the Amber Room (2003)

by Steve Berry

  “How do you know all this?” Paul asked.

  McKoy stepped over to a leather briefcase angled from the top of a survey table. He retrieved a sheaf of stapled papers and handed them to Paul. “Go to the fourth page. I marked the paragraphs. Read ’em.”

  Paul flipped the sheets and found the marked sections:

  Interviews with several contemporaries of Koch and Josef Loring confirm the two met often. Loring was a major financial contributor to Koch and maintained the German governor in a lavish lifestyle. Did this relationship lead to information about, or perhaps the actual acquisition of the Amber Room? The answer is hard to say. If Loring possessed either knowledge of the panels or the panels themselves, the Soviets apparently knew nothing.

  Quickly after the war, in May 1945, the Soviet government mounted a search for the amber panels. Alfred Rohde, the director of the Königsberg art collections for Hitler, became the Soviets’ initial information source. Rohde was passionately fond of amber, and he told Soviet investigators that crates with the panels were still in the Königsberg palace when he left the building on April 5, 1945. Rohde showed investigators the burned-out room where he said the crates were stored. Bits of gilded wood and copper hinges (that were believed part of the original Amber Room doors) still remained. The conclusion of destruction became inescapable, and the matter was considered closed. Then, in March 1946, Anatoly Kuchumov, curator of the palaces at Pushkin, visited Königsberg. There, in the same ruins, he found crumbled remains of the Florentine mosaics from the Amber Room. Kuchumov firmly believed that while other parts of the room may have burned, the amber did not, and he ordered a new search.

  By then, Rohde was dead, he and his wife having died on the same day they were ordered to reappear for a new round of Soviet interrogations. Interestingly, the physician that signed the Rohdes’ death certificate also disappeared the same day. At that point, the Soviet Ministry of State Security took over the investigation along with the Extraordinary State Commission, which continued to search until nearly 1960.

  Few have accepted the conclusion that the amber panels were lost at Könisgberg. Many experts question if the mosaics were actually destroyed. The Germans were very clever when necessary and, given the prize and personalities involved, anything is possible. In addition, given Josef Loring’s intense postwar efforts in the Harz region, his passion for amber, and the unlimited amount of money and resources available to him, perhaps Loring did find the amber. Interviews with heirs of local residents confirm that Loring visited the Harz region often, searching the mines, all with the knowledge and approval of the Soviet government. One man even stated Loring was working on the assumption that the panels were trucked from Königsberg west into Germany, their ultimate destination south to the Austrian mines or the Alps, but the trucks were diverted by the impending approach of the Soviet and American armies. Best estimates state three trucks were involved. Nothing can be confirmed, however.

  Josef Loring died in 1967. His son, Ernst, inherited the family fortune. Neither has ever spoken publicly on the subject of the Amber Room.

  “You knew?” Paul said. “All that Monday and yesterday was an act? You’ve been after the Amber Room all along?”

  “Why’d you think I let you hang around? Two strangers appear out of nowhere. You think I’d have wasted two seconds with you if the first things out of your mouth weren’t ‘We’re looking for the Amber Room,’ and ‘Who the hell’s Loring?’ ”

  “Fuck you, McKoy,” Paul said, surprised at his own language. He couldn’t recall cursing so crudely, or as much as he had the past few days. Apparently, this North Carolina redneck was wearing off on him.

  “Who wrote this?” Rachel asked, motioning to the paper.

  “Rafal Dolinski, a Polish reporter. He did a lot of work on the Amber Room. Kind of obsessed with the subject, if you ask me. When I was over here three years ago, he approached me. He’s the one who got me all hyped up over amber. He’d done a lot of research and was writin’ an article for some European magazine. He was hopin’ for an interview with Loring to cinch some interest by a publisher. He sent a copy of this entire thing to Loring, along with a request to talk. The Czech never responded, but a month later Dolinski was dead.” McKoy paused, then looked straight at Rachel. “Blown up in a mine near Warthberg.”

  Paul said, “Goddammit, McKoy. You knew all this and didn’t tell us. Now Grumer’s dead.”

  “Shit on Grumer. He was a greedy, lyin’ bastard. He got himself killed by sellin’ out. That’s not my problem. I didn’t tell him any of this on purpose. But somethin’ was tellin’ me this was the right chamber. Ever since the radar soundings. Could be a rail car, but if not, it could be three trucks with the Amber Room inside. When I saw those damn things Monday, waitin’ in the dark, I thought I’d hit the mother lode.”

  “So you bilked investors for the opportunity to find out if you’re right,” Paul said.

  “I figured either way, they’d win. Paintings or amber. What do they care?”

  “You’re a damn good actor,” Rachel said. “Fooled me.”

  “My reaction when I saw the trucks empty wasn’t an act. I was hopin’ my gamble had paid off and the investors wouldn’t mind a little change in booty. I was bankin’ that Dolinski was wrong and the panels were never found by Loring, or anyone else. But when I saw that other sealed entrance and the empty beds, I knew I was in deep shit.”

  “You’re still in deep shit,” Paul said.

  McKoy shook his head. “Think about it, Cutler. Somethin’s happenin’ here. This isn’t some dry hole. That chamber back there was not meant to be found. We just stumbled onto it, thanks to good ole modern technology. Now, all at once, somebody is awfully interested in what we’re doin’, and they’re awfully interested in what Karol Borya and Chapaev knew. Interested enough to kill ’em. Maybe they were interested enough to kill your parents.”

  Paul stared hard at McKoy.

  “Dolinski told me about a lot of folks who ended up dead searchin’ for the amber. Stretches all the way back to just after the war. Spooky as hell. Now he may well be one of ’em.”

  Paul did not argue the point. McKoy was right. Something definitely was going on and it involved the Amber Room. What else could it be? There were simply too many coincidences.

  “Assuming you’re right, what do we do now?” Rachel finally asked in a voice that signaled resignation.

  McKoy’s response was quick. “I’m going to the Czech Republic and talk to Ernst Loring. I think it’s about time somebody did.”

  “We’re going, too,” Paul said.

  “We are?” Rachel asked.

  “You’re damn right. Your father and my parents may have died over this. I’ve come this far. I plan to finish.”

  Rachel’s look was curious. Was she discovering something about him? Something she may never have noticed before. A determination that hid beneath a deep veneer of controlled calm. Maybe she was. He was certainly discovering something about himself. The experience last night had jolted him. The rush when he and Rachel fled from Knoll. The terror in dangling from a balcony hundreds of feet above a blackened German river. They’d been lucky to escape with only a couple knots on their heads. But he was determined now to learn what had happened to Karol Borya, his parents, and Chapaev.

  “Paul,” Rachel said, “I don’t want something like last night to happen again. This is foolish. We have two children. Remember what you tried to tell me last week and in Warthberg. I agree with you now. Let’s go home.”

  His gaze bored into her. “Go. I’m not stopping you.”

  The sharpness of his tone and quickness of his response unnerved him. He recalled mouthing similar words to her three years ago when she told him she was filing for divorce. Bravado at the time. Words said only for her benefit. Proof that he could handle the situation. This time the words were more. He was going to Czech, and she could go with him or go home. He really didn’t care which.

  “Ever thought about somet
hin’, Your Honor?” McKoy suddenly said.

  Rachel looked at him.

  “Your father kept Chapaev’s letters and copied the ones he sent back. Why? And why leave ’em for you to find? If he really didn’t want you involved, he would have burned the damn things and taken the secret to his grave. I didn’t know that old man, but I can think like him. He was a treasure hunter once. He’d want the amber found, if there was any way possible. And you’re the only one he trusted with the information. Granted, he went through his asshole to get to his appetite in sendin’ the message, but the message is still loud and clear. ‘Go find it, Rachel.’ ”

  He was right, Paul thought. That’s exactly what Borya had done. He’d never really considered it before now.

  Rachel grinned. “I think my daddy would have liked you, McKoy. When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got to handhold the partners to buy us a little more time.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Nebra, Germany

  2:10 p.m.

  Knoll sat in the silence of a tiny hotel room and thought about die Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitäten, the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were nine of the wealthiest men in Europe. Most were industrialists, but there were two financiers, a land baron, and one doctor among its current membership. Men with little to do except search the world for stolen treasure. Most of them were well-known private collectors, and their interests varied: old Masters. Contemporary. Impressionist. African. Victorian. Surrealist. Neolithic. Diversity was what made the club interesting. It also defined specific territories where a member’s Acquisitor concentrated his or her collecting. Most times, those territorial lines were not crossed. Occasionally, members vied with one another to see who could locate the same object faster. A race for acquisition, the challenge lying in finding what was thought lost forever. In short, the club was an outlet. A way for rich men to dispense a competitive spirit that rarely knew any bounds.

  But that was okay. He knew no bounds either and liked it that way.

  He thought back to last month’s gathering.

  Club meetings rotated between members’ estates, the locales varying from Copenhagen south to Naples. It was customary that an unveiling occur at each gathering, preferably a find by the host’s Acquisitor. Sometimes that wasn’t possible and other members would volunteer an unveiling, but Knoll knew how each member longed to show off something new when it was their turn to entertain. Fellner particularly liked the attention. As did Loring. Just another facet of their intense competition.

  Last month had been Fellner’s turn. All nine members had traveled to Burg Herz, but only six Acquisitors had been free to attend. That was not unusual, since quests took precedence over the courtesy of appearing at another Acquisitor’s unveiling. But jealousy could also account for an absence. Exactly, he assumed, why Suzanne Danzer had skipped the affair. Next month was Loring’s turn in the rotation and Knoll had planned to return the courtesy, boycotting Castle Loukov. That was a shame, since he and Loring got along well. Loring had several times rewarded him with gifts for acquisitions that ultimately ended up in the Czech’s private collection. Club members routinely stroked another’s Acquisitor, thereby multiplying by nine the pairs of eyes scouring the world in search of treasure they found particularly enticing. Members routinely traded or sold among themselves. Auctions were common. Items of collective interest were bidded out at the monthly gathering, a way for a member to raise funds from acquisitions of no particular personal interest while keeping the treasures within the group.

  It was all so orderly, so civilized.

  So why was Suzanne Danzer so eager to change the rules?

  Why was she trying to kill him?

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He’d been waiting nearly two hours after driving west from Stod to Nebra, a tiny hamlet halfway to Burg Herz. He stood and opened the door. Monika immediately stepped inside. The scent of sweet lemons accompanied her entrance. He closed and locked the door behind her.

  She surveyed him up and down. “Rough night, Christian?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  She plopped on the bed, cocking one leg in the air, the crotch of her jeans exposed.

  “For that, either,” he said. His groin still ached from Danzer’s kicks, though he was not about to tell her that.

  “Why was it necessary that I drive here to meet you?” she asked. “And why can’t Father be involved?”

  He told Monika what happened in the abbey, about Grumer, and the chase through Stod. He left out the final street confrontation and said, “Danzer got away before I could reach her, but she mentioned the Amber Room. She said the chamber in that mountain was where Hitler hid the panels in 1945.”

  “You believe her?”

  He’d considered that point all day. “I do.”

  “Why didn’t you go after her?”

  “No need. She’s headed back to Castle Loukov.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Years of sparring.”

  “Loring called again yesterday morning. Father did as you asked and told him we hadn’t heard from you.”

  “Which explains why Danzer so openly traipsed around Stod.”

  She was studying him closely. “What are you thinking of doing?”

  “I want permission to invade Castle Loukov. I want to go into Loring’s preserve.”

  “You know what Father would say.”

  Yes, he did. Club rules expressly forbade one member from invading the privacy of another. After an unveiling, the whereabouts of any acquisition was nobody’s business. The glue that bound their collective secrecy was the mere knowledge of acquisition that all nine possessed on each other. Club rules also forbade revelations of sources unless the acquiring member desired to say. That secrecy protected not only the member but the Acquisitor, as well, assuring that cultivated information could be harvested again without interference. Privacy was the key to their entire union, a way for similar men of similar interests to exact similar pleasure. The sanctity of their individual estates was an inviolate rule, any breach of which required instant expulsion.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “No nerve? Are you not now in charge?”

  “I have to know why, Christian.”

  “This is way beyond a simple acquisition. Loring has already violated club rules by having Danzer try to kill me. More than once, I might add. I want to know why, and I believe the answer is in Volary.”

  He hoped he’d gauged her correctly. Monika was proud and arrogant. She’d clearly resented her father’s usurpation yesterday. That anger should cloud her better judgment, and she didn’t disappoint him.

  “Fucking right. I want to know what that bitch and old fart are doing, too. Father thinks we’re imagining all this, that there was some sort of misunderstanding. He wanted to talk to Loring, tell him the truth, but I talked him out of it. I agree. Do it.”

  He saw the hungry look in her eye. To her, competition was an aphrodisiac.

  “I’m heading there today. I suggest no more contact until I’m in and out. I’m even willing to accept the blame, if caught. I was acting on my own, and you know nothing.”

  Monika grinned. “How noble, my knight. Now come over here and show me how much you missed me.”

  Paul watched Fritz Pannik stroll into the garni’s dining room and walk straight to the table he and Rachel occupied. The inspector sat down and told them what he knew so far.

  “We have checked the hotels and learned that a man matching Knoll’s description was registered across the street in the Christinenhof. A woman matching the description of this Suzanne was registered a few doors down at the Gebler.”

  “You know anything more about Knoll?” Paul asked.

  Pannik shook his head. “Unfortunately, he is an enigma. Interpol has nothing in their files, and without fingerprint identification there is no realistic way to learn more. We know nothing of his background, or even where he resides. The mention of an
apartment in Vienna to Frau Cutler was certainly false. To be safe, I checked the information. But nothing suggests Knoll lives in Austria.”

  “He must have a passport,” Rachel said.

  “Several probably, and all under assumed names. A man such as this would not register his true identity with any government.”

  “And the woman?” Rachel asked.

  “We know even less about her. The crime scene for Chapaev was clean. He died of nine-millimeter wounds from close range. That suggests a certain callousness.”

  He told Pannik about the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities and Grumer’s theory about Knoll and the woman.

  “I have never heard of such an organization, but will make inquiries. The name Loring, though, is familiar. His foundries produce the best small arms in Europe. He also is a major steel producer. One of the leading industrialists in Eastern Europe.”

  “We’re going to see Ernst Loring,” Rachel said.

  Pannik cocked his head in her direction. “And the purpose of the visit?”

  She told him what McKoy said about Rafal Dolinski and the Amber Room. “McKoy thinks he knows something about the panels, maybe about my father, Chapaev, and—”

  “Herr Cutler’s parents?” Pannik asked.

  “Maybe,” Paul said.

  “Forgive me, but don’t you believe that this matter should be handled by the proper authorities? The risks appear to be escalating.”

  “Life’s full of risks,” Paul said.

  “Some are worth taking. Some are foolish.”