by Steve Berry
The blare of a horn shattered the afternoon.
She jerked her head to the left.
The front end of a car approached her. Fifty feet. Forty. Twenty. Her eyes focused on the hood and the Mercedes emblem, then on the lights and words that signified taxi.
Ten feet.
The horn still blared. She needed to move, but her feet wouldn’t respond. She braced herself for the pain, wondering if the impact or the slam to the cobblestones would hurt worse.
Poor Marla and Brent.
And Paul. Sweet Paul.
An arm wrapped around her neck, and she was jerked back.
Brakes squealed. The taxi slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber steamed from the pavement.
She turned to see who now held her. The man was tall and lean, with a shock of corn-colored hair brushed across a tanned brow. Thin lips like slits cut with a razor creased a handsome face, the complexion a dusky hue. He was dressed in a wheat-colored twill shirt and checkered trousers.
“You okay?” he asked in English.
The peak of the moment had spent her emotions. She instantly realized how close she’d come to dying. “I think so.”
A crowd gathered. The cabdriver was out of the car, looking on.
“She’s okay, folks,” her savior said. Then he said something in German and people started to leave. He spoke to the taxi driver in German, who responded and then sped off.
“The driver is sorry. But he said you appeared out of nowhere.”
“I thought this was pedestrian only,” she said. “I wasn’t concerned about a car.”
“The taxis are not supposed to be here, but they find a way. I reminded the driver of that, and he decided that leaving was the best course.”
“There should be a sign or something.”
“America, right? Everything has a sign in America. Not here.”
She calmed down. “Thanks for what you did.”
Two rows of even white teeth flashed a perfect smile. “My pleasure.” He extended a hand. “I am Christian Knoll.”
She accepted the offer. “Rachel Cutler. And I’m glad you were there, Mr. Knoll. I never saw that taxi.”
“It would have been unfortunate otherwise.”
She grinned. “Quite.” She started to shake uncontrollably, the aftershock of what had almost just happened.
“Please, let me buy you a drink to calm you down.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“You are shaking. Some wine would be good.”
“I appreciate it, but—”
“As a reward for my effort.”
That would be hard to refuse, so she surrendered. “Okay, maybe a little wine might be the thing.”
She followed Knoll to a café about four blocks away, the twin copper towers of the main cathedral looming directly across the street. Clothed tables sprouted across the cobblestones, each filled with people cradling steins of dark beer. Knoll ordered a beer for himself and her a glass of Rhineland wine, the clear liquid dry, bitter, and good.
Knoll had been right. Her nerves were flustered. That was the closest she’d ever come to death. Strange her thoughts at the time. Brent and Marla were understandable. But Paul? She’d clearly thought of him, her heart aching for an instant.
She sipped the wine and let the alcohol and ambience soothe her nerves.
“I have a confession to make, Ms. Cutler,” Knoll said.
“How about Rachel?”
“Very well. Rachel.”
She sipped more wine. “What kind of confession?”
“I was following you.”
The words got her attention. She set the wineglass down. “What do you mean?”
“I was following you. I have been since you left Atlanta.”
She rose from the table. “I think perhaps the police should be involved in this.”
Knoll sat impassive and sipped his beer. “I have no problem with that, if you so desire. I only ask that you hear me out first.”
She considered the request. They were seated in the open. Beyond a wrought-iron railing, the street was full of evening shoppers. What would it hurt to hear him out? She sat back down. “Okay, Mr. Knoll, you’ve got five minutes.”
Knoll set the mug on the table. “I traveled to Atlanta earlier in the week to meet your father. On arrival I learned of his death. Yesterday, I appeared at your office and learned of your trip here. I even left my name and number. Your secretary did not pass my message on?”
“I haven’t talked with my office. What business did you have with my father?”
“I am looking for the Amber Room and thought he could be of assistance.”
“Why are you looking for the Amber Room?”
“My employer seeks it.”
“As do the Russians, I’m sure.”
Knoll smiled. “True. But, after fifty years, we regard it as ‘finders keepers,’ I believe is the American saying.”
“How could my father help?”
“He searched many years. Finding the Amber Room was given a high priority by the Soviets.”
“That was fifty-plus years ago.”
“With this particular prize, the passage of time is meaningless. If anything, it makes the search all the more intriguing.”
“How did you locate my father?”
Knoll stuffed a hand into a pocket and handed her some folded sheets. “I discovered those last week in St. Petersburg. They led me to Atlanta. As you’ll see, the KGB visited him a few years ago.”
She unfolded and read. The typed words were in Cyrillic. An English translation appeared to the side in blue ink. She instantly noticed who’d signed the top sheet. Danya Chapaev. She also noted what was written on the KGB sheet about her father:
Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev’s whereabouts.
But her father had known exactly where Chapaev lived. He’d corresponded with him for years. Why had he lied? And her father never mentioned anything about the KGB visiting him. Nor much about the Amber Room. It was a little unnerving to think the KGB had known about her, Marla, and Brent. She wondered what else her father held back.
“Unfortunately, I was not able to speak with your father,” Knoll said. “I arrived too late. I am truly sorry about your loss.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Monday.”
“And you waited till yesterday to go by my office?”
“I learned of your father’s death and did not want to intrude on your grief. My business could be postponed.”
The connection to Chapaev started to ease her tension. This man may be credible, but she cautioned herself against complacency. After all, though handsome and charming, Christian Knoll was still a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger in a foreign country. “Were you on my flight over?”
He nodded. “I barely made it onto the plane.”
“Why did you wait till now to speak up?”
“I was unsure of your visit. If it was personal, I did not want to interfere. If it concerned the Amber Room, I intended on approaching you.”
“I don’t appreciate being followed, Mr. Knoll. Not one damn bit.”
His gaze soldered onto hers. “Perhaps it is fortunate I did.”
The taxi flashed through her mind. Maybe he was right?
“And Christian will do fine,” he said.
She told herself to back off. No need to be so hostile. He’s right. He saved her life. “Okay. Christian it is.”
“Does your trip involve the Amber Room?”
“I’m not sure I should answer that.”
“If I were a danger, I would simply have let the taxi hit you.”
A good point, but not necessarily good enough.
“Frau Cutler, I am a trained investigator. Art is my speciality. I speak the language here and am familiar with this country. You may be an excellent judge, but I would assume you are a novic
e investigator.”
She said nothing.
“I am interested in information on the Amber Room, nothing more. I have shared with you what I am privy to. I only ask the same in return.”
“And if I decline and go to the police?”
“I will simply disappear from sight, but will keep you under surveillance to learn what you do. It is nothing personal. You are a lead I intend to explore to the end. I simply thought we could work together and save time.”
There was something rugged and dangerous about Knoll that she liked. His words came clear and direct, the voice sure. She searched his face hard for portents, but found none. So she made the kind of quick decision she was accustomed to making in court.
“Okay, Mr. Knoll. I’ve come to find Danya Chapaev. Apparently the same name on this sheet. He lives in Kehlheim.”
Knoll lifted the mug and took a pull of beer. “That’s south of here, toward the Alps near Austria. I know the village.”
“He and my father were apparently interested in the Amber Room. Obviously, more so than I ever realized.”
“Any idea what Herr Chapaev would know?”
She decided not to mention anything about the letters just yet. “Nothing other than they once worked together, as you seem to already know.”
“How did you come by the name?”
She decided to lie. “My father talked of him for many years. They were close once.”
“I can be of valuable assistance, Frau Cutler.”
“In all honesty, Mr. Knoll, I was hoping for some time alone.”
“I understand completely. I recall when my father died. It was very hard.”
The sentiment sounded genuine, and she appreciated the concern. But he was still a stranger.
“You need assistance. If this Chapaev is privy to information, I can help develop it. I have a vast knowledge of the Amber Room. Knowledge that can help.”
She said nothing.
“When do you plan to head south?” Knoll asked.
“Tomorrow morning.” She answered too quickly.
“Let me drive you.”
“I wouldn’t want my children accepting rides from strangers. Why should I do the same?”
He smiled. She liked it.
“I was open and frank with your secretary about my identity and intentions. Quite a trail for somebody who intended to harm you.” He downed the rest of his beer. “In any event, I would simply follow you to Kehlheim anyway.”
She made another quick decision. One that surprised her. “All right. Why not. We’ll go together. I’m staying at the Hotel Waldeck. A couple of blocks that way.”
“I’m across the street from the Waldeck at the Elisabeth.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Knoll watched Rachel Cutler disappear into the crowd.
That went quite well.
He tossed a few euros on the table and left the café. He rounded several corners and recrossed the Marienplatz. Past the food market, busy with early diners and revelers, he headed for Maximilianstrasse, an elegant boulevard lined with museums, government offices, and shops. The pillared portico of the National Theater rose ahead. In front, a line of taxis wrapped the statue of Max Joseph, Bavaria’s first king, patiently waiting for fares from the evening’s early performance. He crossed the street and walked to the fourth taxi in line. The driver was standing outside, arms folded, propped against the Mercedes’ exterior.
“Good enough?” the driver asked in German.
“More than enough.”
“My performance afterwards convincing?”
“Outstanding.” He handed the man a wad of euros.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Christian.”
“You, too, Erich.”
He knew the driver well, having used him before when in Munich. The man was both reliable and corruptible, two qualities he sought in all his operatives.
“You getting soft, Christian?”
“How so?”
“You only wanted her frightened, not killed. So unlike you.”
He smiled. “Nothing like a brush with death to breed trust.”
“You want to fuck her or something?”
He didn’t want to say much more, but he also wanted the man available in the future. He nodded and said, “A good way to get into the pants.”
The driver counted off the bills. “Five hundred euros is a lot for a piece of ass.”
But he considered the Amber Room and the ten million euros it would bring him. Then reconsidered Rachel Cutler and her attractiveness, which had lingered after she’d left.
“Not really.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Atlanta, Georgia
12:35 p.m.
Paul was concerned. He’d skipped lunch and stayed in the office, hoping Rachel would call. It was after 6:30 P.M. in Germany. She’d mentioned the possibility of staying in Munich one night before heading to Kehlheim. So he wasn’t sure if she’d call today, or tomorrow after she made it south to the Alps, or if she’d call at all.
Rachel was outspoken, aggressive, and tough. Always had been. That independent spirit was what made her a good judge. But it also made her hard to know, and even harder to like. Friends didn’t come easy. But down deep, she was warm and caring. He knew that. Unfortunately, the two of them were like grease and fire. But were they, really? They both thought a quiet dinner at home better than a crowded restaurant. A video rental preferable to the theater. An afternoon with the kids at the zoo heaven, compared with a night out on the town. He realized she missed her father. They’d been close, particularly after the divorce. Karol had tried hard to get them back together.
What had the old man’s note said?
Maybe give Paul another chance.
But it was no use. Rachel was determined that they were to live apart. She’d rebuffed every attempt he made at a reconciliation. Maybe it was time he obliged her and gave up. But there was something there. Her lack of a social life. Her reliance and trust in him. And how many men possessed a key to their ex-wife’s house? How many still shared the title to property? Or continued to maintain a joint account for stocks? She’d never once insisted that their Merrill Lynch account be closed, and he’d managed it the last three years without her ever questioning his judgment.
He stared at the phone. Why hadn’t she called? What was going on? Some man, Christian Knoll, was supposedly looking for her. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps not. All the information he possessed was the word of a rather attractive brunette with bright blue eyes and shapely legs. Jo Myers. She’d been calm and collected, handling his questions well, her answers quick and to the point. It was almost as if she could sense his apprehension toward Rachel, the doubts he harbored about her traveling to Germany. He’d volunteered a little too much, and that fact bothered him. Rachel had no business in Germany. Of that he was sure. The Amber Room was not her concern, and it was doubtful Danya Chapaev was even still alive.
He reached across his desk and retrieved his former father-in-law’s letters. He found the note penned to Rachel and scanned down the page about halfway:
Did we ever find it? Perhaps. Neither of us really went and looked. Too many were watching in those days and, by the time we narrowed the trail, both of us realized the Soviets were far worse than the Germans. So we left it alone. Danya and I vowed never to reveal what we knew, or perhaps simply what we thought we knew. Only when Yancy volunteered to make discreet inquiries, checking information that I once thought credible, did I inquire again. He was making an inquiry on his last trip to Italy. Whether that blast on the plane was attributable to his questions or something else will never be known. All I know is that the search for the Amber Room has proved dangerous.
He read a little farther and again found the warning:
But never, absolutely never, concern yourself with the Amber Room. Remember the story of Phaëthon and the tears of the Heliades. Heed his ambition and their grief.
He’d read a lot of the classics, but couldn’t recall the specifics. Rachel had been evasive three days ago when he asked her about the story at the dining room table.
He turned to his computer terminal and accessed the Internet. He selected a search engine and typed “Phaëthon and the Heliades.” The screen noted over a hundred sites. He randomly checked a couple. The third was the best, a Web page titled “The Mythical World of Edith Hamilton.” He scanned through until he found the story of Phaëthon, a bibliography noting the account was from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
He read the story. It was colorful and prophetic.
Phaëthon, the illegitimate son of Helios, the Sun God, finally found his father. Feeling guilty, the Sun God granted his son one wish, and the boy immediately chose to take his father’s place for a day, piloting the sun chariot across the sky from dawn to dusk. The father realized his son’s folly and tried in vain to dissuade the boy, but he would not be deterred. So Helios granted the wish, but warned the boy how difficult the chariot was to command. None of the Sun God’s cautions seemed to mean anything. All the boy saw was himself standing in the wondrous chariot, guiding the steeds that Zeus himself could not master.
Once airborne, though, Phaëthon quickly discovered that his father’s warnings were correct, and he lost control of the chariot. The horses darted to the top of the sky, then plunged close enough to the earth to set the world ablaze. Zeus, having no choice, unleashed a thunderbolt that destroyed the chariot and killed Phaëthon. The mysterious river Eridanus received him and cooled the flames that engulfed his body. The Naiads, in pity for one so bold and so young, buried him. Phaëthon’s sisters, the Heliades, came to his grave and mourned. Zeus, taking pity on their sorrow, turned them into poplar trees that sprouted sadly murmuring leaves on the bank of the Eridanus.
He read the last lines of the story on the screen:
WHERE SORROWING THEY WEEP INTO THE STREAM FOREVER
EACH TEAR AS IT FALLS SHINES IN THE WATER
A GLISTENING DROP OF AMBER.
He instantly recalled the copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses he’d seen on Borya’s bookshelves. Karol was trying to warn Rachel, but she wouldn’t listen. Like Phaëthon, she’d raced off on a foolish quest, not understanding the dangers or appreciating the risks. Would Christian Knoll be her Zeus? The one to hurl a thunderbolt.