the Amber Room

Atlanta, Georgia

12:35 p.m.

Paul was concerned. He'd skipped lunch and stayed in the office, hoping Rachel would call. It was after 6:30 P.M. in Germany. She'd mentioned the possibility of staying in Munich one night before heading to Kehlheim. So he wasn't sure if she'd call today, or tomorrow after she made it south to the Alps, or if she'd call at all.

Rachel was outspoken, aggressive, and tough. Always had been. That independent spirit was what made her a good judge. But it also made her hard to know, and even harder to like. Friends didn't come easy. But down deep, she was warm and caring. He knew that. Unfortunately, the two of them were like grease and fire. But were they, really? They both thought a quiet dinner at home better than a crowded restaurant. A video rental preferable to the theater. An afternoon with the kids at the zoo heaven, compared with a night out on the town. He realized she missed her father. They'd been close, particularly after the divorce. Karol had tried hard to get them back together.

What had the old man's note said?

Maybe give Paul another chance.

But it was no use. Rachel was determined that they were to live apart. She'd rebuffed every attempt he made at a reconciliation. Maybe it was time he obliged her and gave up. But there was something there. Her lack of a social life. Her reliance and trust in him. And how many men possessed a key to their ex-wife's house? How many still shared the title to property? Or continued to maintain a joint account for stocks? She'd never once insisted that their Merrill Lynch account be closed, and he'd managed it the last three years without her ever questioning his judgment.

He stared at the phone. Why hadn't she called? What was going on? Some man, Christian Knoll, was supposedly looking for her. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps not. All the information he possessed was the word of a rather attractive brunette with bright blue eyes and shapely legs. Jo Myers. She'd been calm and collected, handling his questions well, her answers quick and to the point. It was almost as if she could sense his apprehension toward Rachel, the doubts he harbored about her traveling to Germany. He'd volunteered a little too much, and that fact bothered him. Rachel had no business in Germany. Of that he was sure. The Amber Room was not her concern, and it was doubtful Danya Chapaev was even still alive.

He reached across his desk and retrieved his former father-in-law's letters. He found the note penned to Rachel and scanned down the page about halfway:

Did we ever find it? Perhaps. Neither of us really went and looked. Too many were watching in those days and, by the time we narrowed the trail, both of us realized the Soviets were far worse than the Germans. So we left it alone. Danya and I vowed never to reveal what we knew, or perhaps simply what we thought we knew. Only when Yancy volunteered to make discreet inquiries, checking information that I once thought credible, did I inquire again. He was making an inquiry on his last trip to Italy. Whether that blast on the plane was attributable to his questions or something else will never be known. All I know is that the search for the Amber Room has proved dangerous.

He read a little farther and again found the warning:

But never, absolutely never, concern yourself with the Amber Room. Remember the story of Phaethon and the tears of the Heliades. Heed his ambition and their grief.

He'd read a lot of the classics, but couldn't recall the specifics. Rachel had been evasive three days ago when he asked her about the story at the dining room table.

He turned to his computer terminal and accessed the Internet. He selected a search engine and typed 'Phaethon and the Heliades.' The screen noted over a hundred sites. He randomly checked a couple. The third was the best, a Web page titled 'The Mythical World of Edith Hamilton.' He scanned through until he found the story of Phaethon, a bibliography noting the account was from Ovid's Metamorphoses.

He read the story. It was colorful and prophetic.

Phaethon, the illegitimate son of Helios, the Sun God, finally found his father. Feeling guilty, the Sun God granted his son one wish, and the boy immediately chose to take his father's place for a day, piloting the sun chariot across the sky from dawn to dusk. The father realized his son's folly and tried in vain to dissuade the boy, but he would not be deterred. So Helios granted the wish, but warned the boy how difficult the chariot was to command. None of the Sun God's cautions seemed to mean anything. All the boy saw was himself standing in the wondrous chariot, guiding the steeds that Zeus himself could not master.

Once airborne, though, Phaethon quickly discovered that his father's warnings were correct, and he lost control of the chariot. The horses darted to the top of the sky, then plunged close enough to the earth to set the world ablaze. Zeus, having no choice, unleashed a thunderbolt that destroyed the chariot and killed Phaethon. The mysterious river Eridanus received him and cooled the flames that engulfed his body. The Naiads, in pity for one so bold and so young, buried him. Phaethon's sisters, the Heliades, came to his grave and mourned. Zeus, taking pity on their sorrow, turned them into poplar trees that sprouted sadly murmuring leaves on the bank of the Eridanus.

He read the last lines of the story on the screen:

WHERE SORROWING THEY WEEP INTO THE STREAM FOREVER

EACH TEAR AS IT FALLS SHINES IN THE WATER

A GLISTENING DROP OF AMBER.

He instantly recalled the copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses he'd seen on Borya's bookshelves. Karol was trying to warn Rachel, but she wouldn't listen. Like Phaethon, she'd raced off on a foolish quest, not understanding the dangers or appreciating the risks. Would Christian Knoll be her Zeus? The one to hurl a thunderbolt.

He stared at the phone. Ring, dammit.

What should he do?

He could do nothing. Stay with the kids, look after them, and wait for Rachel to return from her wild goose chase. He could call the police and perhaps alert the German authorities. But if Christian Knoll was nothing more than a curious investigator, Rachel would soundly chastise him. Alarmist Paul, she'd say.

And he didn't need to hear that.

But there was a third option. The one most appealing. He glanced at his watch. 1:50 P.M. 7:50 in Germany. He reached for the phone book, found the number, and dialed Delta Airlines. The reservation clerk came on the line.

'I need a flight to Munich from Atlanta, leaving tonight.'

TWENTY-SIX

Kehlheim, Germany

Saturday, May 17, 8:05 a.m.

Suzanne made good time. She'd left Paul Cutler's office yesterday and immediately flew to New York, where she caught the Concorde leaving at 6:30 for Paris. Arriving a little after 10 P.M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1 A.M. She'd managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Forggensee, east of Fussen.

The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake's east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a rambling marktplatz surrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze.

She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market. The air reeked of raw meat, damp produce, and spent tobacco. She strolled through the melange swarming with summer sojourners. Children played in noisy groups. Hammer blows echoed in the distance. An older