“You can start with some information. Who’s Josef Loring?”
“A Czech industrialist,” McKoy said. “He’s been dead about thirty years. There was talk he found the Amber Room right after the war, but nothin’ was ever verified. Another rumor for the books.”
Grumer said, “Loring was noted for lavish obsessions. He owned a very extensive art collection. One of the largest private amber collections in the world. I understand his son still has it. How would your father know of him?”
Rachel explained about the Extraordinary Commission and her father’s involvement. She also told them about Yancy and Marlene Cutler and her father’s reservations about their deaths.
“What’s Loring’s son’s name?” she asked.
“Ernst,” Grumer said. “He must be eighty now. Still lives on the family estate in southern Czech. Not all that far from here.”
There was something about Alfred Grumer that Paul simply did not like. The furrowed brow? The eyes that seemed to consider something else as the ears listened? For some reason, the German reminded him of the housepainter who two weeks ago tried to take the estate he represented for $12,300, easily settling for $1,250. No compunction about lying. More deception than truth in everything he said. Somebody not to be trusted.
“You have your father’s correspondence?” Grumer asked Rachel.
Paul didn’t want to show him, but thought the gesture would be a demonstration of their good faith. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew the sheets. Grumer and McKoy studied each letter in silence. McKoy particularly seemed riveted. When they finished, Grumer asked, “This Chapaev is dead?”
Paul nodded.
“Your father, Mrs. Cutler—by the way, are you two married?” McKoy asked.
“Divorced,” Rachel said.
“And travelin’ all over Germany together?”
Rachel’s face screwed tight. “Is that relevant to anything?”
McKoy gave her a curious look. “Maybe not, Your Honor. But you two are the ones disruptin’ my morning with questions. Like I was sayin’, your father worked with the Soviets, looking for the Amber Room?”
“He was interested in what you’re doing here.”
“He say anythin’ in particular?”
“No,” Paul said. “But he watched the CNN report and wanted theUSA Today account. The next thing we knew, he was studying a German map and reading old articles on the Amber Room.”
McKoy ambled over and plopped down in an oak swivel chair. The springs groaned from the weight. “You think we might have the right tunnel?”
“Karol knew something about the Amber Room,” Paul said. “So did Chapaev. My parents may have even known something. And somebody may have wanted them all kept quiet.”
“But do you have anything that shows they were the target of that bomb?” McKoy asked.
“No,” Paul said. “But after Chapaev’s death, I have to wonder. Karol was very remorseful about what happened to my parents. I’m beginning to believe there’s more to it than I thought.”
“Too many coincidences, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“What about the tunnel Chapaev directed you to?” Grumer asked.
“Nothing there,” Rachel said. “And Knoll thought the collapsed end was from an explosion. At least that’s what he said.”
McKoy grinned. “Wild goose chase?”
“Most likely,” Paul said.
“Any explanation as to why Chapaev would send you on a dead end?”
Rachel had to concede that she had no explanation. “But what about this Loring? Why would my father be concerned enough to have the Cutlers make inquiries about him?”
“The rumors concerning the Amber Room are widespread. So many, it is hard to keep them straight anymore. Your father may have been checking another lead,” Grumer said.
“You know anything about this Christian Knoll?” Paul asked Grumer.
“Nein.Never heard the name.”
“You here for a piece of the action?” McKoy suddenly asked.
Paul smiled. He’d half expected a sales pitch. “Hardly. We’re not treasure hunters. Just a couple of folks deep into something we probably have no business in. Since we were in the neighborhood, we thought a look might be worth the trip.”
“I’ve been diggin’ in these mountains for years—”
The shed door burst open. A grinning man in filthy overalls said, “We’re through!”
McKoy sprang from the chair. “Hot damn, Almighty. Call the TV crew. Tell ’em to get over here. And nobody goes inside till I get there.”
The worker sprinted off.
“Let’s go, Grumer.”
Rachel thrust forward, blocking McKoy’s path to the door. “Let us come.”
“The shit for?”
“My father.”
McKoy hesitated a few seconds, then said, “Why not? But stay the hell out of the way.”
An uncomfortable feeling swept over Rachel. The shaft was wide but tighter than the one yesterday, and the entrance had faded behind them. Twenty-four hours earlier she’d almost been buried alive. Now she was back underground, following a trail of exposed bulbs deep inside another German mountain. The path ended in an open gallery with walls of gray-white rock surrounding her, the farthest wall broken by a black slit. A worker was swinging a sledgehammer, widening the slit into an aperture large enough for a person to pass through.
McKoy unclamped one of the flood lamps and stepped to the opening. “Anyone look inside?”
“No,” a worker said.
“Good.” McKoy lifted an aluminum pole from the sand and clicked the lamp to the end. He then extended the telescopic sections until the light was about ten feet away. He approached the opening and shoved the glow into the darkness.
“Son of a bitch,” McKoy said. “The chamber’s huge. I see three trucks. Oh, shit,” He withdrew the light. “Bodies. Two I can see.”
Footsteps approached from behind. Rachel turned to see three people racing toward them, video cameras, lights, and battery packs in hand.
“Get that stuff ready,” McKoy said. “I want the initial look documented for the show.” McKoy turned toward Rachel and Paul. “I sold the video rights. Going to be a TV special on this. But they wanted everything as it happened.”
Grumer came close. “Trucks, you say?”
“Looks like Büssing NAGs. Four and half ton. German. “
“That’s not good.”
“What do you mean?”
“There would have been no transports available to move the Berlin museum material. It would have been hand carried.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Like I said, Herr McKoy, the Berlin material was transported by rail then by truck to the mine. The Germans would not have discarded the vehicles. They were far too valuable, needed for other tasks.”
“We don’t know what the hell happened, Grumer. Could be the fuckin’ krauts decided to leave the trucks, who knows?”
“How did they get inside the mountain?”
McKoy got close in the German’s face. “Like you said earlier, there could be another way in.”
Grumer shrank back. “As you say, Herr McKoy.”
McKoy rammed a finger forward. “No. Asyou say.” The big man turned his attention to the video crew. Lights blazed. Two cameras were shouldered. An audio man arched a boom mic and stood back out of the way. “I go in first. Film it from my perspective.”
The men nodded.
And McKoy stepped into the blackness.
Paul was the last to enter. He followed two workers who dragged light bars into the chamber, blue-white rays evaporating the darkness.
“This chamber is natural,” Grumer said, his voice echoing.
Paul studied the rock, which rose to an arch at least sixty feet high. The sight reminded him of the ceiling in some grand cathedral, except that the ceiling and walls were draped in helicities and speleothems that sparkled in the bright light. The floor was soft and sandy, like the shaft leading in. He sucked in a breath and did not particularly care for the stale smell in the air. The video lights were aimed at the far wall. Another opening, or at least what was left of one, came into view. It was larger than the shaft they’d used, more than enough room to admit the transports, rock and rubble packed tight in the archway.
“The other way in, huh?” McKoy said.
“Ja.”
Grumer said. “But strange. The whole idea of hiding was to be able to retrieve. Why shut it off like that?”
Paul turned his attention to the three trucks. They were parked at odd angles, all eighteen tires deflated, the rims crushed from the weight. The dark canvas awnings draped over the long beds were still there but moldy, the steel cabs and frames heavily rusted.
McKoy moved deeper into the room, a cameraman following. “Don’t worry about the audio. We’ll dub that over later, get video right now.”
Rachel walked ahead.
Paul stepped close behind her. “Strange, isn’t it? Like walking through a grave.”
She nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
“Look at this,” McKoy said.
The lights revealed two bodies sprawled in the sand, rock and rubble on either side. Nothing was left but bones, tattered clothes, and leather boots.
“They were shot in the head,” McKoy said.
A worker brought a light bar close.
“Try not to touch anything until we have a full photographic record. The Ministry will require that.” Grumer’s voice was firm.
“Two more bodies are over here,” one of the other workers said.
McKoy and the camera crew moved in that direction. Grumer and the others followed, as did Rachel. Paul lingered with the two bodies. The clothing had rotted, but even in the dim light the remnants appeared to be some type of uniform. The bones had grayed and blackened, flesh and muscle long since yielding to dust. There definitely was a hole in each skull. Both appeared to have been lying on their backs, their spine and ribs still neatly arranged. A knife bayonet lay to one side, attached to what was left of a stitched belt. A leather pistol holder was empty.
His eyes drifted farther to the right.
Partially covered by the sand, in the shadows, he noticed something black and rectangular. Ignoring what Grumer said, he reached down and grabbed it.
A wallet.
He carefully parted the cracked leather fold. Tattered remnants of what appeared to have once been money lined the bill compartment. He slipped a finger into one of the side flaps. Nothing. Then the other. Bits of a card slid out. The edges were frayed and fragile, most of the ink faded, but some of the writing remained. He strained to read the letters.
AUSGEGEBEN15-3-51.VERF äLLT15-3-55.GUSTAV M üLLER.
There were more words, but only scattered letters had survived, nothing legible. He cradled the wallet in his palm and started back toward the main group. He rounded the rear of a transport and suddenly spotted Grumer off to one side. He was about to approach and ask about the wallet when he saw that Grumer was bent over another skeleton. Rachel, McKoy, and the others were gathered ten meters off to the left, their backs to them, cameras still whining, McKoy talking to the lens. Workers had erected a telescopic stand and hoisted a halogen light bar at the center, generating more than enough light to see Grumer searching the sand around the bones.
Paul retreated into the shadows behind one of the trucks and continued to watch. Grumer’s flashlight traced the bones embedded in the sand. He wondered what carnage had raged through here. Grumer’s light finished its survey at the end of an outstretched arm, the remains of finger bones clear. He focused hard. There were letters etched in the sand. Some gone from time, but three remained, spread across with irregular spaces in between.
O I C.
Grumer stood and snapped three pictures, his flash strobing the scene.
Then the German bent down and lightly brushed all three letters from the sand.
McKoy was impressed. The video should be spectacular. Three rusted World War II German transports found relatively intact deep inside an abandoned silver mine. Five bodies, all with holes in their heads. What a show it would make. His percentage of the residuals would be impressive.
“Got enough exterior shots?” he asked one of the cameramen.
“More than.”
“Then let’s see what the fuck’s in these things.” He grabbed a flashlight and moved toward the nearest transport. “Grumer, where are you?”
TheDoktor stepped up from behind.
“Ready?” McKoy asked.
Grumer nodded.
So was he.
The sight inside each bed should be of wooden crates hastily assembled and haphazardly packed, many using centuries-old draperies, costumes, and carpets as padding. He’d heard stories of how curators in the Hermitage used Nicholas II and Alexandra’s royal garb to pack painting after painting shipped east, away from the Nazis. Priceless articles of clothing indiscriminately stuffed in cheap wooden crates. Anything to protect the canvases and fragile ceramics. He hoped the Germans had been equally frivolous. If this was the right chamber, the one that contained the Berlin museum inventory, the find should be the cream of the collection. Perhaps Vermeer’sStreet of Delft , or da Vinci’sChrist’s Head , or Monet’sThe Park . Each one would bring millions on the open market. Even if the German government insisted on retaining ownership—which was likely—the finder’s fee would be millions of dollars.
He carefully parted the stiff canvas and shined the light inside.
The bed was empty. Nothing but rust and sand.
He darted to the next truck.
Empty.
To the third.
Empty, as well.
“Mother of fuckin’ god,” he said. “Shut those damn cameras off.”
Grumer shined his light inside each bed. “I was afraid of this.”
He was not in the mood.
“All the signs said this may not be the chamber,” Grumer said.
The smug German seemed to almost enjoy his predicament. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me back in January?”
“I did not know then. The radar soundings indicated something large and metallic was here. Only in the past few days, as we got close, did I begin to suspect this may be a dry site.”
Paul approached. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem, Mr. Lawyer, is the goddamn beds are empty. Not one son-of-a-bitchin’ thing in any of ’em. I just spent a million dollars to retrieve three rusted trucks. How the fuck do I explain that to the people flyin’ here tomorrow expectin’ to get rich from their investment?”