by Steve Berry
“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 outside.
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.”
“I don’t kill children. He knew nothing more than what the other witnesses at the market would report. He was my leverage to get the old man to do what I wanted.”
Loring’s face bore a heavy, tired look. “I wonder when it will end. Every few years we seem forced to tend to this matter.”
“I read the letters. Leaving Chapaev around would have been an unnecessary risk. More loose ends that would eventually have led to problems.”
“Regretfully, drahá, you are right.”
“Were you able to learn anything more from St. Petersburg?”
“Only that Christian was definitely in the Commission records again. He noticed Father’s name on a document Knoll was reading, but it was gone when he checked after Knoll left.”
“Good thing Knoll is no longer a problem. With Borya and Chapaev gone, things should now be secure.”
“I am afraid not,” Loring said. “There is another problem.”
She set her wine aside. “What?”
“An excavation has started near Stod. An American entrepreneur looking for treasure.”
“People don’t give up, do they?”
“The lure is too intoxicating. Hard to say for sure if this latest venture is in the right cavern. Unfortunately, there is no way to know until the cavern is explored. All I know is that he is in the generally correct area.”
“We have a source?”
“Directly on the inside. He has kept me informed, but even he doesn’t know for sure. Unfortunately, Father kept that precise information close to himself . . . not even trusting his son.”
“You want me to travel there?”
“Please. Keep an eye on things. My source is reliable, but greedy. He demands too much and, as you know, greed is something I cannot tolerate. He’s expecting contact from a woman. My personal secretary has been the only one to talk with him so far, and only by telephone. The source knows nothing of me. He will know you by Margarethe. If anything is found, make sure the situation stays contained. No trail leading out. If the location is unrelated, forget it, and, if need be, eliminate the source. But, please, let’s try to minimize the killing.”
She knew what he meant. “I had no choice with Chapaev.”
“I understand, drahá, and I appreciate the efforts. Hopefully, that death will be the end of the so-called curse of the Amber Room.”
“Along with two more.”
The old man grinned. “Christian and Rachel Cutler?”
She nodded.
“I believe you are pleased with your efforts. Strange, I thought I sensed a hesitancy the other day regarding Christian. Maybe a small attraction?”
She lifted the goblet and toasted her employer. “Nothing I can’t live without.”
Knoll sped south toward Füssen. There were too many police in and around Kehlheim to stay the night there. He’d fled Warthberg and returned south to the Alps to talk with Danya Chapaev, only to learn the old man had been murdered during the night. The police were searching for a woman who’d asked directions to the house yesterday and left the marketplace with Chapaev’s grandson. Her identity was unknown. But not to him.
Suzanne Danzer.
Who else? Somehow she’d picked up the trail and beat him to Chapaev. All that information Chapaev had freely provided came from her. No question about it. He’d been sucked into a trap and nearly killed.
He recalled what Juvenal said in his Satires. Revenge is the delight of a mean spirit and petty mind. Proof of this is no one rejoices more in revenge than a woman.
Right. But he preferred Byron. Men love in haste but detest at leisure.
There’d be hell to pay when their paths crossed again. Bloody damn painful hell. Next time he’d have the advantage. He’d be ready.
The narrow streets of Füssen overflowed with spring tourists drawn by Ludwig’s castle south of town. It was an easy matter to blend into the evening rush of revelers searching for dinner and spirits in the busy cafés. He paused for a half hour and ate in one of the least crowded, listening to delightful chamber music echoing from a summer concert across the street. After, he found a phone booth near his hotel and called Burg Herz. Franz Fellner answered.
“I heard about an explosion in the mountains today. A woman was pulled out, and they are still looking for the man.”
“I won’t be found,” he said. “It was a trap.” He told Fellner what happened from the time he left Atlanta to the moment he learned of Chapaev’s murder a little while ago. “Interesting that Rachel Cutler may have survived. But it does not matter. She’ll surely head back to Atlanta.”
“You are sure Suzanne is involved?”
“Somehow she got ahead of me.”
Fellner chuckled. “Perhaps you are getting old, Christian?”
“I was not careful enough.”
“Cocksure is a better explanation,” Monika suddenly said. She was obviously on an extension.
“I wondered where you were.”
“Your mind was probably on how you were going to fuck her.”
“How fortunate I am to have you to remind me of all my shortcomings.”
Monika laughed. “Half the fun of all this, Christian, is watching you work.”
He said, “It appears this trail is now frozen. Perhaps I should move on to other acquisitions?”
“Tell him, child,” Fellner said.
“An American, Wayland McKoy, is excavating near Stod. Claims he’s going to find the Berlin museum art, maybe the Amber Room. He’s done this before with some success. Check it out just to be sure. At the very least you might pick up some good information, maybe a new acquisition.”
“Is this excavation well known?”
“It’s in the local papers, and CNN International ran several pieces on it,” Monika said.
“We were aware of it before you traveled to Atlanta,” Fellner said, “but thought Borya worth an immediate i
nquiry.”
“Is Loring interested in this new dig?” he asked.
“He seems interested in everything else we do,” Monika said.
“You’re hoping Suzanne will be dispatched?” Fellner asked.
“More than hoping.”
“Good hunting, Christian.”
“Thank you, sir, and when Loring calls to learn if I’m dead, don’t disappoint him.”
“Need a little anonymity?”
“It would help.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Warthberg, Germany
8:45 p.m.
Rachel strolled into the restaurant and followed Paul to a table, savoring the warm air laced with a scent of cloves and garlic. She was starving and feeling better. The full bandage from the hospital had been replaced with gauze and tape to the side of her head. She wore a pair of chinos and a long-sleeved shirt Paul bought at a local store, her tattered clothes from this morning no longer wearable.
Paul had checked her out of the hospital two hours ago. She was fine except for the bump on her head and a few cuts and scrapes. She’d promised the doctor to take it easy the next couple of days, Paul telling him they were headed back to Atlanta anyway.
A waiter stepped over, and Paul asked what type wine she’d like.
“A good red would be nice. Something local,” she said, remembering last night’s dinner with Knoll.
The waiter departed.
“I called the airline,” Paul said. “There’s a flight out of Frankfurt tomorrow. Pannik said he could arrange to get us to the airport.”
“Where is the inspector?”
“Went back to Kehlheim to see about the investigation on Chapaev. He left a phone number.”
“I can’t believe all my stuff’s gone.”
“Knoll obviously wanted nothing left to trace you.”
“He appeared so sincere. Charming, in fact.”
Paul seemed to sense the attraction in her voice. “You liked him?”
“He was interesting. Said he was an art collector looking for the Amber Room. “
“That appeals to you?”
“Come on, Paul. Wouldn’t you say that we live a mundane life? Work and home. Think about it. Traveling the world, looking for lost art—that would excite anyone.”
“The man left you to die.”
Her face tightened. That tone of his did it every time. “But he also saved my life in Munich.”
“I should have come with you to start with.”
“I don’t recall inviting you.” Her irritation was building. Why did it swell so easily? Paul was only trying to help.
“No, you didn’t invite me. But I still should have come.”
She was surprised by his reaction to Knoll. Hard to tell if he was jealous or concerned.
“We need to go home,” he said. “There’s nothing left here. I’m worried about the children. I can still see Chapaev’s body.”
“You believe the woman who came to see you killed Chapaev?”
“Who knows? But she certainly knew where to look, thanks to me.”
Now seemed the right time. “Let’s stay, Paul.”
“What?”
“Let’s stay.”
“Rachel, haven’t you learned your lesson? People are dying. We need to get out of here, before it’s us. You were lucky today. Don’t push it. This isn’t some adventure novel. This is real. And foolishness. Nazis. Russians. We’re out of our league.”
“Paul, Daddy must have known something. Chapaev, too. We owe it to them to try.”
“Try what?”
“There’s one trail left to follow. Remember Wayland McKoy. Knoll told me Stod is not far from here. He might be on to something. Daddy was interested in what he was doing.”
“Leave it alone, Rachel.”
“What would it hurt?”
“That’s exactly what you said about finding Chapaev.”
She shoved her chair back and stood. “That’s not fair, and you know it.” Her voice rose. “If you want to go home, go. I’m going to talk to Wayland McKoy.”
A few other diners started to notice. She hoped none of them spoke English. Paul’s face carried the usual look of resignation. He’d never really known what to do with her. It was another of their problems. Impetuousness was foreign to his personality. He was a meticulous planner. No detail too small. Not obsessive. Just consistent. Had he ever done a spontaneous thing in his life? Yes. He’d flown here virtually on the spur of the moment. And she was hoping that counted for something.
“Sit down, Rachel,” he quietly said. “For once could we discuss something rationally?”
She sat. She wanted him to stay, but would never admit it.
“You’ve got an election campaign to run. Why don’t you channel all this energy into that?”
“I have to do this, Paul. Something is telling me to go on.”
“Rachel, in the last forty-eight hours two people have turned up out of nowhere, both looking for the same thing, one possibly a killer, the other callous enough to leave you for dead. Karol is gone. So is Chapaev. Maybe your father was murdered. You were awfully suspicious about that before coming over here.”
“I still am, and that’s part of this. Not to mention your parents. They may have been victims also.”
She could almost hear his analytical mind working. Weighing the options. Trying to think of the next argument to convince her to come home with him.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go to see McKoy.”
“You serious?”
“What I am is crazy. But I don’t plan to leave you alone over here.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You watch my back and I’ll watch yours. Okay?”
He grinned. “Yeah, right.”
“Daddy would be proud.”
“Your father is probably turning in his grave. We’re ignoring everything he wanted.”
The waiter arrived with the wine and poured two glasses. She raised her glass. “To success.”
He returned the toast. “Success.”
She sipped the wine, pleased Paul was staying. But the vision flashed through her mind once again. What she saw as her flashlight revealed Christian Knoll the second before the explosion. A knife blade gleaming in his hand.
Yet she’d said nothing to Paul or Inspector Pannik. Easy to guess at both their reactions, especially Paul’s.
She looked at her ex-husband, remembered her father and Chapaev, and thought of the children.
Was she doing the right thing?
PART THREE
THIRTY-FIVE
Stod, Germany
Monday, May 19, 10:15 a.m.
Wayland McKoy marched into the cavern. Cold damp air enveloped him, and darkness overtook the morning light. He marveled at the ancient shaft. Ein Silberbergwerk. A silver mine. Once the “treasury of the Holy Roman Emperors,” the earth now lay spent and abandoned, a sordid reminder of the cheap Mexican silver that drove most of the Harz’s mines out of business by 1900.
The whole area was spectacular. Knots of pine-clad hills, stunted scrub, and alpine meadows, all beautiful and rugged, yet an eeriness permeated. As Goethe had said in Faust: Where witches held their Sabbath.
It had once been the southwestern corner of East Germany, in the dreaded forbidden zone, and stilted border posts continued to dot the forest. The minefields, shrapnel-scattering trap guns, guard dogs, and barbed-wire fences were now gone. Wende, unification, had put an end to the need for containing an entire population and opened opportunities. Ones he was now exploiting.
He made his way down the wide shaft. The trail was marked every thirty meters by a hundred-watt bulb, and an electrical cord snaked a path back to the generator outside. The rock face was sharp, the floor rubble strewn, the work of an initial team he’d sent in last weekend to clear the passage.
That had been the easy part. Jackhammers and air guns. No need to worry about long-lost Nazi explosives, the tunnel had been sniffed by dogs and surveye
d by demolitionists. The lack of anything even remotely concerned with explosives was worrisome. If this was indeed the right mine, the one Germans used to stash the art from Berlin’s Kaiser Friedrich museum, then it would almost certainly have been mined. Yet nothing had been found. Just rock, silt, sand, and thousands of bats. The nasty little bastards populated offshoots of the main shaft during winter, and of all the species in the world, this one had to be endangered. Which explained why the German government had been so hesitant about granting him an exploration permit. Luckily, the bats left the mine every May, not to return until mid-July. A precious forty-five days to explore. That had been all the German government would grant. His permit required the mine be empty when the beasts returned.
The deeper he strolled into the mountain, the larger the shaft became—which also was troublesome. The normal routine was for the tunnels to narrow, eventually becoming impassable, the miners excavating until it proved impossible to burrow any farther. All the shafts were a testament to centuries of mining, each generation trying to better the one before and uncover a vein of previously undetected ore. But for all its width, the size of this shaft still concerned him. It was simply far too narrow to stash anything as large as the loot he was searching for.
He approached his three-man work crew. Two men stood on ladders, another below, each boring holes at sixty-degree angles into the rock. Cables fed air and electricity. The generators and compressors stood fifty meters behind him, outside in the morning air. Harsh, hot, blue-white lights illuminated the scene and drenched the crew in sweat.
The drills stopped and the men slipped off their ear protection. He, too, slipped off his sound muffs. “Any idea how we’re doin’?” he asked.
One of the men shoved fogged goggles from his eyes and mopped the perspiration on his brow. “We’ve moved about a foot forward today. No way to tell how much farther, and I’m afraid to jackhammer.”
Another of the men reached for a jug. Slowly, he filled the drilled holes with solvent. McKoy stepped close to the wall of rock. The porous granite and limestone instantly drank in the brown syrup from each hole, the caustic chemical expanding, creating fissions in the stone. Another goggled man approached with a sledgehammer. One blow and the rock shattered in sheets, crumbling to the ground. Another few inches forward now excavated.