"You are shaking. Some wine would be good."

"I appreciate it, but--"

"As a reward for my effort."

That would be hard to refuse, so she surrendered. "Okay, maybe a little wine might be the thing."

She followed Knoll to a cafe about four blocks away, the twin copper towers of the main cathedral looming directly across the street. Clothed tables sprouted across the cobblestones, each filled with people cradling steins of dark beer. Knoll ordered a beer for himself and her a gla.s.s of Rhineland wine, the clear liquid dry, bitter, and good.

Knoll had been right. Her nerves were fl.u.s.tered. That was the closest she'd ever come to death. Strange her thoughts at the time. Brent and Marla were understandable. But Paul? She'd clearly thought of him, her heart aching for an instant.

She sipped the wine and let the alcohol and ambience soothe her nerves.

"I have a confession to make, Ms. Cutler," Knoll said.

"How about Rachel?"

"Very well. Rachel."

She sipped more wine. "What kind of confession?"

"I was following you."

The words got her attention. She set the winegla.s.s down. "What do you mean?"

"I was following you. I have been since you left Atlanta."

She rose from the table. "I think perhaps the police should be involved in this."

Knoll sat impa.s.sive and sipped his beer. "I have no problem with that, if you so desire. I only ask that you hear me out first."

She considered the request. They were seated in the open. Beyond a wrought-iron railing, the street was full of evening shoppers. What would it hurt to hear him out? She sat back down. "Okay, Mr. Knoll, you've got five minutes."

Knoll set the mug on the table. "I traveled to Atlanta earlier in the week to meet your father. On arrival I learned of his death. Yesterday, I appeared at your office and learned of your trip here. I even left my name and number. Your secretary did not pa.s.s my message on?"

"I haven't talked with my office. What business did you have with my father?"

"I am looking for the Amber Room and thought he could be of a.s.sistance."

"Why are you looking for the Amber Room?"

"My employer seeks it."

"As do the Russians, I'm sure."

Knoll smiled. "True. But, after fifty years, we regard it as 'finders keepers,' I believe is the American saying."

"How could my father help?"

"He searched many years. Finding the Amber Room was given a high priority by the Soviets."

"That was fifty-plus years ago."

"With this particular prize, the pa.s.sage of time is meaningless. If anything, it makes the search all the more intriguing."

"How did you locate my father?"

Knoll stuffed a hand into a pocket and handed her some folded sheets. "I discovered those last week in St. Petersburg. They led me to Atlanta. As you'll see, the KGB visited him a few years ago."

She unfolded and read. The typed words were in Cyrillic. An English translation appeared to the side in blue ink. She instantly noticed who'd signed the top sheet. Danya Chapaev. She also noted what was written on the KGB sheet about her father: Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts. subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts.

But her father had known exactly where Chapaev lived. He'd corresponded with him for years. Why had he lied? And her father never mentioned anything about the KGB visiting him. Nor much about the Amber Room. It was a little unnerving to think the KGB had known about her, Marla, and Brent. She wondered what else her father held back.

"Unfortunately, I was not able to speak with your father," Knoll said. "I arrived too late. I am truly sorry about your loss."

"When did you arrive?"

"Monday."

"And you waited till yesterday to go by my office?"

"I learned of your father's death and did not want to intrude on your grief. My business could be postponed."

The connection to Chapaev started to ease her tension. This man may be credible, but she cautioned herself against complacency. After all, though handsome and charming, Christian Knoll was still a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger in a foreign country. "Were you on my flight over?"

He nodded. "I barely made it onto the plane."

"Why did you wait till now to speak up?"

"I was unsure of your visit. If it was personal, I did not want to interfere. If it concerned the Amber Room, I intended on approaching you."

"I don't appreciate being followed, Mr. Knoll. Not one d.a.m.n bit."

His gaze soldered onto hers. "Perhaps it is fortunate I did."

The taxi flashed through her mind. Maybe he was right?

"And Christian will do fine," he said.

She told herself to back off. No need to be so hostile. He's right. He saved her life. "Okay. Christian it is."

"Does your trip involve the Amber Room?"

"I'm not sure I should answer that."

"If I were a danger, I would simply have let the taxi hit you."

A good point, but not necessarily good enough.

"Frau Cutler, I am a trained investigator. Art is my speciality. I speak the language here and am familiar with this country. You may be an excellent judge, but I would a.s.sume you are a novice investigator."

She said nothing.

"I am interested in information on the Amber Room, nothing more. I have shared with you what I am privy to. I only ask the same in return."

"And if I decline and go to the police?"

"I will simply disappear from sight, but will keep you under surveillance to learn what you do. It is nothing personal. You are a lead I intend to explore to the end. I simply thought we could work together and save time."

There was something rugged and dangerous about Knoll that she liked. His words came clear and direct, the voice sure. She searched his face hard for portents, but found none. So she made the kind of quick decision she was accustomed to making in court.

"Okay, Mr. Knoll. I've come to find Danya Chapaev. Apparently the same name on this sheet. He lives in Kehlheim."

Knoll lifted the mug and took a pull of beer. "That's south of here, toward the Alps near Austria. I know the village."

"He and my father were apparently interested in the Amber Room. Obviously, more so than I ever realized."

"Any idea what Herr Chapaev would know?"

She decided not to mention anything about the letters just yet. "Nothing other than they once worked together, as you seem to already know."

"How did you come by the name?"

She decided to lie. "My father talked of him for many years. They were close once."

"I can be of valuable a.s.sistance, Frau Cutler."

"In all honesty, Mr. Knoll, I was hoping for some time alone."

"I understand completely. I recall when my father died. It was very hard."

The sentiment sounded genuine, and she appreciated the concern. But he was still a stranger.

"You need a.s.sistance. If this Chapaev is privy to information, I can help develop it. I have a vast knowledge of the Amber Room. Knowledge that can help."

She said nothing.

"When do you plan to head south?" Knoll asked.

"Tomorrow morning." She answered too quickly.

"Let me drive you."

"I wouldn't want my children accepting rides from strangers. Why should I do the same?"

He smiled. She liked it.

"I was open and frank with your secretary about my ident.i.ty and intentions. Quite a trail for somebody who intended to harm you." He downed the rest of his beer. "In any event, I would simply follow you to Kehlheim anyway."

She made another quick decision. One that surprised her. "All right. Why not. We'll go together. I'm staying at the Hotel Waldeck. A couple of blocks that way."

"I'm across the street from the Waldeck at the Elisabeth."

She shook her head and smiled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Knoll watched Rachel Cutler disappear into the crowd.

That went quite well.

He tossed a few euros on the table and left the cafe. He rounded several corners and recrossed the Marienplatz Marienplatz. Past the food market, busy with early diners and revelers, he headed for Maximilianstra.s.se, an elegant boulevard lined with museums, government offices, and shops. The pillared portico of the National Theater rose ahead. In front, a line of taxis wrapped the statue of Max Joseph, Bavaria's first king, patiently waiting for fares from the evening's early performance. He crossed the street and walked to the fourth taxi in line. The driver was standing outside, arms folded, propped against the Mercedes' exterior.

"Good enough?" the driver asked in German.

"More than enough."

"My performance afterwards convincing?"

"Outstanding." He handed the man a wad of euros.

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Christian."

"You, too, Erich."

He knew the driver well, having used him before when in Munich. The man was both reliable and corruptible, two qualities he sought in all his operatives.

"You getting soft, Christian?"

"How so?"

"You only wanted her frightened, not killed. So unlike you."

He smiled. "Nothing like a brush with death to breed trust."

"You want to f.u.c.k her or something?"

He didn't want to say much more, but he also wanted the man available in the future. He nodded and said, "A good way to get into the pants."

The driver counted off the bills. "Five hundred euros is a lot for a piece of a.s.s."

But he considered the Amber Room and the ten million euros it would bring him. Then reconsidered Rachel Cutler and her attractiveness, which had lingered after she'd left.

"Not really."

TWENTY-FIVE.