'The daughter could simply be vacationing.'
'I doubt that. Too much of a coincidence.'
'You going to follow her?'
'Later today. There's something I need to handle first.'
TWENTY-TWO
Suzanne watched Christian Knoll from across the mezzanine. She was seated inside a crowded waiting room, CLERK OF COURT, TRAFFIC FINES stenciled on the outer glass wall. About seventy-five people waited their turn to approach a Formica counter and dispose of citations, the whole scene chaotic, stale cigarette smoke lingering in the air despite several NO SMOKING signs.
She'd been following Knoll since Saturday. Monday, he'd made two trips to the High Museum of Art and one to a downtown Atlanta office building. Tuesday, he attended Karol Borya's funeral. She'd watched the graveside service from across the street. He'd done little yesterday, a trip to the public library and a shopping mall, but today he was up early and on the move.
Her short blond hair was stuffed beneath a tendriled, brownish-red wig. Extra makeup splotched her face, and her eyes were shielded by a pair of cheap sunglasses. She wore tight jeans, a collarless 1996 Atlanta Olympics jersey, and tennis shoes. A cheap black bag was slung over one shoulder. She fit right in with the crowd, a
Five minutes ago she'd followed Knoll to the sixth floor and watched while he entered Rachel Cutler's chambers. She recognized the name and knew the connection. Knoll was obviously not giving up, most likely now reporting to Monika Fellner what he learned. That bitch would definitely be a problem. Young. Aggressive. Hungry. A worthy successor to Franz Fellner, and a nuisance in more ways than one.
Knoll hadn't stayed long in Rachel Cutler's office, certainly not long enough to meet with her. So she'd backed off, fearful he might notice her presence, unsure if the disguise would be effective camouflage. She'd worn a different ensemble each day, careful not to repeat anything he might recognize. Knoll was good. Damn good. Fortunately, she was better.
Knoll hung up the phone and headed for the street.
She tossed the magazine aside and followed.
Knoll flagged a cab and rode back to his hotel. He'd sensed somebody Saturday night at Borya's house after he twisted the old man's neck. But he definitely detected Suzanne Danzer on Monday, and every day since. She'd disguised herself well. But too many years in the field had honed his abilities. Little escaped him now. He'd almost been expecting her. Ernst Loring, Danzer's employer, wanted the Amber Room as much as Fellner did. Loring's father, Josef, had been obsessed with amber, amassing one of the largest private collections in the world. Ernst had inherited both the objects and his father's desire. Many times he'd heard Loring preach on the subject, and watched while he traded or bought amber pieces from other collectors, Fellner included. Surely Danzer had been dispatched to Atlanta to see what he was doing.
But how did she know where to find him?
Of course. The nosy clerk in St. Petersburg. Who else? The idiot must have stolen a look at the KGB sheet before he tabled it. He was certainly on the take, with Loring one of several likely benefactors--now the primary benefactor, since Danzer was here, and had been, he assumed, since Friday.
The cab pulled up to the Marriott and Knoll jumped out. Somewhere behind, Danzer was certainly following. She was probably registered here, as well. She would most likely duck into one of the ground-floor rest rooms and modify her disguise, switching wigs and accessories, maybe making a quick run to change clothes, probably paying one of the bellboys or concierges to alert her if he left the building.
He headed straight for his eighteenth-floor room. Inside, he dialed Delta reservations.
'I need a flight from Atlanta to Munich. Is there one leaving today?'
Computer keys were punched.
'Yes, sir, we have an outbound at 2:35 P.M. A direct flight to Munich.'
He had to be sure there were no other flights. 'Anything sooner or later?'
More keys were punched. 'Not with us.'
'How about another airline?'
More punching. 'That's the only direct flight from Atlanta to Munich today. You could connect, though, on two others.'
He gambled she was on the direct flight and not another to New York, Paris, Amsterdam, or Frankfurt with a connection into Munich. He confirmed the reservation, then hung up and quickly packed his travel bag. He needed to time his arrival at the airport precisely. If Rachel Cutler wasn't on the flight he'd chosen, he'd have to pick up her trail another way, perhaps when she called her office to let her secretary know where she could be reached. He could call back, give a correct phone number, and tickle her curiosity until she returned his call.
He headed down to check out. The lobby was busy. People rushing everywhere. But he quickly noticed a pixie brunette, fifty yards away, perched at an outside table in one of the lounges dotting the center atrium. As he suspected, Danzer had changed clothes. A peach-colored jumpsuit and sunglasses, more stylish and darker than before, replaced the grunge look.
He paid the clerk for the room, then headed outside for a cab to the airport.
Suzanne eyed the travel bag. Knoll was leaving? There was no time to return to her room. She'd have to follow and see where he went. That was exactly why she always packed light and included nothing she couldn't do without or replace.
She stood, threw five dollars on the table for a drink she'd sipped only twice, then headed toward the revolving doors and the street.
Knoll exited the cab at Hartsfield International Airport and checked his watch--1:25 P.M. He would have less than an hour to evade Danzer and make it to the gate. He tossed the driver three tens, folded the leather travel bag across his right arm, and marched inside the south terminal.
The lines for Delta ticketing were long. He needed to lose Danzer farther into the terminal, so he headed straight for the electronic check-in kiosk. The stiletto was stashed inside his travel bag, the only safe place, since the blade would never have survived the metal detectors. He obtained a boarding pass and checked his bag, then passed through a busy security checkpoint and cruised down a long escalator to the transportation mall. Danzer lingered fifty yards back. Just as he suspected, she'd been caught off guard by his sudden exit, with no time to modify her disguise. The same brunette wig, peach jumpsuit, and dark sunglasses from the Marriott. A bit sloppy for her. She should carry a backup. Something to vary the look if disguise was the only means of camouflage employed. He preferred electronic surveillance. It allowed the luxury of distance between hunter and hunted.
At the bottom of the escalator, he scampered with the rest of the afternoon travelers to the automatic trains. Hundreds crisscrossed the transportation mall. He boarded a train in the front car and noticed Danzer climb into the second car, positioning herself near the doors and forward windows so she could see what was happening ahead. He knew the airport well. The trains moved between six concourses, the International Concourse being farthest away. At the first stop, Concourse A, he and a hundred other people stepped off. Danzer surely was wondering what he was doing, certainly familiar enough with Hartsfield to know that no international flights used Con-courses A through D. Perhaps he was taking a domestic flight to another American city, she might be thinking. No matter. He knew she'd follow, probably already plotting how to get on and off the plane without him noticing.
He loitered on the train platform as if waiting for somebody. Instead he silently ticked off the seconds. Timing was critical. Danzer waited too, trying to seem uninterested, using the crowd for protection. She stood fifty feet away, apparently confident he noticed nothing. He waited exactly one minute then followed the crowd to an escalator.
The steps slowly rose.
It was thirty yards up to the busy concourse. Broad skylights four stories above admitted the afternoon sun.
