The Amber Room (22 page)

Knoll examined the wall of rock and sand. He’d seen a tunnel end before. This wasn’t a natural cessation. An explosion had caused what lay before him, and there was no way to shovel through the ceiling-to-floor debris.

And there was no iron door on the other side, either.

That much he knew.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“There was an explosion here.”

“Maybe we made a wrong turn?”

“Not possible. I followed Chapaev’s directions precisely.”

Something was definitely wrong. His mind reeled off the facts. Chapaev’s information offered with no resistance. The chain and lock newer than the gate. The iron hinges still working. The trail easy to follow. Too damn easy.

And Suzanne Danzer? In Atlanta? Maybe not.

The best thing to do was head back to the entrance, enjoy Rachel Cutler, then get out of Warthberg. He’d planned to kill her all along. No need to have a live source of information available for another Acquisitor to tap. Danzer was already on the trail. So it was only a matter of time before she tracked down Rachel and talked to her, perhaps learning about Chapaev. Monika wouldn’t like that. Maybe Chapaev really did know where the Amber Room lay but had intentionally led them on this chase. So he decided to get rid of Rachel Cutler here and now, then head back to Kehlheim and squeeze information from Chapaev, one way or the other.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Roll up the string back to the entrance. I’ll follow.”

They started back through the maze, Rachel leading the way. His light revealed her firm ass and shapely thighs through tan jeans. He studied her slender legs and narrow shoulders. His groin started to respond.

The first fork appeared, then the second.

“Wait,” he said. “I want to see what’s down here.”

“This way is out,” she said, pointing left toward the string.

“I know. But while we’re here. Let’s see. Leave the string. We know the way from here.”

She tossed the twine ball down and turned right, still leading the way.

He flicked his right arm. The stiletto released and slid down. He palmed the handle.

Rachel stopped and turned back, her light momentarily on him.

His light caught her shocked face as she saw the glistening blade.

Suzanne pointed the radio controller and pressed the button. The signal sped through the morning air to the explosive charges she’d set in the rock last night. Not enough of an explosion to draw attention from Warthberg, six kilometers away, but more than enough to bring the mountain down inside.

Ending another problem.

The ground shook. The ceiling crumbled. Knoll tried to steady himself.

Now he knew. Itwas a trap.

He turned and raced toward the entrance. Rock cascaded in a shower of stone and blinding dust. The air fouled. He held the flashlight in one hand, stiletto in the other. He quickly pocketed the knife and yanked his shirt out, using the clean hem to shield his nose and mouth.

More rock rained down.

The light toward the entrance ahead grew dusty and thick, veiled in a cloud, then obliterated behind boulders. It was now impossible to go that way.

He turned again and darted in the opposite direction, hoping there was another way out of the maze. Thankfully, his flashlight still worked. Rachel Cutler was nowhere to be seen. But it didn’t matter. The rocks had saved him the trouble.

He raced deeper into the mountain, down the main shaft, past the point where he last saw her standing. The explosions seemed to have centered behind him, the walls and ceiling ahead stable, though the entire mountain now vibrated.

More rock pounded onto itself behind him. Definitely only one way to go now. A fork appeared in the shaft. He stopped and oriented himself. The original entrance behind him had faced east. So west lay ahead. The left fork appeared to go south, the right north. But, who knows? He had to be careful. Not too many turns. It would be easy to get lost, and he didn’t want to die wandering underground until he either starved or dehydrated.

He lowered his shirttail and sucked in a lungful of air. He tried to recall what he could about the mines. Never was there only one way in or out. The sheer depth and extent of the tunnels demanded multiple entrances. During the war, though, the Nazis sealed off most of the portals, trying to secure their hiding places. He now hoped this mine wasn’t one of those. What encouraged him was the air. Not as stale as when they were deeper inside.

He raised his hand. A slight breeze drifted from the left fork. Should he take the chance? Too many more turns and he’d never find his way back. Total darkness possessed no reference points, his present position known only because of the main shaft’s orientation. But he could easily lose that frame of reference with a couple of indiscriminate moves.

What should he do?

He stepped left.

Fifty meters and the tunnel forked again. He held up his hand. No breeze. He recalled reading once that the miners designed their safety routes all in the same direction. One left turn meant all left turns until you were out. What choice did he have? Go left.

Two more forks. Two more lefts.

A shaft of light appeared ahead. Faint. But there. He scurried forward and turned the corner.

Daylight loomed a hundred meters away.

Kehlheim, Germany

11:30 a.m.

Paul glanced in the rearview mirror. A car rapidly approached, its lights flashing and siren hee-hawing. The green-and-white compact,POLIZEI on the doors in blue letters, zoomed past in the opposite lane and disappeared around a bend.

He drove on, entering Kehlheim ten kilometers later.

The quiet village was littered with brightly painted buildings that ringed a cobbled square. He wasn’t much of a traveler. Only one trip overseas to Paris two years ago for the museum—a chance to tour the Louvre had been too enticing to pass up. He’d asked Rachel to go with him. She’d refused. Not a good idea for an ex-wife, he remembered her saying. He was never quite sure what she meant, though he sincerely thought she would have liked to go.

He’d been unable to get a flight out of Atlanta until yesterday afternoon, taking the children to his brother’s house early in the morning. The lack of a call from Rachel worried him. But he’d not checked the answering machine since 9A .M. yesterday. His flight was protracted by stops in Amsterdam and Frankfurt, which didn’t get him into Munich until two hours ago. He’d cleaned up the best he could in an airport bathroom, but could definitely use a shower, shave, and change of clothes.

He cruised into the town square and parked in front of what appeared to be a grocery market. Bavaria obviously wasn’t a Sunday place. All the buildings were closed down. The only activity was centered near the church, whose steeple was the highest point in the village. Parked cars hunched in tight rows across uneven cobbles. A group of older men stood on the church steps talking. Beards, dark coats, and hats predominated. He should have brought a jacket himself, but he’d packed in a hurry with only the essentials.

He walked over. “Excuse me. Any of you speak English?”

One man, seemingly the oldest of the four said, “Ja.A little.”

“I’m looking for a man named Danya Chapaev. I understand he lives here.”

“Not anymore. Dead now.”

He was afraid of that. Chapaev had to have been old. “When did he die?”

“Last night. Killed.”

Had he heard right? Killed? Last night? His greatest fear welled up inside him. The question immediately formed in his mind. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Nein.Just Danya.”

He remembered the police car. “Where did this happen?”

He motored out of Kehlheim and followed the proffered directions. The house appeared ten minutes later, easy to spot with four police cars angled in front. A uniformed, stone-faced man stood guard at the open front door. Paul approached, but was stopped immediately.

“Nicht eintreten. Kriminelle szene,”
the policeman said.

“English, please.”

“No entrance. Crime scene.”

“Then I need to speak to the person in charge.”

“I’m in charge,” a voice said from inside, the English laced with a guttural German accent.

The man who approached the front doorway was middle-aged. Tufts of unruly black hair crowned a craggy face. A dark blue overcoat draped his thin frame down to the knees, an olive suit and knit tie showing underneath.

“I am Fritz Pannik. Inspector with the federal police. And you?”

“Paul Cutler. A lawyer from the United States.”

Pannik brushed past the door guard. “What is a lawyer from America doing here on a Sunday morning?”

“Looking for my ex-wife. She came to see Danya Chapaev.”

Pannik cut a look at the policeman.

He noticed the curious expression. “What is it?”

“A woman was asking directions to this house yesterday in Kehlheim. She is a suspect in this murder.”

“You have a description?”

Pannik reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a notepad. He flipped open the leather flap. “Medium height. Reddish-blond hair. Big breasts. Jeans. Flannel shirt. Boots. Sunglasses. Hefty.”

“That’s not Rachel. But it could be somebody else.”

He quickly told Pannik about Jo Myers, Karol Borya, and the Amber Room, describing his female visitor as she appeared. Thin, moderately chested, chestnut hair, brown eyes, a pair of octagonal gold frames. “I got the impression the hair wasn’t hers. Call it lawyer intuition.”

“But she read the letters Chapaev and this Karol Borya sent to one another?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Did the envelopes note this location on them?”

“Only the town name.”

“Is there more to the story?”

He told the inspector about Christian Knoll, Jo Myers’s concerns, and his own.

“And you came to warn your ex-wife?” Pannik asked.

“More to see if she was okay. I should have come with her in the first place.”

“But you considered her trip a waste of time?”

“Absolutely. Her father expressly asked her not to get involved.” Beyond Pannik’s shoulders, two policemen moved about inside. “What happened in there?”

“If you have the stomach, I’ll show you.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said, as if that meant anything. He didn’t mention that he’d never handled a criminal case in his life and had never visited a crime scene before. But curiosity drove him. First Borya dead, now Chapaev murdered. But Karol had fallen down the stairs.

Or had he?

He followed Pannik inside. The warm room carried a peculiar, sickeningly sweet odor. Mystery novels always talked about the smell of death. Was that it?

The house was small. Four rooms. A den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. From what he could see the furniture was old and tattered, yet the place was clean and cozy, the tranquillity shattered by the sight of an old man sprawled across a threadbare carpet, a large splotch of crimson leading from two holes in the skull.

“Shot point-blank,” Pannik said.

His eyes were riveted on the corpse. Bile started to rise in his throat. He fought the urge, but to no avail.

He rushed from the room.

He was bent over, retching. The little bit he’d eaten on the plane was now puddled on the damp grass. He took a few deep breaths and got hold of himself.

“Finished?” Pannik asked.

He nodded. “You think the woman did that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that a female asked where Chapaev lived, and the grandson offered to show her the way. They left the marketplace together yesterday morning. The old man’s daughter got concerned last night when the boy did not come home. She came over and found the boy tied up in the bedroom. Apparently the woman had a problem killing children, but didn’t mind shooting an old man.”

“The boy okay?”

“Shook up, but all right. He confirmed the description, but could offer little more. He was in the other room. He remembers hearing voices talking. But he couldn’t determine any of the conversation. Then his papa and the woman came in for a moment. They spoke in another language. I tried a few sample words, and it appears they were speaking Russian. Then the old man and the woman left the room. He heard a shot. Silence after that till his mother arrived a few hours later.”

“She shot the man square in the head?”

“At close range, too. The stakes must be high.”

A policeman walked from inside.“Nichts im haus hinsichtlich des Bernstein-zimmer.”

Pannik looked at him. “I had them search the house for anything on the Amber Room. There’s nothing there.”

A radio crackled from the hip of the German standing guard at the front door. The man slipped the transmitter from his waist, then approached Pannik. In English the policeman said, “I have to go. A call has come for search and rescue. I’m on duty this weekend.”

“What’s happened?” Pannik asked.

“Explosion in one of the mines near Warthberg. An American woman has been pulled out, but they’re still searching for a man. Local authorities have requested our help.”

Pannik shook his head. “A busy Sunday.”

“Where’s Warthberg?” Paul immediately asked.

“In the Harz Mountains. Four hundred kilometers to the north. They sometimes use our Alpine rescue teams when there are mishaps.”

Wayland McKoy and Karol’s interest in the Harz Mountains flashed through his mind. “An American woman was found? What’s her name?”

Pannik seemed to sense the point of the inquiry and turned to the officer. Words passed between them, and the officer talked back into the radio.

Two minutes later, the words came through the speaker:“Die frau ist Rachel Cutler. Amerikanerin.”

3:10 p.m.

The police chopper knifed north through the may afternoon. Past Würzburg it started to rain. Paul sat next to Pannik, a team of search-and-rescue personnel strapped in behind them.

“A group of hikers heard the explosions and alerted authorities,” Pannik said over the roar of the turbine. “Your ex-wife was pulled out near an entrance to one of the shafts. She’s been taken to a local hospital, but managed to tell her rescuers about the man. His name is Christian Knoll, Herr Cutler.”