The Amber Room (17 page)

She munched her chicken and enjoyed the spectacle. It took her mind off her father, the Amber Room, and Danya Chapaev. Off Marcus Nettles and the coming election. Maybe Paul was right and this was a total waste of time. But she felt better just being here, and that counted for something.

She paid her bill with euros obtained at the airport and left the hall. The late afternoon was cool and comfortable, sweater weather back home, a midspring sun casting the cobblestones in alternating light and shadows. The streets were crowded with thousands of tourists and shoppers, the buildings of the old town an intriguing mix of stone, half-timber, and brick, a villagelike atmosphere of the quaint and medieval. The entire area was pedestrian only, vehicles limited to an occasional delivery truck.

She turned west and strolled back toward theMarienplatz. Her hotel sat on the far side of the open square. A food market lay between, the stalls brimming with produce, meat, and cooked specialties. An outdoor beer garden spread out to the left. She remembered a little about Munich. Once the capital of Bavaria, home of the Duke and Elector, seat of the Wittelsbachs who ruled the area for 750 years. What had Thomas Wolfe called it?A touch of German heaven.

She passed several tourist groups with guides spouting French, Spanish, and Japanese. In front of the town hall she encountered an English group, the accent twinged with the cockney twang she remembered from her previous trip to England. She lingered at the back of the group, listening to the guide, staring up at the blaze of Gothic ornamentation rising before her. The tour group inched across the square, stopping on the far side, opposite the town hall. She followed and noticed the guide studying her watch. The clock face high above read 4:58P .M.

Suddenly, the windows in the clock tower swung open and two rows of brightly colored enameled copper figurines danced out on a turntable. Music flooded the square. Bells clanged for five o’clock, echoed by more bells in the distance.

“This is theglockenspiel ,” the guide said over the noise. “It comes to life three times a day. Eleven, noon, and now at five. The figures on top are reenacting a tournament that used to accompany sixteenth-century German royal weddings. The figures below are performing the Dance of the Coppers.”

The colorful figures twirled to the tune of lively Bavarian music. Everyone in the street stopped, their necks craned upward. The vignette lasted two minutes, then stopped, and the square sprang back to life. The tour group moved off and crossed one of the side streets. She lingered for a few seconds and watched the clock windows fully close, then followed across the intersection.

The blare of a horn shattered the afternoon.

She jerked her head to the left.

The front end of a car approached her. Fifty feet. Forty. Twenty. Her eyes focused on the hood and the Mercedes emblem, then on the lights and words that signified taxi.

Ten feet.

The horn still blared. She needed to move, but her feet wouldn’t respond. She braced herself for the pain, wondering if the impact or the slam to the cobblestones would hurt worse.

Poor Marla and Brent.

And Paul. Sweet Paul.

An arm wrapped around her neck, and she was jerked back.

Brakes squealed. The taxi slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber steamed from the pavement.

She turned to see who now held her. The man was tall and lean, with a shock of corn-colored hair brushed across a tanned brow. Thin lips like slits cut with a razor creased a handsome face, the complexion a dusky hue. He was dressed in a wheat-colored twill shirt and checkered trousers.

“You okay?” he asked in English.

The peak of the moment had spent her emotions. She instantly realized how close she’d come to dying. “I think so.”

A crowd gathered. The cabdriver was out of the car, looking on.

“She’s okay, folks,” her savior said. Then he said something in German and people started to leave. He spoke to the taxi driver in German, who responded and then sped off.

“The driver is sorry. But he said you appeared out of nowhere.”

“I thought this was pedestrian only,” she said. “I wasn’t concerned about a car.”

“The taxis are not supposed to be here, but they find a way. I reminded the driver of that, and he decided that leaving was the best course.”

“There should be a sign or something.”

“America, right? Everything has a sign in America. Not here.”

She calmed down. “Thanks for what you did.”

Two rows of even white teeth flashed a perfect smile. “My pleasure.” He extended a hand. “I am Christian Knoll.”

She accepted the offer. “Rachel Cutler. And I’m glad you were there, Mr. Knoll. I never saw that taxi.”

“It would have been unfortunate otherwise.”

She grinned. “Quite.” She started to shake uncontrollably, the aftershock of what had almost just happened.

“Please, let me buy you a drink to calm you down.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“You are shaking. Some wine would be good.”

“I appreciate it, but—”

“As a reward for my effort.”

That would be hard to refuse, so she surrendered. “Okay, maybe a little wine might be the thing.”

She followed Knoll to a café about four blocks away, the twin copper towers of the main cathedral looming directly across the street. Clothed tables sprouted across the cobblestones, each filled with people cradling steins of dark beer. Knoll ordered a beer for himself and her a glass of Rhineland wine, the clear liquid dry, bitter, and good.

Knoll had been right. Her nerves were flustered. That was the closest she’d ever come to death. Strange her thoughts at the time. Brent and Marla were understandable. But Paul? She’d clearly thought of him, her heart aching for an instant.

She sipped the wine and let the alcohol and ambience soothe her nerves.

“I have a confession to make, Ms. Cutler,” Knoll said.

“How about Rachel?”

“Very well. Rachel.”

She sipped more wine. “What kind of confession?”

“I was following you.”

The words got her attention. She set the wineglass down. “What do you mean?”

“I was following you. I have been since you left Atlanta.”

She rose from the table. “I think perhaps the police should be involved in this.”

Knoll sat impassive and sipped his beer. “I have no problem with that, if you so desire. I only ask that you hear me out first.”

She considered the request. They were seated in the open. Beyond a wrought-iron railing, the street was full of evening shoppers. What would it hurt to hear him out? She sat back down. “Okay, Mr. Knoll, you’ve got five minutes.”

Knoll set the mug on the table. “I traveled to Atlanta earlier in the week to meet your father. On arrival I learned of his death. Yesterday, I appeared at your office and learned of your trip here. I even left my name and number. Your secretary did not pass my message on?”

“I haven’t talked with my office. What business did you have with my father?”

“I am looking for the Amber Room and thought he could be of assistance.”

“Why are you looking for the Amber Room?”

“My employer seeks it.”

“As do the Russians, I’m sure.”

Knoll smiled. “True. But, after fifty years, we regard it as ‘finders keepers,’ I believe is the American saying.”

“How could my father help?”

“He searched many years. Finding the Amber Room was given a high priority by the Soviets.”

“That was fifty-plus years ago.”

“With this particular prize, the passage of time is meaningless. If anything, it makes the search all the more intriguing.”

“How did you locate my father?”

Knoll stuffed a hand into a pocket and handed her some folded sheets. “I discovered those last week in St. Petersburg. They led me to Atlanta. As you’ll see, the KGB visited him a few years ago.”

She unfolded and read. The typed words were in Cyrillic. An English translation appeared to the side in blue ink. She instantly noticed who’d signed the top sheet. Danya Chapaev. She also noted what was written on the KGB sheet about her father:

Contact made. Denies any information onyantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev’s whereabouts.

But her father had known exactly where Chapaev lived. He’d corresponded with him for years. Why had he lied? And her father never mentioned anything about the KGB visiting him. Nor much about the Amber Room. It was a little unnerving to think the KGB had known about her, Marla, and Brent. She wondered what else her father held back.

“Unfortunately, I was not able to speak with your father,” Knoll said. “I arrived too late. I am truly sorry about your loss.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Monday.”

“And you waited till yesterday to go by my office?”

“I learned of your father’s death and did not want to intrude on your grief. My business could be postponed.”

The connection to Chapaev started to ease her tension. This man may be credible, but she cautioned herself against complacency. After all, though handsome and charming, Christian Knoll was still a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger in a foreign country. “Were you on my flight over?”

He nodded. “I barely made it onto the plane.”

“Why did you wait till now to speak up?”

“I was unsure of your visit. If it was personal, I did not want to interfere. If it concerned the Amber Room, I intended on approaching you.”

“I don’t appreciate being followed, Mr. Knoll. Not one damn bit.”

His gaze soldered onto hers. “Perhaps it is fortunate I did.”

The taxi flashed through her mind. Maybe he was right?

“And Christian will do fine,” he said.

She told herself to back off. No need to be so hostile. He’s right. He saved her life. “Okay. Christian it is.”

“Does your trip involve the Amber Room?”

“I’m not sure I should answer that.”

“If I were a danger, I would simply have let the taxi hit you.”

A good point, but not necessarily good enough.

“Frau Cutler, I am a trained investigator. Art is my speciality. I speak the language here and am familiar with this country. You may be an excellent judge, but I would assume you are a novice investigator.”

She said nothing.

“I am interested in information on the Amber Room, nothing more. I have shared with you what I am privy to. I only ask the same in return.”

“And if I decline and go to the police?”

“I will simply disappear from sight, but will keep you under surveillance to learn what you do. It is nothing personal. You are a lead I intend to explore to the end. I simply thought we could work together and save time.”

There was something rugged and dangerous about Knoll that she liked. His words came clear and direct, the voice sure. She searched his face hard for portents, but found none. So she made the kind of quick decision she was accustomed to making in court.

“Okay, Mr. Knoll. I’ve come to find Danya Chapaev. Apparently the same name on this sheet. He lives in Kehlheim.”

Knoll lifted the mug and took a pull of beer. “That’s south of here, toward the Alps near Austria. I know the village.”

“He and my father were apparently interested in the Amber Room. Obviously, more so than I ever realized.”

“Any idea what Herr Chapaev would know?”

She decided not to mention anything about the letters just yet. “Nothing other than they once worked together, as you seem to already know.”

“How did you come by the name?”

She decided to lie. “My father talked of him for many years. They were close once.”

“I can be of valuable assistance, Frau Cutler.”

“In all honesty, Mr. Knoll, I was hoping for some time alone.”

“I understand completely. I recall when my father died. It was very hard.”

The sentiment sounded genuine, and she appreciated the concern. But he was still a stranger.

“You need assistance. If this Chapaev is privy to information, I can help develop it. I have a vast knowledge of the Amber Room. Knowledge that can help.”

She said nothing.

“When do you plan to head south?” Knoll asked.

“Tomorrow morning.” She answered too quickly.

“Let me drive you.”

“I wouldn’t want my children accepting rides from strangers. Why should I do the same?”

He smiled. She liked it.

“I was open and frank with your secretary about my identity and intentions. Quite a trail for somebody who intended to harm you.” He downed the rest of his beer. “In any event, I would simply follow you to Kehlheim anyway.”

She made another quick decision. One that surprised her. “All right. Why not. We’ll go together. I’m staying at the Hotel Waldeck. A couple of blocks that way.”

“I’m across the street from the Waldeck at the Elisabeth.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Knoll watched Rachel Cutler disappear into the crowd.

That went quite well.

He tossed a few euros on the table and left the café. He rounded several corners and recrossed theMarienplatz . Past the food market, busy with early diners and revelers, he headed for Maximilianstrasse, an elegant boulevard lined with museums, government offices, and shops. The pillared portico of the National Theater rose ahead. In front, a line of taxis wrapped the statue of Max Joseph, Bavaria’s first king, patiently waiting for fares from the evening’s early performance. He crossed the street and walked to the fourth taxi in line. The driver was standing outside, arms folded, propped against the Mercedes’ exterior.

“Good enough?” the driver asked in German.

“More than enough.”

“My performance afterwards convincing?”

“Outstanding.” He handed the man a wad of euros.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Christian.”

“You, too, Erich.”

He knew the driver well, having used him before when in Munich. The man was both reliable and corruptible, two qualities he sought in all his operatives.

“You getting soft, Christian?”

“How so?”

“You only wanted her frightened, not killed. So unlike you.”