sprouted electric candles, all burning bright. The floor was a shiny parquet, the woodwork as intricate as the amber walls, the polished surface reflecting the bulbs like distant suns.

 
Loring stepped inside. “It is exactly as in the Catherine Palace. Ten meters square with the ceiling seven and a half meters tall.”

  Monika had maintained better control than her father. “Is this why all the games with Christian?”

  “You were coming a bit close. This has been a secret for over fifty years. I could not let things continue to escalate and risk exposure to the Russians or Germans. I do not have to tell you what their reaction would be.”

  Fellner crossed the room to the far corner, admiring the marvelous amber table fitted tight at the junction of two lower panels. He then moved to one of the Florentine mosaics, the colored stone polished and framed in gilded bronze. “I never believed the stories. One swore the Soviets had saved the mosaics before the Nazis arrived at the Catherine Palace. Another said remnants were found in the Königsberg ruins after the bombing in 1945 crumbled it to dust.”

  “The first story is false. The Soviets were not able to spirit the four mosaics away. They did try to dismantle one of the upper amber panels, but it fell apart. They decided to leave the rest, including the mosaics. The second story, though, is true. An illusion staged by Hitler.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hitler knew Göring wanted the amber panels. He also knew of Erich Koch’s loyalty to Göring. That is why the Führer personally ordered the panels moved from Königsberg and sent a special SS detachment to make the transfer, just in case Göring became difficult. Such a strange relationship between Hitler and Göring. Complete distrust of one another, yet total dependency. Only in the end, when Bormann was finally able to undermine Göring, did Hitler turn on him.”

  Monika drifted to the windows, which consisted of three sets of twenty-pane casements from floor to midway up, each topped by half-moons, three sets of eight-paned, arched windows overhead. The lower casements were actually double doors shaped to look like windows. Beyond the panes came light and what appeared to be a garden scene.