The Amber Room

by T. Davis Bunn

  As she walked them back down the hall toward the main entrance, Dr. Sova told them, “Across the border in East Germany, before the Wall fell, they had a policy very different from ours. We heard it from doctors we met in conferences. In their heavily polluted cities, all babies weighing less than a kilo were drowned at birth. The authorities decided to spend their scarce resources on patients with a better chance of survival, you see. We have struggled with the problem in a different way, but so long as the culprit remains, so long as pollution levels continue to climb, such horrors are a real possibility in poorer lands.”

  She pushed open the doors, shook hands, smiled them out and away from the problems locked within those doors. “Poland has never faced so great a threat as it does now from air and water pollution,” Dr. Sova said. “This I believe with all my heart. The future of this very generation—the one being born today, not several decades from now, but today—lies in the balance.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “It’s the Amber Room,” Jeffrey announced to Alexander the next evening by telephone. He made no effort to mask his own excitement. “Rokovski is absolutely certain.”

  “And, no doubt, most ecstatic.”

  “He did everything but climb the walls while we were with him,” Jeffrey confirmed. “He’s had three top experts examine the stuff. They’ve found tracings of old ink on the tissue around each piece.”

  “Instructions for fitting the puzzle back together.”

  “That’s what they think,” Jeffrey agreed. “And he says there is no doubt whatsoever that the amber fits the descriptions of old documents.”

  “They haven’t made their find public in this search for authentication, I hope.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “That is good. If this truly is the Amber Room, two million dollars is a paltry sum to pay.”

  “Not for them,” Jeffrey replied. “Rokovski is frantic with worry over how to gather together that much money without going to the central authorities and running the risk of word getting out.”

  Alexander was silent a long moment, then, “And he is certain that the carvings are not forgeries?”

  “Rokovski estimates the suitcases’ contents alone are worth over a third of what they’ve requested,” Jeffrey replied. “He said the carvings are exquisite. That was his word. Exquisite. Like nothing he has seen in modern times.”

  “A lost art,” Alexander agreed. “There is no longer a world of kings and queens and dukes and princes who can afford to sustain the expertise of carving jewels into entire chambers.”

  “He’s worried that if he doesn’t come up with the money soon, they may search out other buyers.”

  “And rightly so. Now that this German group has its hands on it, there is an enormous risk that they will either try to move it or to up the price completely beyond Poland’s reach.” Alexander paused, then decided. “Jeffrey, I want you to call Rokovski for me. Inform him that if he is willing to use the remainder of the funds we have in his special account, I shall lend him the balance.”

  Jeffrey felt a surge of pride and affection. “He wasn’t expecting this. I’m certain it hadn’t even occurred to him.”

  “Yes, Pavel is that sort of man. Nonetheless, this is my decision. Tell him no papers will be necessary. His word will be sufficient.” His tone darkened. “It is the least I can do, under the circumstances.”

  “Speaking of which,” Jeffrey replied. “He said he has to travel to Rome the day after tomorrow.”

  “In relation to the chalice?”

  “He didn’t say exactly, but I’m pretty sure. I hope so, anyway.” Jeffrey hesitated, then continued. “There’s more, but maybe it should wait until you get here.”

  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily.”

  “My dear Jeffrey. I have seldom given you a direct order, but I shall do so now. Tell me everything Pavel said.”

  “His researchers have turned up another item. Do you remember his talking about the Vatican emissary who came bearing gifts?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, they have found records of a legend. That’s what Rokovski called it, a legend. The emissary was a powerful member of the Vatican and traveled through lands totally devastated by the Reformation Wars. There was not a sense of safety nor an absence of starvation until he passed over the Polish borders. Then he arrived in Poland in time for the summer harvest, the only harvest that was still intact in all of northern Europe. All of this convinced him that it was absolutely imperative for Rome to have a man in this powerful kingdom, a man they could fully trust.”

  “Go on.”

  Jeffrey took a breath. “The legend is that the Polish king was willing to accept the Pope’s man as the new cardinal. But then he told the emissary that he had heard there was a reliquary in the Vatican’s possession which contained a segment from the crown of thorns. He wanted it for his kingdom in return for this agreement.”

  “And the emissary accepted?” Excitement crackled over the line.

  “Rokovski says there are two versions, both of them written down about two hundred years ago, over a century after all this took place. In one, the king backed down and accepted the cardinal without further payment. In the other, the emissary made a second trip to Poland. A secret one. He traded the original chalice that the Pope had intended as the gift for the reliquary which the king demanded. The emissary then returned to the Vatican with news of the king’s acceptance of Rome’s cardinal.”

  “So the reliquary did find its way to Poland after all,” Alexander exclaimed, “and without Rome’s formal approval.”

  “Perhaps,” Jeffrey cautioned. “At least, as far as this second legend is concerned. A few years later, the Vatican supposedly discovered that the chalices had been switched. They approached the king of Poland and said there had been a mistake, that the reliquary had been given without the Pope’s permission. They requested that it be returned to its rightful place at the heart of Christendom. The king replied that there had been no mistake. Poland had hundreds of valuable chalices, he said, but no such symbol of Christ’s suffering and dying for mankind. The only reason he would have considered granting the cardinal the appointment was in return for this priceless gift.”

  “I wonder what happened to the emissary,” Alexander murmured.

  “Rokovski said he asked the same thing. His researchers told him there was never any further mention of him or his family’s name. Not anywhere. It was as though he had never existed.”

  “Yet the Vatican could not complain too loudly,” Alexander mused. “There was too much at stake, and the ties with Poland too tenuous.”

  “It appears that polite enquiries were made every ten years or so,” Jeffrey replied. “With each new cardinal or king, the question was raised. How would it appear in the eyes of the world if it was learned that such a relic were no longer in Rome? In time, though, as Poland’s preeminence continued, an agreement was reached. What was important to Cracow was that they had the relic. What was important to Rome was that the people thought it was still there. So without actually saying as much, Cracow agreed never to make public the fact that the chalice they had was indeed the reliquary.”

  “And in the more than three hundred years since the switch was made, there has been time for the secret to be forgotten,” Alexander concluded. “And now that the millennium approaches, there is pressure to bring the reliquary back to Rome.”

  “Again, all this could be true only if the second legend is the valid one,” Jeffrey went on. “But I think it is, and so does Rokovski. At least, he said it was worth pursuing to the end. It also appeared that he was on to something else. But it was only half worked out, and Rokovski refused to tell me what he was thinking. All he would say was that he hoped to have something positive to report to you upon his return from Rome.”

  “This indeed is a night filled with good news.” Alexander’s tone sounded lighter than
it had in weeks. “Find out from him when he expects to return to Cracow, if you would. I shall be there myself to greet him.”

  “I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Splendid. Now tell me, how are your other activities proceeding?”

  “Business is great. We’ve picked up some excellent new pieces.”

  “Not new in the strictest sense, I hope.”

  “No,” Jeffrey hesitated, then told him about Katya and his visit to the hospital and their decision to work on equipping a new premature birth unit.

  When he stopped, Alexander released a long sigh. “My dear Jeffrey, I find myself deeply touched by your act.”

  “It was Katya’s idea, really.”

  “Do not do yourself a disservice. Already you two are beginning to join in true union. The idea of one is given life by the actions of both.” Alexander’s voice softened. “And such actions. Yes, you have given me great food for thought, my friend. So. You shall speak with Rokovski and then call me tomorrow? Splendid. Then I shall bid you a good-night.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “It has taken me over a day to obtain this connection to Schwerin,” Erika declared once she had Kurt on the telephone.

  “I would far rather fight with operators than have to do what I have done,” Kurt replied. “Which is sit on my hands.”

  “Waiting is pure agony,” Erika agreed.

  “Especially when there is nothing but doubt for company.”

  “I told you I could be trusted.”

  “Yes, you did that.”

  Erika paused, acquiesced, “Were I in your place, I would feel no different.”

  “Your honesty is most reassuring.”

  A muffled voice spoke from the distance. “Ferret is reminding me again.”

  “No doubt.”

  “To business, then.” She kept her voice brisk, determinedly calm. “The transfer has been made.”

  Though expected and hoped for, the news brought with it an electric stab. He had to stop and breathe before asking, “All of it?”

  “So many zeros,” Erika replied. “You cannot imagine how it feels to stand in such a place, one of the grandest banks in the world, and look at a number that large.”

  Kurt searched as far inward as he ever allowed himself, found only doubt and worry and fear. “And here I stand,” he said bitterly. “My passport is in the hands of others, and there you are, looking at all those zeros.”

  “It boggles the mind.”

  “No doubt,” he agreed. For a moment, he felt the fear give way to a certainty of ruin, and in that brief instant Kurt felt a bonding with the old colonel and his tired, defeated air. “Never have I felt more helpless, or more alone.”

  “Such a confession,” Erika said.

  “At least you have the decency to act surprised.”

  “I am surprised because it is exactly as Ferret predicted,” she replied. “He has arranged a suitable reply. Do you have pen and paper?”

  “What for?”

  “Do you have it?” A little sharper this time.

  “Wait.” Then, “All right. Go ahead.”

  “Write this down,” she said, and proceeded to give him a bank’s name and a Zurich address, followed by a telephone number, then two longer numbers.

  “Do you have it?”

  “What is it?”

  “Our bank. The first set of numbers is your account. They have been instructed that you will either call or fax and request confirmation of a deposit.”

  “A what?”

  “A deposit. A large one. Very large. Your share of the proceeds, to be exact. You are to give them this second number, which is your access code.”

  The flood of relief left him utterly weak. “You have done this?”

  “Deliver the treasure map to Poland,” Erika replied. “Then come to Switzerland. It is time to begin your new life.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Before traveling to meet Alexander at the airport, Jeffrey accompanied Katya on a stroll through Cracow’s old city to the Marian Church. A placard of postcards for sale stood beside the church entrance, staffed by a smiling rheumy-eyed woman in a gray-wool dress and head-kerchief. The pictures were of Polish winter scenes—a heavily laden horse cart, children walking a snowy forest path, icicles growing from an ancient thatched farmhouse, mountain passes, descents into steep ravines, sunset forests lit like a stained-glass chapel. In the center was a handwritten card, the script shaky and uneven as from a very old hand.

  “What does the card say?” Jeffrey asked.

  “If you allow,” Katya read, “every experience will become part of the path that leads you to God.”

  Jeffrey stared into the face of the old woman and found a light in her ancient, teary eyes, a force and a sureness that left her untouched by his stare and his silent questions. She was content to stand and stare back and allow him to feed on her gaze.

  “We need to go now,” Katya finally said, “if we’re going to have time to pray before your meeting.”

  Reluctantly Jeffrey followed. As he entered the immense eleventh-century oak doors, he turned to find the crone still watching him. She withdrew one hand from the folds of her wrap and pointed a twisted finger toward the card.

  Katya was waiting for him just inside the church. She asked, “Could we go sit up there?”

  “No, you go on ahead.”

  She inspected his face. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “I just want to stand here for a while.”

  “I’ll be near the front,” Katya said quietly, and left.

  Although the church was ringed by vast expanses of stained glass, fifty years of soot and grime considerably dimmed the light permitted entry. The murky quality of this illumination was in keeping with the interior’s darkened confines. Brilliant gilt work had faded over the centuries. Ceiling mosaics, once glimmering with a hundred different hues, now lay in a half-seen distance. The central cross, rising up a full seventy feet above the nave, seemed to float of its own accord. Through the gloomy light, the Christ figure gazed out and down across the eight hundred years since it first was raised.

  As the afternoon faded, low-slung chandeliers were lit. Jeffrey watched people come and go, their hands clasped before them, their faces set in repose made gentle both by inward thoughts and soft lighting. The church’s higher reaches became lost entirely. Jeffrey craned and searched and caught sight of lofty shadows and half-seen images, glimpses of a heaven close only to believers, visible only to the eyes of a love-filled heart.

  Even in the slow afternoon hours between Masses, the church remained almost half full. Silent prayers charged the atmosphere and heightened the sense of mystery. Candles flickered before the three dozen altars tucked in side alcoves, and within stands surrounding the vast pillars. Penitents stood or knelt or sat, hands entwined in rosaries or still in laps or supporting burdened foreheads.

  Jeffrey searched the faces that came and went, wishing he could somehow capture in paint the beauty he found there—their intensity of concentration, their histories of suffering, their peace, their joy. Young and old, men and women, entered and knelt and spoke to the Invisible whose Spirit filled Jeffrey’s heart as he watched. In that moment he loved them all. And with the flood of caring came the realization that the love he felt was not his own.

  In time, he walked forward to join Katya in prayer.

  “I’ve never seen a church so full except for services,” he said upon their departure.

  “People have no place else to pray,” Katya replied. “They live crammed together in apartments meant for half their number, as many as three generations in three rooms. In some families there is no quiet time, in others there is only one believer who is not given space for prayer, not even a closet. Some are scoffed at and ridiculed. The church is their island, their refuge, their place to come and sit in peace and talk to God.”

  * * *

  Alexander arrived, showing his normal post-fl
ight blues. When Jeffrey started to tell him that Rokovski had arrived back the day before, he waved the words aside, saying that the situation was too important to waste upon a mind that was not yet functioning. Jeffrey bore the burden of his news in suffering silence all the way back into town, deposited Alexander in his room, and wore a track in the downstairs carpet until the appointed hour. He and Katya arrived at Alexander’s room just as the secondhand ticked into place.

  Alexander opened the door with a flourish. “Excellent. The tea has just been delivered. Come in, come in.”

  He was wearing a neatly pressed dark suit, a starched white shirt, a discreetly striped silk tie. His color was excellent. “I hope you will excuse my concern for privacy, but I find public rooms to be no place for such discussions.”

  “You are looking extremely well,” Katya said, taking the offered chair.

  “Thank you, my dear. I must say, I am feeling better than I have in weeks. Perhaps you would be so good as to pour.”

  Once tea had been served, Alexander gave Jeffrey a brief smile. “You had best deliver the news before you burst.”

  “We leave for Czestochowa at four o’clock tomorrow morning,” he announced.

  Gray eyes sparked with interest. “The key to the mystery has been delivered, then.”

  “It better have,” Jeffrey replied.

  “Rokovski is laying his professional life on the line for this,” Katya explained. “If the treasure isn’t there, the best he can hope for is a posting to some provincial backwater.”

  “You both have seen him?”

  “Yesterday late afternoon and again this morning,” Jeffrey said. “He hasn’t slowed down since his return from Rome.”

  “Speaking of which,” Alexander said, “did he mention what he discovered while there?”