Standing in the stillness, an odd combination of regret and sadness shuddered through him. Always before he'd enjoyed coming over, talking art and the Braves. Now the old man was gone. Another link to Rachel severed. But a friend was gone, too. Borya was like a father to him. They'd become especially close after his parents were killed. Borya and his father had been good friends, linked by art. He now remembered both men with a pang in his heart.
Good men gone forever.
He decided to take Rachel's advice and first look upstairs in the study. He knew there was a will. He'd drafted it a few years back and doubted that Borya would have gone to anyone else to modify the language. A copy was certainly back at the firm in the retired files and, if necessary, he could use that. But the original could be worked through probate faster.
He climbed the stairs and searched the study. Magazine articles lay strewn on the club chair, a few scattered on the carpet. He shuffled through the pages. All concerned the Amber Room. Borya had spoken of the object many times through the years, his conviction the words of a White Russian who longed to see the treasure restored to the Catherine Palace. Beyond that, though, he hadn't realized the man's rather intense interest, apparently enough to collect articles and clippings dating back thirty years.
He rifled through the desk drawers and filing cabinets and found no will.
He scanned the bookshelves. Borya loved to read. Homer, Hugo, Poe, and Tolstoy lined the shelves, along with a volume of Russian fairy tales, a set of Churchill's
His eyes were drawn to the banner on the wall. The old man had bought it at a kiosk in Centennial Park during the Olympics. A silver knight on a rearing horse, sword drawn, a six-ended golden cross adorning the shield. The background was blood red, the symbol of valor and courage, Borya had said, trimmed in white to embody freedom and purity. It was the national emblem of Belarus, a defiant symbol of self-determination.
A lot like Borya himself.
Borya had loved the Olympics. They'd gone to several events, and were there when Belarus won the gold in women's rowing. Fourteen other medals came to the nation--six silver and eight bronze, in discus, heptathlon, gymnastics, and wrestling--Borya proud of every one. Though American by osmosis, his former father-in-law was without a doubt a White Russian at heart.
He retreated downstairs and carefully searched the drawers and cabinets, but found no will. The map of Germany was still unfolded on the coffee table. The
He wandered into the kitchen and searched on the off chance that important papers were stashed there. He once handled a case where a woman stored her will in the freezer, so on a lark, he yanked open the refrigerator's double doors. The sight of a file angled beside the ice maker surprised him.
He removed and opened the cold manila folder.
More articles on the Amber Room, dating back to the 1940s and 1950s, but some as recent as two years ago. He wondered what they were doing in the freezer. Deciding that finding the will was, at the moment, more important, he decided to keep the folder and head for the bank.
The street sign for the Georgia Citizens Bank on Carr Boulevard read 3:23 P.M. when Paul rolled into the busy parking lot. He'd banked at Georgia Citizens for years, ever since working for them prior to law school.
The manager, a mousy man with fading hair, initially refused access to Borya's safe deposit box. After a quick phone call to the office, Paul's secretary faxed a letter of representation, which he signed, attesting he was attorney for the estate of Karol Borya, deceased. The letter seemed to satisfy the manager. At least there was something now in the file to show an heir who complained that the safe deposit box was empty.
Georgia law contained a specific provision that allowed estate representatives access to safe deposit boxes to search for wills. He'd utilized the law many times and most bank managers were familiar with the provisions. Occasionally, though, a difficult one came along.
The man led him into the vault and the array of stainless steel boxes. Possession of the key for number 45 seemed to further confirm his authenticity. He knew the law required the manager to stay, view the contents, and inventory exactly what was removed and by whom. He unlocked the box and slid the narrow rectangle out, metal screeching against metal.
Inside was a single bunch of paper, rubber-banded together. One document was blue-backed, and he immediately recognized the will he'd drawn years ago. About a dozen white envelopes were bound to it. He shuffled through them. All came from a Danya Chapaev and were addressed to Borya. Neatly trifolded in the stack were copies of letters from Borya to Chapaev. All the script was in English. The last document was a plain white envelope, sealed, with Rachel's name scrawled on the front in blue ink.
'The letters and this envelope are attached to the will. Mr. Borya obviously intended them a unit. There's nothing else in the box. I'll take it all.'
'We've been instructed in situations like this to release only the will.'
'It was bound together. These envelopes may relate to the will. The law states that I can have them.'
The manager hesitated. 'I'll have to call downtown to our general counsel's office for an okay.'
'What's the problem? There's nobody to complain about anything. I wrote this will. I know what it says. Mr. Borya's only heir was his daughter. I'm here on her behalf.'
'I still need to check with our lawyer.'
He'd had enough. 'You do that. Tell Cathy Holden that Paul Cutler is in your bank being jacked around by somebody who obviously doesn't know the law. Tell her if I have to go to court and get an order allowing me to have what I should have anyway, the bank's going to compensate me the two hundred and twenty dollars an hour I'm going to charge for the trouble.'
The manager seemed to consider the words. 'You know our general counsel?'
'I used to work for her.'
The manager pondered his predicament quietly, then finally said, 'Take 'em. But sign here.'
EIGHTEEN
Danya,
How my heart aches every day for what happened to Yancy Cutler. What a fine man, his wife such a good woman. All the rest of the people on that plane were good people, too. Good people shouldn't die so violent or so sudden. My son-in-law grieves deeply and it pains me to think I may be responsible. Yancy telephoned the night before the crash. He was able to locate the old man you mentioned whose brother worked at Loring's estate. You were right. I should never have asked Yancy to inquire again while in Italy. It wasn't right to involve others. The burden rests with you and me. But why have we survived? Do they not know where we are? What we know? Maybe we're no longer a threat? Only those who ask questions and get too close draw their attention. Indifference is perhaps far better than curiosity. So many years have passed, the Amber Room seems more a memory than a wonder of the world. Does anybody really care anymore? Stay safe and well, Danya. Keep in touch.
Karol
Danya,
The KGB came today. A fat Chechen who smelled like a sewer. He said he found my name in the Commission records. I thought the trail was too old and too cold to follow. But I was wrong. Be careful. He asked whether you are still alive. I told him the usual. I think we are the only two of the old ones left. All those friends gone. So sad. Maybe you're right. No more letters, just in case. Particularly now, since they know where I am. My daughter is about to have a child. My second grandchild. A girl this time, they tell me. Modern science. I liked the old ways when you wondered. But a little girl would be nice. My grandson is such a joy. I hope your grandchildren are well. Be safe, old friend.
Karol
