by Steve Berry
“My superiors wanted me to assure you that we will get to the bottom of what happened. In the meantime, do you think it wise to reside here without protection?”
“These walls afford me ample security, and the staff has now been alerted. I will be fine.”
“Very well, Pan Loring. Please be aware that we are here if you need us.”
The policemen withdrew. Loring stepped back to the table. “Your impressions?”
“No reason not to accept what was said. Your connections in the justice ministry should also help.”
“I will place a call later, thanking them for the visit, and pledge full cooperation.”
“The club members should be called personally. Your sorrow clear.”
“Quite right, I’ll tend to that now.”
Paul drove the Land Rover. Rachel sat in the front seat, McKoy in the back. The big man had stayed silent most of the way east from Stod. The autobahn had taken them as far as Nürnberg, then a series of two-laned highways wound across the German border into southwestern Czech.
The terrain had become progressively hilly and forested, alternating grain fields and lakes dotting the rolling countryside. Earlier, when he reviewed the road map to determine the fastest route east, he’d noticed Ceské Budejovice, the region’s largest town, and recalled a CNN report on its Budvar beer, better known by its German name, Budweiser. The American company by the same name had tried in vain to purchase the namesake, but the townspeople had steadfastly refused the millions offered, proudly noting that they were producing beer centuries before America even existed.
The route into Czech led them through a series of quaint medieval towns, most adorned with either an overlooking castle or battlements with thick stone walls. Directions from a friendly shopkeeper adjusted the route, and it was a little before two o’clock when Rachel spotted Castle Loukov.
The aristocratic fortress was perched on a craggy height above a dense forest. Two polygonal towers and three rounded ones rose high above an outer stone curtain encrusted with shiny mullion windows and dark arrow slits. Casements and semicircular bastions wrapped the gray-white silhouette, and chimneys rose all around. A red, white, and blue flag flapped in the light afternoon breeze. Two wide bars and a triangle. Paul recognized it as the Czech national emblem.
“You almost expect armored knights to come storming out on horseback,” Rachel said.
“Son of a bitch knows how to live,” McKoy said. “I like this Loring already.”
Paul navigated the Rover up a steep road to what appeared to be the main gate. Huge oak doors reinforced with iron straps were swung open, revealing a paved courtyard. Colorful rosebushes and spring flowers lined the buildings. Paul parked and they climbed out. A gray metallic Porsche sat beside a cream-colored Mercedes.
“Sucker drives good, too,” McKoy said.
“Wonder where the front door is?” Paul asked.
Six separate doors opened to the courtyard from the various buildings. Paul took a moment and studied the dormers, crested gables, and richly patterned half-timbering. An interesting architectural combination of Gothic and baroque, proof, he assumed, of a prolonged construction and multiple human influences.
McKoy pointed and said, “My guess is that door there.”
The arched oak door was surrounded by pillared ashlars, an elaborate coat of arms etched into the gable surmount. McKoy approached and banged a burnished metal knocker. A steward answered and McKoy politely explained who they were and why they were there. Five minutes later they were seated in a lavish hall. Stag heads, boars, and antlers sprouted from the walls. A fire raged in a huge granite hearth, the long space softly illuminated by stained-glass lamps. Massive wooden pillars supported an ornate stuccoed ceiling, and part of the walls were adorned with heavy oil paintings. Paul surveyed the canvases. Two Rubens, a Dürer, and a Van Dyck. Incredible. What the High Museum would give to display just one of them.
The man who quietly entered through the double doors was nearing eighty. He was tall, his hair a lusterless gray, the faded goatee covering his neck and chin withdrawn with age. He possessed a handsome face that, for someone of such obvious wealth and stature, made little impression. Maybe, Paul thought, the mask was intentionally kept free of emotion.
“Good afternoon. I am Ernst Loring. Ordinarily I do not accept uninvited visitors, particularly those who just drive through the gate, but my steward explained your situation, and I have to say, I am intrigued.” The older man spoke clear English.
McKoy introduced himself and offered his hand, which Loring shook. “Glad to finally meet you. I’ve read about you for years.”
Loring smiled. The gesture seemed gracious and expected. “You must not believe any of what you read or hear. I am afraid the press likes to make me far more interesting than I truly am.”
Paul stepped forward and introduced himself and Rachel.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Loring said. “Why don’t we sit? Some refreshments are on the way.”
They all took a seat in the neo-Gothic armchairs and sofa that faced the hearth. Loring turned toward McKoy.
“The steward mentioned a dig in Germany. I read a piece on that the other day, I believe. Surely that requires your constant attention. Why are you here and not there?”
“Not a damn thing there to find.”
Loring’s face showed curiosity, nothing more. McKoy told their host about the dig, the three transports, five bodies, and letters in the sand. He showed Loring the photographs Alfred Grumer had taken along with one more snapped yesterday morning after Paul traced the remaining letters to form LORING.
“Any explanation why the dead guy scrawled your name in that sand?” McKoy asked.
“There is no indication that he did. As you say, this is speculation on your part.”
Paul sat silent, content to let McKoy lead the charge, and gauged the Czech’s reaction. Rachel seemed to be appraising the older man, too, her look similar to when she watched a jury during a trial.
“However,” Loring said, “I can see why you might think that. The original few letters are somewhat consistent.”
McKoy grabbed Loring’s gaze with his own. “Pan Loring, let me get to the point. The Amber Room was in that chamber, and I think you or your father were there. Whether you still have the panels, who knows? But I think you once did.”
“Even if I possessed such a treasure, why would I openly admit that to you?”
“You wouldn’t. But you might not want me to release all this information to the press. I signed several production agreements with news agencies around the world. The dig is a definite bust, but this stuff is the kind of dynamite that could allow me to recoup at least some of what my investors are out. I figure the Russians will be really interested. From what I hear they can be, shall we say, persistent in recoverin’ their lost booty?”
“And you thought I might be willing to pay for silence?”
Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A shakedown? He had no idea McKoy had come to Czech to blackmail Loring. Neither, apparently, did Rachel.
“Hold on, McKoy,” Rachel said, her voice rising. “You never said a word about extortion.”
Paul echoed her sentiment. “We want no part of this.”
McKoy was undeterred. “You two need to get with the program. I thought about it on the way over. This guy isn’t goin’ to take us on a tour of the Amber Room, even if he does have it. But Grumer’s dead. Five other men are dead back in Stod. Your father, your parents, Chapaev, they’re all dead. Bodies littered everywhere.” McKoy glared at Loring. “And I think this son of a bitch knows a shitload more than he wants us to believe.”
A vein pulsed in the old man’s temple. “Extraordinary rudeness from a guest, Pan McKoy. You come to my home and accuse me of murder and thievery?” The voice was firm but calm.
“I haven’t accused you. But you know more than you’re willin’ to say. Your name has been mentioned with the Amber Room for years.”
“Rumors.”
“Rafal Dolinski,” McKoy said.
Loring said nothing.
“He was a Polish reporter who contacted you three years back. He sent a narrative of an article he was working on. Nice fellow. Real likable. Very determined. Got blown up in a mine a few weeks later. You recall?”
“I know nothing of that.”
“A mine near the one that Judge Cutler here got a real close look at. Maybe even the same one.”
“I read about that explosion a few days ago. I did not realize the connection to this moment.”
“I bet,” McKoy said. “I think the press will love this speculation. Think about it, Loring. It’s got all the aroma of a great story. International financier, lost treasure, Nazis, murder. Not to mention the Germans. If you found the amber in their territory, they’re goin’ to want it back, too. Would make an excellent bargainin’ chip with the Russians.”
Paul felt he had to say, “Mr. Loring, I want you to know Rachel and I knew nothing of this when we agreed to come here. Our concern is finding out about the Amber Room, to satisfy some curiosity Rachel’s father generated, nothing more. I’m a lawyer. Rachel is a judge. We would never be a party to blackmail.”
“No need for explanation.” Loring said. He turned to McKoy. “Perhaps you are correct. Speculation may be a problem. We live in a world where perception is far more important than reality. I will take this urging more as a form of insurance than blackmail.” A smile curled on the old man’s thin lips.
“Take it any way you want. All I want is to get paid. I’ve got a serious cash-flow problem, and a whole lot of things to say to a whole lot of people. The price of silence is risin’ by the minute.”
Rachel’s face tightened. Paul figured she was about to explode. She hadn’t liked McKoy from the start. She’d been suspicious of his overbearing ways, concerned about their getting intertwined with his activities. He could hear her now. His doing they were in as deep as they were. His problem to get them out.
“Might I make a suggestion?” Loring offered.
“Please,” Paul said, hoping for some sanity.
“I would like time to think about this situation. Surely, you do not plan to travel all the way back to Stod. Stay the night. We’ll have dinner and talk more later.”
“That would be marvelous,” McKoy quickly said. “We were plannin’ to find a room somewhere anyway.”
“Excellent, I will have the stewards bring your things inside.”
FIFTY-THREE
Suzanne opened the bedchamber door. A steward said in Czech, “Pan Loring wants to see you in the Ancestors’ Room. He said to take the back passages. Stay out of the main halls.”
“He say why?”
“We have guests for the night. It may be related to them.”
“Thank you. I’ll head downstairs immediately.”
She closed the door. Strange. Take the back passages. The castle was reamed with a series of secret corridors once used by aristocracy as a means of escape, now utilized by staff who maintained the castle’s infrastructure. Her room was toward the rear of the complex, beyond the main halls and family quarters, halfway to the kitchen and work areas, past the point where the covert passages started.
She left the bedchamber and descended two floors. The nearest entry into the hidden corridors was a small sitting room on the ground floor. She stepped close to a paneled wall. Intricate moldings framed richly stained slabs of grain-free walnut. Above the Gothic fireplace she found a release switch camouflaged as part of the scrollwork. A section of wall beside the fireplace sprang open. She stepped into the passage and pulled the panel shut.
The mazelike route wound in right angles down a narrow, single-person corridor. Outlines of doors in the stone appeared periodically, leading out into either hallways or rooms. She’d played here as a child, imagining herself a Bohemian princess darting for freedom from infidel invaders breaching the castle walls, and so she was familiar with their path.
The Ancestors’ Room possessed no entrance into the maze, the Blue Room being the closest point of egress. Loring named the space for its gold-embossed blue leather wall hangings. She exited and listened at the door for any sounds emanating from the corridor outside. Hearing none, she quickly slipped down the hall and stepped into the Ancestors’ Room, closing the door behind her.
Loring was standing in an oriel-like semicircular bay before leaded glass windows. On the wall, above two lions carved in stone, was the family coat of arms. Portraits of Josef Loring and the rest of the ancestors adorned the walls.
“It seems providence has delivered us a gift,” he said. Loring told her about Wayland McKoy and the Cutlers.
She raised and eyebrow. “This McKoy has nerve.”
“More than you realize. He does not intend any extortion. I would imagine he was testing to see my reaction. He is more astute than he wants his listener to perceive. He did not come for money. He came to find the Amber Room, probably wanting me to invite them to stay.”
“Then why did you?”
Loring clasped his hands behind his back and stepped close to the oil painting of his father. The quiet, involuted stare of the elder Loring glared down. In the image, shocks of white hair drooped across the furrowed brow, the stare one of an enigmatic man who dominated his era, and somehow expected the same of his children. “My sisters and brother did not survive the war,” Loring quietly said. “I always thought that a sign. I was not the firstborn. None of this was meant to be mine.”
She knew that, so she wondered if Loring was talking to the painting, perhaps finishing a conversation he and his father had started decades ago. Her father had told her about old Josef. How demanding, uncompromising, and difficult he could be. He’d expected a lot from his last surviving child.
“My brother was to inherit. Instead I was given the responsibility. The past thirty years have been difficult. Very difficult, indeed.”
“But you survived. Prospered, in fact.”
He turned to face her. “Another sign from providence, perhaps?” He stepped close to her. “Father left me with a dilemma. On the one hand, he bestowed a treasure of unimaginable beauty. The Amber Room. On the other, I am forced to constantly fend off challenges to ownership. Things were so different in his day. Living behind the Iron Curtain came with the advantage of being able to kill whomever you wanted.” Loring paused. “Father’s sole wish was that all this be kept in the family. He was particularly emphatic about that. You are family, drahá, as much as my own flesh and blood. Truly, my daughter in spirit.”
The old man stared at her for a few seconds and then lightly brushed her cheek with his hand.
“Between now and this evening, stay in your room, out of sight. Later, you know what we must do.”
Knoll crept through the woods, the forest thick but not impassable. He minimized his approach by choosing an open route under the enveloping canopy, following defined trails, detouring only at the end to make his final assault unnoticed.
The early evening loomed cool and dry, the night ahead surely to be outright cold. The setting sun angled to the west, its rays piercing the spring leaves and leaving only a muted glow. Sparrows squawked overhead. He thought about Italy, two weeks ago, traversing another forest, toward another castle, on another quest. That journey had ended in two deaths. He wondered what tonight’s sojourn would bring.
His path led him up a steady incline, the rocky spur ending at the base of the castle walls. He’d been patient all afternoon, waiting in a grove of beech trees about a kilometer south. He’d watched the two police cars come and go early in the morning, wondering what business they’d had with Loring. Then, midafternoon, a Land Rover entered the main gate and had not left. Perhaps the vehicle brought guests. Distractions that could occupy Loring and Suzanne long enough to mask his brief visit, like he’d hoped for from the Italian whore who’d visited Pietro Caproni. As yet he did not know if Danzer was even in residence, her Porsche had neither ente
red nor left, but he assumed she was there.
Where else would she be?
He stopped his advance thirty meters from the west entrance. A door appeared below a massive round tower. The rough stone curtain rose twenty meters, smooth and devoid of openings except for an occasional arrow slit. Batters at the base sloped outward, a medieval innovation for strength and a way for stones and missiles dropped from above to bounce toward attackers. He mused at their usefulness to modern invaders. Much had changed in four hundred years.
He traced the walls skyward. Rectangular windows with iron grilles lined the upper stories. Surely, in medieval days, the tower’s job had been to defend the postern entrance. But its height and size seemed also to provide a ready transition between the varying roof line of the adjacent wings. He was familiar with the entrance from club meetings. It was used mainly by the staff, a paved cul-de-sac outside the walls allowed vehicles to turn around.
He needed to slip inside quickly and quietly. He studied the heavy wood door reinforced with blackened iron. Almost certainly it would be locked, but not protected by an alarm. He knew Loring, like Fellner, maintained loose security. The vastness of the castle, along with its remote location, was much more effective than any overt system. Besides, nobody outside of club members and Acquisitors knew any of what was really stashed within the confines of each member’s residence.
He peered through thick brush and noticed a black slit at the edge of the door. Quickly, he trotted over and saw that the door was indeed open. He pushed through into a wide, barrel-vaulted passage. Three hundred years ago the entrance would have been used to haul cannons inside or allow castle defenders to sweep outside. Now the route was lined with tread marks from rubber tires. The dark passage twisted twice. One left, the other right. He knew that to be a defense mechanism to slow down invaders. Two portcullises, one halfway up the incline, the other near the end, could be used to lead invaders astray.
Another obligation of the monthly host for a club function was to provide overnight accommodations for members and Acquisitors, if requested. Loring’s estate contained more than enough beds to sleep everyone. Historic ambience was probably why most members accepted Loring’s hospitality. Knoll had stayed many times at the estate and recalled Loring once explaining the castle’s history, how his family defended the walls for nearly five hundred years. Battles to the death fought within this very passage. He also remembered discussions about the array of secret corridors. After the bombing, during rebuilding, back passages allowed a ready way to heat and cool the many rooms, along with providing running water and electricity to chambers once warmed only by flames. He particularly recalled one of the secret doors that opened from Loring’s study. The old man had showed his guests the novelty one night. The castle was littered with a maze of such passages. Fellner’s Burg Herz was similar, the innovation a common architectural addition for fifteenth and sixteenth century fortresses.