Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

"I'm uncomfortable with this," he said. "I imagine Loring is not a man to take lightly. Especially to blackmail."

Rachel slipped the towel from her head and stepped back into the bathroom, dabbing her locks dry. A hair dryer came on.

He studied a painting on the far wall. It was a half-figure of a penitent St. Peter. A da Cortona or maybe a Reni. Seventeenth-century Italian, if he remembered correctly. Expensive, provided one could even be found outside a museum. The canvas appeared original. From what little he knew about porcelain, the figurines resting on corbels attached to the wall on either side of the painting were Riemenschneider. Fifteenth-century German and priceless. On the way up the staircase to the bedroom they'd passed more paintings, tapestries, and sculptures. What the museum staff in Atlanta would give to display just a fraction of the items.

The hair dryer clicked off. Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, fingers teasing her auburn hair. "Like a hotel room," she said. "Soap, shampoo, and hair dryer."

"Except that the room is decorated with fine art worth millions."

"This stuff's original?"

"From what I can see."

"Paul, we have to do something about McKoy. This is going too far."

"I agree. But Loring bothers me. He's not at all what I expected."

"You've been watching too many James Bond movies. He's just a rich old man who loves art."

"He took McKoy's threat too calmly for me."

"Should we call Pannik and let him know we're staying over?"

"I don't think so. Let's just play it by ear right now. But I vote to get out of here tomorrow."

"You won't get any grief from me on that."

Rachel undraped the towel and slipped on a pair of panties. He watched from the chair, trying to remain impassive.

"It's not fair," he said.

"What's not?"

"You dancing around naked."

She snapped her bra in place, then walked over and climbed in his lap. "I meant what I said last night. I want to try again."

He stared at the Ice Queen, seminaked in his arms.

"I never stopped loving you, Paul. I don't know what happened. I think my pride and anger just took hold. There came a point when I felt stifled. It's nothing you did. It was me. After I went on the bench, something happened. I can't really explain."

She was right. Their problems had escalated after she was sworn in. Perhaps the mollification from everyone saying "Yes, ma'am" and "Her Honor" all day was hard to leave behind at the office. But to him she was Rachel Bates, a woman he loved, not an item of respect or a conduit to the wisdom of Solomon. He argued with her, told her what to do, and complained when she didn't do it. Perhaps, after a while, the startling contrast between their two worlds became difficult to delineate. So difficult that she'd ultimately rid herself of one side of the conflict.

"Daddy's death and all this has brought things home to me. All of Mama's and Daddy's family were killed in the war. I have no one other than Marla and Brent . . . and you."

He stared at her.

"I mean that. You are my family, Paul. I made a big mistake three years ago. I was wrong."

He realized how hard it was for her to say those words. But he wanted to know, "How so?"

"Last night when we were darting though that abbey, hanging from the balcony, that's enough to bring anything home. You came over here when you thought I was in danger and risked a lot for me. I shouldn't be so difficult. You don't deserve that. All you ever asked was a little peace and quiet and consistency. All I ever did was make things hard."

He thought of Christian Knoll. Though Rachel had never admitted anything, she'd been attracted to him. He could feel it. But Knoll had left her to die. Perhaps that act had served as a reminder to her analytical mind that not everything was as it appeared. Her ex-husband included. What the hell. He loved her. Wanted her back. Time to put up or shut up.

He kissed her.

Knoll watched as the Cutlers embraced, aroused by the sight of a half-dressed Rachel Cutler. He'd concluded during the car trip from Munich to Kehlheim that she still cared for her ex-husband. Which was most likely why she rebuked his advances in Warthberg. She was definitely attractive. Full bosom, thin waist, inviting crotch. He'd wanted her in the mine and fully intended to have her until Danzer intruded with the explosion. So why not rectify the situation tonight? What did it matter anymore? Fellner and Monika were dead. He was unemployed. And none of the other club members would hire him after what he was about to do.

A knock on the bedchamber door caught his attention.

He stared hard through the Judas hole.

"Who is it?" Paul asked.

"McKoy."

Rachel hopped up and grabbed her clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Paul stood and opened the door. McKoy stepped in, dressed in a pair of evergreen corduroy pants and a striped crew shirt. Brown chukkas wrapped his big feet.

"Kind of casual, McKoy," he said.

"My tux is at the cleaners."

Paul slammed the door shut. "What were you doing with Loring?"

McKoy faced him. "Lighten up, counselor. I wasn't tryin' to shake the old fart down."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Yeah, McKoy, what was all that about?" Rachel asked, stepping from the bathroom, now dressed in pleated jeans and a tight-fitting turtleneck.

McKoy eyed her up and down. "You dress down well, Your Honor."

"Get to the point," she said.

"The point was to see if the old man would crack, and he did. I pushed to see what he was made of. Get real. If there was nothin' to Loring's involvement, he would have said sayonara, get the hell out of here. As it was he couldn't hardly wait for us to spend the night."

"You weren't serious?" Paul asked.

"Cutler, I know you two think I'm pond scum, but I do have morals. True, they're relatively loose most of the time. But I still have 'em. This Loring either knows somethin' or wants to know somethin'. Either way, he's interested enough to put us up for the night."

"You think he's part of that club Grumer rambled about?" Paul asked.

"I hope not," Rachel said. "That could mean Knoll and that woman are around."

McKoy was unconcerned. "That's a chance were goin' to have to take. I got a feelin' about this. I've also got a bunch of investors waitin' in Germany. So I need answers. My guess is the old bastard downstairs has got 'em."

"How long can your people hold off the partners' curiosity?" Rachel asked.

"Couple of days. No more. They're goin' to start on that other tunnel in the mornin', but I told 'em to take their time. Personally, I think it's a total waste."

"How do we need to handle dinner?" Rachel asked.

"Easy. Eat the man's food, drink his liquor, and turn on the information vacuum cleaner. We need to get more than we give. Understand?"

Rachel smiled. "Yeah, I understand."

Dinner was cordial, Loring leading his guests in pleasant conversation about art and politics. Paul was fascinated by the extent of the old man's art knowledge. McKoy stayed on his best behavior, accepting Loring's hospitality, profusely complimenting their host on the meal. Paul watched it all carefully, noting Rachel's intense interest in McKoy. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to cross the line.

After dessert, Loring escorted them on a tour of the castle's expansive ground floor. The decor seemed a mixture of Dutch furniture, French clocks, and Russian chandeliers. Paul noticed an emphasis on classicism along, with realistically clear images in all the carvings. There was a well-balanced composition throughout, an almost plastic-perfect shape and form. The craftsmen had certainly known their trade.