Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

Each space carried a name. The Walderdorff Chamber. Molsberg Room. Green Room. Witches' Room. All were decorated with antique furniture--most originals, Loring explained--and art, so much that Paul was having trouble taking it all in, and he wished a couple of the museum's curators were there to explain. In what Loring called the Ancestors' Room the old man lingered before an oil painting of his father.

"My father was descended from a long line. Amazingly, all from the paternal side. So there have always been Loring males to inherit. It is one reason we have dominated this site for nearly five hundred years."

"What about when the Communists ruled?" Rachel asked.

"Even then, my dear. My family learned to adapt. There was no choice. Either change or perish."

"Meanin' you worked for the Communists," McKoy said.

"What else was there to do, Pan McKoy?"

McKoy did not reply and simply returned his attention to the painting of Josef Loring. "Was your father interested in the Amber Room?"

"Very much."

"Did he see the original in Leningrad before the war?"

"Actually, Father saw the room prior to the Russian Revolution. He was a great admirer of amber, as I am sure you already know."

"Why don't we cut the crap, Loring."

Paul cringed at the sudden intensity of McKoy's voice. Was it genuine or more games?

"I got a hole in a mountain a hundred fifty kilometers west of here that cost a million dollars to dig. All I got for the trouble are three trucks and five skeletons. Let me tell you what I think."

Loring sank into one of the leather chairs. "By all means."

McKoy accepted a glass of claret from a steward balancing a tray. "There's a story Dolinski told me, about a train leavin' occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945. The crated Amber Room was supposedly on board. Witnesses said the crates were offloaded in Czechoslovakia, near T ynec-nad-Sazavou. From there the crates were supposedly trucked south. One version says they were stored in an underground bunker used by Field Marshal von Schorner, commander of the German army. Another version says they headed west to Germany. A third version says east to Poland. Which one's right?"

"I, too, have heard such stories. But if I recall, that bunker was extensively excavated by the Soviets. Nothing there, so that eliminates one choice. As to the version east to Poland, I doubt it."

"Why's that?" McKoy said, sitting, too.

Paul remained standing, Rachel beside him. It was interesting watching the two men spar. McKoy had handled the partners expertly, and was doing equally well now, apparently intuitive enough to know when to push and when to pull.

"The Poles have not the brains or the resources to harbor such a treasure," Loring said. "Somebody would surely have discovered it by now."

"Sounds like prejudice to me," McKoy said.

"Not at all. Just a fact. Throughout history Poles have never been able to collate themselves into a unified country for long. They are the led, not the leaders."

"So you say west to Germany?"

"I say nothing, Pan McKoy. Only that of the three choices you offered, west seems the most likely."

Rachel sat down. "Mr. Loring--"

"Please, my dear. Call me Ernst."

"Okay . . . Ernst. Grumer was convinced that Knoll and the woman who killed Chapaev were working for members of a club. He called it the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. Knoll and the woman were supposedly Acquisitors. They steal works of art that have already been stolen, members competing with one another on what can be found."

"Sounds intriguing. But I can assure you I am not a member of such an organization. As you can see, my home is filled with art. I am a public collector and openly display my treasures."

"How about amber? Haven't seen much of that," McKoy said.

"I have several beautiful pieces. Would you like to see?"

"Damn right."

Loring led the way out of the Ancestors' Room and down a twisting corridor deeper into the castle. The room they finally entered was a tight square with no windows. Loring flicked a switch embedded in the stone that lighted wooden display cases lining the walls. Paul paraded down the cases, immediately recognizing Vermeyen vessels, Bohemian glass, and Mair goldsmithing. Each piece was three-hundred-plus years old and in mint condition. Two cases were filled entirely with amber. Among the collection was a casket case, chessboard and pieces, a two-tiered chest, snuffbox, shaving basin, soap dish, and lather brush.

"Most are eighteenth century," Loring said. "All from the Tsarskoe Selo workshops. The masters who crafted these beauties worked on the Amber Room panels."

"They are the best I've ever seen," Paul said.

"I am quite proud of this collection. They each cost me a fortune. But, alas, I have no Amber Room to go with them, as much as I would like to."

"Why don't I believe you?" McKoy asked.

"Frankly, Pan McKoy, it matters not whether you believe me. The more important question is how are you to prove otherwise. You come into my home and make wild accusations--threaten me with exposure in the world media--yet have nothing to substantiate your allegations except a manufactured picture of letters in the sand and the ramblings of a greedy academician."

"I don't recall saying anythin' about Grumer being an academic," McKoy said.

"No, you did not. But I am familiar with the Herr Doktor . He was possessed of a reputation that I would not consider enviable."

Paul noticed the shift in Loring's tone. No longer congenial and conciliatory. Now the words came slow and deliberate, the meaning clear. The man's patience was apparently running thin.

McKoy seemed unimpressed. "I'd think, Pan Loring, a man of your experience and breedin' could handle a rough-by-the-edges sort like me."

Loring smiled. "I do find your frankness refreshing. It is not often a man speaks to me as you have."

"Given any more thought to my offer from this afternoon?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Would a million dollars U.S. solve your investment problem?"

"Three million would be better."

"Then I assume you will settle for two without the need for haggling?"

"I will."

Loring chuckled. " Pan McKoy, you are a man after my own heart."

FIFTY-FIVE

Friday, May 23, 2:15 a.m.

Paul awakened. He'd had trouble sleeping, ever since he and Rachel turned in a little before midnight. Rachel was sound asleep beside him in the sleigh bed, not snoring, but breathing heavily like she used to. He thought again about Loring and McKoy. The old man had willingly coughed up two million dollars. Maybe McKoy was right. Loring was hiding something two million dollars was a bargain to protect. But what? The Amber Room? That prospect was a bit far-fetched. He imagined Nazis ripping the amber panels off the palace walls, then trucking them across the Soviet Union, only to dismantle them again and truck them into Germany four years later. What kind of shape would they even be in? Would they be worth anything other than as raw material to be fashioned into other works of art? What had he read in Borya's articles? The panels comprised a hundred thousand pieces of amber. Certainly that was worth something on the open market. Maybe that was it. Loring found the amber and sold it, garnering enough that two million dollars was a bargain to silence.

He rose from the bed and crept toward his shirt and pants draped over a chair. He slipped them on but passed on his shoes--bare feet would make less noise. Sleep was not coming easily, and he'd very much like to investigate the ground-floor display rooms again. The array of art earlier had been nearly overpowering, difficult to take in. He hoped Loring wouldn't mind a little private viewing.