The Amber Knight (32 page)

‘The smell of molten amber.’ Adam utilised his pain to stimulate his brain into recalling everything Feliks and Elizbieta had told him about the Amber Knight. ‘Even a qualified amber-smith would be hard pressed to recreate the knight,’ he lied. ‘The temperature of the amber has to be exactly right…’

‘280 C,’ the Russian interrupted.

‘And there’s the pouring. You have to be very careful not to get air between the layers or the amber will flake and crack.. Look what’s happened to the original. I trust you have no intention of trying without an amber-smith around.’ Given the expression on their faces he knew they had every intention of doing just that.

‘Leave the knight to us,’ the Russian snapped. ‘I promise you’ll get a very credible copy to put in your museum. All you have to do is write down the code that will release the funds to buy it.’ He turned Adam’s chair so it faced the table and the blank sheet of coarse, greyish paper.

‘You’ve been around Brunon Kaszuba so long you think everyone is as stupid as him. That code is the only reason you haven’t put a bullet in my brain or chopped my head off,’ Adam said. ‘Once I give it to you, there’ll be nothing to prevent you from contacting the holder of the Salen Institute Special Fund and collecting fifty million dollars. I hate to disappoint you but you’re too late. Word is out that the knight’s contaminated.’

‘The word isn’t general knowledge – yet, and may never be, given the authorities’ determination to keep the anthrax outbreak secret,’ the Russian contradicted. ‘And, in view of the extra expense we’ve incurred in handling the knight, the price has doubled, but the Salen Institute can stand the increase. Give us the number, Salen. In exchange you’ll get your freedom and the knight.’

‘Don’t you mean the Institute will get the knight – after a fashion?’ Adam raised his eyes to the Russian. ‘All I’ll get is an amber shroud.’

The Russian laughed as he opened a case and laid the instruments it contained out on the table. ‘You Americans are so suspicious.’

‘Go back and tell the boss I won’t do. Modern ultra-sound and X-rays are too good. Even a cursory examination will prove you’ve supplied a copy.’

‘By then we’ll be long gone.’

‘You’ll be tracked down. The directors of the Salen Institute don’t like fraud.’

‘In what way will it be different?’ Helga earned herself a frown from the Russian.

‘A probe will reveal that I have the wrong colour hair. Helmut von Mau was a Teuton and every child knows they have blond hair and blue eyes.’ He looked at Brunon, who was lounging against a pillar.

‘Fuck off, Yank,’ Brunon grunted, running his fingers through his blond hair.

‘And for another.’ Adam eyed the instruments the Russian had laid out, ‘you believe von Mau was castrated. That’s why you’ve brought the gelding irons. You think that the first thing an ultra-sound examination would pick up on are extra bits that shouldn’t be there. But there are records that prove Helmut von Mau went to meet his maker as he’d been born, with his balls intact.’

‘Liar,’ Helga snapped.

‘Legends aren’t always what they seem and people dislike the truth.’ Light headed with pain, Adam took a deep breath despite the agony it cost him and played his last card, hoping that Feliks hadn’t over estimated the amount of amber that had been stolen. Looking at Brunon he said, ‘who are you going to immortalise first, me, or your other sacrificial knight?’

While Josef closeted himself in the museum bathroom with a gallon of industrial solvent and a nail brush, Melerski tackled the briefcase. He had the alarm silenced in seconds, the combination lock open in less than a minute. Magdalena took the papers it contained, leaving him the electronic organiser. Beneath it was a small, narrow jeweller’s box. Melerski picked it up and read the message scrawled across the lid. For Magdalena, sorry for the days you lost because of me.

‘Mean anything?’ He handed it to her.

‘It could be an apology for landing me in quarantine.’

‘You’d better open it. Very nice,’ he complimented as she lifted out the crystal cut earrings Adam had bought from Feliks. ‘Your boyfriend has good taste. Nice work, expensive, but good.’

‘He’s my boss, not my boyfriend,’ Magdalena retorted brusquely.

‘Then he’s a very generous boss.’

She returned the earrings to their cotton wool bed and replaced the box in the briefcase.

‘Aren’t you going to keep them?’

‘Magdalena’s a common enough name. He probably intended them for someone else.’

Melerski switched on the organiser. ‘You don’t believe that – Damn! There’s a security code on this machine.’

‘There would be, Adam Salen’s a cautious man.’ Magdalena sifted through reports on the Wolfschanze and the Amber Knight that proved Adam was not as uninformed on both subjects as he had led her to believe.

‘You must have some idea what he’d use?’

‘I only work for him.’

‘Come on, Magda, keep the protests of innocence for the gossips. What password would he use?’

‘I was in Adam’s apartment once when the place was full of his relatives. He was furious because his nephew had cracked his PC by typing in “Open Sesame”.’

‘Not the most original password I’ve ever heard – but no – it doesn’t work.’

Josef returned from the bathroom, his skin and clothes as green as when he’d left. Melerski burst out laughing.

‘You look like an oversized wood sprite from a production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.’

‘I’ve set a watch on all the amber workshops,’ Josef countered soberly, ignoring Melerski’s mirth.

‘Don’t you think you’d be better off setting a watch on the homes of the amber-smiths in case they’re waylaid on the way to work? As Radek hasn’t tracked down the Russian and Brunon Kaszuba yet, it probably means they’ve a workshop somewhere in the main city. It would have to be a fair size to hold two coffins, the amber…’

‘And Adam.’

The note of desperation in Magdalena’s voice spurred Melerski into taking another crack at the electronic organiser. ‘Got it!’ he announced finally.

‘What was it?’ Magdalena asked.

‘That’s between Adam and me. I’m scanning the addresses now.’

‘Here, let me,’ Josef tried to take the machine from him, but Melerski refused to relinquish his hold.

‘Museums – staff – friends – America – here we are, family –’

‘But nothing for his grandfather,’ Josef snapped impatiently, looking over Melerski’s shoulder as he scrutinised the numbers. ‘There has to be another file.’

‘No doubt protected by yet another password,’ Melerski grumbled.

‘Carry on looking, I’ll see to the amber-smiths.’ Josef left the room, rubbing at his face with a tissue that remained stubbornly white.

‘What was the password?’ Magdalena asked Melerski again.

Melerski grinned at her. ‘Magda. What else?’

‘He’s right,’ Kaszuba babbled. ‘You’ve two of everything. Two suits of medieval clothes and armour, two stone coffins and enough amber to fill both of them…’

‘We planned it that way in case we mess up on our first attempt. We won’t be able to sell a faulty coffin full of burnt amber. The stuff is so fucking flammable, one spark could set it off,’ the Russian said calmly.

‘And if we mess up the body?’ Brunon demanded.

‘Corpses aren’t a problem. We’ll just go to the city mortuary and pick up a couple. I have contacts…’

While the argument tennis-balled back and fro between the Russian and Brunon, Adam studied the cellar. There appeared to be no windows and only one door, and that was behind him. The area around the chair he’d been strapped to and the kiln was surrounded by wooden packing cases, most of which were sealed; but the one nearest to the kiln was empty and two had been ripped open, displaying piles of brown and yellowish rocks he recognised as raw amber.

Twin stone coffins lay on the floor on the other side of the kiln, their lids propped against the wall behind them. Both were decorated with the carvings Edmund had pointed out in the photograph of the Amber Knight. There was a large cardboard box on top of one of the cases, large enough to hold two sets of medieval clothes and armour. The only things missing were the bodies and, if he could keep up the pressure on Brunon Kaszuba and convince the Pole that he was here to supply one half of that need, maybe, just maybe, he could utilise any altercation to escape. It wasn’t much of a plan, and it didn’t solve the problem of the chains that fastened him to the chair, but under the circumstances it was the best he could come up with.

‘Brunon, you’re crazy,’ Helga argued. ‘By quarrelling with us you’re playing into Adam’s hands. Can’t you see what he’s trying to do? Once he’s set us at each other’s throats he’s hoping we’ll be angry enough to forget him and why we’re here.’

‘None of us know Gdansk or the surrounding area the way you do, Brunon. We need you to get us out after we’ve sold the knights,’ the Russian assured him. ‘And we also need you to persuade Adam to give us that code, because without it there’s no money, for any of us.’

‘Look in the mirror, Brunon,’ Adam taunted, ‘and tell me which one of us looks more like a Teutonic knight?’

‘The only thing we want to hear from you, Yank, is the code.’ Galvanised by the Russian’s mention of money, Brunon kicked Adam’s chair even closer to the kiln with vicious blows that shook every damaged bone in Adam’s body.

Adam bit his lip, cringing silently until the pain was just about bearable again. He tried not to anticipate what was going to come next. More pain? Torture?

The Russian picked up a cordless drill from the table and inserted a fine bit into the socket. He switched it on, set it at high speed and held it in front of Adam’s eyes. ‘Where would you like the first hole?’

‘The middle of your forehead,’ Adam answered.

‘If that’s a hint that you’d like to be put out of your misery quickly, it can work that way. All you have to do is give us the code, but make sure it’s the right one. If we discover you’ve been wasting our time, we’ll be very angry, won’t we, Brunon?’ the Russian said softly.

‘As I’ve said, I have a poor memory, but then you know that. If I had remembered where I’d seen you, you would have been picked up days ago.’

‘By the police?’ The Russian laughed derisively. ‘Brunon, hold Mr Salen’s hand down on the table. It’s time to prospect for that code.’

‘Damn him for not keeping family numbers in his organiser.’ Josef stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. ‘Magda, there has to be a way of getting hold of someone from the Institute even at this hour. A procedure for emergencies…’

‘In a charitable institution and museum?’ Fear for Adam had made her irritable. ‘What emergencies? I’ve tried every number I can think of, and all I’ve reached are answer-phones. Nothing’s open.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And nothing will be for at least another hour and a half, until San Francisco wakes up.’

‘Stupid bastard for allowing himself to be kidnapped in the middle of the night. Bloody idiot…’

‘Sir?’ Pajewski tapped at the door. ‘Krakow’s on the other line. The nanny’s woken the boy.’

‘I’m coming.’

Magdalena picked up one of the faxes and began to read. Seconds later she ran to the door. ‘Josef!’

‘Problem?’ Melerski set aside the electronic organiser.

Josef appeared in the hall, Pajewski at his heels.

‘I know who has the knight. Who has Adam,’ Magdalena blurted out urgently. ‘The SS officer in charge of the engineers who blew up the Wolfschanze on the night of January 25th 1945 was Erich von Bielstein.’

‘So?’ Josef looked at her in confusion.

‘Adam’s wife introduced herself to me as Courtney von Bielstein Salen.’

‘Adam’s wife?’ Melerski repeated, bemused by Magdalena’s train of thought.

‘They’re separated. Adam won’t have anything to do with her. She’s the reason he left America and came to Poland. He’s been living off his salary here so she couldn’t touch his trust fund or the family money.’

‘She would be in a better position than anyone to know about any extra Salen Institute funds that could be used to acquire the knight,’ Josef conceded.

‘But only if Adam authenticates the purchase.’ Magdalena dropped to her knees and began searching for the shoes she’d kicked off.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Adam’s apartment. Edmund said she’d moved in there.’

Melerski waited until Josef and Magdalena tore out of the room before picking up the telephone.

Everything was bathed in red. The air that wavered before Adam’s eyes. The Russian’s and Kaszuba’s hands, the table his palm was pinned to by the screwdriver. The half dozen holes the Russian had already drilled oozed blood which mingled with his sweat, drenching both the table and his jeans.

A ringing in his ears drowned out every sound in the cellar. The Russian’s, Helga’s and Brunon Kaszuba’s faces wafted before him. Their lips were moving but he could neither hear nor understand a word they were saying.

Brunon snapped first. He reached out and cut the bandages from Adam’s chest with a butterfly knife. His fist slammed repeatedly into Adam’s broken ribs until Adam slumped forward, verging on unconsciousness. Then a voice penetrated through the clanging of bells in his head.

‘Stop! You’ll never get him to do anything that way. He’s always wanted to play the hero. You’re just giving him an excuse to indulge in cheap dramatics.’

Adam forced his eyes open. The ringing was still there, but fainter than it had been. His throat was parched. He croaked for water as a woman walked towards him. He’d recognise those legs anywhere, and the French silk stockings that few women could afford.

‘You idiots.’ Courtney surveyed the bloody table.

‘It’s his left hand,’ the Russian pointed out sullenly.

‘I wondered if you’d come,’ Adam croaked.

‘You wanted to say goodbye?’ She smiled the special smile he had once been fool enough to believe she kept exclusively for him.

‘I’ve told them I won’t make a good knight.’

‘No, you won’t, not while you’ve still got your balls. I’ve spoken to your grandfather, Adam. You failed to keep him informed of your progress in tracking down the knight.’