Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

"Ten million euros is one thing. But no Russian pissant will spit on me."

He tried to amass enough saliva to spit again, but his mouth was dry, his jaw frozen.

Knoll's arm encircled his neck.

FIFTEEN

Suzanne Danzer watched through the window and heard the crack as Knoll snapped the old man's neck. She saw the body go limp, the head left at an unnatural angle.

Knoll then shoved Borya aside and kicked the man's chest.

She'd picked up Knoll's trail this morning, after arriving in Atlanta on a flight from Prague. His actions so far had been predictable, and she initially located him as he cruised the neighborhood on a scouting mission. Any competent Acquisitor always studied the landscape first, making sure a lead was not a trap.

And if Knoll was anything, he was good.

He'd stayed downtown in his hotel most of the day, and she'd followed him earlier when he first visited Borya. But instead of returning to his hotel, Knoll waited in a car three blocks over and then backtracked to the house after dark. She'd watched as he entered through a rear door, the entrance apparently unlocked as the knob turned on the first try.

Obviously, the old man had been uncooperative. Knoll's temper was legendary. He'd tossed Borya down the stairs as casually as one tossed paper into the trash, then snapped the neck with apparent pleasure. She respected her adversary's talents, knew of the stiletto he sported on his forearm and his unhesitating ability to use it.

But she was not without talents of her own.

Knoll stood and looked around.

Her vantage point provided a clear view. The black jumpsuit and black cap she wore over her blond hair helped blend her into the night. The room the window opened into, a front parlor, was unlit.

Did he sense her?

She shrank below the sill into the tall hollies surrounding the house, careful with the prickly leaves. The night was warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead at the edge of the cap's elastic. She cautiously edged back up and saw Knoll disappear up the stairs. Six minutes later he returned, his hands empty, his jacket was once again smooth, his tie perfect. She watched as he bent down and checked Borya's pulse and then moved toward the back of the house. A few seconds later she heard a door open and close.

She waited ten minutes before creeping around to the rear of the house. With gloved hands, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and old age lingered in the air. She crossed the kitchen and headed toward the foyer.

In the dining room a cat suddenly bisected her path. She stopped, her heart pounding, and cursed the creature.

She sucked in a breath and entered the den.

The decor hadn't changed since her last visit, three years ago. The same hand-tufted camelback sofa, chiming wall clock, and iron Cambridge lamps. The lithographs on the wall had initially intrigued her. She'd wondered if any might be originals, but a close inspection last time revealed all to be copies. She'd broken in one evening after Borya left, her search revealing nothing on the Amber Room other than some magazine and newspaper reports. Nothing of any value. If Karol Borya knew anything of substance on the Amber Room, he certainly hadn't written it down or did not keep the information in his house.

She bypassed the body in the foyer and mounted the stairs. Another quick check in the study revealed nothing except that Borya had apparently been reading some of the Amber Room material recently. Several articles were strewn across the same tan chair she remembered from before.

She crept back downstairs.

The old man lay facedown. She tried for a pulse. None.

Good.

Knoll saved her the trouble.

SIXTEEN

Sunday, May 11, 8:35 a.m.

Rachel steered the car into her father's driveway. The mid-May morning sky was an inviting blue. The garage door was up, the Oldsmobile resting outside, dew sparkling on its maroon exterior. The sight was strange, since her father usually parked the car inside.

The house had changed little since her childhood. Red brick, white trim, charcoal shingled roof. The magnolia and dogwoods in front, planted twenty-five years ago when the family first moved in, now loomed tall and bushy along with hollies and junipers encircling the front and sides. The shutters were showing their age, and mildew was slowly advancing up the brick. The outside needed attention and she made a mental note to talk to her father about it.

She parked and the kids bolted out, running around to the back door.

She checked her father's car. Unlocked. She shook her head. He simply refused to lock anything. The morning Constitution lay in the driveway, and she walked down and retrieved it, then followed the concrete path around back. Marla and Brent were calling for Lucy in the backyard.

The kitchen door was also unlocked. The light over the sink was on. As careless as her father was about locks, he was downright neurotic about lights, burning one only when absolutely necessary. He would surely have switched it off last night before going to bed.

She called out, "Dad? You here? How many times do I have to tell you about leaving the door unlocked?"

The kids called for Lucy, then pushed through the swinging door toward the dining room and den.

"Daddy?" Her voice was louder.

Marla ran back into the kitchen. "Granddaddy's asleep on the floor."

"What do you mean?"

"He's asleep on the floor by the stairs."

She rushed from the kitchen to the foyer. The odd angle of her father's neck instantly told her he wasn't sleeping.

"Welcome to the High Museum of Art," the greeter said to each person passing through the wide glass doors. "Welcome. Welcome." People continued to file through the turnstile one at a time. Paul waited his turn in line.

"Morning, Mr. Cutler," the greeter said. "You didn't have to wait. Why didn't you come on up?"

"That wouldn't be fair, Mr. Braun."

"Membership on the board should have some privilege, shouldn't it?"

Paul smiled. "You would think. Is there a reporter here waiting for me? I was to meet him at ten."

"Yep. Fellow's been in the front gallery since I opened."

He headed off, his leather heels clicking against the shiny terrazzo. The four-story atrium was open all the way to the ceiling, semicircular pedestrian ramps girdled the towering walls on each floor, people milled up and down, and the rumble of muted conversations floated across the conditioned air.

He could think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than at the museum. He'd never been much of a churchgoer. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that admiring real human endeavor seemed more satisfying than pondering some omnipotent being. Rachel was the same way. He often wondered if their lackadaisical attitude toward religion affected Marla and Brent. Maybe the children needed exposure, he once argued. But Rachel had disagreed. Let them make up their own minds in their own time. She was staunchly antireligion.

Just one more of their debates.

He sauntered into the front gallery, its canvases a tantalizing sample of what awaited throughout the rest of the building. The reporter, a skinny, brisk-looking man with a scraggly beard and a camera bag slung over his right shoulder, stood in front of a large oil.

"Are you Gale Blazek?"

The young man turned and nodded.

"Paul Cutler." They shook hands, and he motioned to the painting. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Del Sarto's last, I believe," the reporter said.

He nodded. "We were fortunate to talk a private collector into lending it to us for a while, along with several other nice canvases. They're on the second floor with the rest of the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century Italians."