'And?'
'He was forthcoming. Too open, if you ask me.'
'Careful with this Cutler woman,' Monika said.
'She thinks I'm searching for the Amber Room. Nothing more. There is no connection between me and her father.'
'Sounds like you're developing a heart, Christian.'
'Hardly.' He told her about Suzanne Danzer and the episode in Atlanta.
'Loring is concerned about what we're doing,' Monika said. 'He and Father talked yesterday for a long time on the phone. He was definitely picking for information. A bit obvious for him.'
'Welcome to the game.'
'I don't need amusement, Christian. What I want is the Amber Room. And, according to Father, this appears to be the best lead ever.'
'I'm not so sure about that.'
'Always so pessimistic. Why do you say that?'
'Something about Chapaev bothers me. Hard to say. Just something.'
'Go to the mine, Christian, and look. Satisfy yourself. Then fuck your judge and get on with the job.'
Rachel dialed the phone beside the bed and gave an at&t overseas operator her credit card number. After eight rings, the answering machine clicked on at her house and her voice instructed a caller to leave a message.
'Paul, I'm in a town called Warthberg in central Germany. Here's the hotel and number.' She told him about the Goldene Krone. 'I'll call tomorrow. Kiss the kids for me. Bye.'
She glanced at her watch. 5:00 P.M. Eleven o'clock in the morning in Atlanta. Maybe he took the kids to the zoo or a movie. She was glad they were with Paul. It was a shame they couldn't be with him every day. Children need a father, and he needed them. That was the hardest thing about divorce, knowing a family was no more. She'd sat on the bench a year, divorcing others, before her own marriage fell apart. Many times, while listening to evidence she really did not need to hear, she'd wondered why couples who once loved one another suddenly had nothing good to say. Was hate a prerequisite to divorce? A necessary element? She and Paul didn't hate one another. They'd sat down, calmly divided their possessions, and decided what was best for the children. But what choice did Paul have? She'd made it clear the marriage was over. The subject was not open to debate. He'd tried hard to talk her out of it, but she was determined.
How many times had she asked herself the same question? Had she done the right thing? How many times had she come to the same conclusion?
Who knows?
Knoll arrived at her room, and she followed him to a quaint stone building that he explained had once been a staging inn, now transformed into a restaurant.
'How do you know that?' she asked.
'I inquired earlier when I stopped by to see how late it stayed open.'
The inside was a Gothic stone crypt with vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, and wrought-iron lanterns. Knoll commandeered one of the trestle tables on the far side. Two hours had passed since they arrived in Warthberg. She'd taken the time for a quick bath and a change of clothes. Her escort had changed, too. Jeans and boots replaced by wool slacks, a colorful sweater, and tan leather shoes.
'What did you do after you left earlier?' she asked as they sat down.
'Purchased what we will need tomorrow. Flashlights, a shovel, bolt cutter, two jackets. It will be chilly inside the mountain. I noticed that you wore a pair of ankle boots today. Wear them tomorrow--you will need good footing.'
'You act like you've done this before.'
'Several times. But we have to be careful. No one is supposed to venture into the mines without a permit. The government controls access to keep people from blowing themselves up.'
'I assume we're not worrying with permits?'
'Hardly. That's why it took so long. I bought from several merchants. Not enough in one place to draw attention.'
A waiter sauntered over and took their orders. Knoll ordered a bottle of wine, a vigorous red the waiter insisted was local.
'How do you like your adventure so far?' he asked.
'Beats the courtroom.'
She glanced around the intimate eatery. About twenty others were scattered at the tables. Mainly twosomes. One foursome. 'You think we'll find what we're looking for?'
'Very good,' he said.
She was perplexed. 'What do you mean?'
'No mention of our goal.'
'I assumed you wouldn't want to advertise our intentions.'
'You assume right. And I doubt it.'
'Still don't trust what you heard this morning?'
'It's not that I don't trust. I have just heard it all before.'
'But not from my father.'
'Your father isn't the one leading us.'
'You still think Chapaev lied?'
The waiter brought their wine and food orders. Knoll's was a steaming slab of pork, hers a roasted chicken, both with potatoes and salad. She was impressed with the fast service.
'How about I reserve judgment until in the morning,' Knoll said. 'Give the old man the benefit of the doubt, as you Americans say.'
She smiled. 'I think that'd be a good idea.'
Knoll gestured to dinner. 'Shall we eat and talk about more pleasant matters?'
After dinner Knoll led her back to the Goldene Krone. It was nearly 10 P.M., yet the sky was still backlit, the evening air like fall in north Georgia.
'I do have a question,' she said. 'If we find the Amber Room, how will you keep the Russian government from reclaiming the panels?'
'There are legal avenues available. The panels have been abandoned for more than fifty years. Possession surely will count for something. Besides, the Russians may not even want them back. They have re-created the room with new amber and new technology.'
'I didn't know that.'
'The room in the Catherine Palace has been recrafted. It has taken over two decades. The loss of the Baltic states, when the Soviet Union collapsed, meant they were forced to buy the amber on the open market. That proved expensive. But benefactors donated money. Ironically, a German manufacturing concern made the largest contribution.'
'All the more reason why they'd want the panels back. The originals would be far more precious than copies.'
'I don't think so. The amber would be of different color and quality. It would not work to mix those pieces.'
'So the panels would not be intact, if found?'
He shook his head. 'The amber was originally glued to slabs of solid oak with a mastic of beeswax and tree sap. The Catherine Palace was hardly temperature controlled, so as the wood expanded and contracted for over two hundred years, the amber progressively fell off. When the Nazis stole them, almost thirty percent had already dropped off. It is estimated that another fifteen percent was lost during transport to Konigsberg. So all there would be now is a pile of pieces.'
'Then what good are they?'
