the Amber Room

'Does it matter, Jeremy? You enjoyed yourself.' She continued to stroke him. 'You're enjoying yourself now, aren't you?'

He sighed.

'And everything here is your grandmother's anyway. What do you care?'

'I don't.'

She released her hold. His organ stood at attention. She kissed him gently on the lips. 'I'm sure we'll be seeing one another again.' She brushed past him and headed for the front door.

'If I hadn't given in, would you have harmed me to get the book and the box?'

She turned back. Interesting that someone so immature about life could be perceptive enough to understand the depths of her desires. 'What do you think?'

He seemed to genuinely consider the inquiry. Perhaps the hardest he'd considered anything in a while.

'I think I'm glad I fucked you.'

TWELVE

Volary, Czech Republic

Friday, May 9, 2:45 p.m.

Suzanne angled the porsche hard to the right, and the 911 Speedster's coil-spring suspension and torque steering grabbed the tight curve. She'd earlier hinged the glass-fiber hood back, allowing the afternoon air to whip her layered bob. She kept the car parked at the Ruzyne airport, the 120 kilometers from Prague to southwestern Bohemia an easy hour's drive. The car was a gift from Loring, a bonus two years ago after a particularly productive year of acquisitions. Metallic slate gray, black leather interior, plush velvet carpet. Only 150 of the model were produced. Hers bore a gold insigne on the dash. Draha. 'Little darling,' the nickname Loring bestowed upon her in childhood.

She'd heard the tales and read the press on Ernst Loring. Most portrayed him as baleful, stern, and dismissive, with the energy of a zealot and the morals of a despot. Not far off the mark. But there was another side of him. The one she knew, loved, and respected.

Loring's estate occupied a three-hundred-acre tract in southwestern Czech, only kilometers from the German border. The family had flourished under Communist rule, their factories and mines in Chomutov, Most, and Teplice vital to the old Czechoslovakia's once supposed self-sufficiency. She'd always thought it amusing that the family uranium mines north in Jachymov, manned with political prisoners--the worker death toll nearly 100 percent--were officially considered irrelevant by the new government. It was likewise unimportant that, after years of acid rain, the Sad Mountains had been transformed into eerie graveyards of rotting forests. A mere footnote that Teplice, once a thriving spa town near the Polish border, was renowned more for the short life expectancy of its inhabitants than for its refreshing warm water. She'd long ago noticed that no photos of the region were contained in the fancy picture books vendors hawked outside Prague Castle to the millions who visited each year. Northern Czech was a blight. A reminder. Once a necessity, now something to be forgotten. But it was a place where Ernst Loring profited, and the reason why he lived in the south.

The Velvet Revolution of 1989 assured the demise of the Communists. Three years later Czech and Slovakia divorced, hastily dividing the country's spoils. Loring benefited from both events, quickly allying himself with Havel and the new government of the Czech Republic, a name he thought dignified but lacking in punch. She'd heard his views about the changes. How his factories and foundries were in demand more than ever. Though spawned in Communism, Loring was a tried and true capitalist. His father, Josef, and his grandfather before that had been capitalists.

What did he say all the time? All political movements need steel and coal. Loring supplied both, in return for protection, freedom, and a more than a modest return on investment.

The manor suddenly loomed on the horizon. Castle Loukov. A former knight's hrad, the site a formidable headland overshadowing the swift Orlik Stream. Built in the Burgundian-Cistercian style, its earliest construction began in the fifteenth century, but it wasn't finished until the mid-seventeenth century. Triple sedilia and leaf capitals lined the towering walls. Oriels dotted vine-covered ramparts. A clay roof flashed orange in the midday sun.

A fire ravaged the entire complex during World War II, the Nazis confiscating it as a local headquarters, and the Allies finally bombing it. But Josef Loring wrestled back title, allying himself with the Russians who liberated the area on their way to Berlin. After the war the elder Loring resurrected his industrial empire and expanded, ultimately bequeathing everything to Ernst, his only surviving child, a move the government wholly supported.

Clever, industrious men were also always in demand, her employer had said many times.

She downshifted the Porsche to third. The engine groaned, then forced the tires to grab dry pavement. She twisted up the narrow road, the black asphalt surrounded by thick forest, and slowed at the castle's main gate. What once accommodated horse-drawn carriages and deterred aggressors had been widened and paved to easily accept cars.

Loring stood outside in the courtyard, dressed casually, wearing work gloves, apparently tending his spring flowers. He was tall and angular, with a surprisingly flat chest and strong physique for a man in his late seventies. Over the past decade she'd watched the silkened ash blond hair fade to the point of a lackluster gray, a matching goatee carpeting his creased jaw and wrinkled neck. Gardening had always been one of his obsessions. The greenhouses outside the walls were packed with exotic plants from around the world.

'Dobriy den, my dear,' Loring called out in Czech.

She parked and exited the Porsche, grabbing her travel bag out of the passenger's seat.

Loring clapped dirt from his gloves and walked over. 'Good hunting, I hope?'

She withdrew a small cardboard box from the passenger's seat. Neither Customs in London nor Prague questioned the trinket after she explained that it had been bought at a Westminister Abbey gift shop for less than thirty pounds. She was even able to produce a receipt, since she'd stopped by that very shop on the way to the airport and bought a cheap reproduction, one she trashed at the airport.

Loring yanked off his gloves and lifted the lid, studying the snuffbox in the graying afternoon. 'Beautiful,' he whispered. 'Perfect.'

She reached back into her bag and extracted the book.

'What is this?' he asked.

'A surprise.'

He returned the gold treasure to the cardboard box, then gingerly cradled the volume, unfolding the front cover, marveling at the book plate.

'Draha, you amaze me. What a wonderful bonus.'

'I recognized it instantly and thought you'd like it.'

'We can certainly sell or trade this. Herr Greimel loves these, and I would very much like a painting he possesses.'

'I knew you'd be happy.'

'This should make Christian take notice, huh? Quite an unveiling at our next gathering.'

'And Franz Fellner.'

He shook his head. 'Not anymore. I believe now it's Monika. She seems to be taking over everything. Slowly but surely.'

'Arrogant bitch.'

'True. But she's also no fool. I spoke to her at length recently. A bit impatient and eager. Seems to have inherited her father's spirit, if not his brains. But, who knows? She's young--maybe she'll learn. I'm sure Franz will teach her.'

'And what of my benefactor. Any similar thoughts of retirement?'

Loring grinned. 'What would I do?'

She gestured to the blossoms. 'Garden?'

'Hardly. What we do is so invigorating. Collecting carries such thrills. I am as a child at Christmas opening