the Amber Room (2003)

by Steve Berry

  Upstairs, their suitcases had barely hit the bed before Rachel said, “Okay, what are you up to, Paul Cutler?”

  “What are you up to? One room. I thought we were divorced. You like to remind me about it enough.”

  “Paul, you’re up to something, and I’m not letting you out of my sight. Yesterday you were busting a gut to go home. Now you volunteer to represent this guy? What if he’s a crook?”

  “All the more reason he needs a lawyer.”

  “Paul—”

  He motioned to the double bed. “Night and day?”

  “What?”

  “You going to keep me in your sight night and day?”

  “It’s not anything we both haven’t seen before. We were married ten years.”

  He smiled. “I might get to like this intrigue.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and told her what happened in the underground chamber, then showed her the wallet, which he’d kept all afternoon in his back pocket. “Grumer dusted the letters away on purpose. No doubt about it. That guy is up to something.”

  “Why didn’t you tell McKoy?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought about it. But, like you say, he may be a crook.”

  “You’re sure the letters were O-I-C?”

  “As best I could make out.”

  “You think this has anything to do with Daddy and the Amber Room?”

  “There’s no connection at this point, except Karol was real interested in what McKoy was doing. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Rachel sat down beside him. He noticed the cuts and scrapes on her arms and face that had scabbed over. “This guy McKoy latched on to us kind of quick,” she said.

  “We may be all he’s got. He doesn’t seem to like Grumer much. We’re just two strangers who came out of the woodwork. No interest in anything. No ax to grind. I guess we’re deemed safe.”

  Rachel cradled the wallet and studied closely the scraps of decaying paper. “Ausgegeben 15-3-51. Verfällt 15-3-55. Gustav Müller. Should we get somebody to translate?”

  “Not a good idea. Right now, I don’t trust anyone, present company excepted of course. I suggest we find a German-English dictionary and see for ourselves.”

  Two blocks west of the Garni they found a translation dictionary in a cluttered gift shop, a thin volume apparently printed for tourists with common words and phrases.

  “Ausgegeben means ‘issued,’ ” he said. “Verfällt, ‘expires,’ ‘ends.’ ” He looked at Rachel. “The numbers have to be dates. The European way. Backwards. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955. Gustav Müller.”

  “That’s postwar. Grumer was right. Somebody beat McKoy to whatever was there. Sometime after March 1951.”

  “But what?”

  “Good question.”

  “It had to be serious. Five bodies with holes in their heads?”

  “And important. All three trucks were clean. Not a scrap of anything left to find.”

  He tossed the dictionary back on the shelf. “Grumer knows something. Why go to all the trouble of taking pictures then dusting the letters away? What’s he documenting? And who for?”

  “Maybe we should tell McKoy?”

  He thought about the suggestion, then said, “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  10:00 p.m.

  Suzanne pushed through a velvet curtain separating the outer gallery and portal from the inner nave. The Church of St. Gerhard was empty. A message board outside proclaimed the sanctuary open until 11 P.M., which was the central reason she’d chosen the place for the meeting. The other was locale—blocks from Stod’s hotel district, on the edge of old town, far away from the crowds.

  The building’s architecture was clearly Romanesque with lots of brick and a lofty front adorned by twin towers. Lucid, spatial proportions dominated. Blind arcades loomed in playful patterns. A beautifully adorned chancel stretched from the far end. The high altar, sacristy, and choir stalls were empty. A few candles flickered from a side altar, their glint like stars on the gilded ornamentation high overhead.

  She walked forward and stopped at the base of a gilded pulpit. Chiseled figures of the Four Evangelists encircled her. She glanced at the steps leading up. More figures lined both sides. Allegories of Christian values. Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, Fortitude, Temperance, and Justice. She recognized the carver instantly. Riemenschneider. Sixteenth century. The pulpit above was empty. But she could imagine the bishop addressing the congregation, extolling the virtues of God and the advantages in believing.

  She crept to the nave’s far end, her eyes and ears alert. The quiet was unnerving. Her right hand was stuffed in her jacket pocket, ungloved fingers wrapped around a Sauer .32 automatic, a present from Loring three years back out of his private collection. She’d almost brought the new CZ-75B Loring gave her. It had been her suggestion that Christian be given one identical. Loring had smiled at the irony. Too bad Knoll would never get a chance to use his.

  The corner of her eye caught a sudden movement. Her fingers tightened around the gun stock, and she spun. A tall, gaunt man pushed through a curtain and walked toward her.

  “Margarethe?” he softly said.

  “Herr Grumer?”

  The man nodded and came close. He smelled of bitter beer and sausage.

  “This is dangerous,” he said.

  “No one knows of our relationship, Herr Doktor. You have simply come to church to speak with your God.”

  “We need to keep it that way.”

  His paranoia did not concern her. “What have you learned?”

  Grumer reached under his jacket and pulled out five photographs. She studied them in the bare light. Three trucks. Five bodies. Letters in the sand.

  “The transports are empty. There is another entrance into the chamber blocked with rubble. The bodies are definitely postwar. The clothing and equipment give that away.”

  She gestured to the photo that showed letters in the sand. “How was this handled?”

  “With a brush of my hand.”

  “Then why photograph them?”

  “So you would believe me.”

  “And so you could up the price?”

  Grumer smiled. She hated the pallor of greed.

  “Anything more?”

  “Two Americans have appeared at the site.”

  She listened while Grumer told her about Rachel and Paul Cutler.

  “The woman is the one involved with the mine explosion near Warthberg. They have McKoy thinking about the Amber Room.”

  The fact that Rachel Cutler survived was interesting. “She say anything about another survivor in that explosion?”

  “Only that there was one. A Christian Knoll. He left Warthberg after the explosion and took Frau Cutler’s belongings.”

  Her guard suddenly stiffened. Knoll was alive. The situation, which a moment ago was entirely under control, now seemed frightening. But she needed to complete her mission. “Does McKoy still listen to you?”

  “As much as he wants to. He’s upset about the trucks being empty. Afraid investors on the dig will sue him. He’s enlisted Herr Cutler’s legal assistance.”

  “They are strangers.”

  “But I believe he trusts them more than me. The Cutlers also have letters that passed between Frau Cutler’s father and a man named Danya Chapaev. They concern the Amber Room.”

  Old news. The same letters she’d read in Paul Cutler’s office. But she needed to act interested. “You’ve seen these letters?”

  “I have.”

  “Who has them now?”

  “Frau and Herr Cutler.”

  A loose end that needed attention. “Obtaining the letters could up your worth considerably.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “And what is your price, Herr Grumer?”

  “Five million euros.”

  “What makes you worth that?”

>   Grumer gestured to the photos. “I believe these show my good faith. That is clear evidence of postwar looting. Is that not what your employer seeks?”

  She did not answer his inquiry, merely saying, “I’ll pass the price along.”

  “To Ernst Loring?”

  “I never said who I work for, nor should that matter. As I understand the situation, no one has related the identity of my benefactor.”

  “But Herr Loring’s name has been mentioned by both the Cutlers and Frau Cutler’s father.”

  This man was quickly becoming another loose end that would require tending. As were the Cutlers. How many more would there be? “Needless to say,” she said, “the letters are important, as is what McKoy is doing. Along with time. I want this resolved quickly and am willing to pay for speed.”

  Grumer tipped his head. “Would tomorrow be soon enough for the letters? The Cutlers have rooms at the Garni.”

  “I’d like to be there.”

  “Tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll call when the way is clear.”

  “I’m at the Gebler.”

  “I know the place. You’ll hear from me by eight A.M.”

  The curtain at the far end parted. A robed prior strolled silently down the center aisle. She glanced at her watch. Nearly 11 P.M. “Let’s head outside. He’s probably here to close the building.”

  Knoll retreated into the shadows. Danzer and a man emerged from the Church of St. Gerhard through sculptured bronze doors and stood on the front portico, not twenty meters away, the cobbled street beyond dark and empty.

  “I’ll have an answer tomorrow,” Danzer said. “We will meet here.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” The man gestured to a sign affixed to the stone next to the bronze portal. “Services are held here on Tuesdays at nine.”

  Danzer glanced at the announcement. “Quite right, Herr Grumer.”

  The man motioned off to the sky, the abbey sparkling gold and white in floodlight against the clear night. “The church there stays open to midnight. Few visit late. How about ten-thirty?”

  “Fine.”

  “And a down payment would be nice to show your benefactor’s good faith. Shall we say a million euros?”

  Knoll did not know this man, but the idiot was being foolish trying to squeeze Danzer. He respected her abilities more than that, and this Grumer should, too. He was obviously an amateur she was using to learn what Wayland McKoy was doing.

  Or was it more?

  A million euros? Only the down payment?

  The man named Grumer descended the stone steps to the street and turned east. Danzer followed, but went west. He knew where she was staying, that’s how he’d found the church, following her from the Gebler. Certainly her presence complicated matters, but right now it was this Grumer who really interested him.

  He waited for Danzer to disappear around a corner, then headed after his quarry. He stayed back—an easy matter to follow the man to the Garni.

  Now he knew.

  And he also knew exactly where Suzanne Danzer would be at ten-thirty tomorrow night.

  Rachel switched off the bathroom light and stepped toward the bed. Paul was propped upright reading the International Herald Tribune he’d bought at the souvenir shop earlier when they’d found the German/English dictionary.

  She thought about her ex-husband. In divorce after divorce, she watched people revel in destroying one other. Every little detail of their lives, unimportant years ago, suddenly became vital to their assertions of mental cruelty, or abuse, or simply to prove the marriage irretrievably broken as the law required. Was there really pleasure in that? How could there be? Thankfully, they’d not done that. She and Paul had settled their differences on a dismal Thursday afternoon, sitting calmly around the dining room table. The same one where, last Tuesday, Paul had told her about her father and the Amber Room. She’d been rough on him last week. There was no need to say that he was spineless. Why was she like that? It was so unlike her courtroom demeanor, where her every word and action was calculated.

  “Your head still hurt?” Paul asked.

  She sat on the bed, the mattress firm, a down comforter soft and warm. “A little.”

  The image of a glistening knife strobed through her mind. Had Knoll actually meant the blade for her? Was she doing the right thing by not telling Paul? “We need to call Pannik. Let him know what’s happening and where we are. He’s got to be wondering.”

  Paul looked up from the newspaper. “I agree. We’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s be sure if there’s anything here first.”

  She thought again of Christian Knoll. His self-assurance had intrigued her and stirred feelings long suppressed. She was forty years old and had loved only her father, a short romance in college she thought was the real thing, and Paul. She hadn’t been a virgin when she and Paul married, but neither was she experienced. Paul had been a shy, retiring sort who easily found comfort within himself. He was certainly no Christian Knoll, but he was loyal, faithful, and honest. Why had that once seemed boring to her? Was it her own immaturity? Probably. Marla and Brent adored their fa-ther. And they were his number one priority. Hard to fault a man for loving his children and being faithful to his wife. So what happened? They grew apart? That was the easiest explanation. But had they really? Maybe stress took its toll. God knows they both stayed under pressure. Laziness, though, seemed the best explanation. Not wanting to simply work at what she knew to be right. She’d read a phrase once—the contempt of familiarity—that supposedly described what, sadly, many marriages produced. An apt observation.

  “Paul, I appreciate your doing all this. More than you know.”

  “I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t fascinating. Besides, I might get a new client for the firm. Sounds like Wayland McKoy is going to need a lawyer.”

  “I have a feeling all hell’s going to break loose around here tomorrow, when those investors get here.”

  Paul tossed the newspaper to the carpet. “I think you’re right. It could get interesting.” He then switched off the bedside light. The wallet from the underground chamber lay next to the lamp, her father’s letters beside it.

  She switched off the lamp on her side.

  “This is really strange,” he said. “Sleeping together for the first time in three years.”

  She curled under the comforter on her side. She wore one of his long-sleeved twill shirts, full of the comforting scent she remembered from a decade of marriage. Paul turned on his side, his back facing her, seemingly making sure her space was hers. She decided to make a move and spooned closer. “You’re a good man, Paul Cutler.”

  Her arm wrapped around him. She felt him tense and wondered if it was nerves or shock.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said.

  FORTY

  Tuesday, May 20, 9:10 a.m.

  Paul followed Rachel down the dank shaft to the chamber harboring the three trucks. He’d learned in the shed that McKoy had been underground since 7 A.M. Grumer had yet to appear at the site, which was nothing unusual according to the man on duty, since Grumer rarely appeared before midmorning.

  They entered the lit chamber.

  He took a moment and studied the three vehicles more closely. In yesterday’s excitement there’d been no time for a detailed look. All the headlights, rearview mirrors, and windshields were whole. The barrel-shaped canvas beds were likewise relatively intact. Except for an icing of rust, the flattened tires, and moldy canvas, it was as though the vehicles could have been driven right out of their rocky garage.

  Two of the cab doors were open. He glanced inside one. The leather seat was ripped and brittle from decay. The dials and gauges on the instrument panel were silent and still. Not a scrap of paper or anything tangible lay in sight. He found himself wondering where the trucks came from. Had they once transported German troops? Or Jews headed for the camps? Did they bear witness to the Russian advance on Berlin, or the Americans’ simultaneous rush from the west? Strange, thi
s surreal sight so deep inside a German mountain.

  A shadow flared across the rock wall, revealing movement from the other side of the farthest vehicle.

  “McKoy?” he called out.

  “Over here.”

  He and Rachel rounded the trucks. The big man turned to face them.

  “These are without a doubt Büssing NAGs. Four-and-half-ton diesels. Twenty feet long. Seven and a half feet wide. Ten feet high.” McKoy moved close to a rusted side panel and banged it with his fist. Brownish-red snow fluttered to the sand below, but the metal held. “Solid steel and iron. These things can carry almost seven tons. Slow as hell, though. No more than twenty, twenty-one miles per hour, tops.”

  “What’s the point?” Rachel asked.

  “The point, Your Honor, is these damn things weren’t used to haul a bunch of paintin’s and vases. These were precious. Big haulers. For heavy loads. And the Germans sure didn’t just dump ’em in a mine.”

  “Meaning?” Rachel said.

  “This whole thing doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.” McKoy reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Paul. “I need you to look at this.”

  He unfolded the sheet and walked close to one of the light bars. It was a memorandum. He and Rachel read it in silence:

  GERMAN EXCAVATIONS CORPORATION

  6798 Moffat Boulevard

  Raleigh, North Carolina 27615

  To:Potential Partners

  From:Wayland McKoy, CEO

  Re:Own a Piece of History and Get a Free Vacation to Germany

  German Excavations Corporation is pleased to be a sponsor and partner of the following program along with these contributing companies: Chrysler Motor Company (Jeep Division), Coleman, Eveready, Hewlett-Packard, IBM, Saturn Marine, Boston Electric Tool Company, and Olympus America, Inc.

  In the waning days of World War II, a train left Berlin loaded with 1,200 art treasures. It reached the outskirts of the city of Magdeburg and was then diverted southward toward the Harz Mountains and was never seen again. We have an expedition now ready to locate and excavate that train.