He kissed her.
Knoll watched as the Cutlers embraced, aroused by the sight of a half-dressed Rachel Cutler. He’d concluded during the car trip from Munich to Kehlheim that she still cared for her ex-husband. Which was most likely why she rebuked his advances in Warthberg. She was definitely attractive. Full bosom, thin waist, inviting crotch. He’d wanted her in the mine and fully intended to have her until Danzer intruded with the explosion. So why not rectify the situation tonight? What did it matter anymore? Fellner and Monika were dead. He was unemployed. And none of the other club members would hire him after what he was about to do.
A knock on the bedchamber door caught his attention.
He stared hard through the Judas hole.
“Who is it?” Paul asked.
“McKoy.”
Rachel hopped up and grabbed her clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Paul stood and opened the door. McKoy stepped in, dressed in a pair of evergreen corduroy pants and a striped crew shirt. Brown chukkas wrapped his big feet.
“Kind of casual, McKoy,” he said.
“My tux is at the cleaners.”
Paul slammed the door shut. “What were you doing with Loring?”
McKoy faced him. “Lighten up, counselor. I wasn’t tryin’ to shake the old fart down.”
“Then whatwere you doing?”
“Yeah, McKoy, what was all that about?” Rachel asked, stepping from the bathroom, now dressed in pleated jeans and a tight-fitting turtleneck.
McKoy eyed her up and down. “You dress down well, Your Honor.”
“Get to the point,” she said.
“The point was to see if the old man would crack, and he did. I pushed to see what he was made of. Get real. If there was nothin’ to Loring’s involvement, he would have said sayonara, get the hell out of here. As it was he couldn’t hardly wait for us to spend the night.”
“You weren’t serious?” Paul asked.
“Cutler, I know you two think I’m pond scum, but I do have morals. True, they’re relatively loose most of the time. But I still have ’em. This Loring either knows somethin’ or wants to know somethin’. Either way, he’s interested enough to put us up for the night.”
“You think he’s part of that club Grumer rambled about?” Paul asked.
“I hope not,” Rachel said. “That could mean Knoll and that woman are around.”
McKoy was unconcerned. “That’s a chance were goin’ to have to take. I got a feelin’ about this. I’ve also got a bunch of investors waitin’ in Germany. So I need answers. My guess is the old bastard downstairs has got ’em.”
“How long can your people hold off the partners’ curiosity?” Rachel asked.
“Couple of days. No more. They’re goin’ to start on that other tunnel in the mornin’, but I told ’em to take their time. Personally, I think it’s a total waste.”
“How do we need to handle dinner?” Rachel asked.
“Easy. Eat the man’s food, drink his liquor, and turn on the information vacuum cleaner. We need to get more than we give. Understand?”
Rachel smiled. “Yeah, I understand.”
Dinner was cordial, Loring leading his guests in pleasant conversation about art and politics. Paul was fascinated by the extent of the old man’s art knowledge. McKoy stayed on his best behavior, accepting Loring’s hospitality, profusely complimenting their host on the meal. Paul watched it all carefully, noting Rachel’s intense interest in McKoy. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to cross the line.
After dessert, Loring escorted them on a tour of the castle’s expansive ground floor. The decor seemed a mixture of Dutch furniture, French clocks, and Russian chandeliers. Paul noticed an emphasis on classicism along, with realistically clear images in all the carvings. There was a well-balanced composition throughout, an almost plastic-perfect shape and form. The craftsmen had certainly known their trade.
Each space carried a name. The Walderdorff Chamber. Molsberg Room. Green Room. Witches’ Room. All were decorated with antique furniture—most originals, Loring explained—and art, so much that Paul was having trouble taking it all in, and he wished a couple of the museum’s curators were there to explain. In what Loring called the Ancestors’ Room the old man lingered before an oil painting of his father.
“My father was descended from a long line. Amazingly, all from the paternal side. So there have always been Loring males to inherit. It is one reason we have dominated this site for nearly five hundred years.”
“What about when the Communists ruled?” Rachel asked.
“Even then, my dear. My family learned to adapt. There was no choice. Either change or perish.”
“Meanin’ you worked for the Communists,” McKoy said.
“What else was there to do,Pan McKoy?”
McKoy did not reply and simply returned his attention to the painting of Josef Loring. “Was your father interested in the Amber Room?”
“Very much.”
“Did he see the original in Leningrad before the war?”
“Actually, Father saw the room prior to the Russian Revolution. He was a great admirer of amber, as I am sure you already know.”
“Why don’t we cut the crap, Loring.”
Paul cringed at the sudden intensity of McKoy’s voice. Was it genuine or more games?
“I got a hole in a mountain a hundred fifty kilometers west of here that cost a million dollars to dig. All I got for the trouble are three trucks and five skeletons. Let me tell you what I think.”
Loring sank into one of the leather chairs. “By all means.”
McKoy accepted a glass of claret from a steward balancing a tray. “There’s a story Dolinski told me, about a train leavin’ occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945. The crated Amber Room was supposedly on board. Witnesses said the crates were offloaded in Czechoslovakia, near T´ynec-nad-Sázavou. From there the crates were supposedly trucked south. One version says they were stored in an underground bunker used by Field Marshal von Schörner, commander of the German army. Another version says they headed west to Germany. A third version says east to Poland. Which one’s right?”
“I, too, have heard such stories. But if I recall, that bunker was extensively excavated by the Soviets. Nothing there, so that eliminates one choice. As to the version east to Poland, I doubt it.”
“Why’s that?” McKoy said, sitting, too.
Paul remained standing, Rachel beside him. It was interesting watching the two men spar. McKoy had handled the partners expertly, and was doing equally well now, apparently intuitive enough to know when to push and when to pull.
“The Poles have not the brains or the resources to harbor such a treasure,” Loring said. “Somebody would surely have discovered it by now.”
“Sounds like prejudice to me,” McKoy said.
“Not at all. Just a fact. Throughout history Poles have never been able to collate themselves into a unified country for long. They are the led, not the leaders.”
“So you say west to Germany?”
“I say nothing,Pan McKoy. Only that of the three choicesyouoffered, west seems the most likely.”
Rachel sat down. “Mr. Loring—”
“Please, my dear. Call me Ernst.”
“Okay . . . Ernst. Grumer was convinced that Knoll and the woman who killed Chapaev were working for members of a club. He called it the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. Knoll and the woman were supposedly Acquisitors. They steal works of art that have already been stolen, members competing with one another on what can be found.”
“Sounds intriguing. But I can assure you I am not a member of such an organization. As you can see, my home is filled with art. I am a public collector and openly display my treasures.”
“How about amber? Haven’t seen much of that,” McKoy said.
“I have several beautiful pieces. Would you like to see?”
“Damn right.”
Loring led the way out of the Ancestors’ Room and down a twisting corridor deeper into the castle. The room they finally entered was a tight square with no windows. Loring flicked a switch embedded in the stone that lighted wooden display cases lining the walls. Paul paraded down the cases, immediately recognizing Vermeyen vessels, Bohemian glass, and Mair goldsmithing. Each piece was three-hundred-plus years old and in mint condition. Two cases were filled entirely with amber. Among the collection was a casket case, chessboard and pieces, a two-tiered chest, snuffbox, shaving basin, soap dish, and lather brush.
“Most are eighteenth century,” Loring said. “All from the Tsarskoe Selo workshops. The masters who crafted these beauties worked on the Amber Room panels.”
“They are the best I’ve ever seen,” Paul said.
“I am quite proud of this collection. They each cost me a fortune. But, alas, I have no Amber Room to go with them, as much as I would like to.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” McKoy asked.
“Frankly,Pan McKoy, it matters not whether you believe me. The more important question is how are you to prove otherwise. You come into my home and make wild accusations—threaten me with exposure in the world media—yet have nothing to substantiate your allegations except a manufactured picture of letters in the sand and the ramblings of a greedy academician.”
“I don’t recall saying anythin’ about Grumer being an academic,” McKoy said.
“No, you did not. But I am familiar with theHerr Doktor . He was possessed of a reputation that I would not consider enviable.”
Paul noticed the shift in Loring’s tone. No longer congenial and conciliatory. Now the words came slow and deliberate, the meaning clear. The man’s patience was apparently running thin.
McKoy seemed unimpressed. “I’d think,Pan Loring, a man of your experience and breedin’ could handle a rough-by-the-edges sort like me.”
Loring smiled. “I do find your frankness refreshing. It is not often a man speaks to me as you have.”
“Given any more thought to my offer from this afternoon?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Would a million dollars U.S. solve your investment problem?”
“Three million would be better.”
“Then I assume you will settle for two without the need for haggling?”
“I will.”
Loring chuckled. “PanMcKoy, you are a man after my own heart.”
Friday, May 23, 2:15 a.m.
Paul awakened. He’d had trouble sleeping, ever since he and Rachel turned in a little before midnight. Rachel was sound asleep beside him in the sleigh bed, not snoring, but breathing heavily like she used to. He thought again about Loring and McKoy. The old man had willingly coughed up two million dollars. Maybe McKoy was right. Loring was hiding something two million dollars was a bargain to protect. But what? The Amber Room? That prospect was a bit far-fetched. He imagined Nazis ripping the amber panels off the palace walls, then trucking them across the Soviet Union, only to dismantle them again and truck them into Germany four years later. What kind of shape would they even be in? Would they be worth anything other than as raw material to be fashioned into other works of art? What had he read in Borya’s articles? The panels comprised a hundred thousand pieces of amber. Certainly that was worth something on the open market. Maybe that was it. Loring found the amber and sold it, garnering enough that two million dollars was a bargain to silence.
He rose from the bed and crept toward his shirt and pants draped over a chair. He slipped them on but passed on his shoes—bare feet would make less noise. Sleep was not coming easily, and he’d very much like to investigate the ground-floor display rooms again. The array of art earlier had been nearly overpowering, difficult to take in. He hoped Loring wouldn’t mind a little private viewing.
He stole a glance at Rachel. She was curled under the down comforter, her naked body covered only by one of his twill shirts. She’d made love to him two hours ago for the first time in nearly four years. He could still feel the intensity between them, his body drained from a release of emotions he thought never again possible. Could they make things right? God knows he wanted to. The past couple weeks had certainly been bittersweet. Her father was gone, but perhaps the Cutler family could be restored. He hoped he wasn’t simply something with which to fill a void. Rachel’s words earlier about him being all the family she had left still rang in his ears. He wondered why he was so suspicious. Perhaps it was the kick in the gut he’d experienced three years ago—caution shielding his heart from another crushing break.
He inched the door open and quietly slipped into the hall. Incandescent wall sconces burned softly. Not a sound drifted in the air. He crossed to a thick stone railing and glanced down at a foyer four stories below, the marbled space illuminated by a series of table lamps. A massive, unlit crystal chandelier hung down to the third-floor level.
He followed a carpet runner down a right-angled stone staircase to the ground floor. Barefoot and silent he moved deeper into the castle, negotiating wide corridors past the dining hall toward a series of spacious rooms where art was displayed. None of the doors to any room was shut.
He stepped into the Witches’ Room, which, as Loring explained earlier, was where a local witches’ court was once held. He approached a series of ebony cabinets and switched on tiny halogen lights. Roman Age artifacts lined the shelves. Statuettes, standards, plates, vessels, lamps, bells, tools. A few exquisitely carved goddesses, as well. He recognized Victoria, the Roman symbol for victory, a crown and palm leaf in her outstretched hands beckoning a choice.
A sound suddenly came from the hall. Not much. Like a scuff on carpet. But in the silence it rang loud.
His head whipped left to the open doorway and he froze, barely breathing. Was it a footstep or just a centuries-old building settling down for the night? He reached up and gently flicked off the cabinet lights. The cases went dark. He crept to a sofa and crouched down behind.
Another sound slipped past him. A footstep. Definitely. Somebody was in the hall. He shrank farther behind the couch and waited, hoping whoever it was moved on. Perhaps it was simply one of the staff making required rounds.
A shadow spread across the lit doorway. He peered over the sofa.
Wayland McKoy walked past.
He should have known.
He tiptoed to the doorway. McKoy was a few feet away, headed in the direction of a room at the far end. Earlier, Loring had merely pointed out the darkened space, calling it the Romanesque Room, but had not offered a tour.