by Steve Berry
“The guy must have got me from behind,” the man said, rubbing the back of his head.
“How do you know it was a guy?” McKoy asked.
“I saw him,” another worker said. “I was in the shed outside going over the tunnel routes for the area. I saw a woman race out of the shaft with a gun in her hand. A man came out right after. He had a knife. They both disappeared into the woods.”
“You go after ’em?” McKoy asked.
“Shit, no.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You pay me to dig, not be a hero. I headed in here. Place was black as soot. I went back out and got a flashlight. That’s when I found Danny lying in the gallery.”
“What did the woman look like?” Paul asked.
“Blonde, I think. Short. Fast as a jackrabbit.”
Paul nodded. “She was at the hotel earlier.”
McKoy said, “When?”
“While you and Grumer were talking. Came in for a minute then left.”
McKoy understood. “Just the fuck long enough to see if we were all there.”
“Looks that way,” Paul said. “I think it was the same woman from my office. Different look, but there was something familiar about her.”
“Lawyer intuition shit?” McKoy said.
“Something like that.”
“Did you get a look at the man?” Rachel asked the worker.
“Tall guy. Light hair. With a knife.”
“Knoll,” she said.
Visions of the knife blade from the mine flashed through her mind. “They’re here, Paul. Both of them are here.”
Rachel was uneasy when she and Paul climbed the Garni’s stairs to their second-floor room. Her watch read 8:10P .M. Earlier, Paul had telephoned Fritz Pannik but got only an answering service. He left a message about Knoll and the woman, his suspicions, and asked the inspector to call. But there was no return message waiting at the front desk.
McKoy had insisted they eat dinner with the partners. Fine by her—the more crowds, the better. She, Paul, McKoy, and Grumer had divided the group between them, the talk all of the dig and what might be found. Her thoughts, though, stayed on Knoll and the woman.
“That was tough,” she said. “I had to watch every word I said so no one could say later I misled them. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea?”
Paul turned down the hall toward their room. “Look who’s not adventurous now.”
“You’re a respected lawyer. I’m a judge. McKoy has latched on to us like Velcro. If he did bilk these people, we could become accomplices. Your daddy used to say all the time, ‘If you can’t run with the big dogs, get back under the porch.’ I’m ready to climb back under.”
He fished the room key from his pocket. “I don’t think McKoy ripped anybody off. The more I study that letter, the more I read it as ambiguous, not false. I also think McKoy is genuinely shocked by the find. Now, Grumer—him, I’m not so sure about.”
He unlocked the door and switched on the overhead light.
The room was wrecked. Drawers were yanked out. The armoire door swung open. The mattress was askew with the sheets half off. All their clothes lay strewn on the floor.
“The maid service in this place sucks,” Paul said.
She wasn’t amused. “This doesn’t bother you? Somebody’s searched this place. Oh, shit. Daddy’s letters. And that wallet you found.”
Paul closed the door. He slipped off his coat and yanked out his shirttail. A body wallet wrapped his abdomen. “Going to be a little difficult for anybody to find.”
“Mother of God. I’ll never berate your obsessiveness again. That was damn smart, Paul Cutler.”
He lowered his shirt. “Copies of your daddy’s letters are back at the office in the safe just in case.”
“You expected this?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to be prepared. With Knoll and the woman now around, anything can happen.”
“Maybe we should get out of here. That judges’ campaign waiting back home doesn’t seem so bad right now. Marcus Nettles is a piece of cake compared to this.”
Paul was calm. “I think it’s time we do something else.”
Instantly, she understood. “I agree. Let’s go find McKoy.”
Paul watched McKoy attack the door. Rachel stood behind him. The effects of three huge steins of beer showed in the intensity of McKoy’s pounding.
“Grumer, unlock this goddamned door,” McKoy screamed.
The door opened.
Grumer was still dressed in the long-sleeved shirt and trousers worn at dinner. “What is it, Herr McKoy? Has there been another incident?”
McKoy pushed into the room, shoving Grumer aside. Paul and Rachel followed. Two bedside lamps burned soft. Grumer had obviously been reading. An English copy of Polk’sDutch Influence on German Renaissance Painting lay parted on the bed. McKoy grabbed Grumer by the shirt and slammed him hard against the wall, rattling the picture frames.
“I’m a North Carolina redneck. Right now, a half-drunk North Carolina redneck. You may not know what that means, but I’ll tell you it ain’t good. I’m in no damn mood, Grumer. No damn fuckin’ mood at all. Cutler tells me you dusted away letters in the sand. Where are the pictures?”
“I know nothing of what he says.”
McKoy released his grip and rammed a fist into Grumer’s stomach. The man doubled over, choking for air.
McKoy yanked him up. “Let’s try it one more time. Where are the pictures?”
Grumer struggled for breath, coughing up bile, but managed to point to the bed. Rachel grabbed the book. Inside were a clutch of color photographs showing the skeleton and letters.
McKoy dropped Grumer to the carpet and studied the pictures. “I want to know why, Grumer. What the hell for?”
Paul wondered if he should issue a caution on the violence, but decided that Grumer had it coming. Besides, McKoy probably wouldn’t listen anyway.
Grumer finally answered. “Money, Herr McKoy.”
“Fifty thousand dollars I paid you wasn’t enough?”
Grumer said nothing.
“Unless you want to start coughin’ up blood, you’d better tell me everything.”
Grumer seemed to get the message. “About a month ago, I was approached by a man—”
“Name.”
Grumer caught a breath. “He gave no name.”
McKoy reared back his fist.
“Please . . . it is true. No name at all, and he talked only by telephone. He’d read about my employment on this dig and offered twenty thousand euros for information. I saw no harm. He told me a woman named Margarethe would contact me.”
“And?”
“I met her last evening.”
“Did she or you search our room?” Rachel asked.
“Both of us. She was interested in the letters from your father.”
“She say why?” McKoy asked.
“Nein.But I think I may know.” Grumer was starting to breathe normally again, but his right arm hugged his stomach. He propped himself up against the wall. “Have you ever heard ofRetter der Verlorenen Antiquitäten ?”
“No,” McKoy said. “Enlighten me.”
“It is a group of nine people. Their identities unknown, but all are wealthy art lovers. They employ locators, their own personal collectors, called Acquisitors. The ingenious part of their association is as the name implies. ‘Retrievers ofLostAntiquities.’ They steal only what is already stolen. Each member’s Acquisitor jousts for a prize. It’s a sophisticated and expensive game, but a game nonetheless.”
“Get to the point,” McKoy said.
“This Margarethe, I suspect, is an Acquisitor. She never said, nor implied, but I believe my guess correct.”
“What about Christian Knoll?” Rachel asked.
“The same. These two are competing for something.”
“I’m gettin’ the urge to beat the fuck out of you again,” McKoy said. “Who does Margarethe work
for?”
“Only a guess, but I would say Ernst Loring.”
The name got Paul’s attention, and he saw that Rachel was listening, too.
“From what I have been told, the club members are very competitive. There are thousands of lost objects to retrieve. Most from the last war, but many have been stolen from museums and private collections throughout the world. Quite clever, actually. To steal the stolen. Who’s going to complain?”
McKoy moved toward Grumer. “You’re tryin’ my patience. Get to the damn point.”
“The Amber Room,” Grumer said between breaths.
Rachel forced a hand into McKoy’s chest. “Let him explain.”
“Again, this is only conjecture on my part. But the Amber Room left Königsberg sometime between January and April 1945. No one knows for sure. The records are unclear. Erich Koch, the gauleiter of Prussia, evacuated the panels on Hitler’s direct order. Koch, though, was a protégé of Hermann Göring, in reality more loyal to Göring than Hitler. The rivalry between Hitler and Göring for art is well documented. Göring justified his collecting by wanting to create a museum of national art at Karinhall, his home. Hitler was supposed to have first choice on any spoils, but Göring beat him to many of the best pieces. As the war progressed, Hitler took more and more personal control of the fighting, which limited the time he could devote to other matters. Göring, though, stayed mobile and was ferocious in collecting.”
“What the fuck has this got to do with anything?” McKoy said.
“Göring wanted the Amber Room to become part of his Karinhall collection. Some argue it was he, not Hitler, who ordered the evacuation of the amber from Königsberg. He wanted Koch to keep the amber panels safe from the Russians, the Americans, and Hitler. But it was believed Hitler discovered the plan and confiscated the treasure before Göring could secure them.”
“Daddy was right,” Rachel softly said.
Paul stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“He told me once about the Amber Room and interviewing Göring after the war. All Göring said was Hitler beat him to it.” She then told them about Mauthausen and the four German soldiers that were frozen to death.
“Where did you learn all your information?” Paul asked Grumer. “My father-in-law had a lot of articles on the Amber Room and none mentioned any of what you’ve just said.” He’d purposefully omitted the reference toformer father-in-law, and Rachel did not correct him like she usually did.
“There would be no mention,” Grumer said. “The Western media rarely deals with the Amber Room. Few people even know what it is. German and Russian scholars, though, have long researched the subject. I’ve heard this particular information on Göring repeated often, but never such a firsthand account as Frau Cutler relates.”
McKoy said, “How does this fit into our dig?”
“One account states that three trucks eventually were loaded with the panels somewhere west of Königsberg,after Hitler took control. Those trucks headed west and were never seen again. They would have been heavy transports—”
“Like Büssing NAGs,” McKoy said.
Grumer nodded.
McKoy plopped on the edge of the bed. “The three trucks we found?” The harsh tone had softened.
“Too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“But the trucks are empty,” Paul said.
“Exactly,” Grumer said. “Perhaps the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities know even more of the story. Maybe that explains two Acquisitors’ rather intent interest.”
“But you don’t even know if Knoll and this woman have anything to do with that group,” Rachel said.
“No, Frau Cutler, I do not. But Margarethe does not impress me as being an independent collector. You were around Herr Knoll. Would you say the same?”
“Knoll refused to say who he worked for.”
“Which makes him even more suspect,” McKoy said.
Paul slipped the wallet found at the site from his jacket pocket and handed it to Grumer. “What about this?” He explained where it was found.
“You discovered what I was looking for,” Grumer said. “The information Margarethe requested concerned any possible dating of the site beyond 1945. I searched all five skeletons, but found nothing. This proves the site was violated postwar.”
“There’s some writing on a scrap of paper inside. What is it?”
Grumer looked close. “Appears to be some sort of permit or license. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955.”
“And this Margarethe wanted to know this?” McKoy asked.
Grumer nodded. “She was willing to pay handsomely for the information.”
McKoy ran a hand through his hair. The big man looked worn out. Grumer took the moment to explain. “Herr McKoy, I had no idea the site was dry. I was as excited as you when we broke through. The signals, though, were becoming clearer. No explosives or even remnants. Narrow passage in. Lack of any door or steel reinforcement for the shaft or the chamber. And the trucks. Heavy transports should not be there.”
“Unless the goddamned Amber Roomused to be there.”
“That is correct.”
“Tell us more about what happened,” Paul said to Grumer.
“There is little to tell. Stories attest that the Amber Room was placed in crates, then loaded onto three trucks. The trucks were supposedly heading south to Berchesgarten and the safety of the Alps. But the Soviet and American armies were all over Germany. There was nowhere to go. Supposedly, the trucks were hidden. But there is no record where. Perhaps their hiding place was the Harz mines.”
“You figure since this Margarethe was so interested in Borya’s letters and is here, the Amber Room must have something to do with all this,” McKoy asked.
“It would seem a logical conclusion.”
Paul asked, “Why do you think Loring is her employer?”
“Only a guess based on what I’ve read and heard through the years. The Loring family was, and is, interested in the Amber Room.”
Rachel had a question. “Why erase the letters? Did Margarethe pay you to do that?”
“Not really. She only made clear that nothing should remain that dates the chamber past 1945.”
“Why was that a concern?” Rachel asked.
“I truly have no idea.”
“What does she look like?” Paul asked.
“She’s the same woman as you described this afternoon.”
“You realize that she could have killed Chapaev and Rachel’s father.”
“And you didn’t say a damn word?” McKoy said to Grumer. “I ought to beat the livin’ fuck out of you. You understand how much shit I’m in with a dry site. Now this.” The big man rubbed his eyes, seemingly trying to calm himself, then quietly asked, “When’s the next contact, Grumer?”
“She indicated that she would call me.”
“I want to know the second that bitch does. I’ve had enough. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly,” Grumer said.
McKoy stood and headed for the door. “You better, Grumer. Let me know the second you hear from that woman.”
“Of course. Anything you say.”
The phone was ringing in their room when Paul opened the door. Rachel followed him inside as he answered. It was Fritz Pannik. He quickly recounted to Pannik what happened earlier, telling the inspector that the woman and Knoll were nearby, or at least had been a few hours ago.
“I will dispatch someone from the local police to take a statement from everyone first thing in the morning.”
“You think those two are still here?”
“If what Alfred Grumer says is true, I would say yes. Sleep light, Herr Cutler, and I will see you tomorrow.”
Paul hung up and sat on the bed.
“What do you think?” Rachel asked, sitting beside him.
“You’re the judge. Did Grumer seem credible?”
“Not to me. But McKoy seemed to buy what he was saying.”
“I don’t know
about that. I get the feeling McKoy’s holding something back, too. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something he’s not saying. He was listening closely to Grumer on the Amber Room. But we can’t worry about that now. I’m concerned about Knoll and the woman. They’re roaming around here, and I don’t like it.”
She sat down on the bed beside him. His eyes caught the swell of her breasts through the tight-fitting turtleneck sweater. Ice Queen? Not to him. He’d felt her body all last night, unnerved by the closeness. Periodically he’d taken in her scent as she slept. At one point, he tried to imagine himself three years back, still married to her, still able to physically love her. Everything was surreal. Lost treasure. Killers wandering about. His ex-wife in bed with him.
“Maybe you were right to begin with,” Rachel said. “We’re in way over our heads and should just get out of here. There’s Marla and Brent to think about.” She looked at him. “And there’s us.” Her hand came to his.
“What do you mean?”
She softly kissed him on the lips. He sat perfectly still. She then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard.
“Are you sure about this, Rachel?” he asked as they parted.
“I don’t know why I’m so hostile sometimes. You’re a good man, Paul. You don’t deserve the hurt I caused.”
“It wasn’t all your fault.”
“There you go again. Always shouldering blame. Can’t you let me take the blame just once?”
“Sure. You’re welcome to it.”
“I want it. And there’s something else I want.”
He saw the look in her eye, understood, and instantly rose from the bed. “This is really weird. We haven’t been together in three years. I’ve grown accustomed to that. I thought we were through . . . in that way.”
“Paul, for once go with your instincts. Everything doesn’t have to be planned. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned lust?”
He held her gaze with his. “I want more than that, Rachel.”
“So do I.”
He moved toward the window, putting distance between them, and parted the sheers, anything to buy a little time. This was too much too fast. He stared down at the street, thinking about how long he’d dreamed of hearing those words. He’d not gone to court for the divorce hearing. Hours later, the final judgment had rolled out of the fax machine, his secretary laying it on his desk without a word. He’d refused to look at it, shoveling the paper, unread, into the trash. How could a judge’s signature silence what his heart knew to be right?