“Think about it. It’s 1945. The Russians are coming from one end, the Americans from another. You’re the curator of the Berlin museum full of art stolen from every invaded country. You’ve got a few hours. What do you put on the train to get out of town? Obviously, the most valuable stuff.”
McKoy tells the tale of one such train that left Berlin in the waning days of World War II, heading south for central Germany and the Harz Mountains. No records exist of its destination, and he’s hoping the cargo lies within some caverns found only last fall. Interviews with relatives of German soldiers who helped load the train have convinced him of the train’s existence. Earlier this year, McKoy used ground-penetrating radar to scan the new caverns.
“Something’s in there,” McKoy says. “Certainly big enough to be boxcars or storage crates.”
McKoy has already secured a permit from German authorities to excavate. He’s particularly excited about the prospects of foraging this new site, since, to his knowledge, no one has yet excavated the area. Once a part of East Germany, the region has been off-limits for decades. Current German law provides that McKoy can retain only a small portion of whatever is not claimed by rightful owners. Yet McKoy is undeterred. “It’s exciting. Hell, who knows, the Amber Room could be hidden under all that rock.”
The excavations will be slow and hard. Backhoes and bulldozers could damage the treasure, so McKoy will be forced to drill holes in the rocks and then chemically break them apart.
“It’s slow going and dangerous, but worth the trouble,” he says. “The Nazis had prisoners dig hundreds of caves, where they stored ammunition to keep it safe from the bombers. Even the caves used as art repositories were many times mined. The trick is to find the right cave and get inside safely.”
McKoy’s equipment, seven employees and a television crew are already waiting in Germany. He plans to head there over the weekend. The nearly $1 million cost is being borne by private investors hoping to cash in on the bonanza.
McKoy says, “There’s stuff in the ground over there. I’m sure of it. Somebody’s going to find all that treasure. Why not me?”
He looked up from the newspaper. Mother of Almighty God. Was this it? If so, what could be done about it? He was an old man. Realistically, there was little left he could do.
The back door opened and Paul strolled into the den. He tossed the paper on the coffee table.
“You still interested in all that art stuff?” Paul asked.
“Habit of lifetime.”
“Would be kind of exciting to dig in those mountains. The Germans used them like vaults. No telling what’s still there.”
“This McKoy mentions Amber Room.” He shook his head. “Another man looking for lost panels.”
Paul grinned. “The lure of treasure. Makes for great television specials.”
“I saw the amber panels once,” he said, giving in to an urge to talk. “Took train from Minsk to Leningrad. Communists had turned Catherine Palace into a museum. I saw the room in its glory.” He motioned with his hands. “Ten meters square. Walls of amber. Like a giant puzzle. All the wood carved beautifully and gilded gold. Amazing.”
“I’ve read about it. A lot of folks regarded it as the eighth wonder of the world.”
“Like stepping into fairy tale. The amber was hard and shiny like stone, but not cold like marble. More like wood. Lemon, whiskey brown, cherry. Warm colors. Like being in the sun. Amazing what ancient masters could do. Carved figurines, flowers, seashells. The scrollwork so intricate. Tons of amber, all handcrafted. No one ever do that before.”
“The Nazis stole the panels in 1941?”
He nodded. “Bastard criminals. Strip room clean. Never seen again since 1944.” He was getting angry thinking about it and knew he’d said too much already, so he changed the subject. “You said my Rachel put lawyer in jail?”
Paul sat back in the chair and crossed his ankles on an ottoman. “The Ice Queen strikes again. That’s what they call her around the courthouse.” He sighed. “Everybody thinks because we’re divorced I don’t mind.”
“It bothers?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“You love my Rachel?”
“And my kids. The apartment gets pretty quiet. I miss all three of ’em, Karl. Or should I say, Karol. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“Us both.”
“Sorry about not being there today. My hearing got postponed. It was with the lawyer Rachel jailed.”
“I appreciate help with petition.”
“Any time.”
“You know,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “she’s seen no man since divorce. Maybe why she’s so cranky?” Paul noticeably perked up. He thought he’d read him right. “Claims too busy. But I wonder.”
His former son-in-law did not take the bait, and simply sat in silence. He returned his attention to the map. After a few moments, he said, “Braves on TBS.”
Paul reached for the remote and punched on the television.
He didn’t mention Rachel again, but all through the game he kept glancing at the map. A light green delineated the Harz Mountains, rolling north to south then turning east, the old border between the two Germanies gone. The towns were noted in black. Göttingen. Münden. Osterdode. Warthberg. Stod. The caves and tunnels were unmarked, but he knew they were there. Hundreds of them.
Where was the right cave?
Hard to say anymore.
Was Wayland McKoy on the right track?
10:25 p.m.
Paul cradled Marla and gently carried her into the house. Brent followed, yawning. A strange feeling always accompanied him when he entered. He and Rachel had bought the two-story brick colonial just after they married, ten years ago. When the divorce came, seven years later, he’d voluntarily moved out. Title remained in both their names and, interestingly, Rachel insisted he retain a key. But he used it sparingly, and always with her prior knowledge, since Paragraph VII of the final decree provided for her exclusive use and possession, and he respected her privacy no matter how much it sometimes hurt.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and laid Marla in her bed. Both children had bathed at their grandfather’s house. He undressed her and slipped her into someBeauty and the Beast pajamas. He’d twice taken the children to see the Disney movie. He kissed her good night and stroked her hair until she was sound asleep. After tucking Brent in, he headed downstairs.
The den and kitchen were messy. Nothing unusual. A housekeeper came twice a week since Rachel was not noted for neatness. That was one of their differences. He was a perfectly in place person. Not compulsive, just disciplined. Messes bothered him, he couldn’t help it. Rachel didn’t seem to mind clothes on the floor, toys strewn about, and a sinkful of dishes.
Rachel Bates had been an enigma from the start. Intelligent, outspoken, assertive, but alluring. That she’d been attracted to him was surprising, since women were never his strong point. There’d been a couple of steady dates in college and one relationship he thought was serious in law school, but Rachel had captivated him. Why, he’d never really understood. Her sharp tongue and brusque manner could hurt, though she didn’t mean 90 percent of what she said. At least that’s what he told himself over and over to excuse her insensitivity. He was easygoing. Too easygoing. It seemed far less trouble to simply ignore her than rise to the challenge. But sometimes he felt she wanted him to challenge her.
Did he disappoint her by backing down? Letting her have her way?
Hard to say.
He wandered toward the front of the house and tried to clear his head, but each room assaulted him with memories. The mahogany console with the fossil stone top they’d found in Chattanooga one weekend antiquing. The cream-on-sand conversation sofa where they’d sat many nights watching television. The glass credenza displaying Lilliput cottages, something they both collected with zeal, many a Christmas marked by reciprocal gifts. Even the smell evoked fondness. The peculiar fragrance homes seemed to possess. The musk of life, their life, filtered by time’s sieve.
He stepped into the foyer and noticed the portrait of him and the kids still on display. He wondered how many divorcées kept a ten by twelve of their ex around for all to see. And how many insisted that their ex-husband retain a key to the house. They even still possessed a couple of joint investments, which he managed for them both.
The silence was broken by a key scraping the front door lock.
A second later the door opened and Rachel stepped inside. “Kids any trouble?” she asked.
“Never.”
He took in the black princess-seamed jacket that cinched her waist and the slim skirt cut above the knee. Long, slender legs led down to low-heeled pumps. Her auburn hair fell in a layered bob, barely brushing the tips of her thin shoulders. Green tiger eyes trimmed in silver dangled from each of her earlobes and matched her eyes, which looked tired.
“Sorry about not making it to the name change,” he said. “But your stunt with Marcus Nettles held things up in probate court.”
“He’s a sexist bastard.”
“You’re a judge, Rachel, not the savior of the world. Can’t you use a little diplomacy?”
She tossed her purse and keys on a side table. Her eyes hardened like marbles. He’d seen the look before. “What do you expect me to do? The fat bastard drops hundred-dollar bills on my desk and tells me to fuck off. He deserved to spend a few hours in jail.”
“Do you have to constantly prove yourself?”
“You’re not my keeper, Paul.”
“Somebody needs to be. You’ve got an election coming up. Two strong opponents, and you’re only a first-termer. Nettles is already talking about bankrolling both of them. Which, by the way, he can afford. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“Screw Nettles.”
Last time he’d arranged the fund-raisers, handled advertising, and courted the people needed to secure endorsements, attract the press, and secure votes. He wondered who would run her campaign this time. Organization was not Rachel’s strong suit. So far she hadn’t asked for help, and he really didn’t expect her to. “You can lose, you know.”
“I don’t need a political lecture.”
“What do you need, Rachel?”
“None of your damn business. We’re divorced. Remember?”
He recalled what her father said. “Do you? We’ve been apart three years now. Have you dated anyone during that time?”
“That’s also none of your business.”
“Maybe not. But I seem to be the only one who cares.”
She stepped close. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Ice Queen. That’s what they call you around the court-house.”
“I get the job done. Rated highest of any judge in the county last time theDaily Report checked stats.”
“That all you care about? How fast you clear a docket?”
“Judges can’t afford friends. You either get accused of bias or are hated for a lack of it. I’d rather be the Ice Queen.”
It was late, and he didn’t feel like an argument. He brushed past her toward the front door. “One day you may need a friend. I wouldn’t burn all my bridges if I were you.” He opened the door.
“You’re not me,” she said.
“Thank God.”
And he left.
Northeast Italy
Wednesday, May 7, 1:34 a.m.
His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close-cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.
Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.
Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.
The village of Pont-Saint-Martin lay a full ten kilometers to the south. The only way north was a snaking two-lane road that led eventually, after forty more kilometers, to the Austrian border and Innsbruck. The BMW he’d rented yesterday at the Venice airport waited a kilometer back in a stand of trees. After finishing his business he planned to drive north to Innsbruck, where tomorrow an 8:35A .M. Austrian Airlines shuttle would whisk him to St. Petersburg, where more business awaited.
Silence surrounded him. No church bells clanging or cars screaming past on the autostrada. Just ancient groves of oak, fir, and larch patchworking the mountainous slopes. Ferns, mosses, and wildflowers carpeted the dark hollows. Easy to see why da Vinci included the Dolemites in the background of theMona Lisa .
The forest ended. A grassy meadow of blossoming orange lilies spread before him. The château rose at the far end, a pebbled drive horseshoeing in front. The building was two stories tall, its redbrick walls decorated with gray lozenges. He remembered the stones from his last visit two months ago, surely crafted by masons who’d learned from their fathers and grandfathers.
None of the forty or so dormer windows flickered with light. The oaken front door likewise loomed dark. No fences, dogs, or guards. No alarms. Just a rambling country estate in the Italian Alps owned by a reclusive manufacturer who’d been semiretired for almost a decade.
He knew that Pietro Caproni, the château’s owner, slept on the second floor in a series of rooms that encompassed the master suite. Caproni lived alone, except for three servants who commuted daily from Pont-Saint-Martin. Tonight, Caproni was entertaining, the cream-colored Mercedes parked out front probably still warm from a drive made earlier from Venice. His guest was one of many expensive working women. They would sometimes come for the night or the weekend, paid for their trouble in euros by a man who could afford the price of pleasure. Tonight’s excursion had been timed to coincide with her visit, and he hoped she would be enough of a distraction to cover a quick in and out.