Who knows?

Knoll arrived at her room, and she followed him to a quaint stone building that he explained had once been a staging inn, now transformed into a restaurant.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I inquired earlier when I stopped by to see how late it stayed open."

The inside was a Gothic stone crypt with vaulted ceilings, stained gla.s.s windows, and wrought-iron lanterns. Knoll commandeered one of the trestle tables on the far side. Two hours had pa.s.sed since they arrived in Warthberg. She'd taken the time for a quick bath and a change of clothes. Her escort had changed, too. Jeans and boots replaced by wool slacks, a colorful sweater, and tan leather shoes.

"What did you do after you left earlier?" she asked as they sat down.

"Purchased what we will need tomorrow. Flashlights, a shovel, bolt cutter, two jackets. It will be chilly inside the mountain. I noticed that you wore a pair of ankle boots today. Wear them tomorrow--you will need good footing."

"You act like you've done this before."

"Several times. But we have to be careful. No one is supposed to venture into the mines without a permit. The government controls access to keep people from blowing themselves up."

"I a.s.sume we're not worrying with permits?"

"Hardly. That's why it took so long. I bought from several merchants. Not enough in one place to draw attention."

A waiter sauntered over and took their orders. Knoll ordered a bottle of wine, a vigorous red the waiter insisted was local.

"How do you like your adventure so far?" he asked.

"Beats the courtroom."

She glanced around the intimate eatery. About twenty others were scattered at the tables. Mainly twosomes. One foursome. "You think we'll find what we're looking for?"

"Very good," he said.

She was perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"No mention of our goal."

"I a.s.sumed you wouldn't want to advertise our intentions."

"You a.s.sume right. And I doubt it."

"Still don't trust what you heard this morning?"

"It's not that I don't trust. I have just heard it all before."

"But not from my father."

"Your father isn't the one leading us."

"You still think Chapaev lied?"

The waiter brought their wine and food orders. Knoll's was a steaming slab of pork, hers a roasted chicken, both with potatoes and salad. She was impressed with the fast service.

"How about I reserve judgment until in the morning," Knoll said. "Give the old man the benefit of the doubt, as you Americans say."

She smiled. "I think that'd be a good idea."

Knoll gestured to dinner. "Shall we eat and talk about more pleasant matters?"

After dinner Knoll led her back to the Goldene Krone. It was nearly 10 P P.M., yet the sky was still backlit, the evening air like fall in north Georgia.

"I do have a question," she said. "If we find the Amber Room, how will you keep the Russian government from reclaiming the panels?"

"There are legal avenues available. The panels have been abandoned for more than fifty years. Possession surely will count for something. Besides, the Russians may not even want them back. They have re-created the room with new amber and new technology."

"I didn't know that."

"The room in the Catherine Palace has been recrafted. It has taken over two decades. The loss of the Baltic states, when the Soviet Union collapsed, meant they were forced to buy the amber on the open market. That proved expensive. But benefactors donated money. Ironically, a German manufacturing concern made the largest contribution."

"All the more reason why they'd want the panels back. The originals would be far more precious than copies."

"I don't think so. The amber would be of different color and quality. It would not work to mix those pieces."

"So the panels would not be intact, if found?"

He shook his head. "The amber was originally glued to slabs of solid oak with a mastic of beeswax and tree sap. The Catherine Palace was hardly temperature controlled, so as the wood expanded and contracted for over two hundred years, the amber progressively fell off. When the n.a.z.is stole them, almost thirty percent had already dropped off. It is estimated that another fifteen percent was lost during transport to Konigsberg. So all there would be now is a pile of pieces."

"Then what good are they?"

He grinned. "Photographs exist. If you have the pieces, it would not be difficult to rea.s.semble the whole room. My hope is that the n.a.z.is packed them well, since my employer is not interested in recreations. The original is what matters."

"Sounds like an interesting man."

He smiled. "Nice try . . . again. But I never said he he."

They arrived at the hotel. Upstairs, at her room, Knoll stopped outside her door.

"How early in the morning?" she asked.

"We'll leave at seven-thirty. The clerk downstairs says breakfast is available after seven. The area we seek is not far, about ten kilometers."

"I appreciate everything you've done. Not to mention saving my life."

Knoll tipped his head. "My pleasure."

She smiled at the gesture.

"You've mentioned your husband, but no one else. Is there a man in your life?"

The question came suddenly. A bit too fast. "No." She instantly regretted her honesty.

"Your heart still longs for your ex-husband, doesn't it?"

Not any of this man's business, but for some reason she wanted to answer. "Sometimes."

"Does he know?"

"Sometimes."

"How long has it been?"

"Since what?"

"Since you made love to a man."

His gaze lingered longer than she expected. This man was intuitive, and it bothered her. "Not long enough that I'd hop in bed with a total stranger."

Knoll smiled. "Perhaps that stranger could help your heart forget?"

"I don't think that's what I need. But thanks for the offer." She inserted her key and opened the lock, then glanced back. "I think this is the first time I've ever actually been propositioned."

"And surely not the last." He bowed his head and smiled. "Good night, Rachel." And he walked off, toward the staircase and his own room.

But something grabbed her attention.

Interesting how rebukes seemed to challenge him.

THIRTY.

Sunday, May 18, 7:30 a.m.

Knoll exited the hotel and studied the morning. A cotton fog wrapped the quiet village and surrounding valley. The sky was gloomy, a late-spring sun straining hard to warm the day. Rachel leaned against the car, apparently ready. He walked over. "The fog will help conceal our visit. Being Sunday is good, too. Most people are in church."

They climbed into the car.

"I thought you said this was a bastion of paganism," she said.

"That's for the tourist brochures and travel guides. Lots of Catholics live in these mountains, and have for centuries. They are a religious people."

The Volvo snarled to life, and he quickly navigated out of Warthberg, the cobbled streets nearly deserted and damp from a morning chill. The road east from town wound up and then down into another fog-draped valley.

"This area reminds me even more of the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina," Rachel said. "They're veiled like this, too."

He followed the map Chapaev provided and wondered if this was a wild goose chase. How could tons of amber stay hidden for more than half a century? Many had looked. Some had even died. He was well aware of the so-called curse of the Amber Room. But what harm could there be in a quick look into one more mountain? At least the journey would be interesting, thanks to Rachel Cutler.

Over a crest in the road they dropped back into another valley, thick stands of misty beech towering on either side. He came to where Chapaev's road map ended and parked in a pocket of woods. He said, "The rest of the way is on foot."

They climbed out and he retrieved a caver's pack from the trunk.

"What's in there?" Rachel asked.

"What we require." He slid the shoulder straps on. "Now we are merely a couple of hikers, out for the day."

He handed her a jacket. "Hang on to it. You're going to need it once we're underground."

He'd donned his jacket in the hotel room, the stiletto sheathed on his right arm beneath the nylon sleeve. He led the way into the forest, and the gra.s.sy terrain rose as they moved north from the highway. They followed a defined trail that wound the base of a tall range, while offshoots traced paths higher along wooded slopes toward the summits. Dark entrances to three shafts loomed in the distance. One was chained shut with an iron gate, a sign--GEFAHR-ZUTRITT VERBOTEN-EXPLOSIV--posted on the rough granite.

"What does that say?" Rachel asked.

"Danger. No Admittance. Explosives."

"You weren't kidding about that."

"These mountains were like bank vaults. The Allies found the German national treasury in one. Four hundred tons of art from Berlin's Kaiser Friedrich Museum was stashed here, too. The explosives were better than troops and watch dogs."

"Is some of that art what Wayland McKoy's after?" she asked.

"From what you told me, yes."

"You think he'll have any luck?"

"Hard to say. But I seriously doubt millions of dollars in old canvases are still waiting around here to be found."

The smell of damp leaves was thick in the heavy air.

"What was the point?" Rachel asked as they walked. "The war was lost. Why hide all that stuff?"

"You have to think like a German in 1945. Hitler ordered the army to fight to the last man or be executed. He believed if Germany held out long enough the Allies would eventually join him against the Bolsheviks. Hitler knew how much Churchill hated Stalin. He also read Stalin correctly and accurately predicted what the Soviets had in mind for Europe. Hitler thought Germany could remain intact by playing off the Soviets. He reasoned the Americans and the British would eventually join him against the Communists. Then, all those treasures could be saved."

"Foolishness," Rachel said.

"Madness is a better description."

Sweat beaded on his brow. His leather boots were stained from dew. He stopped and surveyed the various shaft entrances in the distance, along with the sky. "None point east. Chapaev said the opening faced east. And according to him it should be marked BCR-65."

He moved deeper into the trees. Ten minutes later, Rachel pointed and yelled, "There."

He stared ahead. Through the trees, another shaft entrance was visible, the opening barred by iron. A rusty sign affixed to the bars read BCR BCR-65. He checked the sun. East.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

They approached close and he slid off the cave pack. He glanced around. No one was in sight, and no sounds disturbed the silence beyond the birds and an occasional rustle from fox squirrels. He examined the bars and gate. All the iron was purpled from heavy oxidation. A steel chain and hasp lock held the gate firmly shut. The chain and lock were definitely newer. Nothing unusual, though. German federal inspectors routinely resecured the shafts. He slipped bolt cutters from the cave pack.