by Gayle Lynds
As they showered and dressed, Sam kept wondering why he'd been chosen to receive the packet from Armonk. He hadn't told Pink about it. Still, Pink had watched him search off and on for the Amber Room for years, so Sam figured he could get away with a bit of complaining now, as if he'd just renewed his lunatic investigation.
And he had a lot to complain about. He probably should just drop the whole thing. He considered heading upstairs to his office to work on reports and clear his desk a little. That might be good for his conscience. But his heart wasn't in it.
He looked at his big friend. "Lunch?"
"Sounds good to me." Pink patted his hard, flat midsection. "I'm starving."
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
Sam and Pink settled on a trattoria in nearby McLean, where they sat at the dark bar and ordered ales and pizzas with sun-dried tomatoes and anchovies. The air smelled of beer and peanuts and Saturday afternoon laziness. On the television set an endless round of CNN's Headline News played quietly, filling the hours until it was time to switch the set to the next college football game.
"Do you think we'll ever retire?" Pink snagged a handful of the salted nuts.
"We're a little young to be talking retirement, aren't we?" Sam knew Pink was restless and unhappy. He'd been in charge of an operation in Brussels that he'd bungled, and Langley had brought him home for an indefinite "time out." But field work was the only kind of life Pink wanted.
"Well, maybe. But some broker got a hold of me and wants me to go into mutual funds for bonds and small-cap stocks. He keeps telling me I'm older than I think." Pink's broad face was abruptly morose. "Christ, if he'd been a doctor I would've thought he was preparing me to listen to some fatal diagnosis. Like, in two months I'm dead. And my poor sister and nieces aren't going to get a penny because I'm a spend-thrift and never earned more than one-point-two percent interest on anything I ever managed to save, not compounded annually." Pink liked his sister's family and always felt mildly guilty he saw them so infrequently.
Sam bit back a smile. "You look real alive to me. I think you've got time to mend your ways."
Pink had been hunched over his New Castle brown ale. He straightened up. "I've never felt better. I'm in fine health. Christ, retirement. A government pension. Social Security. A farm in upstate New York where you freeze your balls in the winter and the mosquitoes eat you alive in the summer."
"You'd rather be on assignment in the Sahara. Or in Siberia."
"Damn right."
"They have similar climate problems, Pink. Blistering heat. Frigid winters."
Pink cast him an irritated look. "You know what I mean."
Sam drank his ale. He studied his friend. He noted the faintly crazed look in his eyes. "You need to get back in the field. An assignment. You're going nuts. Pretty soon you're going to be visiting zoos and talking about moving into the Crystal City Metro stop just so you can pretend to be doing something exotic."
Pink nodded. "I'm in limbo."
Sam continued to consider his friend, and he saw how truly miserable he was. Pink had been without an assignment for nearly six months, and there were rumors floating around Langley that he'd done something so off-the-books on his last one that he might never be reassigned again. When Sam had the time, he'd look into it. See whether there was anything he could do to help Pink.
"Yeah," Sam told him. "Limbo's the perfect description for where you're at. In Catholic theology, limbo's right on the border of hell. It's for everyone who's not condemned to torture but is deprived of heaven."
"That's me." Pink sighed and drank long. His face seemed to droop toward his glass. Then he froze, his gaze locked on the TV screen above their corner of the bar.
Sam turned. He heard CNN journalist Wolf Blitzer say, " . . . Julia Austrian . . ."
Sam jumped off his stool, ran around the bar, and turned up the sound. Blitzer was reporting a press conference with presidential nominee Creighton Redmond, whose sister had been shot to death just after midnight in London. The dead woman's daughter, Julia Austrian, as well as other Redmonds were arced protectively around the nominee outside the gates to the ritzy family compound in Oyster Bay.
Sam watched as Creighton Redmond opened his heart to America and shared his family's grief and appreciation for all the cards and flowers.
Whenever the ashen-faced young woman appeared on screen, Sam studied her. Her eyes were remarkably blue and clear. For some reason she wasn't wearing her tinted glasses. She was lovely and slender and somehow vulnerable beneath a long overcoat. Her golden brown hair was wild around her head, tousled by the wind. She seemed to be enduring the public display of dignified torment rather well, but her fine-featured face was rigid, as if it took an iron will to hold herself together. Despite it all, she was beautiful, with the kind of classic elegance that could grace an haute couture magazine. Except for her mouth. The lips were full, provocative. Deliriously sexy.
Then the obvious struck him: She wasn't only Daniel Austrian's granddaughter, she was a Redmond—the cousin of Vince, who'd confiscated the packet that had promised Sam information about the Amber Room.
Sam stared at the young woman harder. Maybe she'd heard her grandfather talk about the Amber Room. In fact, since she was Daniel Austrian's only living descendant, she could've inherited all his papers. It was also possible that between the small ears of that lovely head could be just the information Sam wanted. His pulse sped with excitement. She was the closest thing to a lead he had outside the packet.
Sam rushed through lunch. Pink griped about the speed, but Sam wouldn't be shamed or deterred. At last as Sam paid for both meals, Pink complained, "I suppose this means you're serious about wasting the weekend checking out Julia Austrian."
"Could be a break. She's back in the country after all."
"Yeah. And she's going to be really happy to see you. Haven't you heard of respecting people's privacy, especially when there's been a death in the family?"
Sam felt a twinge of guilt. He headed for the door. "I'll be sensitive."
"Right. Sure." Pink ambled after him. "Well, I'd hoped to talk you into dinner tonight. Some basketball tomorrow. Maybe a movie. Some hot action-adventure flick—" He stopped in his tracks and stared back at the TV. "Hey! Julia Austrian's a babe!" He squinted. "You're not letting your gonads interfere with your judgment on this, are you? Is it really the Amber Room you're after, or is it just one more pretty broad?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Pink."
"It's not in the gutter, jerk. It's in the present. And the past. You think I don't know what your problem is? I remember Irini Baum, too. Quit acting like it never happened." His voice softened. "You know, someday you've gotta get over her death. It wasn't your fault."
"Like hell it wasn't!" Sam pushed out of the trattoria. Suddenly, a tidal wave of remorse and guilt rushed over him, followed by lacerating pain. . . .
Lovely Irini. . . . Her curly red hair and laughing face, the scent of her breasts, and her radiant flush during sex. She had gentle ways but a hard mind, and he'd loved her desperately.
In 1988 he'd "turned" her—convinced her to spy for the CIA against her employers—East Germany's dreaded secret police, the Stasi. A year later, in 1989 as the Berlin Wall had begun to fall, Stasi officials had locked themselves into their fortresslike headquarters in East Berlin to shred documents that could incriminate them. . . and be vital to the West. After all, the Communists were still very much in power in the Soviet Union, and no one knew then that the entire Soviet bloc would crumble into myriad small, weak countries in just a few months and the Cold War would end with a whimper.
Irini had been with him in West Berlin when word came the wall was breached. She wanted to leave instantly for Stasi headquarters in East Berlin to save documents for the CIA. . . for him. He'd had a crucial meeting that night down on the Ku'damm with a big KGB man on the edge of coming over. He told her to wait for him. They'd go together. He thought he'd convinced her.
She must have decided
it was something she had to do herself. Or she hadn't wanted to involve him: The East was her problem, her area of expertise.
While he was gone, she slipped back across the border, entered the Stasi bastion on Normannenstrasse, filled two briefcases with documents, and exited into the hands of a mob just as violence broke out. She was raped over and over, shot six times, and her partially burned body was found in a nearby alley. He knew all this because a witness revealed it a week later.
Guilt ripped him apart. Her sweet face haunted him, and his pain and anger were endless for what she'd needlessly suffered He'd never get over her. Never forgive himself. Never love again because he'd killed her as surely as if he himself had shot her in the heart.
Outside the trattoria, the chilly air was like a slap in the face. In an act of utter will, Sam returned to the present. He calmed himself and focused on his restless friend. It was obvious Pink's sister, Valerie, had been on his mind.
"Why don't you go visit Valerie," Sam suggested. "You're feeling guilty about not seeing her and the girls anyway. And it'll give you something to do. You won't be bored all weekend and worrying your friends."
"I'd rather be flying off to the Sudan. Lebanon. Syria—"
"Pink!"
Pink pursed his lips. He squeezed them left and right. Reluctantly he nodded. He was jittery with his need for action. "Okay. That might be an idea."
"You'll call Valerie?" Sam headed for his burgundy red Dodge Durango.
"God, what a bossy prick. Yeah. I'll call."
ALEXANDRIA VIRGINIA
Sam lived in an old brick apartment building in Alexandria. It didn't have as many amenities—swimming pool, indoor gym, concierge—as the modern high-rises in other places inside the beltway, which he could easily afford. But he liked the comfort and feel of something accustomed to human habits. That's why he rented here off King Street near Old Town. He parked in the lot in back and bounded up the steps, counting automatically in Russian—adéen, dva, tree, chitírye, pyát, shest, syém. Seven steps. Just like the Seven Hills of Rome. Or the Seven Deadly Sins.
Inside he bypassed the stairwell because he was in a hurry. Although the building was old, the elevator was brand-new. It was fast. He rode it up to the eighth floor and unlocked his door.
His apartment was just as he'd described it to Pink—little furniture and no food. To his friends, it seemed more a way station than a home, as if Sam were not only not settled in, but had no plans to stay. But he'd lived here nearly a decade, with women coming and going but leaving little permanent impact on him or his life.
He had a desk and a new Pentium computer in the living room next to the window. A Niagara Falls of books, magazines, and papers cascaded from the desk and around it. The apartment smelled clean and fresh with Pledge and Windex. His housekeeper had been in this morning. The sofa and chair were vacuumed, the TV and stereo dusted, and his bed changed. He was messy but clean. His housekeeper, a forgiving and patient woman, kept him that way.
From habit, as soon as he locked his door, he stalked through his spacious four rooms to make certain no one lurked and nothing dangerous had been planted to give him an unpleasant surprise. These minor precautions were leftovers from his days in the Directorate of Operations: A wise spy had a better chance of being an alive spy.
At last Sam felt relatively safe. He sat at his computer. He paused, hand outstretched to turn it on. The sudden weight of Irini's horrible murder overcame him in a churning river of loss and guilt. He tried never to think about it. About her. But Pink had reminded him, and now he longed for Irini with all the pain and joy of a lost great love. And there was the guilt, too. He desperately wanted to turn back the clock so he could have a second chance. He knew he could've saved her if he'd been there.
His head fell forward into his hands. He dug his fingers into his scalp. His heart ached. He missed her.
At last he straightened. He turned on his computer, triggered his modem, and told it to plug into the big mainframe back at Langley. He leaned back to watch the monitor go through its gyrations. Finally it asked for his codes. He keyboarded them in, and within seconds he and Langley were talking.
He sighed. His mind began to clear. He was starting to feel normal again. He decided there was nothing quite so beguiling as a powerful computer with a huge database. In fact, Langley had so much information that it'd stuffed nine storage silos with it, each holding some six thousand computer tapes containing more than a million megabytes of information. Nirvana.
However, there was the downside of that—abuse. After Watergate and other scandals involving domestic espionage, a 1981 executive order forbade Langley from collecting or distributing intelligence on U. S. citizens except in certain cases, such as terrorism or other threats to national security. But the ruling did nothing to stop the agency's access to information that was available elsewhere.
So tapping into telephone company records, Sam located the addresses and phone numbers of the Redmonds' Oyster Bay estate and Julia Austrian's home in New York City, even though both were technically unlisted. Then he searched newspapers, magazines, and other online sites for personal information about her. He read, downloaded, and printed out news stories, reviews, interviews, and her educational record. She was one active pianist, playing some sixty concerts a year. She'd won the Van Cliburn Competition when she was just twenty and had played with orchestras from New York to Tokyo to Moscow. Had never married, had no children, had no significant boyfriend, and led—as far as he could tell—what to others would look like a lonely life. He liked that about her.
Now he needed to know where she was going to be. He thought about it, turning it over in his mind. Then he had an idea. He picked up the phone and dialed.
He put a smile in his voice. "Emilie! It's great to hear you. How's my favorite ex-girlfriend?"
"Oh, no." There was a sudden intake of breath, of recognition. "Sam? It's not you. I don't believe it. What is this . . . a call from the Great Beyond?"
He leaned back in his chair. He felt guilty, but only moderately. After all, she'd dumped him. "Nope. From Alexandria. You remember Alexandria. It was summer, and you kept your underwear in my refrigerator."
"That's only because you refused to get air-conditioning. You idiot! Didn't anyone ever tell you summers are so hot and miserable here that Europeans get hardship pay because Washington's considered a tropical assignment?"
"Victoria's Secret underwear," he ruminated. "Very nice All that lace and see-through stuff."
"Are you asking for a date, Sam? Or an assignation?"
He blinked, thought about it. "If I did, would you say yes?"
"I don't know. Why don't you try?" There was an amused tease in her voice.
He grinned. He thought about the two of them. She'd been trouble. He'd actually been relieved when she'd taken her bathrobe, toothbrush, TV tables, Crock-Pot, and underwear and returned home to Georgetown. She'd liked him too much. Kept mentioning marriage, something he'd planned with Irini but would never do now.
He had an idea of how to handle her. "Emilie, will you marry me?"
"Ohmygod, Sam. I don't believe you!" But there was a touch of yearning in her tone.
"Because I've quit my job and have decided to allow you to support me the rest of my natural life. I know how much you love running that temp business of yours. The joys of your irate clients, disgruntled employees, long hours, and of course the accountant who embezzled you. I thought I'd just give you another reason to continue it all, so you could support me in the fashion to which I'd like to become accustomed—"
"Sam! Stop it. Dammit! Shut up!" She sighed. She chuckled. "Okay, you turkey. What do you want?"
"A small favor. And of course I'll owe you enormously."
"You're damn right you will."
He wasn't quite sure he liked her tone, but he forged ahead. "As I recall, you were doing a booming business in sending temps to work for the Republicans and the Democrats, since it's campaign season. Do you have any plac
ed in the Creighton Redmond campaign?"
"And if I do?"
"Just one small question. Where's Julia Austrian going to be tonight? Is she going home to Manhattan? Is she settling in at Oyster Bay? Is she going to the Austrian palace in Southampton? Or will she move in with one of the Redmond horde?"
She laughed. "You're after Julia Austrian now? Oh, please. Well, I guess it makes sense. She's beautiful, and she certainly ought to be able to support you, if that's what you're after."
He bit back a retort. "Emilie, I'd never ask anyone but you to marry me."
"Well, that's a crock. I guess if you've put your sights on her, I should help. At least I won't have to worry about your calling again and getting up my hopes."
"Thank you, Emilie. You're a Good Samaritan. And much more gorgeous than the ones in the Bible. I mean that with all my heart."
While Sam waited for Emilie to call back with the information, he printed out a list of Julia Austrian's relatives, their addresses, and their telephone numbers. He threw clothes into an overnight bag. Then he picked up the book his grandfather had given him. It was written in Russian, and the title translated to Treasures Believed Stolen from Königsberg Castle. He couldn't resist, so he opened it and flipped pages, admiring the color photographs of the stunning jewelry and artworks either destroyed or stolen at the end of World War II from Kaliningrad—called Königsberg by the Germans.
Near the front of the book was the photograph of the Amber Room. He savored the sight of the golden treasure. Light shimmered in the tens of thousands of pieces of amber, some large, others tiny, and arranged in stunning mosaics. The spectacular room gave the feeling of opulence and beauty beyond measure, and yet it was simply amber and creativity, nature and nurture. Which for Sam increased the value of it all.
The phone rang, and Sam snatched it up.
"I expect dinner for this," Emilie announced without introducing herself.
"Anything. You can have my refrigerator for storage, too."
"That's more commitment than I had in mind."