by Steve Berry
She sat down on the bed beside him. His eyes caught the swell of her breasts through the tight-fitting turtleneck sweater. Ice Queen? Not to him. He’d felt her body all last night, unnerved by the closeness. Periodically he’d taken in her scent as she slept. At one point, he tried to imagine himself three years back, still married to her, still able to physically love her. Everything was surreal. Lost treasure. Killers wandering about. His ex-wife in bed with him.
“Maybe you were right to begin with,” Rachel said. “We’re in way over our heads and should just get out of here. There’s Marla and Brent to think about.” She looked at him. “And there’s us.” Her hand came to his.
“What do you mean?”
She softly kissed him on the lips. He sat perfectly still. She then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard.
“Are you sure about this, Rachel?” he asked as they parted.
“I don’t know why I’m so hostile sometimes. You’re a good man, Paul. You don’t deserve the hurt I caused.”
“It wasn’t all your fault.”
“There you go again. Always shouldering blame. Can’t you let me take the blame just once?”
“Sure. You’re welcome to it.”
“I want it. And there’s something else I want.”
He saw the look in her eye, understood, and instantly rose from the bed. “This is really weird. We haven’t been together in three years. I’ve grown accustomed to that. I thought we were through . . . in that way.”
“Paul, for once go with your instincts. Everything doesn’t have to be planned. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned lust?”
He held her gaze with his. “I want more than that, Rachel.”
“So do I.”
He moved toward the window, putting distance between them, and parted the sheers, anything to buy a little time. This was too much too fast. He stared down at the street, thinking about how long he’d dreamed of hearing those words. He’d not gone to court for the divorce hearing. Hours later, the final judgment had rolled out of the fax machine, his secretary laying it on his desk without a word. He’d refused to look at it, shoveling the paper, unread, into the trash. How could a judge’s signature silence what his heart knew to be right?
He turned back.
Rachel looked lovely, even with yesterday’s cuts and scrapes. They truly were an odd couple from the beginning. But he’d loved her and she’d loved him. Together they’d produced two children, whom they both worshiped. Did they now have a second chance?
He turned back to the window and tried to find answers in the night. He was about to step toward the bed and surrender when he noticed someone appear on the street.
Alfred Grumer.
The Doktor walked with a firm, determined gait, apparently having just exited the Garni’s front entrance two stories below.
“Grumer’s leaving,” he said.
Rachel jumped up and pushed close for a look. “He didn’t say anything about leaving.”
He grabbed his jacket and shot for the door. “Maybe he got the call from Margarethe. I knew he was lying.”
“Where are you going?”
“You have to ask?”
FORTY-FIVE
Paul led Rachel out through the hotel entrance and turned in Grumer’s direction. The German was a hundred yards ahead, briskly negotiating the cobbled street between the dark shops and busy cafés that were still luring customers with beer, food, and music. Streetlights periodically lit the way with a mustard glow.
“What are we doing?” Rachel asked.
“Finding out what he’s up to.”
“Is this a good idea?”
“Maybe not. But we’re doing it anyway.”
He didn’t say that it also relieved him of a difficult decision. He wondered if Rachel was merely lonely or scared. It bothered him what she’d said in Warthberg, defending Knoll even though the bastard had left her to die. He didn’t like being second choice.
“Paul, there’s something you need to know.”
Grumer was ahead, still moving fast. He didn’t break stride. “What?”
“Right before the explosion in the mine, I turned around and Knoll had a knife.”
He stopped and stared at her.
“He had a knife in his hand. Then the shaft’s ceiling gave way.”
“And you’re just now telling me this?”
“I know. I should have. But I was afraid you wouldn’t stay or that you’d tell Pannik and he’d interfere.”
“Rachel, are you nuts? This shit is serious. And you’re right, I wouldn’t have stayed, nor would I have let you. And don’t tell me that you can do what the hell you want.” His attention shot to the right. Grumer disappeared around a corner. “Damn. Come on.”
He started to trot, his jacket flapping. Rachel kept pace. The street began to incline. He reached the corner where Grumer had just been and stopped. A closed konditorei stood to the left with an awning that skirted the corner. He cautiously glanced around. Grumer was still walking fast, seemingly unconcerned if anybody was behind him. The Doktor bisected a small square centered by a fountain bowered in geraniums. Everything—the streets, shops, and plants—reflected the maniacal cleanliness of German civic pride.
“We need to stay back,” Paul said. “But it’s darker here, and that’ll help.”
“Where are we going?”
“It looks like we’re headed up toward the abbey.” He glanced at his watch—10:25 P.M.
Ahead, Grumer suddenly disappeared left into a row of black hedges. They scampered up and saw a concrete walk dissolve into the blackness. A posted sign announced, ABBEY OF THE SEVEN SORROWS OF THE VIRGIN. The arrow pointed forward.
“You’re right. He is going to the abbey,” Rachel said.
They started up the four-person-wide stone path. It wound a steep course through the night to the rock-strewn bluff. Halfway, they passed a couple strolling arm in arm. They reached a sharp turn. Paul stopped. Grumer was ahead, still climbing fast.
“Come here,” he said to Rachel, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, cradling her close. “If he looks back, all he’ll see are two lovers walking. He’ll never see our faces at this distance.”
They walked slowly.
“You’re not going to get away this easy,” Rachel said.
“What do you mean?”
“In the room. You know where we were headed.”
“I don’t plan to get away.”
“You just needed time to think, and this little jog gives you that.”
He didn’t argue. She was right. He did need to think, but not now. Grumer was his main concern at the moment. The climb was winding him, his calves and thighs tightening. He thought he was in shape, but his three-mile runs in Atlanta were usually on flat earth, nothing like this murderous incline.
The path crested ahead and Grumer disappeared over the top.
The abbey was no longer a distant edifice. Here the facade spanned two football fields, rising sharply from the cliff shoulder, the walls elevated by a vaulted stone foundation. Bright sodium vapor lights hidden in the forested base flooded the colored stone. Rows of tall mullioned windows glistened up three stories.
A lighted gateway rose ahead, buildings stacked on either side and above. Two bastions flanked the main portal. A semidarkened forecourt lay beyond. Fifty yards ahead, Grumer disappeared through the open portal. The bright lights surrounding the gate worried him. Pigeons cooed from somewhere beyond the glare. No one else was in sight.
He led Rachel forward and glanced up at sculptures of the apostles Peter and Paul resting on blackened stone pedestals. On either side saints and angels vied with fish and mermaids. A coat of arms framed the portal’s center, two golden keys on a royal blue background. A huge cross towered over the gable, the inscription clear under the flood lights. ABSIT GLORIARI NISI IN CRUCE.
“Glory only in the cross,” he muttered.
“What?”
He pointed up. “The inscription. �
��Glory only in the cross.’ From Galatians, 6:14.”
They passed through the portal. A freestanding sign identified the space beyond as GATEKEEPER’S COURT. Thankfully, the courtyard was unlit. Grumer was now at the far end, rushing up a wide set of stone steps, entering what looked like a church.
“We can’t go in after him,” Rachel said. “How many people could be in there at this hour?”
“I agree. Let’s find another way in.”
He studied the courtyard and surrounding buildings. Three-story structures rose on all sides, the facades baroque and adorned with Roman arches, elaborate cornices, and statues that added the required religious tone. The majority of windows were dark. Shadows danced behind drawn sheers in the few that were lit.
The church Grumer entered jutted forward from the opposite end of the dark courtyard, its symmetrical twin towers flanked by a brightly lit octagonal dome. It seemed an appendage of the farthest building, which would actually be the front of the abbey, the side facing Stod and the river, overlooking the highest point of the bluff.
He pointed to the far side of the courtyard, beyond the church, at a set of double oak doors. “Maybe those lead to another way.”
They hustled across the cobbled courtyard, past islands of trees and shrubs. A cool wind eased by, leaving a chill. He tried the lock. It opened. He pushed the leaden door inward—slowly, to minimize the squeaks. An alleylike passageway spanned out before them, four dim incandescent fixtures glowed at the far end. They stepped inside. Halfway down the corridor, a staircase rose up with wooden balustrades. Oil paintings of kings and emperors lined the way up. Beyond the staircase, farther down the musty corridor, another closed door waited.
“The church would be on this level. That door ought to lead inside,” he whispered.
The latch opened on the first try. He inched the door open, toward him. Warm air flooded the cool corridor. A heavy velvet curtain extended in both directions, a narrow passageway spanning left and right. Light flitted through periodic slits in the curtain and from the bottom. He gestured for quiet and led Rachel into the church.
Through one of the curtain slits he spied the interior. Scattered pools of orange light lit the huge nave. The explosive architecture, ceiling frescoes, and rich colored stucco combined into a visual symphony, nearly overpowering in depth and form. Brownish red, gray, and gold predominated. Fluted marble pilasters reached toward a vaulted ceiling, each one adorned in elaborate gilt moldings supporting an array of statuary.
His gaze drifted to the right.
A gilded crown framed the center of an oversize high altar. A huge medallion bore the inscription, NON CORONABITUR, NISI LEGITIME CERTAVERIT. Without a just fight, there is no victory, he silently translated. The Bible again. Timothy 2:5.
Two people stood off to the left—Grumer and the blonde from this morning. He glanced back over his shoulder and mouthed to Rachel. “She’s here. Grumer’s talking to her again.”
“Can you hear?” Rachel whispered in his ear.
He shook his head, then pointed left. The narrow corridor ahead would lead them closer to where the two stood, the velvet draping down to the stone floor enough to protect them from sight. A small wooden staircase rose at the far end, ascending to what was most likely the choir. He concluded the curtained passage was probably used by acolytes who served Mass. They tiptoed forward. Another slit allowed him a view. He cautiously peered out, standing perfectly rigid before the velvet. Grumer and the woman stood near a forward people’s altar. He’d read about this addition made to many European churches. The baroque Catholic of the Middle Ages sat far from the high altar, only passively experiencing God’s closeness. Contemporary worshipers, thanks to liturgical reforms, demanded more active participation. So people’s altars were added to ancient churches, the walnut of the podium and altar matching the rows of empty pews beyond.
He and Rachel were now about twenty meters from Grumer and the woman, whose whispers were difficult to hear in the hushed emptiness.
Suzanne glared at Alfred Grumer, who was taking a surprisingly gruff attitude with her.
“What happened today at the excavation site?” Grumer asked in English.
“One of my colleagues appeared and became impatient.”
“You are drawing a lot of attention to the situation.”
She disliked the German’s tone. “It was not my choosing. I had to deal with the matter, as it presented itself.”
“Do you have my money?”
“You have my information?”
“Herr Cutler found a wallet at the site. It dates from 1951. The chamber was breached postwar. Is that not what you wanted?”
“Where is this wallet?”
“I could not retrieve it. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“And Borya’s letters?”
“There is no way I could secure them. After what happened this afternoon, everyone is on edge.”
“Two failures and you want five million euros?”
“You wanted information on the site and the dating. I supplied that. I also eliminated the evidence in the sand.”
“That was your own concoction. A way to up the price of your services. The reality is that I have no proof of anything you’ve said.”
“Let’s talk reality, Margarethe. And that reality is the Amber Room, correct?”
She said nothing.
“Three German heavy transports, empty. A sealed underground chamber. Five bodies, all shot in the head. A 1951 to 1955 dating. This is the chamber where Hitler hid the room, and somebody robbed it. I would guess that somebody was your employer. Otherwise, why all the concern?”
“Speculation, Herr Doktor.”
“You did not blink at my insistence on five million euros.” Grumer’s voice carried a smug tone she was liking less and less.
“Is there more?” she asked.
“If I recall correctly, a pervasive story circulated during the 1960s concerning Josef Loring being a Nazi collaborator. But, after the war, he managed to become well connected with the Czechoslovakian Communists. Quite a trick, actually. His factories and foundries, I assume, were powerful inducements for lasting friendships. The talk, I believe, was that Loring found Hitler’s hiding place for the Amber Room. The locals in this area swore Loring came several times with crews and quietly excavated the mines before the government took control. In one, I would imagine, he found the amber panels and Florentine mosaics. Was it our chamber, Margarethe?”
“Herr Doktor, I neither admit nor deny any of what you are saying, though the history lesson does carry some fascination. What of Wayland McKoy? Is this current venture over?”
“He intends to excavate the other opening, but there will be nothing to find. Something you already know, correct? I would say the dig is over. Now, did you bring the payment we discussed?”
She was tired of Grumer. Loring was right. He was a greedy bastard. Another loose end. One that needed immediate attention.
“I have your money, Herr Grumer.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and wrapped her right hand around the Sauer’s checkered stock, a sound suppressor already screwed to the short barrel. Something suddenly swept past her left shoulder and thudded into Grumer’s chest. The German gasped, heaved back, and then crumpled to the floor. In the dim altar light she immediately noticed the lavender-jade handle with an amethyst set in the pommel.
Christian Knoll leaped from the choir to the nave’s stone floor, a gun in hand. She withdrew her own weapon and dived behind the podium, hoping the walnut was more wood than veneer.
She risked a quick look.
Knoll fired a muffled shot, the bullet ricocheting off the podium centimeters from her face. She reeled back and scrunched tight behind the podium.
“Very inventive in that mine, Suzanne,” Knoll said.
Her heart raced. “Just doing my job, Christian.”
“Why was it necessary to kill Chapaev?”
“Sorry, my friend, can’t go into it.”
“That is a shame. I did hope to learn your motives before killing you.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
She could hear Knoll chuckling. A sick laugh that echoed through the stillness.
“This time I’m armed,” Knoll said. “Herr Loring’s gift to me, in fact. A very accurate weapon.”
The CZ-75B. Fifteen-shot magazine. And Knoll had used only one bullet. Fourteen chances left to kill her. Too damn many.
“No light bars to shoot out here, Suzanne. In fact, there is nowhere to go.”
With a sickening dread, she realized he was right.
Paul had heard only scattered bits of the conversation. Obviously his initial doubts about Grumer had been proved right. The Doktor was apparently playing both ends against the middle and had just discovered the price that deceit sometimes elicited.
He’d watched in horror as Grumer died and the two combatants squared off, muffled shots popping through the church like pillows fluffing. Rachel stood behind him, staring over his shoulder. They stood rigid, neither moving for fear of revealing their presence. He knew they had to get out of the church, but their exit needed to be absolutely silent. Unlike the two in the nave, they were unarmed.
“That’s Knoll,” Rachel whispered in his ear.
He’d figured that. And the woman was definitely Jo Myers, or Suzanne, as Knoll called her. He’d instantly recognized the voice. No doubt now that she’d killed Chapaev, since she’d not denied the allegation when Knoll asked about it. Rachel pressed tight against him. She was shaking. He reached back and squeezed her leg, pressing her close, trying to calm her down, but his hand shook, too.
Knoll hunched low in the second row of pews. He liked the situation. Though his opponent was unfamiliar with the church’s layout, it was clear Danzer had nowhere to go without him having at least a few seconds to shoot.
“Tell me something, Suzanne, why the mine explosion? We’ve never crossed that line before.”