Preston Child - Mystery of the Amber Room

“Because it talks through me?” he smiled sardonically. “Note that everything it says represents things I already know, things that are already in my subconscious.”

“Then explain the thermal anomaly,” she retorted rapidly, leaving Sam momentarily stumped.

“My brain apparently controls my body temperature too. Same thing,” he countered without showing his uncertainty.

Nina laughed mockingly. “Your body temperature — I don't care how hot you might think you are, Playboy — cannot reach the thermal properties of a lightning bolt. And that is precisely what the doctor in Bali picked up, remember? Your eyes conducted so much concentrated electricity that ‘your head should have exploded', remember?”

Sam had no comeback.

“And another thing,” she continued her verbal victory, “Hypnosis is said to induce increased levels of fluctuating electrical activity within certain neurons of the brain, genius! Whatever is hypnotizing you is pushing an impossible amount of electrical power through you, Sam. Do you not see that what is happening to you is categorically outside the boundaries of mere psychology?”

“What do you suggest, then?” he shouted. “A shaman? Electroshock therapy? Paintball? A colonoscopy?”

“Oh Jesus!” she rolled her eyes. “There is no talking to you. You know what? Deal with this shit yourself. Go and see that quack and let him probe your brain a little more until you are as clueless as he is. It shouldn’t be a long trip for you!”

With that, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Had she had her car there she would have driven straight home to Oban, but she was stranded for the night. Sam knew better than to mess with Nina when she was pissed off, so he spent the night on the couch.

The annoying ringtone of her phone woke Nina the next morning. She was coming out of a deep, dreamless sleep that had been way too short and sat up in bed. Somewhere in her purse, her phone was ringing, but she could not find it on time to answer.

“Alright, alright, dammit,” she mumbled through the cotton wool of her waking mind. Fumbling madly through make-up and keys and deodorant she finally got a grip on her cellphone, but the call had already ended.

Nina frowned when she checked the clock. It was already 11.30 a.m., and Sam had let her sleep in.

“Great. Vexing me already today,” she cussed Sam out in his absence. “You better overslept yourself.” When she exited the room, she realized that Sam was gone. Heading for the kettle, she checked the screen of her phone. Her eyes could barely focus yet, but still, she was sure she did not know the number. She hit redial.

“Dr. Helberg’s office,” the receptionist answered.

‘Oh my God,’ Nina thought. ‘He went there.’ But she kept her cool just in case she was mistaken. “Hello, this is Dr. Gould. I just received a call from this number?”

“Dr. Gould?” the lady repeated excitedly. “Yes! Yes, we were trying to contact you. It's about Mr. Cleave. Is it possible…?”

“Is he alright?” Nina exclaimed.

“Could you come into our offices…?”

“I asked you a question!” Nina snapped. “Please just tell me if he is alright first!”

“We…we d-don't know, Dr. Gould,” the lady replied hesitantly.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Nina fumed, her rage fueled by worry for Sam’s condition. She heard a commotion in the background.

“Well, ma'am, he appears to be… um… levitating.”

Detlef took apart the floorboards where the air vent was, but when he inserted the screwdriver head into the second screw slit, the whole thing sank into the wall where it was mounted. A loud crack startled him, and he fell backward, kicking himself away from the wall. As he sat watching, the wall started to move sideways like a sliding door.

“What the…?” he gawked, propped up on his hands where he still cowered on the floor. The doorway led to what he thought was their neighboring apartment, but instead the dark room was a concealed space off Gabi's office for a purpose he was soon to discover. He rose to his feet, dusting off his pants and shirt. As the obscured doorway waited, he was reluctant just to walk inside because his training had taught him not to storm recklessly into unknown places — at least not without a weapon.

Detlef went to get his Glock and a flashlight, just in case the unknown room was rigged or had an alarm system. This was what he knew best — security breaches and counter-assassination protocol. With absolute precision he aimed the barrel into the darkness, steadying his heart rate to enable a clean shot if needed. But a steady pulse did not tame the thrill or the rush of adrenaline. It felt like the old days again as Detlef stepped inside the room, assessing the perimeter and scrutinizing the interior for any alarm or trigger devices.

But almost to his disappointment, it was just a room, although what was inside was far from uninteresting.

“Idiot,” he cursed himself when he saw the standard light switch next to the door frame on the inside. He flicked it on to reveal the full view of the room. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling lit Gabi's radio room. He knew it was hers because her blackcurrant lipstick stood at attention next to one of her cigarette cases. One of her cardigans was still draped over the small office chair's backrest, and Detlef had to fight the sorrow again at the sight of his wife's belongings.

He took the soft cashmere cardigan and inhaled her scent deeply before replacing it to examine the equipment. Four tables furnished the place. One where her chair was, two others on either side of it, and another by the door where she kept stacks of documents in what looked like folders — he could not tell off-hand. In the timid light of the bulb, Detlef felt as if he had stepped back in time. A musty odor reminding him of a museum filled the room with the unpainted cement walls.

“Wow, honey, I would have thought you of all people would put up some wallpaper and a mirror or two,” he told his wife as he looked around the radio room. “That's what you always did; beautified everything.”

The place reminded him of a dungeon or an interrogation room in an old spy movie. On her table was a contraption similar to a CB radio, but it something was different. Being a complete layman at radio communication of this outdated sort, Detlef looked for an on-switch. A protruding steel switch was fixed to the bottom right corner, so he tried it. Suddenly the two small gauges lit up, their needles rising and falling as static hissed through the speaker.

Detlef looked at the other devices. “They look far too complicated to suss out without a being a rocket scientist,” he remarked. “What is all this, Gabi?” he asked, as he noticed a big corkboard mounted above the table where the paper stacks were. Pinned to the board, he saw several articles on the killings Gabi had been investigating without her superiors' knowledge. On the side, she had scribbled ‘MILLA' in red felt pen.

“Who is Milla, baby?” he whispered. He recalled her diary noting someone called Milla on the same time slot as the two men present during her death. “I have to know. It's important.”

But all he could hear was the swishing whispers of the frequencies that came through the radio in swells. His eyes wandered further along the board where something vivid and brilliant caught his attention. Two photographs in full color depicted a palace room in gilded splendor. “Whoah,” Detlef mumbled, stunned by the detail and intricate work adorning the walls of the lavish room. Amber and gold stucco formed beautiful emblems and shapes framed at the corners by small effigies of cherubs and goddesses.