by Steve Berry
“This true about the forty-five units at twenty five thousand dollars each?” Paul asked. “That’s $1.25 million.”
“That’s what I raised. Then I sold the units for the other one hundred fifty thousand. Sixty investors in all.”
Paul motioned to the letter. “Partnersis what you call them. That’s different from investor.”
McKoy grinned. “Sounds better.”
“Are these other listed companies also investors?”
“They supplied equipment either by donation or at reduced rates. So, in a sense, yes. They don’t expect anythin’ in return, though.”
“You dangled sums like three hundred sixty million dollars, half maybe going to the partners, that can’t be true.”
“Damn well is. That’s what researchers value the Berlin museum stuff.”
“Assuming the art can be found,” Rachel said. “Your problem, McKoy, is the letter misleads. It could even be construed as fraudulent.”
“Since we’re going to be so close, why don’t you two call me Wayland. And, little lady, I did what was necessary to get the money. I didn’t lie to anybody, and I wasn’t interested in bilkin’ these people. I wanted to dig and that’s what I did. I didn’t keep a dime, except what they were told I’d get up front.”
Paul waited for a rebuke on “little lady,” but none came. Instead, Rachel said, “Then you’ve got another problem. There’s not a word in that letter about any hundred-thousand-dollar fee to you.”
“They were all told. And, by the way, you’re a real ray of sunshine through this storm.”
Rachel did not back down. “You need to hear the truth.”
“Look, half that hundred thousand went to Grumer for his time and trouble. He was the one who got the permit from the government. Without that, there’d have been no dig. The rest I kept for my time. This trip is costin’ me plenty. And I didn’t take my cut till the end. Those last units paid me and Grumer, along with our expenses. If I hadn’t raised that, I was prepared to borrow it, that’s how strong I felt about this venture.”
Paul wanted to know, “When are the partners getting here?”
“Twenty-eight with their spouses are due after lunch. That’s all that accepted the trips we offered.”
He started thinking like a lawyer, studying each word in the letter, analyzing the diction and syntax. Was the proposal fraudulent? Maybe. Ambiguous? Definitely. Should he tell McKoy about Grumer and show him the wallet? Explain about the letters in the sand? McKoy was still an unknown commodity. A stranger. But weren’t most clients? Perfect strangers one minute, trusted confidants the next. No. He decided to keep quiet and wait a little longer and see what developed.
Suzanne entered the garni and climbed a marble staircase to the second floor. Grumer had called ten minutes ago and informed her that McKoy and the Cutlers had left for the excavation site. Grumer waited at the end of the second floor hall.
“There,” he said. “Room Twenty-one.”
She stopped at the door, a slab of paneled oak stained dark, its jamb tattered from time and abuse. The lock was part of the doorknob, a tarnished piece of brass that accepted a regular key. No dead bolt. Lock picking had never been her specialty, so she slipped the letter opener commandeered from the concierge’s desk into the jamb and worked the point, easily sliding the latch bolt out of the strike plate.
She opened the door. “Careful with our search. Let’s not announce our visit.”
Grumer started with the furniture. She moved to the luggage and discovered only one travel bag. She rifled through the clothes—mainly men’s—and found no letters. She checked the bathroom. The toiletries were also mainly men’s. Then she searched the more obvious places. Under the mattress and bed, on top of the armoire, beneath the drawers in the nightstands.
“The letters are not here,” Grumer said.
“Search again.”
They did. This time not caring about neatness. When they finished the room was a wreck. But still, no letters. Her patience was running thin. “Get to the site,Herr Doktor , and find those letters or there’ll be not one euro paid to you. Understand?”
Grumer seemed to sense she was in no mood and only nodded before leaving.
FORTY-ONE
Burg Herz
10:45 a.m.
Knoll thrust his erect member deeper. Monika was hunched on all fours, back to him, her firm ass arched high, her head buried deep into a goose-down pillow.
“Come on, Christian. Show me what that bitch from Georgia missed.”
He pumped harder, sweat beading on his brow. She reached back and gently massaged his balls. She knew exactly how to work him. And that fact alone bothered him. Monika knew him far too well.
He grasped her thin waist with both hands and torqued her body forward. She accepted the gesture and sighed like a cat after a satisfying kill. He felt her come a moment later, a deep moan confirming her delight. He pounded a few more seconds, then came, too. She continued her testicle massage, milking every drop of his pleasure.
Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.
She released her hold. He withdrew and relaxed onto the bed. She lay beside him, belly down. He caught his breath and allowed the last spasms of orgasm to shudder through him. He kept his body still, not giving the bitch the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it.
“Hell of a lot better than some mousy lawyer, huh?”
He shrugged. “Never got to sample the wares.”
“What about that Italian whore you sliced up. Good?”
He kissed his index finger and thumb. “Mullissemo.Well worth whatever she charged.”
“And Suzanne Danzer?
The resentment was clear. “Your jealousy is so unbecoming.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Monika raised up on one elbow. She’d been waiting in his room when he arrived a half hour ago. Burg Herz was only an hour west of Stod. He’d returned to his home base for further instructions, deciding a face-to-face talk with his employer was better than the telephone.
“I don’t get it, Christian. What is it you see in Danzer? You prefer the finer things of life, not some charity case raised by Loring.”
“That charity case, as you say, graduated with honors from the University of Paris. She speaks a dozen languages, that I know of. She is well versed in the arts and can fire a sidearm with expert accuracy. She is also attractive, and an excellent lay. I’d say Suzanne has some admirable credentials.”
“Like one-upping you?”
He grinned. “To the devil her due, yes. But payback is truly hell.”
“Don’t make this personal, Christian. Violence draws too much attention. The world is not your personal playground.”
“I am well aware of my duties and my limits.”
Monika shot him a wiry grin, one he’d never liked. She seemed determined to make this as difficult as possible. It was so much easier when Fellner ran the show. Now business mixed with pleasure. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
“Father should be through with his meeting. He said for us to come to the study.”
He pushed up from the mattress. “Then let us not keep him waiting.”
He followed Monika into her father’s study. The old man sat behind an eighteenth-century walnut desk Fellner had purchased in Berlin two decades ago. He sucked on an ivory pipe with an amber mouthpiece, another rare collectible that once belonged to Alexander II of Russia, liberated from another thief in Romania.
Fellner looked tired, and Knoll hoped their remaining time together would not be short. That’d be a shame. He’d miss their banter on classical literature and art, along with their political debates. He’d learned a lot from his years at Burg Herz—a working education obtained while scouring the world for lost treasure. He appreciated the opportunity that had been extended, grateful for the life, determined to do what the old man wanted till the end.
“Christian. Welcome back. Sit. Tell me everything that happened.” Fellner’s tone w
as upbeat, his face alight with a warm smile.
He and Monika sat. He reported what he’d learned about Danzer and her meeting the night before with a man named Grumer.
“I know him,” Fellner said. “Herr DoktorAlfred Grumer. An academic whore. Moves from university to university. But is connected in the German government and sells that influence. Not surprising a man like McKoy would attach himself to him.”
“Obviously Grumer is Danzer’s source at the site,” Monika said.
“I agree,” Fellner said. “And Grumer wouldn’t be around unless there was a profit to be made. This may be more interesting than first thought. Ernst is intent on this. He called again this morning inquiring. Apparently he’s concerned for your good health, Christian. I told him we had not heard from you in days.”
“All of this certainly fits the pattern,” Knoll said.
“What pattern?” Monika asked.
Fellner grinned at his daughter. “Perhaps it is time,liebling, you know it all. What do you say, Christian?”
Monika looked perturbed. He loved her obvious confusion. The bitch needed to realize she didn’t know everything.
Fellner slid open one of the drawers and extracted a thick file. “Christian and I have followed this for years.” Across the desk he spread an assortment of newspaper clippings and magazine articles.
“The first death we know of was in 1957. A German reporter from one of my Hamburg newspapers. He came here, looking for an interview. I indulged him, he was remarkably well informed, and a week later he was hit by a bus in Berlin. Witnesses swore he was pushed.
“The next death came two years later. Another reporter. Italian. A car forced him off an alpine road. Two more deaths in 1960, a drug overdose and a robbery gone wrong. From 1960 to 1970 there were a dozen more all over Europe. Reporters. Insurance adjusters. Police investigators. Their demises ranged from supposed suicides to three outright murders.
“My dear, all these people were looking for the Amber Room. Christian’s predecessors, my first two Acquisitors, kept a close watch on the press. Anything that might seem related was thoroughly investigated. In the 1970s and ‘80s the incidents waned. Only six we know of during those twenty years. The last was a Polish reporter killed in a mine explosion three years ago.” He looked at Monika. “I’m not sure of the exact location, but it was near where Christian’s mishap occurred.”
“I’d wager in the same mine,” Knoll said.
“Very strange, wouldn’t you say? Christian finds a name in St. Petersburg, Karol Borya, the next thing we know the man’s dead along with his former colleague.Liebling, Christian and I have long thought Loring knows far more of the Amber Room than he wants to admit.”
“His father loved amber,” Monika said. “So does he.”
“Josef was a secretive man. Moreso than Ernst. It was hard to ever know what he was thinking. Many times we talked on the subject of the Amber Room. I even offered a joint venture once—an all-out search for the panels—but he refused. Called it a waste of time and money. But something about his denials bothered me. So I started keeping this file, checking everything I could. I learned there were too many deaths, too many coincidences for it all to be random. Now Suzanne is trying to kill Christian. And paying a million euros for mere information on a treasure dig.” Fellner shook his head. “I would say the trail we thought ice cold has warmed considerably.”
Monika gestured to the clippings fanned on the desk. “You think all those people were murdered?”
“Is there any other logical conclusion?” Fellner said.
Monika stepped close to the desk and thumbed through the articles. “We were on target with Borya, weren’t we?”
“I would say so,” Knoll said. “How, I’m not sure. But it was enough for Suzanne to kill Chapaev and try to eliminate me.”
“That dig site could be important,” Fellner said. “I think the time for sparring is over. You have my permission, Christian, to handle the situation at will.”
Monika stared at her father. “I thought I was to be in charge.”
Fellner smiled. “You must indulge an old man one last quest. Christian and I have worked this for years. I feel we may be on to something. I ask your permission,liebling , to intrude on your domain.”
Monika managed a weak smile, clearly not pleased. But, Knoll thought, what could she say? Never had she openly defied her father, though privately she’d many times vented her anger over his perpetual patience. Fellner was raised in the old school, where men ruled and women gave birth. He commanded a financial empire that dominated the European communications market. Politicians and industrialists courted his favor. But his wife and son were dead, and Monika was the only remaining Fellner. So he’d been forced to mold a woman intohis image of a man. Luckily, she was tough. And smart.
“Of course, Father. Do as you wish.”
Fellner reached over and cupped his daughter’s hand. “I know you don’t understand. But I love you for your deference.”
Knoll couldn’t resist. “Something new.”
Monika shot him a hard glance.
Fellner chuckled. “Quite right, Christian. You know her well. You two will make quite a team.”
Monika retreated to a chair.
Fellner said, “Christian, return to Stod and find out what is going on. Handle Suzanne however you desire. Before I die I want to know about the Amber Room, one way or the other. If you have any doubts, remember that mine shaft and your ten million euros.”
He stood. “I assure you, I will not forget either.”
FORTY-TWO
Stod
1:45 p.m.
The garni’s grand salon was full. Paul stood off to the side next to Rachel, watching the drama unfold. Certainly, if ambience counted, the room’s decor should definitely help Wayland McKoy. Colorful, thickly framed maps of old Germany hung from oak-paneled walls. A shimmering brass chandelier, burnished antique chairs, and a richly designed Oriental carpet rounded out the atmosphere.
Fifty-six people filled the chairs, their faces a mixture of wonder and exhaustion. They’d been bussed straight from Frankfurt, after arriving by air four hours ago. Their ages varied from early thirties to mid-sixties. Race varied, too. Most were white, two black couples, both older, and one Japanese pair. They all seemed eager and anticipatory.
McKoy and Grumer stood at the front of the long room along with five of the excavation’s employees. A television with VCR rested on a metal stand. Two somber men sat in the rear, notebooks in hand, and appeared to be reporters. McKoy wanted to exclude them, but both flashed identification from ZDF, a German news organization that had optioned the story, and insisted on staying. “Just watch what you say,” Paul had warned.
“Welcome, partners,” McKoy said, smiling like a television evangelist. A murmur of conversation receded.
“There’s coffee, juice, and danish outside. I know you’ve had a long journey and are tired. Jet lag’s hell, right? But I’m sure you’re also anxious to hear how things are goin’.”
The direct approach had been Paul’s idea. McKoy had favored stalling, but Paul had argued that would do nothing but arouse suspicions. “Keep the tone pleasant and mild,” he’d warned. “No ‘fuck you’ every other word like I heard yesterday, okay?” McKoy repeatedly assured him he was housebroken, fully schooled on how to handle a crowd.
“I know the question on all your minds. Have we found anythin’? No, not yet. But we did make progress yesterday.” He motioned to Grumer. “This isHerr Doktor Alfred Grumer, professor of art antiquities at the University of Mainz.Herr Doktor is our resident expert on the dig. I’ll let him explain what happened.”
Grumer stepped forward, looking the part of an elderly professor in a tweed wool jacket, corduroy pants, and knit tie. He stood with his right hand stuffed in his trouser pocket, his left arm free. With a disarming smile he said, “I thought I would tell you a little something about how this venture came about.
“Looting art treasure is
a time-honored tradition. The Greeks and Romans always stripped a defeated nation of their valuables. Crusaders during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries pilfered all across Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Western European churches and cathedrals continue to be adorned with their plunder.
“In the seventeenth century, a more refined method of stealing began. After a military defeat the great royal collections—there were no museums in those days—were purchased rather than stolen. An example. When Tsarist armies occupied Berlin in 1757, Frederick II’s collections were not touched. To have tampered with them would have been regarded as barbaric, even by the Russians, who were themselves deemed barbarians by Europeans.
“Napoleon was perhaps the greatest looter of all. Germany’s, Spain’s, and Italy’s museums were stripped clean so the Louvre could be stocked full. After Waterloo, at the Congress of Vienna in 1815, France was ordered to return the stolen art. Some was, but a lot remained the property of France and can still be seen in Paris.”
Paul was impressed with how Grumer handled himself. Like a teacher in class. The group seemed fascinated by the information.
“Your President Lincoln issued an order during the American Civil War that called for the protection of Southern classical works of art, libraries, scientific collections, and precious instruments. A conference in Brussels in 1874 endorsed a similar proposal. Nicholas II, the Russian Tsar, proposed even more ambitious protections, which were approved at the Hague in 1907, but these codes proved of limited value during the two world wars following.
“Hitler completely ignored the Hague Convention and mimicked Napoleon. The Nazis created an entire administrative department that did nothing but steal. Hitler wanted to build a supershowcase—the Führermuseum—to be the largest collection of art in the world. He intended to locate this museum in Linz, Austria, his birthplace. TheSonderauftrag Linz , Hitler called it. Special Mission Linz. It was to become the heart of the Third Reich, designed by Hitler himself.”
Grumer paused a moment, seemingly allowing the information to be absorbed.