He smiled. “Nothing like a brush with death to breed trust.”
“You want to fuck her or something?”
He didn’t want to say much more, but he also wanted the man available in the future. He nodded and said, “A good way to get into the pants.”
The driver counted off the bills. “Five hundred euros is a lot for a piece of ass.”
But he considered the Amber Room and the ten million euros it would bring him. Then reconsidered Rachel Cutler and her attractiveness, which had lingered after she’d left.
“Not really.”
Atlanta, Georgia
12:35 p.m.
Paul was concerned. He’d skipped lunch and stayed in the office, hoping Rachel would call. It was after 6:30P .M. in Germany. She’d mentioned the possibility of staying in Munich one night before heading to Kehlheim. So he wasn’t sure if she’d call today, or tomorrow after she made it south to the Alps, or if she’d call at all.
Rachel was outspoken, aggressive, and tough. Always had been. That independent spirit was what made her a good judge. But it also made her hard to know, and even harder to like. Friends didn’t come easy. But down deep, she was warm and caring. He knew that. Unfortunately, the two of them were like grease and fire. But were they, really? They both thought a quiet dinner at home better than a crowded restaurant. A video rental preferable to the theater. An afternoon with the kids at the zoo heaven, compared with a night out on the town. He realized she missed her father. They’d been close, particularly after the divorce. Karol had tried hard to get them back together.
What had the old man’s note said?
Maybe give Paul another chance.
But it was no use. Rachel was determined that they were to live apart. She’d rebuffed every attempt he made at a reconciliation. Maybe it was time he obliged her and gave up. But there was something there. Her lack of a social life. Her reliance and trust in him. And how many men possessed a key to their ex-wife’s house? How many still shared the title to property? Or continued to maintain a joint account for stocks? She’d never once insisted that their Merrill Lynch account be closed, and he’d managed it the last three years without her ever questioning his judgment.
He stared at the phone. Why hadn’t she called? What was going on? Some man, Christian Knoll, was supposedly looking for her. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps not. All the information he possessed was the word of a rather attractive brunette with bright blue eyes and shapely legs. Jo Myers. She’d been calm and collected, handling his questions well, her answers quick and to the point. It was almost as if she could sense his apprehension toward Rachel, the doubts he harbored about her traveling to Germany. He’d volunteered a little too much, and that fact bothered him. Rachel had no business in Germany. Of that he was sure. The Amber Room was not her concern, and it was doubtful Danya Chapaev was even still alive.
He reached across his desk and retrieved his former father-in-law’s letters. He found the note penned to Rachel and scanned down the page about halfway:
Did we ever find it? Perhaps. Neither of us really went and looked. Too many were watching in those days and, by the time we narrowed the trail, both of us realized the Soviets were far worse than the Germans. So we left it alone. Danya and I vowed never to reveal what we knew, or perhaps simply what we thought we knew. Only when Yancy volunteered to make discreet inquiries, checking information that I once thought credible, did I inquire again. He was making an inquiry on his last trip to Italy. Whether that blast on the plane was attributable to his questions or something else will never be known. All I know is that the search for the Amber Room has proved dangerous.
He read a little farther and again found the warning:
But never, absolutely never, concern yourself with the Amber Room. Remember the story of Phaëthon and the tears of the Heliades. Heed his ambition and their grief.
He’d read a lot of the classics, but couldn’t recall the specifics. Rachel had been evasive three days ago when he asked her about the story at the dining room table.
He turned to his computer terminal and accessed the Internet. He selected a search engine and typed “Phaëthon and the Heliades.” The screen noted over a hundred sites. He randomly checked a couple. The third was the best, a Web page titled “The Mythical World of Edith Hamilton.” He scanned through until he found the story of Phaëthon, a bibliography noting the account was from Ovid’sMetamorphoses .
He read the story. It was colorful and prophetic.
Phaëthon, the illegitimate son of Helios, the Sun God, finally found his father. Feeling guilty, the Sun God granted his son one wish, and the boy immediately chose to take his father’s place for a day, piloting the sun chariot across the sky from dawn to dusk. The father realized his son’s folly and tried in vain to dissuade the boy, but he would not be deterred. So Helios granted the wish, but warned the boy how difficult the chariot was to command. None of the Sun God’s cautions seemed to mean anything. All the boy saw was himself standing in the wondrous chariot, guiding the steeds that Zeus himself could not master.
Once airborne, though, Phaëthon quickly discovered that his father’s warnings were correct, and he lost control of the chariot. The horses darted to the top of the sky, then plunged close enough to the earth to set the world ablaze. Zeus, having no choice, unleashed a thunderbolt that destroyed the chariot and killed Phaëthon. The mysterious river Eridanus received him and cooled the flames that engulfed his body. The Naiads, in pity for one so bold and so young, buried him. Phaëthon’s sisters, the Heliades, came to his grave and mourned. Zeus, taking pity on their sorrow, turned them into poplar trees that sprouted sadly murmuring leaves on the bank of the Eridanus.
He read the last lines of the story on the screen:
WHERE SORROWING THEY WEEP INTO THE STREAM FOREVER
EACH TEAR AS IT FALLS SHINES IN THE WATER
A GLISTENING DROP OF AMBER.
He instantly recalled the copy of Ovid’sMetamorphoses he’d seen on Borya’s bookshelves. Karol was trying to warn Rachel, but she wouldn’t listen. Like Phaëthon, she’d raced off on a foolish quest, not understanding the dangers or appreciating the risks. Would Christian Knoll be her Zeus? The one to hurl a thunderbolt.
He stared at the phone. Ring, dammit.
What should he do?
He could do nothing. Stay with the kids, look after them, and wait for Rachel to return from her wild goose chase. He could call the police and perhaps alert the German authorities. But if Christian Knoll was nothing more than a curious investigator, Rachel would soundly chastise him. Alarmist Paul, she’d say.
And he didn’t need to hear that.
But there was a third option. The one most appealing. He glanced at his watch. 1:50P .M. 7:50 in Germany. He reached for the phone book, found the number, and dialed Delta Airlines. The reservation clerk came on the line.
“I need a flight to Munich from Atlanta, leaving tonight.”
Kehlheim, Germany
Saturday, May 17, 8:05 a.m.
Suzanne made good time. She’d left Paul Cutler’s office yesterday and immediately flew to New York, where she caught the Concorde leaving at 6:30 for Paris. Arriving a little after 10P .M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1A .M. She’d managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Förggensee, east of Füssen.
The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake’s east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a ramblingmarktplatz surrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze.
She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market. The air reeked of raw meat, damp produce, and spent tobacco. She strolled through the mélange swarming with summer sojourners. Children played in noisy groups. Hammer blows echoed in the distance. An older man at one of the booths, with silver hair and an angled nose, caught her attention. He wasn’t far from the age Danya Chapaev should be. She approached and admired his apples and cherries.
“Beautiful fruit,” she said in German.
“My own,” the older man said.
She bought three apples, smiled broadly, and warmed to him. Her image was perfect. Reddish-blond wig, fair skin, hazel eyes. Her breasts were enhanced two sizes by a pair of external silicone inserts. She’d padded her hips and thighs, as well, the fitted jeans two sizes larger to accommodate the manufactured bulk. A plaid flannel shirt and tan prairie boots rounded out the disguise. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, dark, but not enough to draw attention. Later, eyewitnesses would surely describe a busty, heavyset blonde.
“Do you know where Danya Chapaev lives?” she finally asked. “He’s an old man. Lived here awhile. A friend of my grandfather. I came to deliver a present but lost directions to where he lives. I only found the village by luck.”
The older man shook his head. “How careless, Fräulein.”
She smiled, soaking in the rebuke. “I know. But I’m like that. My mind stays a thousand miles away.”
“I don’t know where a Chapaev lives. I’m from Nesselwang, to the west. But let me get someone from here.”
Before she could stop him, he yelled to another man across the square. She didn’t want to draw too much attention to her inquiry. The two men spoke in French, a language she wasn’t overly proficient in, but she caught an occasional word here and there. Chapaev. North. Three kilometers. Near the lake.
“Eduard knows Chapaev. Says he lives north of town. Three kilometers. Right beside the lakeshore. That road there. Small stone chalet with a chimney.”
She smiled and nodded at the information, then heard the man from across the square call out, “Julius! Julius!”
A boy of about twelve scampered toward the stall. He had light brown hair and a cute face. The vendor spoke to the lad, then the boy ran toward her. Behind, a flock of ducks sprang from the lake, up into the milky morning sky.
“You looking for Chapaev?” the boy asked. “That’s my grandpapa. I can show you.”
His young eyes scanned her breasts. Her smile broadened. “Then lead the way.”
Men of all ages were so easy to manipulate.
9:15 a.m.
Rachel glanced across the front seat at Christian Knoll. They were speeding south on autobahn E533, thirty minutes south of Munich. The terrain framed by the Volvo’s tinted windows featured ghostly peaks emerging from a curtain of haze, snow whitening the folds of the highest altitudes, the slopes below clothed in verdant fir and larch.
“It’s beautiful out there,” she said.
“Spring is the best time to visit the Alps. This your first time in Germany?”
She nodded.
“You will very much like the area.”
“You travel a lot?”
“All the time.”
“Where’s home?”
“I have an apartment in Vienna, but rarely do I stay there. My work takes me all over the world.”
She studied her enigmatic chauffeur. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his neck thick, his arms long and powerful. He was again dressed casually. Plaid chamois cloth shirt, jeans, boots, and smelled faintly of sweet cologne. He was the first European man she’d ever really talked with at length. Maybe that was the fascination. He’d definitely piqued her interest.
“The KGB sheet said you have two children. Is there a husband?” Knoll asked.
“Used to be. We’re divorced.”
“That’s rather prevalent in America.”
“I hear a hundred or more a week in my court.”
Knoll shook his head. “Such a shame.”
“People can’t seem to live together.”
“Is your ex-husband a lawyer?”
“One of the best.” A Volvo whizzed by in the left-hand lane. “Amazing. That car’s got to be going over a hundred miles an hour.”
“Closer to one hundred and twenty,” Knoll said. “We’re doing nearly a hundred.”
“That’s a definite difference from home.”
“Is he a good father?” Knoll asked.
“My ex? Oh, yes. Very good.”
“Better father than husband?”
Strange, the questions. But she didn’t mind answering, the anonymity of a stranger lessening the intrusion. “I wouldn’t say that. Paul’s a good man. Any woman would be thrilled to have him.”
“Why weren’t you?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t. I simply said we couldn’t live together.”
Knoll seemed to sense her hesitancy. “I did not mean to pry. It’s just that people interest me. With no permanent home or roots, I enjoy probing others. Simple curiosity. Nothing more.”
“It’s okay. No offense taken.” She sat silent for a few moments, then said, “I should have called and told Paul where I’m staying. He’s watching the children.”
“You can let him know this evening.”
“He’s not happy I’m even here. He and my father said I should stay out of it.”
“You discussed this with your father before his death?”
“Not at all. He left me a note with his will.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Just something I have to do.”
“I can understand. The Amber Room is quite a prize. People have searched for it since the war.”
“So I’ve been told. What makes it so special?”
“Hard to say. Art has such a varying effect on people. The interesting thing about the Amber Room was that it moved everyone in the same way. I’ve read accounts from the nineteenth and the early part of the twentieth century. All agree it was magnificent. Imagine, an entire room paneled in amber.”
“It sounds amazing.”
“Amber is so precious. You know much about it?” Knoll asked.
“Very little.”
“Just fossilized tree resin, forty to fifty millions of years old. Sap hardened by the millennia into a gem. The Greeks called itelektron , ‘substance of the sun,’ for the color and because, if you rub a piece with your hands, it produces an electric charge. Chopin used to finger chains of it before he played the piano. It warms to the touch and carries away perspiration.”