The bed was empty. Nothing but rust and sand.
He darted to the next truck.
Empty.
To the third.
Empty, as well.
'Mother of fuckin' god,' he said. 'Shut those damn cameras off.'
Grumer shined his light inside each bed. 'I was afraid of this.'
He was not in the mood.
'All the signs said this may not be the chamber,' Grumer said.
The smug German seemed to almost enjoy his predicament. 'Then why the hell didn't you tell me back in January?'
'I did not know then. The radar soundings indicated something large and metallic was here. Only in the past few days, as we got close, did I begin to suspect this may be a dry site.'
Paul approached. 'What's the problem?'
'The problem, Mr. Lawyer, is the goddamn beds are empty. Not one son-of-a-bitchin' thing in any of 'em. I just spent a million dollars to retrieve three rusted trucks. How the fuck do I explain that to the people flyin' here tomorrow expectin' to get rich from their investment?'
'They knew the risks when they invested,' Paul said.
'Not a one of the bastards is goin' to admit that.'
Rachel asked, 'Were you honest with them about the risk?'
'About as honest as you can be when you're pannin' for money.' He shook his head in disgust. 'Jesus Christ Almighty damn.'
THIRTY-SEVEN
Stod
12:45 p.m.
Knoll tossed his travel bag on the bed and surveyed the cramped hotel room. The Christinenhof rose five stories, its exterior half timbered, its interior breathing history and hospitality. He'd intentionally chosen a room on the third floor, street side, passing on the more luxurious and expensive garden side. He wasn't interested in ambience, only location, since the Christinenhof sat directly across from the Hotel Garni, where Wayland McKoy and his party occupied the entire fourth floor.
He'd learned from an eager attendant in the town's tourist office of McKoy's excavation. He'd also been told that tomorrow a group of investors was due in town--rooms in the Garni had been blocked off, two other hotels assisting with the overflow. 'Good for business,' the attendant had said. Good for him, too. Nothing better than a crowd for a distraction.
He unzipped the leather bag and removed an electric razor.
Yesterday had been a tough day. Danzer had bested him. Probably gloating right now to Ernst Loring how she lured him into the mine. But why kill him? Never before had their jousts escalated to such finality. What had raised the stakes? What was so important that Danya Chapaev, himself, and Rachel Cutler needed to die? The Amber Room? Perhaps. Certainly more investigation was needed, and he intended doing just that once this side mission was accomplished.
He'd taken his time on the drive north from Fussen to Stod. No real hurry. The Munich newspapers reported yesterday's explosion in the Harz mine, mentioning Rachel Cutler's name and the fact that she survived. There was no reference to him, only that they were still searching for an unidentified white male, but rescue crews were not hopeful of finding anything. Surely Rachel had told the authorities about him, and the police would have learned that he'd checked out of the Goldene Krone with both his and Rachel's things. Yet not a mention. Interesting. A police ploy? Possibly. But he didn't care. He'd committed no crime. Why would the police want him? For all they knew, he was scared to death and decided to get out of town, a near brush with death enough to frighten anyone. Rachel Cutler was alive and surely on the way back to America, her German adventure nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Back to the life of a big-city judge. Her father's quest for the Amber Room would die with him.
He'd showered this morning but hadn't shaved, so his neck and chin now felt like sandpaper and itched. He took a moment and retrieved the pistol at the bottom of his travel bag. He softly massaged the smooth, nonreflective polymer, then palmed the weapon, finger on the trigger. It was no more than thirty-five ounces, a gift from Ernst Loring, one of his new CZ-75Bs.
'I had them expand the clip to fifteen shots,' Loring had said when he presented him with the weapon. 'No ten-round bureaucrat's magazine. So it's identical to our original model. I recalled your comment on not liking the subsequent factory modification down to ten shots. I also had the safety frame-mounted and adjusted so the gun can be carried in the cocked and locked position, as you noted. That change is now on all the models.'
Loring's Czech foundries were the largest small-arms producers in Eastern Europe, their craftsmanship legendary. Only in the past few years had western markets opened fully to his products, high tariffs and import restrictions going the way of the Iron Curtain. Thankfully, Fellner had allowed him to retain the gun, and he appreciated the gesture.
'I also had the barrel tip threaded for a sound suppressor,' Loring had said. 'Suzanne has one identical. I thought you two would enjoy the irony. The playing field leveled, so to speak.'
He screwed the sound suppressor to the end of the short barrel and popped in a fresh clip of bullets.
Yes. He greatly enjoyed the irony.
He tossed the gun on the bed and grabbed his razor. On the way into the bathroom he stopped for a moment at the room's only window. The front entrance of the Garni stood across the street, stone pilasters rose on either side of a heavy brass door, the street side rooms rising six stories. He'd learned the Garni was the most expensive hotel in town. Obviously Wayland McKoy liked the best. He'd also learned, while checking in, that the Garni possessed a large restaurant and meeting room, two amenities the expedition seemed to require. The Christinenhof's staff had been glad that they didn't have to cater to the constant needs of such a large group. He'd smiled at that observation. Capitalism was so different from European socialism. In America, hotels would have fought one another for that kind of business.
He stared through a black wrought-iron grille protecting the window. The afternoon sky loomed gray and dingy, as a thick bank of clouds rolled in from the north. From what he'd been told, the expedition personnel usually arrived back around six o'clock each day. He'd start his field work then, dining in the Garni, learning what he could from the dinner talk.
He glanced down at the street. First one way, then the next. Suddenly, his eyes locked on a woman. She was weaving a path through the crowded pedestrian-only lane. Blond hair. Pretty face. Dressed casually. A leather bag slung over her right shoulder.
Suzanne Danzer.
Undisguised. Out in the open.
Fascinating.
He tossed the razor on the bed, stuffed the gun beneath his jacket and into a shoulder harness, then bolted for the door.
A strange feeling filled Suzanne. She stopped and glanced back. The street was crowded, a midday lunch crowd milling about in full force. Stod was a busy town. Fifty thousand or so inhabitants, she'd learned. The oldest part of town spread in all directions, the blocks full of half-timbered multistory stone and brick buildings. Some were clearly ancient, but most were reproductions built in the 1950s and 1960s, after bombers left their mark in 1945. The builders did a good job, decorating everything with rich moldings, life-size statues, and bas-reliefs, everything had been specifically created to be photographed.
High above her, the Abbey of the Seven Sorrows of the Virgin dominated the sky. The monstrous structure had been erected in the fifteenth century in honor of the Virgin Mary's help in turning the tide of a local battle. The baroque building crowned a rocky bluff overlooking both Stod and the muddy Eder River, a clear personification of
