The other men reset their drills and started a new bore. McKoy drifted back into the shaft, beyond the lights, where it was cooler and quieter. Grumer followed. He said, "If we don't make some progress by tomorrow, the h.e.l.l with this drillin'. We're going to dynamite."

"Your permit requires otherwise."

He ran a hand through his wet black hair. "f.u.c.k the permit. We need progress, and fast. I've got a television crew waitin' in town that's costing me two thousand a day. And those fat-a.s.s bureaucrats in Bonn don't have a bunch of investors flying here tomorrow, expectin' to see art."

"This cannot be rushed," Grumer said. "There is no telling what awaits behind the rock."

"There's supposed to be a huge chamber."

"There is. And it contains something."

He softened his tone. It wasn't Grumer's fault the dig was going slow. "Somethin' gave the ground radar multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms, huh?"

Grumer smiled. "A poetic way of putting it."

"You better d.a.m.n well hope so or we're both screwed."

"The German word for 'cave' is hohle hohle," Grumer said. "The word for 'h.e.l.l' is holle holle. I have always thought the similarity was not without significance."

"f.u.c.kin' d.a.m.n interesting, Grumer. But not the right sentiment at the moment, if you get my drift."

Grumer seemed unconcerned. As always. Another thing about this man that irritated the h.e.l.l out of him.

"I came down to tell you we have visitors," Grumer said.

"Not another reporter?"

"An American lawyer and a judge."

"The lawsuits have started already?"

Grumer flashed one of his condescending grins. He wasn't in the mood. He should fire the irritating fool. But Grumer's contacts within the Ministry of Culture were too valuable to dispense with. "No lawsuits, Herr McKoy. These two speak of the Amber Room."

His face lit up.

"I thought you might be interested. They claim to have information."

"Crackpots?"

"Don't appear to be."

"What do they want?"

"To talk."

He glanced back at the wall of rock and the whining drills. "Why not? Nothing the h.e.l.l goin' on here."

[image]

Paul turned as the door to the tiny shed swung open. He watched a grizzly bear of a man with a bull neck, thick waist, and bushy black hair enter the whitewashed room. A bulging chest and arms swelled a cotton shirt that was embroidered with MCKOY EXCAVATIONS MCKOY EXCAVATIONS, and an intense gaze through dark eyes immediately a.s.sessed the situation. Alfred Grumer, whom he and Rachel had met a few minutes ago, followed the man inside.

"Herr Cutler, Frau Cutler, this is Wayland McKoy," Grumer said.

"I don't want to be rude," McKoy said, "but this is a critical time around here, and I don't have a lot of time to chitchat. So what can I do for you?"

Paul decided to get to the point. "We've had an interesting last few days--"

"Which one of you is the judge?" McKoy asked.

"Me," Rachel said.

"What's a lawyer and judge from Georgia doin' in the middle of Germany bothering me?"

"Looking for the Amber Room," Rachel said.

McKoy chuckled. "Who the h.e.l.l isn't?"

"You must think it's nearby, maybe even where you're digging," Rachel said.

"I'm sure you two legal eagles know that I'm not about to discuss any of the particulars of this dig with you. I have investors that demand confidentiality."

"We're not asking you to divulge anything," Paul said. "But you may find what's happened to us the past few days interesting." He told McKoy and Grumer everything that'd occurred since Karol Borya died and Rachel had been pulled from the mine.

Grumer settled down on one of the stools. "We heard about that explosion. Never found the man?"

"Nothing to find. Knoll was long gone." Paul explained what he and Pannik learned in Warthberg.

"You still haven't said what you want," McKoy said.

"You can start with some information. Who's Josef Loring?"

"A Czech industrialist," McKoy said. "He's been dead about thirty years. There was talk he found the Amber Room right after the war, but nothin' was ever verified. Another rumor for the books."

Grumer said, "Loring was noted for lavish obsessions. He owned a very extensive art collection. One of the largest private amber collections in the world. I understand his son still has it. How would your father know of him?"

Rachel explained about the Extraordinary Commission and her father's involvement. She also told them about Yancy and Marlene Cutler and her father's reservations about their deaths.

"What's Loring's son's name?" she asked.

"Ernst," Grumer said. "He must be eighty now. Still lives on the family estate in southern Czech. Not all that far from here."

There was something about Alfred Grumer that Paul simply did not like. The furrowed brow? The eyes that seemed to consider something else as the ears listened? For some reason, the German reminded him of the housepainter who two weeks ago tried to take the estate he represented for $12,300, easily settling for $1,250. No compunction about lying. More deception than truth in everything he said. Somebody not to be trusted.

"You have your father's correspondence?" Grumer asked Rachel.

Paul didn't want to show him, but thought the gesture would be a demonstration of their good faith. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew the sheets. Grumer and McKoy studied each letter in silence. McKoy particularly seemed riveted. When they finished, Grumer asked, "This Chapaev is dead?"

Paul nodded.

"Your father, Mrs. Cutler--by the way, are you two married?" McKoy asked.

"Divorced," Rachel said.

"And travelin' all over Germany together?"

Rachel's face screwed tight. "Is that relevant to anything?"

McKoy gave her a curious look. "Maybe not, Your Honor. But you two are the ones disruptin' my morning with questions. Like I was sayin', your father worked with the Soviets, looking for the Amber Room?"

"He was interested in what you're doing here."

"He say anythin' in particular?"

"No," Paul said. "But he watched the CNN report and wanted the USA Today USA Today account. The next thing we knew, he was studying a German map and reading old articles on the Amber Room." account. The next thing we knew, he was studying a German map and reading old articles on the Amber Room."

McKoy ambled over and plopped down in an oak swivel chair. The springs groaned from the weight. "You think we might have the right tunnel?"

"Karol knew something about the Amber Room," Paul said. "So did Chapaev. My parents may have even known something. And somebody may have wanted them all kept quiet."

"But do you have anything that shows they were the target of that bomb?" McKoy asked.

"No," Paul said. "But after Chapaev's death, I have to wonder. Karol was very remorseful about what happened to my parents. I'm beginning to believe there's more to it than I thought."

"Too many coincidences, huh?"

"You could say that."

"What about the tunnel Chapaev directed you to?" Grumer asked.

"Nothing there," Rachel said. "And Knoll thought the collapsed end was from an explosion. At least that's what he said."

McKoy grinned. "Wild goose chase?"

"Most likely," Paul said.

"Any explanation as to why Chapaev would send you on a dead end?"

Rachel had to concede that she had no explanation. "But what about this Loring? Why would my father be concerned enough to have the Cutlers make inquiries about him?"

"The rumors concerning the Amber Room are widespread. So many, it is hard to keep them straight anymore. Your father may have been checking another lead," Grumer said.

"You know anything about this Christian Knoll?" Paul asked Grumer.

"Nein. Never heard the name." Never heard the name."

"You here for a piece of the action?" McKoy suddenly asked.

Paul smiled. He'd half expected a sales pitch. "Hardly. We're not treasure hunters. Just a couple of folks deep into something we probably have no business in. Since we were in the neighborhood, we thought a look might be worth the trip."

"I've been diggin' in these mountains for years--"

The shed door burst open. A grinning man in filthy overalls said, "We're through!"

McKoy sprang from the chair. "Hot d.a.m.n, Almighty. Call the TV crew. Tell 'em to get over here. And n.o.body goes inside till I get there."

The worker sprinted off.

"Let's go, Grumer."

Rachel thrust forward, blocking McKoy's path to the door. "Let us come."

"The s.h.i.t for?"

"My father."

McKoy hesitated a few seconds, then said, "Why not? But stay the h.e.l.l out of the way."

THIRTY-SIX.

An uncomfortable feeling swept over Rachel. The shaft was wide but tighter than the one yesterday, and the entrance had faded behind them. Twenty-four hours earlier she'd almost been buried alive. Now she was back underground, following a trail of exposed bulbs deep inside another German mountain. The path ended in an open gallery with walls of gray-white rock surrounding her, the farthest wall broken by a black slit. A worker was swinging a sledgehammer, widening the slit into an aperture large enough for a person to pa.s.s through.

McKoy unclamped one of the flood lamps and stepped to the opening. "Anyone look inside?"

"No," a worker said.

"Good." McKoy lifted an aluminum pole from the sand and clicked the lamp to the end. He then extended the telescopic sections until the light was about ten feet away. He approached the opening and shoved the glow into the darkness.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," McKoy said. "The chamber's huge. I see three trucks. Oh, s.h.i.t," He withdrew the light. "Bodies. Two I can see."

Footsteps approached from behind. Rachel turned to see three people racing toward them, video cameras, lights, and battery packs in hand.

"Get that stuff ready," McKoy said. "I want the initial look doc.u.mented for the show." McKoy turned toward Rachel and Paul. "I sold the video rights. Going to be a TV special on this. But they wanted everything as it happened."

Grumer came close. "Trucks, you say?"

"Looks like Bussing NAGs. Four and half ton. German. "

"That's not good."

"What do you mean?"

"There would have been no transports available to move the Berlin museum material. It would have been hand carried."