An arched door at the far end opened out to a cloister. He exited and followed a breezeway to a pillared doorway. Three stone faces carved into the castle facade watched his steps. They were a remnant of the original seventeenth-century structure, their identities unknown, though one legend proclaimed them to be of the castle’s master builder and two assistants, the men killed and walled into the stone so that they could never build another similar structure.
He approached the Chapel of Saint Thomas. An interesting label, since it was not only the name of an Augustinian monk who founded a nearby monastery seven centuries ago, but also the first name of old Martin Fellner’s head steward.
He shoved the heavy oak door inward.
She was standing in the center aisle, just beyond a gilded grille that separated the foyer from six oak pews. Incandescent fixtures illuminated a black-and-gold rococo altar beyond and cast her in shadows. The bottle-glass and bull’s-eye windows left and right were dark. The stained-glass heraldic signs of castle knights loomed unimpressive, awaiting revivement by the morning sun. Little worship occurred here. The chapel was now a display room for gilded reliquaries—Fellner’s collection, one of the most extensive in the world, rivaled most European cathedrals.
He smiled at his host.
Monika Fellner was thirty-four and the eldest daughter of his employer. The skin that covered her tall, svelte frame carried the swarthy tint of her mother’s, who’d been a Lebanese her father passionately loved forty years before. But old Martin had not been impressed with his son’s choice of wife and eventually forced a divorce, sending her back to Lebanon, leaving two children behind. He often thought Monika’s cool, tailored, almost untouchable air the result of her mother’s rejection. But that wasn’t something she would ever voice or he would ever ask. She stood proud, like always, her tangled dark curls falling in carefree wisps. A flick of a smile creased her lips. She wore a taupe brocade jacket over a tight chiffon skirt, the slit rising all the way up to thin supple thighs. She was the sole heir to the Fellner fortune, thanks to the untimely death of her older brother two years ago. Her name meant “devout to God.” Yet she was anything but.
“Lock it,” she said.
He snapped the lever down.
She strutted toward him, her heels clicking off the ancient marble floor. He met her at the open gate in the grille. Immediately below her was the grave of her grandfather,MARTIN FELLNER 1868–1941 etched into the smooth gray marble. The old man’s last wish was that he be buried in the castle he so loved. No wife accompanied him in death. The elder Fellner’s head steward lay beside him, more letters carved in stone marking that grave.
She noticed his gaze down to the floor.
“Poor grandfather. To be so strong in business, yet so weak in spirit. Must have been a bitch to be queer back then.”
“Maybe it’s genetic?”
“Hardly. Though I have to say, a woman can sometimes provide an interesting diversion.”
“Your father wouldn’t want to hear that.”
“I don’t think he’d care right now. It’s you he’s rather upset with. He has a copy of the Rome newspaper. There’s a front-page story on the death of Pietro Caproni.”
“But he also has the match case.”
She smiled. “You think success smooths anything?”
“I’ve found it to be the best insurance for job security.”
“You didn’t mention killing Caproni in your note yesterday.”
“It seemed an unimportant detail.”
“Only you would consider a knife in the chest unimportant. Father wants to talk with you. He’s waiting.”
“I expected that.”
“You don’t seem concerned.”
“Should I be?”
She stared hard. “You’re a hard bastard, Christian.”
He realized that she possessed none of her father’s sophisticated air, but in two ways they were much alike—both were cold and driven. Newspapers linked her with man after man, wondering who might eventually snag her and the resulting fortune, but he knew that no one would ever control her. Fellner had been meticulously grooming her the past few years, readying her for the day when she’d take over his communications empire along with his passion for collecting, a day that would surely soon arrive. She’d been educated outside Germany in England and the United States, adopting an even sharper tongue and brassy attitude along the way. But being rich and spoiled hadn’t helped her personality either.
She reached out and patted his right sleeve. “No stiletto tonight?”
“Do I need it?”
She pressed close. “I can be quite dangerous.”
Her arms went around him. Their mouths fused, her tongue searching with excitement. He enjoyed her taste and savored the passion she freely offered. When she withdrew, she bit his lower lip hard on the way. He tasted blood.
“Yes, you can.” He dabbed the wound with a handkerchief.
She reached out and unzipped his trousers.
“I thought you said Herr Fellner was waiting.”
“There’s plenty of time.” She pushed him down on the floor, directly atop her grandfather’s grave. “And I didn’t wear any underwear.”
Knoll followed Monika across the castle’s ground floor to the collection hall. The space consumed the better part of the northwest tower and was divided into a public room, where Fellner displayed his notable and legal items, and the secret room, where only he, Fellner, and Monika ventured.
They entered the public hall and Monika locked the heavy wooden doors behind them. Lighted cases stood in rows like soldiers at attention and displayed a variety of precious objects. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Frescoes adorned the ceiling with images depicting Moses giving laws to the people, the building of Babel, and the translation of the Septuagint.
Fellner’s private study was off the north wall. They entered, and Monika strolled across the parquet to a row of bookcases, all inlaid oak and gilded in heavy baroque style. He knew the volumes were all collectibles. Fellner loved books. His ninth-century Beda Venerabilis was the oldest and most valuable he possessed, Knoll had been lucky enough to find a stash in a French parish rectory a few years back, the priest more than willing to part with them in return for a modest contribution to both the church and himself.
Monika withdrew a black controller from her jacket pocket and clicked the button. The center bookcase slowly revolved on its axis. White light spilled from a room beyond. Franz Fellner was standing amidst a long windowless space, the gallery cleverly hidden between the junction of two grand halls. High-pitched ceilings and the castle’s oblong shape provided more architectural camouflage. Its thick stone walls were all soundproofed and a special handler filtered the air.
More collection cases stood in staggered rows, each illuminated by carefully placed halogen lights. Knoll wove a path through the cases, noticing some of the acquisitions. A jade sculpture he’d stolen from a private collection in Mexico, not a problem since the supposed owner had likewise stolen it from the Jalapa City Museum. A number of ancient African, Eskimo, and Japanese figurines retrieved from an apartment in Belgium, war loot thought long destroyed. He was especially proud of the Gauguin sculpture off to the left, an exquisite piece he’d liberated from a thief in Paris.
Paintings adorned the walls. A Picasso self-portrait. Correggio’sHoly Family . Botticelli’sPortrait of a Lady . Dürer’sPortrait of Maximillian I . All originals, thought lost forever.
The remaining stone wall was draped in two enormous Gobelin tapestries, looted by Hermann Göring during the war, recovered from another supposed owner two decades ago, and still hotly sought by the Austrian government.
Fellner stood beside a glass case containing a thirteenth-century mosaic depicting Pope Alexander IV. He knew it to be one of the old man’s favorites. Beside him was the enclosure with the Fabergé match case. A tiny halogen light illuminated the strawberry-red enamel. Fellner had obviously polished the piece. He knew how his employer liked to personally prepare each treasure, more insurance to prevent strange eyes from seeing his acquisitions.
Fellner was a lean hawk of a man with a craggy face the color of concrete and emotions to match. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that framed suspicious eyes. Surely, Knoll had often thought, they once bore the bright-eyed look of an idealist. Now they carried the pallor of a man approaching eighty, who’d built an empire from magazines, newspapers, television, and radio, but lost interest in making money after crossing the multibillion-dollar mark. His competitive nature was currently channeled into other, more private ventures. Activities where men with lots of money and limitless nerve could superachieve.
Fellner yanked a copy of theInternational Daily News off the collection case and thrust it forward. “You want to tell me why this was necessary?” The voice bore the rasp of a million cigarettes.
He knew the newspaper was one of Fellner’s corporate possessions, and that a computer in the outer study was fed daily with articles from around the world. The death of a wealthy Italian industrialist was certainly something that would catch the old man’s eye. At the bottom of the front page was the article:
Pietro Caproni, 58, founder of Due Mori Industries was found in his northern Italian estate yesterday with a fatal knife wound in the chest. Also found stabbed to death was Carmela Terza, 27, identification at the scene listing her residence as Venice. Police found evidence of a forced entry from a ground-floor door but have so far discovered nothing missing from the villa. Caproni was retired from Due Mori, the conglomerate he built into one of Italy’s premier producers of wool and ceramics. He remained active as a major shareholder and consultant, and his death leaves a void in the company.
Fellner interrupted his reading. “We’ve had this discussion before. You’ve been warned to indulge your peculiarities on your own time.”
“It was necessary, Herr Fellner.”
“Killing is never necessary, if you do your job correctly.”
He glanced over at Monika, who was watching with apparent amusement. “Signor Caproni intruded on my visit. He was waiting for me. He’d become suspicious from my previous trip. Which I made, if you recall, at your insistence.”
Fellner seemed to immediately get the message. The older man’s face softened. He knew his employer well.
“Signor Caproni did not want to share the match case without a fight. I simply obliged, concluding you desired the piece regardless. The only alternative was to leave without it and risk exposure.”
“The signor did not offer the opportunity to leave? After all, he couldn’t very well telephone the police.”
He thought a lie better than the truth. “The signor actually wanted to shoot me. He was armed.”
Fellner said, “The newspaper makes no mention of that.”
“Evidence of the press’s unreliability,” he said with a smile.
“And what of the whore?” Monika said. “She armed, too?”
He turned toward her. “I was unaware you harbored such sympathy for working women. She understood the risks, I’m sure, when she agreed to become involved with a man like Caproni.”
Monika stepped closer. “You fuck her?”
“Of course.”
Fire lit her eyes. But she said nothing. Her jealousy was almost as amusing as it was surprising. Fellner broke the moment, conciliatory as always.
“Christian, you retrieved the match case. I appreciate that. But killing does nothing but draw attention. That’s the last thing we desire. What if your semen is traced by DNA?”
“There was no semen other than the signor’s. Mine was in her stomach.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“I wore gloves.”
“I realize you are careful. For that I’m grateful. But I am an old man who merely wants to pass what I have accumulated to my daughter. I do not desire to see any of us in jail. Am I clear?”
Fellner sounded exasperated. They’d had this discussion before, and he genuinely hated disappointing him. His employer had been good to him, generously sharing the wealth they’d meticulously accumulated. In many ways he was more like a father than Jakob Knoll had ever been. Monika, though, was nothing like a sister.
He noticed the look in her eyes. The talk of sex and death was surely arousing. Most likely she’d visit his room later.
“What did you find in St. Petersburg?” Fellner finally asked.
He reported the references toyantarnaya komnata , then showed both of them the sheets he’d stolen from the archives. “Interesting the Russians were still inquiring about the Amber Room, even recently. This Karol Borya, though, `Yxo, is somebody new.”
“Ears?” Fellner spoke perfect Russian. “A strange designation.”
Knoll nodded. “I think a trip to Atlanta may be worth the effort. Perhaps `Yxois still alive. He might know where Chapaev is. He was the only one I did not find five years ago.”
“I would think the reference to Loring is also further corroboration, “ Fellner said. “That’s twice you have found his name. The Soviets were apparently quite interested in what Loring was doing.”
Knoll knew the history. The Loring family dominated the Eastern European steel and arms market. Ernst Loring was Fellner’s main rival in collecting. He was a Czech, the son of Josef Loring, possessed of an air of superiority bred since youth. Like Pietro Caproni, a man definitely accustomed to having his way.
“Josef was a determined man. Ernst, unfortunately, did not inherit his father’s character. I wonder about him,” his employer said. “Something has always troubled me about him—that irritating cordiality he thinks I accept.” Fellner turned to his daughter. “What about it,liebling ? Should Christian head for America?”
Monika’s face stiffened. At these moments she was most like her father. Inscrutable. Guarded. Furtive. Certainly, in the years ahead, she’d do him proud. “I want the Amber Room.”
“And I want it for you,liebling . I’ve searched forty years. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ve never understood how tons of amber could simply vanish.” Fellner turned toward him. “Go to Atlanta, Christian. Find Karol Borya, this `Yxo . See what he knows.”