by Steve Berry
He crept up the dim path, stopping at the end of an inclined entrance. A small inner ward lay ahead. Buildings from five epochs surrounded him. One of the castle’s circular keeps towered at the far end. Sounds of pots clanging and voices spilled from the ground floor. The aroma of meat grilling mixed with a potent miasma from garbage containers off to one side. Tattered vegetable and fruit crates, along with wet cardboard boxes, were stacked like building blocks. The courtyard was clean, but was definitely the working bowels of this immense showpiece—the kitchens, stables, garrison hall, buttery, and salting house from ancient days—now where the hired help toiled to ensure the rest of the place stayed immaculate.
He lingered in the shadows.
Windows abounded in the upper stories, any one of which could allow a pair of eyes to spot him and raise an alarm. He needed to get inside without arousing suspicion. The stiletto was snug against his right arm under a cotton jacket. Loring’s gift, the CZ-75B, was strapped in a shoulder harness, two spare ammunition clips in his pocket. Forty-five rounds in all. But the last thing he wanted was that kind of trouble.
He crouched low and crept up the final few feet, hugging a stone wall. He slipped over the wall’s edge onto a narrow walk and darted for a door ten meters away. He tried the lock. It was open. He stepped inside. Smells of fresh produce and dank air immediately greeted him.
He stood in a short hall that spilled into a darkened room. A massive, octagonal oak support held up a low beamed ceiling. A blackened hearth dominated one wall. The air was chilled, boxes and crates stacked high. It was apparently an old pantry now used for storage. Two doors led out. One directly ahead, the other to the left. Recalling the sounds and smells outside, he concluded the left exit surely led to the kitchen. He needed to head east, so he chose the door ahead and stepped into another hall.
He was just about to start forward when he heard voices and movement from around the corner ahead. He quickly backtracked into the storage room. He decided, instead of leaving, to take up a position behind one of the walls of crates. The only artificial light was a bare bulb suspended from the center rafter. He hoped the approaching voices were merely passing through. He did not want to kill or even maim any member of the staff. Bad enough he was doing what he was, he didn’t need to compound Fellner’s embarrassment with violence.
But he’d do what he had to.
He squeezed behind a crate stack, his back rigid against the rough stone wall. He was able to peer out, thanks to the pile’s unevenness. The silence was broken only by a trapped fly that buzzed at the dingy windows.
The door opened.
“We need cucumbers and parsley. And see if the canned peaches are there, too,” a male voice said in Czech.
Luckily, neither man pulled the chain for the overhead light, relying instead on the afternoon sun filtered by the nasty leaded panes.
“Here,” the other male said.
Both men moved to the other side of the room. A cardboard box was dropped to the floor, a lid jerked open.
“Is Pan Loring still upset?”
Knoll peered out. One man wore the uniform required of all Loring’s staff. Maroon trousers, white shirt, thin black tie. The other sported the jacketed butler’s ensemble of the serving staff. Loring often bragged about designing the uniforms himself.
“He and Pani Danzer have been quiet all day. The police came this morning to ask questions and express condolences. Poor Pan Fellner and his daughter. Did you see her last night? Quite a beauty.”
“I served drinks and cake in the study after dinner. She was exquisite. Rich, too. What a waste. The police have any idea what happened?”
“Ne. The plane simply exploded on the way back to Germany, all aboard killed.”
The words slapped Knoll hard across the face. Did he hear right? Fellner and Monika dead?
Rage surged through him.
A plane had blown up with Monika and Fellner on board. Only one explanation made any sense. Ernst Loring had ordered the action, with Suzanne as his mechanism. Danzer and Loring had gone after him and failed. So they killed the old man and Monika. But why? What was going on? He wanted to palm the stiletto, push the crates aside, and slash the two staffers to pieces, their blood avenging the blood of his former employers. But what good would that do? He told himself to stay calm. Breathe slow. He needed answers. He needed to know why. He was glad now that he’d come. The source of all that happened, all that may happen, was somewhere within the ancient walls that encompassed him.
“Bring the boxes and let’s go,” one of the men said.
The two men left through the door toward the kitchen. The room again went quiet. He stepped from behind the crates. His arms were tense, his legs tingling. Was that emotion? Sorrow? He didn’t think himself capable. Or was it more the lost opportunity with Monika? Or the fact that he was suddenly unemployed, his once orderly life now disrupted? He willed the feeling from his brain and left the storage room, reentering the inner corridor. He twisted left and right until he found a spiral staircase. His knowledge of the castle’s geography told him that he needed to ascend at least two floors before reaching what was regarded as the main level.
At the top of the staircase he stopped. A row of leaded glass windows opened to another courtyard. Across the bailey, on the upper story of the far rectangular keep, through a set of windows apparently opened to the evening, he saw a woman. Her body darted back and forth. The room’s location was not dissimilar from the location of his own room at Burg Herz. Quiet. Out of the way. But safe. Suddenly the woman settled in the open rectangle, her arms reaching out to swing the double panes inward.
He saw the girlish face and wicked eyes.
Suzanne Danzer.
Good.
FIFTY-FOUR
Knoll gained entrance to the back passages more easily than he expected, watching from a cracked-open door while a maid released a hidden panel in one of the ground-floor corridors. He figured he was in the south wing of the west building. He needed to cross to the far bastion and move northeast to where he knew the public rooms were located.
He entered the passage and stepped lightly, hoping not to encounter any of the staff. The lateness of the day seemed to lessen the chances of that happening. The only people drifting about now would be chambermaids making sure any guests’ needs were taken care of for the night. The dank corridor was lined overhead with air ducts, water pipes, and an electrical conduit. Bare bulbs lit the way.
He negotiated three spiral staircases and found what he thought was the north wing. Tiny Judas holes dotted the walls, set in recessed niches and shielded by rusty lead covers. Along the way, he slid a few open and spied a view into various rooms. The peepholes were another holdover from the past, an anachronism when eyes and ears were the only way to learn information. Now they were nothing but ready navigation markers, or a delicious opportunity for a voyeur.
He stopped at another viewpoint and twisted open a lead cover. He recognized the Carolotta Room from the handsome bed and escritoire. Loring had named the space for the mistress of King Ludwig I of Bavaria, and her portrait adorned the far wall. He wondered what decoration disguised the peephole. Probably the wood carvings he recalled from having been assigned the chamber one night.
He moved on.
Suddenly, he heard voices vibrating though the stone. He searched for a look. Finding a Judas hole, he peered inside and saw the figure of Rachel Cutler standing in the middle of a brightly lit room, maroon towels wrapped around her naked frame and wet hair.
He stopped his advance.
“I told you McKoy was up to something,” Rachel said.
Paul was sitting before a polished rosewood escritoire. He and Rachel were sharing a room on the castle’s fourth floor. McKoy had been given another room farther down. The steward who brought their bag upstairs had explained that the space was known as the Wedding Chamber, in honor of the seventeenth-century portrait of a couple in allegorical costume that hung over the sleigh bed. The
room was spacious and equipped with a private bath, and Rachel had taken the opportunity to soak in the tub for a few minutes, cleaning up for dinner that Loring informed them would be at six.
“I’m uncomfortable with this,” he said. “I imagine Loring is not a man to take lightly. Especially to blackmail.”
Rachel slipped the towel from her head and stepped back into the bathroom, dabbing her locks dry. A hair dryer came on.
He studied a painting on the far wall. It was a half-figure of a penitent St. Peter. A da Cortona or maybe a Reni. Seventeenth-century Italian, if he remembered correctly. Expensive, provided one could even be found outside a museum. The canvas appeared original. From what little he knew about porcelain, the figurines resting on corbels attached to the wall on either side of the painting were Riemenschneider. Fifteenth-century German and priceless. On the way up the staircase to the bedroom they’d passed more paintings, tapestries, and sculptures. What the museum staff in Atlanta would give to display just a fraction of the items.
The hair dryer clicked off. Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, fingers teasing her auburn hair. “Like a hotel room,” she said. “Soap, shampoo, and hair dryer.”
“Except that the room is decorated with fine art worth millions.”
“This stuff’s original?”
“From what I can see.”
“Paul, we have to do something about McKoy. This is going too far.”
“I agree. But Loring bothers me. He’s not at all what I expected.”
“You’ve been watching too many James Bond movies. He’s just a rich old man who loves art.”
“He took McKoy’s threat too calmly for me.”
“Should we call Pannik and let him know we’re staying over?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s just play it by ear right now. But I vote to get out of here tomorrow.”
“You won’t get any grief from me on that.”
Rachel undraped the towel and slipped on a pair of panties. He watched from the chair, trying to remain impassive.
“It’s not fair,” he said.
“What’s not?”
“You dancing around naked.”
She snapped her bra in place, then walked over and climbed in his lap. “I meant what I said last night. I want to try again.”
He stared at the Ice Queen, seminaked in his arms.
“I never stopped loving you, Paul. I don’t know what happened. I think my pride and anger just took hold. There came a point when I felt stifled. It’s nothing you did. It was me. After I went on the bench, something happened. I can’t really explain.”
She was right. Their problems had escalated after she was sworn in. Perhaps the mollification from everyone saying “Yes, ma’am” and “Her Honor” all day was hard to leave behind at the office. But to him she was Rachel Bates, a woman he loved, not an item of respect or a conduit to the wisdom of Solomon. He argued with her, told her what to do, and complained when she didn’t do it. Perhaps, after a while, the startling contrast between their two worlds became difficult to delineate. So difficult that she’d ultimately rid herself of one side of the conflict.
“Daddy’s death and all this has brought things home to me. All of Mama’s and Daddy’s family were killed in the war. I have no one other than Marla and Brent . . . and you.”
He stared at her.
“I mean that. You are my family, Paul. I made a big mistake three years ago. I was wrong.”
He realized how hard it was for her to say those words. But he wanted to know, “How so?”
“Last night when we were darting though that abbey, hanging from the balcony, that’s enough to bring anything home. You came over here when you thought I was in danger and risked a lot for me. I shouldn’t be so difficult. You don’t deserve that. All you ever asked was a little peace and quiet and consistency. All I ever did was make things hard.”
He thought of Christian Knoll. Though Rachel had never admitted anything, she’d been attracted to him. He could feel it. But Knoll had left her to die. Perhaps that act had served as a reminder to her analytical mind that not everything was as it appeared. Her ex-husband included. What the hell. He loved her. Wanted her back. Time to put up or shut up.
He kissed her.
Knoll watched as the Cutlers embraced, aroused by the sight of a half-dressed Rachel Cutler. He’d concluded during the car trip from Munich to Kehlheim that she still cared for her ex-husband. Which was most likely why she rebuked his advances in Warthberg. She was definitely attractive. Full bosom, thin waist, inviting crotch. He’d wanted her in the mine and fully intended to have her until Danzer intruded with the explosion. So why not rectify the situation tonight? What did it matter anymore? Fellner and Monika were dead. He was unemployed. And none of the other club members would hire him after what he was about to do.
A knock on the bedchamber door caught his attention.
He stared hard through the Judas hole.
“Who is it?” Paul asked.
“McKoy.”
Rachel hopped up and grabbed her clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Paul stood and opened the door. McKoy stepped in, dressed in a pair of evergreen corduroy pants and a striped crew shirt. Brown chukkas wrapped his big feet.
“Kind of casual, McKoy,” he said.
“My tux is at the cleaners.”
Paul slammed the door shut. “What were you doing with Loring?”
McKoy faced him. “Lighten up, counselor. I wasn’t tryin’ to shake the old fart down.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Yeah, McKoy, what was all that about?” Rachel asked, stepping from the bathroom, now dressed in pleated jeans and a tight-fitting turtleneck.
McKoy eyed her up and down. “You dress down well, Your Honor.”
“Get to the point,” she said.
“The point was to see if the old man would crack, and he did. I pushed to see what he was made of. Get real. If there was nothin’ to Loring’s involvement, he would have said sayonara, get the hell out of here. As it was he couldn’t hardly wait for us to spend the night.”
“You weren’t serious?” Paul asked.
“Cutler, I know you two think I’m pond scum, but I do have morals. True, they’re relatively loose most of the time. But I still have ’em. This Loring either knows somethin’ or wants to know somethin’. Either way, he’s interested enough to put us up for the night.”
“You think he’s part of that club Grumer rambled about?” Paul asked.
“I hope not,” Rachel said. “That could mean Knoll and that woman are around.”
McKoy was unconcerned. “That’s a chance were goin’ to have to take. I got a feelin’ about this. I’ve also got a bunch of investors waitin’ in Germany. So I need answers. My guess is the old bastard downstairs has got ’em.”
“How long can your people hold off the partners’ curiosity?” Rachel asked.
“Couple of days. No more. They’re goin’ to start on that other tunnel in the mornin’, but I told ’em to take their time. Personally, I think it’s a total waste.”
“How do we need to handle dinner?” Rachel asked.
“Easy. Eat the man’s food, drink his liquor, and turn on the information vacuum cleaner. We need to get more than we give. Understand?”
Rachel smiled. “Yeah, I understand.”
Dinner was cordial, Loring leading his guests in pleasant conversation about art and politics. Paul was fascinated by the extent of the old man’s art knowledge. McKoy stayed on his best behavior, accepting Loring’s hospitality, profusely complimenting their host on the meal. Paul watched it all carefully, noting Rachel’s intense interest in McKoy. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to cross the line.
After dessert, Loring escorted them on a tour of the castle’s expansive ground floor. The decor seemed a mixture of Dutch furniture, French clocks, and Russian chandeliers. Paul noticed an emphasis on classicism along, with realistically clear images in all the carvings. There was
a well-balanced composition throughout, an almost plastic-perfect shape and form. The craftsmen had certainly known their trade.
Each space carried a name. The Walderdorff Chamber. Molsberg Room. Green Room. Witches’ Room. All were decorated with antique furniture—most originals, Loring explained—and art, so much that Paul was having trouble taking it all in, and he wished a couple of the museum’s curators were there to explain. In what Loring called the Ancestors’ Room the old man lingered before an oil painting of his father.
“My father was descended from a long line. Amazingly, all from the paternal side. So there have always been Loring males to inherit. It is one reason we have dominated this site for nearly five hundred years.”
“What about when the Communists ruled?” Rachel asked.
“Even then, my dear. My family learned to adapt. There was no choice. Either change or perish.”
“Meanin’ you worked for the Communists,” McKoy said.
“What else was there to do, Pan McKoy?”
McKoy did not reply and simply returned his attention to the painting of Josef Loring. “Was your father interested in the Amber Room?”