Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

The lines for Delta ticketing were long. He needed to lose Danzer farther into the terminal, so he headed straight for the electronic check-in kiosk. The stiletto was stashed inside his travel bag, the only safe place, since the blade would never have survived the metal detectors. He obtained a boarding pass and checked his bag, then passed through a busy security checkpoint and cruised down a long escalator to the transportation mall. Danzer lingered fifty yards back. Just as he suspected, she'd been caught off guard by his sudden exit, with no time to modify her disguise. The same brunette wig, peach jumpsuit, and dark sunglasses from the Marriott. A bit sloppy for her. She should carry a backup. Something to vary the look if disguise was the only means of camouflage employed. He preferred electronic surveillance. It allowed the luxury of distance between hunter and hunted.

At the bottom of the escalator, he scampered with the rest of the afternoon travelers to the automatic trains. Hundreds crisscrossed the transportation mall. He boarded a train in the front car and noticed Danzer climb into the second car, positioning herself near the doors and forward windows so she could see what was happening ahead. He knew the airport well. The trains moved between six concourses, the International Concourse being farthest away. At the first stop, Concourse A, he and a hundred other people stepped off. Danzer surely was wondering what he was doing, certainly familiar enough with Hartsfield to know that no international flights used Con-courses A through D. Perhaps he was taking a domestic flight to another American city, she might be thinking. No matter. He knew she'd follow, probably already plotting how to get on and off the plane without him noticing.

He loitered on the train platform as if waiting for somebody. Instead he silently ticked off the seconds. Timing was critical. Danzer waited too, trying to seem uninterested, using the crowd for protection. She stood fifty feet away, apparently confident he noticed nothing. He waited exactly one minute then followed the crowd to an escalator.

The steps slowly rose.

It was thirty yards up to the busy concourse. Broad skylights four stories above admitted the afternoon sun. A ten-foot angled aluminum median separated the up escalator from the down. Every twenty feet a silk plant sprouted for decoration. The down escalator heading back toward the transportation mall was not nearly as crowded. No surveillance cameras or security guards were in sight.

He waited for the precise moment, then gripped the rubber handrail and leaped across the median, pivoting off the side of one of the silk planters and hopping onto the down escalator. He was now headed in the opposite direction and, as he passed Danzer, he tipped his head in mock salute.

The look on her face said it all.

He needed to move fast. It wouldn't be long before she copied what he did. He sidestepped the few travelers heading down and raced to ground level. His timing was perfect. A train roared into the station, heading outbound. The doors parted. A robotic voice announced, "Please move away from the doors to the center of the aisle." People streamed on. He glanced back and saw Danzer leap across the median onto the down escalator, her move not quite as graceful as his. She stumbled for a moment, then regained her balance.

He stepped onto the train.

"The doors are now closing," the robotic voice announced.

Danzer raced off the escalator straight for the train, but was too late. The doors closed and the train roared from the station.

He exited the train at the International Concourse. Danzer would eventually head that way, but the flight to Munich was surely boarding by now and he was nearly a mile from Concourse A. By the time she either ran through the transportation mall or waited for the next train he'd be lost in the crowd above, boarding the flight.

The concourse was huge and familiar. The largest international flight terminal in America. Five stories. Twenty-four gates. It would take an hour just to walk through and check every one. He stepped onto the escalator and started up. The same bright airy feel per-meated the space except, periodically, recessed showcases displayed a variety of Mexican, Egyptian, and Phoenician art. Nothing extravagant or precious, just ordinary pieces, placards at the bottom noting the particular Atlanta museum or collector that made the loan.

At the top of the escalator he followed a crowd to the right. The aroma of coffee wafted from a Starbucks off to the left. A crowd was poised at WH Smith, buying periodicals and newspapers. He stopped and studied the departure screens. Over the next thirty minutes a dozen or so flights were leaving the gates. Danzer would have no way to know which one he was taking, if any. After all, he could have headed back to the terminal, the initial trick with checking his bag merely a ploy.

He scanned the screen for the flight to Munich, found the gate, and marched down the concourse. When he arrived, the flight was already boarding.

He stepped into line and said at his turn, "Any more seats available on the plane?"

The attendant concentrated on the video monitor. "No, sir. All full."

Now, even if Danzer found him, there was no way she could follow. He hoped all the passengers showed up and no standby seats became available. He headed for the gate, thirty or so people ahead of him. He glanced toward the front of the line and noticed a woman sporting shoulder-length auburn hair dressed in a striking, dark blue pantsuit. She was handing her boarding pass to the attendant and entering the jet way.

The face was instantly recognizable.

Rachel Cutler.

Perfect.

TWENTY-THREE

Atlanta, Georgia

Friday, May 16, 9:15 a.m.

Suzanne strolled into the office. Paul Cutler rose from behind an oversize walnut desk and stepped toward her.

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me," she said.

"Not a problem, Ms. Myers."

Cutler used the surname she'd provided the receptionist. She knew Knoll liked to use his own name. More of his arrogance. She preferred anonymity. Less chance of leaving a lasting impression.

"Why don't you call me Jo?" she said.

She took the seat offered her and studied the middle-aged lawyer. He was short and lean with light brown hair, not bald, just thinning. He was dressed in the expected white shirt, dark pants, and silk tie, but the suspenders added a touch of maturity. He flashed a disarming smile and she liked his glinting slate-gray eyes. He appeared diffident and unassuming, someone she quickly decided could be charmed.

Luckily, she'd dressed for the part. A chestnut wig was pinned to the top of her head. Blue contact lenses tinted her eyes. A pair of octagonal clear lenses in gold frames added to the illusion. The crepe skirt with a double-breasted jacket and peak lapels had been bought yesterday at Ann Taylor and carried a distinctive feminine touch, the idea being to draw attention away from her face. When she sat, she crossed her legs, slowly exposing black stockings, and she tried to smile a bit more than usual.

"You're an art investigator?" Cutler asked. "Must be interesting work."

"It can be. But I'm sure your job is equally challenging."

She quickly took in the room's decor. A framed Winslow print hung over a leather settee, a Kupka watercolor on either side. Diplomas dotted another wall, along with numerous professional memberships and awards from the American Bar Association, Society of Probate Lawyers, and the Georgia Trial Lawyers Association. Two color photographs were apparently taken in what looked to be a legislative chamber--Cutler shaking hands with the same older man.

She motioned to the art. "A connoisseur?"

"Hardly. I do a little collecting. I'm active, though, with our High Museum."