Gothic ornamentation rising before her. The tour group inched across the square, stopping on the far side, opposite the town hall. She followed and noticed the guide studying her watch. The clock face high above read 4:58 P.M.
Suddenly, the windows in the clock tower swung open and two rows of brightly colored enameled copper figurines danced out on a turntable. Music flooded the square. Bells clanged for five o'clock, echoed by more bells in the distance.
'This is the
The colorful figures twirled to the tune of lively Bavarian music. Everyone in the street stopped, their necks craned upward. The vignette lasted two minutes, then stopped, and the square sprang back to life. The tour group moved off and crossed one of the side streets. She lingered for a few seconds and watched the clock windows fully close, then followed across the intersection.
The blare of a horn shattered the afternoon.
She jerked her head to the left.
The front end of a car approached her. Fifty feet. Forty. Twenty. Her eyes focused on the hood and the Mercedes emblem, then on the lights and words that signified taxi.
Ten feet.
The horn still blared. She needed to move, but her feet wouldn't respond. She braced herself for the pain, wondering if the impact or the slam to the cobblestones would hurt worse.
Poor Marla and Brent.
And Paul. Sweet Paul.
An arm wrapped around her neck, and she was jerked back.
Brakes squealed. The taxi slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber steamed from the pavement.
She turned to see who now held her. The man was tall and lean, with a shock of corn-colored hair brushed across a tanned brow. Thin lips like slits cut with a razor creased a handsome face, the complexion a dusky hue. He was dressed in a wheat-colored twill shirt and checkered trousers.
'You okay?' he asked in English.
The peak of the moment had spent her emotions. She instantly realized how close she'd come to dying. 'I think so.'
A crowd gathered. The cabdriver was out of the car, looking on.
'She's okay, folks,' her savior said. Then he said something in German and people started to leave. He spoke to the taxi driver in German, who responded and then sped off.
'The driver is sorry. But he said you appeared out of nowhere.'
'I thought this was pedestrian only,' she said. 'I wasn't concerned about a car.'
'The taxis are not supposed to be here, but they find a way. I reminded the driver of that, and he decided that leaving was the best course.'
'There should be a sign or something.'
'America, right? Everything has a sign in America. Not here.'
She calmed down. 'Thanks for what you did.'
Two rows of even white teeth flashed a perfect smile. 'My pleasure.' He extended a hand. 'I am Christian Knoll.'
She accepted the offer. 'Rachel Cutler. And I'm glad you were there, Mr. Knoll. I never saw that taxi.'
'It would have been unfortunate otherwise.'
She grinned. 'Quite.' She started to shake uncontrollably, the aftershock of what had almost just happened.
'Please, let me buy you a drink to calm you down.'
'That's not necessary.'
'You are shaking. Some wine would be good.'
'I appreciate it, but--'
'As a reward for my effort.'
That would be hard to refuse, so she surrendered. 'Okay, maybe a little wine might be the thing.'
She followed Knoll to a cafe about four blocks away, the twin copper towers of the main cathedral looming directly across the street. Clothed tables sprouted across the cobblestones, each filled with people cradling steins of dark beer. Knoll ordered a beer for himself and her a glass of Rhineland wine, the clear liquid dry, bitter, and good.
Knoll had been right. Her nerves were flustered. That was the closest she'd ever come to death. Strange her thoughts at the time. Brent and Marla were understandable. But Paul? She'd clearly thought of him, her heart aching for an instant.
She sipped the wine and let the alcohol and ambience soothe her nerves.
'I have a confession to make, Ms. Cutler,' Knoll said.
'How about Rachel?'
'Very well. Rachel.'
She sipped more wine. 'What kind of confession?'
'I was following you.'
The words got her attention. She set the wineglass down. 'What do you mean?'
'I was following you. I have been since you left Atlanta.'
She rose from the table. 'I think perhaps the police should be involved in this.'
Knoll sat impassive and sipped his beer. 'I have no problem with that, if you so desire. I only ask that you hear me out first.'
She considered the request. They were seated in the open. Beyond a wrought-iron railing, the street was full of evening shoppers. What would it hurt to hear him out? She sat back down. 'Okay, Mr. Knoll, you've got five minutes.'
Knoll set the mug on the table. 'I traveled to Atlanta earlier in the week to meet your father. On arrival I learned of his death. Yesterday, I appeared at your office and learned of your trip here. I even left my name and number. Your secretary did not pass my message on?'
'I haven't talked with my office. What business did you have with my father?'
'I am looking for the Amber Room and thought he could be of assistance.'
'Why are you looking for the Amber Room?'
'My employer seeks it.'
'As do the Russians, I'm sure.'
Knoll smiled. 'True. But, after fifty years, we regard it as 'finders keepers,' I believe is the American saying.'
'How could my father help?'
'He searched many years. Finding the Amber Room was given a high priority by the Soviets.'
'That was fifty-plus years ago.'
'With this particular prize, the passage of time is meaningless. If anything, it makes the search all the more intriguing.'
'How did you locate my father?'
Knoll stuffed a hand into a pocket and handed her some folded sheets. 'I discovered those last week in St. Petersburg. They led me to Atlanta. As you'll see, the KGB visited him a few years ago.'
She unfolded and read. The typed words were in Cyrillic. An English translation appeared to the side in blue ink. She instantly noticed who'd signed the top sheet. Danya Chapaev. She also noted what was written on the KGB sheet about her father:
Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts.
But her father had known exactly where Chapaev lived. He'd corresponded with him for years. Why had he lied? And her father never mentioned anything about the KGB visiting him. Nor much about the Amber Room. It was
