She smiled and handed him five euros for his trouble.

[image]

Knoll stood inside the Christinenhof's lobby and carefully parted the sheers for a ground-floor view of the street. He watched while less than a hundred feet away Suzanne Danzer stopped and looked around.

Did she sense him?

She was good. Her instincts sharp. He'd always liked Jung's comparisons of how the ancients viewed women as either Eve, Helen, Sophia, or Mary--corresponding to impulsive, emotional, intellectual, and moral. Danzer certainly possessed the first three, but nothing about her was moral. She was also one other thing--dangerous. But her guard was probably down, thinking he was buried under tons of rock in a mine forty kilometers away. Hopefully, Franz Fellner pa.s.sed the word to Loring that his whereabouts were unknown, the ploy buying the time he'd need to figure out what was going on. Even more important, it would buy time to decide how to settle the score with his attractive colleague.

What was she doing here, out in the open, headed into the Hotel Garni? It was too much of a coincidence that Stod happened to be the headquarters for Wayland McKoy, that particular hotel where McKoy and his people were staying. Did she have a source on the excavation? If so, nothing unusual there. He'd many times cultivated sources on other digs so Fellner could have first crack at whatever might be uncovered. Adventurers were usually more than eager to sell at least some of their bounty on the black market, no one the wiser since everything they found was thought lost anyway. The practice avoided unnecessary government ha.s.sles and annoying seizures. The Germans were notorious for confiscating the best of what was pulled from the ground. Strict reporting requirements and heavy penalties governed violators. But greed could always be counted on to prevail, and he'd made several excellent purchases for Fellner's private collection from unscrupulous treasure hunters.

A light rain began to fall. Umbrellas sprouted. Thunder rolled in the distance. Danzer appeared back out of the Garni. He retreated to the window's edge. Hopefully, she wouldn't cross the street and enter the Christinenhof. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped lobby.

He was relieved when she casually rolled up her jacket collar and strolled back down the street. He headed for the front door and cautiously peered out. Danzer entered another hotel just down the street, the Gebler, as the sign out front announced, its cross-beamed facade sagging from the weight of centuries. He'd pa.s.sed it on his way to the Christinenhof. It made sense she'd stay there. Nearby, convenient. He retreated back into the lobby and watched through the window, trying not to appear conspicuous to the few people loitering around. Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed, and still she did not reappear.

He smiled.

Confirmation.

She was there.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

1:15 p.m.

Paul studied alfred grumer with his lawyer eyes, examining every facet of the man's face, gauging a reaction, calculating a likely response. He, McKoy, Grumer, and Rachel were back in the shed outside the mine. Rain peppered the tin roof. Nearly three hours had pa.s.sed since the initial find, and McKoy's mood, like the weather, had only dampened.

"What the f.u.c.k's going on, Grumer?" McKoy said.

The German was perched on a stool. "Two possible explanations. One, the trucks were empty when they were driven in the cavern. Two, somebody beat us inside."

"How could somebody beat us to it? It took four days to bore into that chamber, and the other way out is sealed shut with tons of c.r.a.p."

"The violation could have happened long ago."

McKoy took a deep breath. "Grumer, I have twenty-eight people flyin' in here tomorrow. They've invested a s.h.i.tload of money into this rat hole. What am I suppose to say to 'em? Somebody beat us to it?"

"The facts are the facts."

McKoy shot from the chair, rage in his eyes. Rachel cut him off. "What good is that going to do?"

"It'd make me feel a whole lot better."

"Sit down," Rachel said.

Paul recognized her court voice. Strong. Firm. A tone that allowed no hint of doubt. A tone she'd used too many times in their own home.

The big man backed off. "Jesus Christ. This is some s.h.i.t." He sat back down. "Looks like I might need a lawyer. The judge here certainly can't do it. You available, Cutler?"

He shook his head. "I do probates. But my firm has a lot of good litigators and contract-law specialists."

"They're all across the pond and you're here. Guess who's elected."

"I a.s.sume all the investors signed waivers and acknowledgments of the risk?" Rachel asked.

"Lot of d.a.m.n good that'll do. These people have money and lawyers of their own. By next week, I'll be waist deep in legal bulls.h.i.t. n.o.body'll believe I didn't know this was a dry hole."

"I don't agree with you," Rachel said. "Why would anyone a.s.sume you'd dig knowing there was nothing to find? Sounds like financial suicide."

"Maybe that little hundred-thousand-dollar fee I'm guaranteed whether we find anythin' or not?"

Rachel turned toward Paul. "Maybe you should call the firm. This guy does need a lawyer."

"Look, let me make somethin' clear," McKoy said. "I have a business to run back home. I don't do this for a livin'. It costs to do this kind of s.h.i.t. On the last dig, I charged the same fee and made it back with more. Those investors got a good return. n.o.body complained."

"Not this time," Paul said. "Unless those trucks are worth something, which I doubt. And that's a.s.suming you can even get them out of there."

"Which you can't," Grumer said. "That other cavern is impa.s.sable. It would cost millions to clear it."

"f.u.c.k off, Grumer."

Paul stared at McKoy. The big man's expression was familiar, a combination of resignation and worry. Lots of clients looked that way at one time or another. Actually, though, he wanted to stay around. In his mind he saw Grumer in the cavern again, brushing letters from the sand. "Okay, McKoy. If you want my help, I'll do what I can."

Rachel gave him a strange gaze, her thoughts easy to read. Yesterday he'd wanted to go home and leave all this intrigue to the authorities. Yet here he was, volunteering to represent Wayland McKoy, piloting his own chariot of fire across the sky at the whim of forces he did not understand and could not control.

"Good," McKoy said. "I can use the help. Grumer, make yourself useful and arrange rooms for these folks at the Garni. Put them on my tab."

Grumer did not appear pleased at being ordered around, but the German did not argue, and he headed for the phone.

"What's the Garni?" Paul asked.

"Where we're staying in town."

Paul motioned to Grumer. "He there, too?"

"Where else?"

Paul was impressed with Stod. It was a considerable city interlaced with venerable thoroughfares that seemed to have been taken straight from the Middle Ages. Row after row of black-and-white half-timbered buildings lined the cobbled lanes, pressed tight like books on a shelf. Above everything, a monstrous abbey capped a steep mountain spur high--the slopes leading up thick with larch and beech trees bursting in a spring flourish.

He and Rachel drove into town behind Grumer and McKoy, their path winding deep into the old town, ending just before the Hotel Garni. A small parking lot reserved for guests waited farther down the street, toward the river, just outside the pedestrian-only zone.

Inside the hotel he learned that McKoy's party dominated the fourth floor. The entire third floor had already been reserved for investors arriving tomorrow. After some haggling by McKoy and palm pressing of a few euros, the clerk made a room available on the second floor. McKoy asked if they wanted one or two rooms, and Rachel had immediately said one.

Upstairs, their suitcases had barely hit the bed before Rachel said, "Okay, what are you up to, Paul Cutler?"

"What are you you up to? One room. I thought we were divorced. You like to remind me about it enough." up to? One room. I thought we were divorced. You like to remind me about it enough."

"Paul, you're up to something, and I'm not letting you out of my sight. Yesterday you were busting a gut to go home. Now you volunteer to represent this guy? What if he's a crook?"

"All the more reason he needs a lawyer."

"Paul--"

He motioned to the double bed. "Night and day?"

"What?"

"You going to keep me in your sight night and day?"

"It's not anything we both haven't seen before. We were married ten years."

He smiled. "I might get to like this intrigue."

"Are you going to tell me?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and told her what happened in the underground chamber, then showed her the wallet, which he'd kept all afternoon in his back pocket. "Grumer dusted the letters away on purpose. No doubt about it. That guy is up to something."

"Why didn't you tell McKoy?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I thought about it. But, like you say, he may be a crook."

"You're sure the letters were O-I-C O-I-C?"

"As best I could make out."

"You think this has anything to do with Daddy and the Amber Room?"

"There's no connection at this point, except Karol was real interested in what McKoy was doing. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Rachel sat down beside him. He noticed the cuts and sc.r.a.pes on her arms and face that had scabbed over. "This guy McKoy latched on to us kind of quick," she said.

"We may be all he's got. He doesn't seem to like Grumer much. We're just two strangers who came out of the woodwork. No interest in anything. No ax to grind. I guess we're deemed safe."

Rachel cradled the wallet and studied closely the sc.r.a.ps of decaying paper. "Ausgegeben 15-3-51. 15-3-51. Verfallt Verfallt 15-3-55. 15-3-55. Gustav Muller. Gustav Muller. Should we get somebody to translate?" Should we get somebody to translate?"

"Not a good idea. Right now, I don't trust anyone, present company excepted of course. I suggest we find a German-English dictionary and see for ourselves."

Two blocks west of the Garni they found a translation dictionary in a cluttered gift shop, a thin volume apparently printed for tourists with common words and phrases.

"Ausgegeben means 'issued,' " he said. " means 'issued,' " he said. "Verfallt, 'expires,' 'ends.' " He looked at Rachel. "The numbers have to be dates. The European way. Backwards. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955. Gustav Muller." 'expires,' 'ends.' " He looked at Rachel. "The numbers have to be dates. The European way. Backwards. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955. Gustav Muller."

"That's postwar. Grumer was right. Somebody beat McKoy to whatever was there. Sometime after March 1951."

"But what?"

"Good question."

"It had to be serious. Five bodies with holes in their heads?"

"And important. All three trucks were clean. Not a sc.r.a.p of anything left to find."

He tossed the dictionary back on the shelf. "Grumer knows something. Why go to all the trouble of taking pictures then dusting the letters away? What's he doc.u.menting? And who for?"

"Maybe we should tell McKoy?"

He thought about the suggestion, then said, "I don't think so. Not yet, at least."

THIRTY-NINE.

10:00 p.m.

Suzanne pushed through a velvet curtain separating the outer gallery and portal from the inner nave. The Church of St. Gerhard was empty. A message board outside proclaimed the sanctuary open until 11 P P.M., which was the central reason she'd chosen the place for the meeting. The other was locale--blocks from Stod's hotel district, on the edge of old town, far away from the crowds.

The building's architecture was clearly Romanesque with lots of brick and a lofty front adorned by twin towers. Lucid, spatial proportions dominated. Blind arcades loomed in playful patterns. A beautifully adorned chancel stretched from the far end. The high altar, sacristy, and choir stalls were empty. A few candles flickered from a side altar, their glint like stars on the gilded ornamentation high overhead.

She walked forward and stopped at the base of a gilded pulpit. Chiseled figures of the Four Evangelists encircled her. She glanced at the steps leading up. More figures lined both sides. Allegories of Christian values. Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, Fort.i.tude, Temperance, and Justice. She recognized the carver instantly. Riemenschneider. Sixteenth century. The pulpit above was empty. But she could imagine the bishop addressing the congregation, extolling the virtues of G.o.d and the advantages in believing.

She crept to the nave's far end, her eyes and ears alert. The quiet was unnerving. Her right hand was stuffed in her jacket pocket, ungloved fingers wrapped around a Sauer .32 automatic, a present from Loring three years back out of his private collection. She'd almost brought the new CZ-75B Loring gave her. It had been her suggestion that Christian be given one identical. Loring had smiled at the irony. Too bad Knoll would never get a chance to use his.

The corner of her eye caught a sudden movement. Her fingers tightened around the gun stock, and she spun. A tall, gaunt man pushed through a curtain and walked toward her.

"Margarethe?" he softly said.

"Herr Grumer?"

The man nodded and came close. He smelled of bitter beer and sausage.

"This is dangerous," he said.

"No one knows of our relationship, Herr Doktor Herr Doktor. You have simply come to church to speak with your G.o.d."

"We need to keep it that way."