the Amber Room

bodies until they froze to death. Goring stood impassive the whole time, rubbing a piece of amber, wanting to know something about the Amber Room. Of all the horror that happened in Mauthausen, her father said, that night with Goring was what stayed with him.

And set his course in life.

After the war, he was sent to interview Goring in prison during the Nurnberg trials.

Did he remember you? she'd asked.

My face in Mauthausen meant nothing to him.

But Goring recalled the torture, saying he greatly admired the soldiers for holding out. German superiority, breeding, he'd said. Her love for her father multiplied tenfold after finally hearing about Mauthausen. What he endured was unimaginable and just to survive was an accomplishment. But to survive with his sanity intact seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Sitting in the quiet of her chambers, Rachel cried. That precious man was gone. His voice forever silent, his love only a memory. For the first time in her life she was alone. Her parents' entire family had either perished in the war or were inaccessible, somewhere in Belarus, strangers really, linked merely by genes. Only her two children were left. She remembered how they'd ended that conversation about Mauthausen twenty-four years ago.

Daddy, did you ever find the Amber Room?

He stared back at her with woeful eyes. She wondered then and now if there was something he wanted to tell her. Something she needed to know. Or was it better she not know? Hard to tell. And his words didn't help.

Never did, my darling.

But his tone was reminiscent of when he once explained there really was a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny, a Tooth Fairy. Hollow words that simply needed to be said. Now, after reading the letters between her father and Danya Chapaev and the note penned in his own hand, she was convinced that there was more to the story. Her father harbored a secret, and apparently had done so for years.

But he was gone.

Only one lead left.

Danya Chapaev.

And she knew what had to be done.

Rachel stepped off the elevator on the twenty-third floor and marched toward the paneled doors labeled PRIDGEN & WOODWORTH. The law firm consumed the entire twenty-third and twenty-fourth floors of the downtown high-rise, its probate division on the twenty-third.

Paul started with the firm right out of law school. She'd worked first with the DA's office, then with another Atlanta firm. They met eleven months later and married two years after that. Their courtship typical of Paul, never in a hurry to do anything. So careful. Deliberate. Afraid to take a chance, play the odds, or risk failure. She'd been the one to suggest marriage, and he readily agreed.

He was a handsome man, always had been. Not rugged, or dashing, just attractive in an ordinary way. And he was honest. Along with possessing a fanatical dependability. But his unbending dedication to tradition had slowly turned irksome. Why not vary Sunday dinner every once in a while? Roast, potatoes, corn, snap peas, rolls, and iced tea. Every Sunday for years. Not that Paul required it, only that the same thing always satisfied him. In the beginning, she'd liked that predictability. It was comforting. A known commodity that stabilized her world. Toward the end it became a tremendous pain in the ass.

But why?

Was a routine so bad?

Paul was a good, decent, successful man. She was proud of him, though she rarely voiced it. He was next in line to head the probate division. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old who needed two tries to get into law school. But Paul knew probate law. He studied nothing else, concentrating on all its nuances, even serving on legislative committees. He was a recognized expert on the subject, and Pridgen & Woodworth paid him enough money to prevent another firm from luring him away. The firm handled thousands of estates, many quite substantial, and most she knew were attributable to the statewide reputation of Paul Cutler.

She pushed through the doors and followed the maze of corridors to Paul's office. She'd called before leaving her chambers, so he was expecting her. She went straight in, closed the door, and announced, 'I'm going to Germany.'

Paul looked up. 'You're what?'

'I didn't stutter. I'm going to Germany.'

'To find Chapaev? He's probably dead. He didn't even return your father's last letter.'

'I need to do something.'

Paul stood from the desk. 'Why do you always have to do something?'

'Daddy knew about the Amber Room. I owe it to him to check it out.'

'Owe it to him?' His voice was rising. 'You owe it to him to respect his last wish, which was to stay out of whatever it was. If anything, by the way. Damn, Rachel, you're forty years old. When are you going to grow up?'

She stayed surprisingly calm, considering how she felt about his lectures. 'I don't want to fight, Paul. I need you to look after the children. Will you do that?'

'Typical, Rachel. Fly off the handle. Do the first thing that comes to mind. No thought. Just do it.'

'Will you watch the kids?'

'If I said no, would you stay?'

'I'd call your brother.'

Paul sat back down. His expression signaled surrender.

'You can stay at the house,' she said. 'It'll be easier on the kids. They're still pretty upset over Daddy.'

'They'd be even more upset if they knew what their mother was doing. And have you forgotten about the election? It's less than eight weeks away, and you have two opponents working their asses off to beat you, now with Marcus Nettles's money.'

'Screw the election. Nettles can have the damn judgeship. This is more important.'

'What's more important? We don't even know what this is. What about your docket? How can you just up and leave?'

She notched two points for a nice try, but that wasn't going to discourage her. 'The chief judge understood. I told him I needed some time to grieve. I haven't taken a vacation in two years. I have the leave accrued.'

Paul shook his head. 'You're going on a wild goose chase to Bavaria for an old man who's probably dead, looking for something that's probably lost forever. You're not the first one to search for the Amber Room. People have devoted their whole lives to looking, and found nothing.'

She wasn't going to budge. 'Daddy knew something important. I can feel it. This Chapaev may know also.'

'You're dreaming.'

'And you're pathetic.' She instantly regretted the words and tone. There was no need to hurt him.

'I'm going to ignore that because I know you're upset,' he slowly said.

'I'm leaving tomorrow evening on a flight to Munich. I need a copy of Daddy's letters and the articles from his files.'

'I'll drop them off on the way home.' His voice was filled with total resignation.

'I'll call from Germany and let you know where I'm staying.' She headed for the door. 'Pick up the kids at day care tomorrow.'

'Rachel.'

She stopped but did not turn back.

'Be careful.'

She opened the door and left.

PART TWO