Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

Her love of art had always endeared her to Loring. His offer to succeed her father came the day after he was buried. She'd been surprised. Shocked. Unsure. But Loring harbored no doubts on either her intelligence or resolve, and his unfettered confidence was what constantly inspired her to succeed. But now, standing alone in the sun, she realized that she'd chanced far too many risks over the past few days. Christian Knoll was not a man to take lightly. He was well aware of her attempts on his life. She'd twice made a fool of him. Once in the mine, the other with the kick in the groin. Never before had their quests risen to this level. She was uncomfortable with the escalation, but understood its need. Still, this matter required resolution. Loring needed to talk with Franz Fellner and reach some accommodation.

A light knock came from inside.

She reentered her bedchamber and answered the door. One of the house stewards said, "Pan Loring si preje vas videt. Ve studovne."

Loring wanted to see her in his study.

Good, she needed to talk with him, as well.

The study was two floors down at the northwest end of the castle's ground floor. Suzanne had always considered it a hunter's room, since the walls were lined with antlers and horns, the ceiling decorated with the heraldic animals of Bohemian kings. A huge seventeenth-century oil painting dominated one wall and depicted muskets, game bags, hog spears, and powder horns in astonishingly realistic terms.

Loring was already comfortable on the sofa when she walked in. "Come here, my child," he said in Czech.

She sat beside him.

"I have thought long and hard about what you reported earlier, and you are right, something needs to be done. The cavern in Stod is most certainly the place. I thought it would never be found, but it now apparently has."

"How can you be sure?"

"I cannot. But from the few things Father told me before he died, the location certainly appears genuine. The trucks, bodies, the sealed entrance."

"That trail is cold again," she made clear.

"Is it, my dear?"

Her analytical mind took over. "Grumer, Borya, and Chapaev are dead. The Cutlers are amateurs. Even though Rachel Cutler survived the mine, what does it matter? She knows nothing other than what was in her father's letters, and that isn't much. Fleeting references, easily discounted."

"You said her husband was in Stod, at the hotel, with McKoy's group."

"But, again, there is no trail leading here. Amateurs will make little progress, as in the past."

"Fellner, Monika, and Christian are not amateurs. I'm afraid we have tickled their curiosity a bit too much."

She knew of Loring's conversations with Fellner over the past few days, conversations where Fellner had apparently lied and said he knew nothing of Knoll's whereabouts. "I agree. Those three are certainly planning something. But you can handle the matter with Pan Fellner, face-to-face."

Loring pushed himself up from the couch. "This is so difficult, draha. I have so few years left--"

"I won't hear talk like that," she said quickly. "You are in good health. Many productive years to go."

"I'm seventy-seven. Be realistic."

The thought of him dying bothered her. Her mother died when she was too young to feel the loss. The pain from when her father died was still quite real, the memories vivid. Losing the other father in her life would be more than difficult.

"My two sons are good men. They run the family businesses well. And when I am gone, all that will belong to them. It is their birthright." Loring faced her. "Money is so transparent. There is a certain thrill from the making of it. But it simply remakes itself if invested and managed wisely. Little skill is needed to perpetuate billions in hard currency. This family is proof of that. The bulk of our fortune was made two hundred years ago and simply passed down."

"I think you underestimate the value of your and your father's careful steerage through two world wars."

"Politics does sometimes interfere, but there will always be refuges where currency can be safely invested. For us, it was America."

Loring came back and sat on the edge of the couch. He smelled of bitter tobacco, as did the entire room. "Art, though, draha , is much more fluid. It changes as we change, adapts as we do. A masterpiece of five hundred years ago might be frowned upon today.

"Yet, amazingly, some art forms can and do last the millennia. That, my dear, is what excites me. You understand that excitement. You appreciate it. And because of that, you have brought great joy to my life. Though my blood does not course through your veins, my spirit does. There is no doubt that you are my daughter in spirit."

She'd always felt that way. Loring's wife had died nearly twenty years ago. Nothing sudden or unexpected. A painful bout with cancer that slowly claimed her. His sons left decades ago. He had few pleasures, other than his art, gardening, and woodworking. But his tired joints and atrophied muscles severely restricted those activities. Though he was a billionaire, residing in a castle fortress and possessed of a name known throughout Europe, she was, in many ways, all this old man had left.

"I've always thought of myself as your daughter."

"When I am gone, I want you to have Castle Loukov."

She said nothing.

"I am also bequeathing you a hundred and fifty million euros so you can maintain the estate, along with my entire art collection, public and private. Of course, only you and I know the extent of the private collection. I have also left instructions that you are to inherit my club membership. It is mine to do with as I please. I want you to succeed in my place."

His words were too much. She struggled to speak. "What of your sons? They are your rightful heirs."

"And they will receive the bulk of my wealth. This estate, my art, and the money are nowhere near what I possess. I have discussed this with both of them, and neither offered any objection."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you will do me proud and let all this live on."

"There is no doubt."

He smiled and lightly squeezed her hand. "You have always done me proud. Such a good daughter." He paused. "Now, though, we must do one final thing to ensure the safety of what we have worked so hard to achieve."

She understood. She'd understood all day. There really was only one way to solve their problem.

Loring stood, walked to the desk, and calmly dialed the phone. When the connection was made with Burg Herz he said, "Franz, how are you this evening?"

A pause while Fellner spoke on the other end. Loring's face was knotted. She knew this was difficult for him. Fellner was not only a competitor, but also a longtime friend.

Yet it had to be done.

"I very much need to talk with you, Franz. It is vitally important. . . . No, I would like to send my plane for you and talk this evening. Unfortunately, there is no way I can leave the Republic. I can have the jet there within the hour and have you back home by midnight. . . . Yes, please bring Monika--this concerns her, as well--and Christian, too. . . . Oh, still have not heard from him? A shame. I'll have the plane at your landing field by five-thirty. I'll see you soon."

Loring hung up and sighed. "Such a pity. To the end, Franz continues to maintain the charade."

FIFTY

Prague, Czech Republic

6:50 p.m.

The sleek gold-and-gray corporate jet rolled across the tarmac and settled to a stop. The engines whined down. Suzanne stood with Loring in the dim light of late evening as workers nestled metal stairs close to the open hatch. Franz Fellner exited first, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Monika followed, sporting a white turtleneck, navy blue silhouette blazer, and tight-fitting jeans. Typical, Suzanne thought. A vile mix of breeding and sexuality. And though Monika Fellner had just stepped off a multimillion-dollar private jet at one of Europe's premier metropolitan airports, her face reflected the disdain of someone clearly slumming.