the Amber Room

Grumer came close. 'Trucks, you say?'

'Looks like Bussing NAGs. Four and half ton. German. '

'That's not good.'

'What do you mean?'

'There would have been no transports available to move the Berlin museum material. It would have been hand carried.'

'The fuck you talkin' about?'

'Like I said, Herr McKoy, the Berlin material was transported by rail then by truck to the mine. The Germans would not have discarded the vehicles. They were far too valuable, needed for other tasks.'

'We don't know what the hell happened, Grumer. Could be the fuckin' krauts decided to leave the trucks, who knows?'

'How did they get inside the mountain?'

McKoy got close in the German's face. 'Like you said earlier, there could be another way in.'

Grumer shrank back. 'As you say, Herr McKoy.'

McKoy rammed a finger forward. 'No. As you say.' The big man turned his attention to the video crew. Lights blazed. Two cameras were shouldered. An audio man arched a boom mic and stood back out of the way. 'I go in first. Film it from my perspective.'

The men nodded.

And McKoy stepped into the blackness.

Paul was the last to enter. He followed two workers who dragged light bars into the chamber, blue-white rays evaporating the darkness.

'This chamber is natural,' Grumer said, his voice echoing.

Paul studied the rock, which rose to an arch at least sixty feet high. The sight reminded him of the ceiling in some grand cathedral, except that the ceiling and walls were draped in helicities and speleothems that sparkled in the bright light. The floor was soft and sandy, like the shaft leading in. He sucked in a breath and did not particularly care for the stale smell in the air. The video lights were aimed at the far wall. Another opening, or at least what was left of one, came into view. It was larger than the shaft they'd used, more than enough room to admit the transports, rock and rubble packed tight in the archway.

'The other way in, huh?' McKoy said.

'Ja.' Grumer said. 'But strange. The whole idea of hiding was to be able to retrieve. Why shut it off like that?'

Paul turned his attention to the three trucks. They were parked at odd angles, all eighteen tires deflated, the rims crushed from the weight. The dark canvas awnings draped over the long beds were still there but moldy, the steel cabs and frames heavily rusted.

McKoy moved deeper into the room, a cameraman following. 'Don't worry about the audio. We'll dub that over later, get video right now.'

Rachel walked ahead.

Paul stepped close behind her. 'Strange, isn't it? Like walking through a grave.'

She nodded. 'Exactly what I was thinking.'

'Look at this,' McKoy said.

The lights revealed two bodies sprawled in the sand, rock and rubble on either side. Nothing was left but bones, tattered clothes, and leather boots.

'They were shot in the head,' McKoy said.

A worker brought a light bar close.

'Try not to touch anything until we have a full photographic record. The Ministry will require that.' Grumer's voice was firm.

'Two more bodies are over here,' one of the other workers said.

McKoy and the camera crew moved in that direction. Grumer and the others followed, as did Rachel. Paul lingered with the two bodies. The clothing had rotted, but even in the dim light the remnants appeared to be some type of uniform. The bones had grayed and blackened, flesh and muscle long since yielding to dust. There definitely was a hole in each skull. Both appeared to have been lying on their backs, their spine and ribs still neatly arranged. A knife bayonet lay to one side, attached to what was left of a stitched belt. A leather pistol holder was empty.

His eyes drifted farther to the right.

Partially covered by the sand, in the shadows, he noticed something black and rectangular. Ignoring what Grumer said, he reached down and grabbed it.

A wallet.

He carefully parted the cracked leather fold. Tattered remnants of what appeared to have once been money lined the bill compartment. He slipped a finger into one of the side flaps. Nothing. Then the other. Bits of a card slid out. The edges were frayed and fragile, most of the ink faded, but some of the writing remained. He strained to read the letters.

AUSGEGEBEN 15-3-51. VERFaLLT 15-3-55. GUSTAV MuLLER.

There were more words, but only scattered letters had survived, nothing legible. He cradled the wallet in his palm and started back toward the main group. He rounded the rear of a transport and suddenly spotted Grumer off to one side. He was about to approach and ask about the wallet when he saw that Grumer was bent over another skeleton. Rachel, McKoy, and the others were gathered ten meters off to the left, their backs to them, cameras still whining, McKoy talking to the lens. Workers had erected a telescopic stand and hoisted a halogen light bar at the center, generating more than enough light to see Grumer searching the sand around the bones.

Paul retreated into the shadows behind one of the trucks and continued to watch. Grumer's flashlight traced the bones embedded in the sand. He wondered what carnage had raged through here. Grumer's light finished its survey at the end of an outstretched arm, the remains of finger bones clear. He focused hard. There were letters etched in the sand. Some gone from time, but three remained, spread across with irregular spaces in between.

O I C.

Grumer stood and snapped three pictures, his flash strobing the scene.

Then the German bent down and lightly brushed all three letters from the sand.

McKoy was impressed. The video should be spectacular. Three rusted World War II German transports found relatively intact deep inside an abandoned silver mine. Five bodies, all with holes in their heads. What a show it would make. His percentage of the residuals would be impressive.

'Got enough exterior shots?' he asked one of the cameramen.

'More than.'

'Then let's see what the fuck's in these things.' He grabbed a flashlight and moved toward the nearest transport. 'Grumer, where are you?'

The Doktor stepped up from behind.

'Ready?' McKoy asked.

Grumer nodded.

So was he.

The sight inside each bed should be of wooden crates hastily assembled and haphazardly packed, many using centuries-old draperies, costumes, and carpets as padding. He'd heard stories of how curators in the Hermitage used Nicholas II and Alexandra's royal garb to pack painting after painting shipped east, away from the Nazis. Priceless articles of clothing indiscriminately stuffed in cheap wooden crates. Anything to protect the canvases and fragile ceramics. He hoped the Germans had been equally frivolous. If this was the right chamber, the one that contained the Berlin museum inventory, the find should be the cream of the collection. Perhaps Vermeer's Street of Delft, or da Vinci's Christ's Head, or Monet's The Park. Each one would bring millions on the open market. Even if the German government insisted on retaining ownership--which was likely--the finder's fee would be millions of dollars.

He carefully parted the stiff canvas and shined the light inside.