'Not at all. This is fascinating.'
'The vapors can ripen fruit. There's an Arab legend about a certain Shah who ordered his gardener to bring him fresh pears. Problem was, pears were out of season and the fruit would not be ready for another month. The Shah threatened to behead the gardener if he didn't produce ripe pears. So the gardener picked a few unripe pears and spent the night praying to Allah and burning amber incense. The next day, in response to his prayers, the pears were rosy and sweet, ready to eat.' Knoll shrugged. 'Whether that's true or not, who knows? But amber vapor does contain ethylene, and that stimulates early ripening. It can also soften leather. The Egyptians used the vapor in the mummifying process.'
'My only knowledge is from jewelry, or the pictures I've seen with insects and leaves inside.'
'Francis Bacon called it 'a more than royal tomb.' Scientists look at amber as a time capsule. Artists think of it like paint. There are over two hundred and fifty colors. Blue and green the rarest. Red, yellow, brown, black, and gold most common. Whole guilds emerged in the Middle Ages that controlled distribution. The Amber Room was crafted in the eighteenth century, the very epitome of what man could do with the substance.'
'You know the subject well.'
'My job.'
The car slowed.
'Our exit,' Knoll said as they sped off the autobahn, down a short ramp, and braked at the bottom. 'From here we go west by highway. It's not far to Kehlheim.' He turned the wheel right and quickly worked the gears, regaining speed.
'Who do you work for?' she asked.
'I cannot say. My employer is a private person.'
'But obviously wealthy.'
'How so?'
'To send you across the globe looking for art. That's not a hobby for a poor man.'
'Did I say my employer was a man?'
She grinned. 'No, you didn't.'
'Nice try, Your Honor.'
Green meadows sprinkled with copses of tall fir lined the highway. She brought down the window and soaked in the crystalline air. 'We're rising, aren't we?'
'The Alps start here and spread south to Italy. It will get cool before we make it to Kehlheim.'
She'd wondered earlier why he'd worn a long-sleeved shirt and long pants. She'd dressed in a pair of khaki walking shorts and short-sleeved button-down. Suddenly she realized this was the first time she'd driven anywhere with a man other than Paul since the divorce. It was always the children, her father, or a girlfriend.
'I meant what I said yesterday. I am sorry about your father,' Knoll said.
'He was very old.'
'The terrible thing about parents. One day we lose them.'
He sounded like he meant it. Expected words. Surely said out of courtesy. But she appreciated the sentiment.
And found him even more intriguing.
TWENTY-EIGHT
11:45 a.m.
Rachel studied the old man who opened the door. He was short with a narrow face topped by shaggy silver hair. Graying peach fuzz dusted his withered chin and neck. His frame was spare, his skin the shade of talcum, the face wizened like a walnut. He was at least eighty, and her first thought was of her father and how much the man reminded her of him.
'Danya Chapaev? I'm Rachel Cutler. Karol Borya's daughter.'
The old man stared deep. 'I see him in your face and eyes.'
She smiled. 'He'd be proud of that fact. May we come in?'
'Of course,' Chapaev said.
She and Knoll entered the tiny house. The one-story building was formed from old timber and aging plaster, Chapaev's the last of several chalets that straggled from Kehlheim on a wooded lane.
'How did you find my place?' Chapaev asked. His English was much better than her father's.
'We asked in town where you lived,' she said.
The den was homey and warm from a small fire that crackled in a stone hearth. Two lamps burned beside a quilt sofa, where she and Knoll sat. Chapaev slipped down into a wooden rocking chair facing them. The scent of cinnamon and coffee drifted in the air. Chapaev offered a drink, but they declined. She introduced Knoll, then told Chapaev about her father's death. The old man was surprised by the news. He sat in silence for a while, tears welling up in his tired eyes.
'He was a good man. The best,' Chapaev finally said.
'I'm here, Mr. Chapaev--'
'Danya, please. Call me Danya.'
'All right. Danya. I'm here because of the letters you and my father sent to each other about the Amber Room. I read them. Daddy said something about the secret you two share and being too old now to go and check. I came to find out what I could.'
'Why, child?'
'It seemed important to Daddy.'
'Did he ever speak with you about it?'
'He talked little about the war and what he did afterwards.'
'Perhaps he had a reason for his silence.'
'I'm sure he did. But Daddy's gone now.'
Chapaev sat silent, seeming to contemplate the fire. Shadows flickered across his ancient face. She glanced at Knoll, who was watching their host closely. She'd been forced to say something about the letters, and Knoll had reacted. Not surprising, since she'd intentionally withheld the information. She figured there'd be questions later.
'Perhaps it's time,' Chapaev softly said. 'I wondered when. Maybe now is the moment.'
Beside her, Knoll sucked a long breath. A chill tingled down her spine. Was it possible this old man knew where the Amber Room was located?
'Such a monster, Erich Koch,' Chapaev whispered.
She did not understand. 'Koch?'
'A gauleiter,' Knoll said. 'One of Hitler's provincial governors. Koch ruled Prussia and Ukraine. His job was to squeeze every ton of grain, every ounce of steel, and every slave laborer he could from the region.'
The old man sighed. 'Koch used to say that if he found a Ukrainian fit to sit at his table, he'd shoot him. I guess we should be grateful for his brutality. He managed to convert forty million Ukrainians, who greeted the invaders as liberators from Stalin, into seething partisans who hated Germans. Quite an accomplishment.'
Knoll said nothing.
Chapaev went on. 'Koch toyed with the Russians and the Germans after the war, using the Amber Room to stay alive. Karol and I watched the manipulation, yet could say nothing.'
'I don't understand,' she said.
Knoll said, 'Koch was tried in Poland after the war and sentenced to die as a war criminal. The Soviets, though, repeatedly postponed his execution. He claimed to know where the Amber Room was buried. It was Koch who ordered it removed from Leningrad and moved to Konigsberg in 1941. He also ordered its evacuation west in 1945. Koch used his supposed knowledge to stay alive, reasoning that the Soviets would kill him as soon as he revealed the location.'
She now began to remember some of what she'd read in the articles her father saved. 'He eventually got an
