The Amber Room Part 11

A lot like Borya himself.

Borya had loved the Olympics. They'd gone to several events, and were there when Belarus won the gold in women's rowing. Fourteen other medals came to the nation--six silver and eight bronze, in discus, heptathlon, gymnastics, and wrestling--Borya proud of every one. Though American by osmosis, his former father-in-law was without a doubt a White Russian at heart.

He retreated downstairs and carefully searched the drawers and cabinets, but found no will. The map of Germany was still unfolded on the coffee table. The USA Today USA Today he'd given Borya was there, too. he'd given Borya was there, too.

He wandered into the kitchen and searched on the off chance that important papers were stashed there. He once handled a case where a woman stored her will in the freezer, so on a lark, he yanked open the refrigerator's double doors. The sight of a file angled beside the ice maker surprised him.

He removed and opened the cold manila folder.

More articles on the Amber Room, dating back to the 1940s and 1950s, but some as recent as two years ago. He wondered what they were doing in the freezer. Deciding that finding the will was, at the moment, more important, he decided to keep the folder and head for the bank.

The street sign for the Georgia Citizens Bank on Carr Boulevard read 3:23 P P.M. when Paul rolled into the busy parking lot. He'd banked at Georgia Citizens for years, ever since working for them prior to law school.

The manager, a mousy man with fading hair, initially refused access to Borya's safe deposit box. After a quick phone call to the office, Paul's secretary faxed a letter of representation, which he signed, attesting he was attorney for the estate of Karol Borya, deceased. The letter seemed to satisfy the manager. At least there was something now in the file to show an heir who complained that the safe deposit box was empty.

Georgia law contained a specific provision that allowed estate representatives access to safe deposit boxes to search for wills. He'd utilized the law many times and most bank managers were familiar with the provisions. Occasionally, though, a difficult one came along.

The man led him into the vault and the array of stainless steel boxes. Possession of the key for number 45 seemed to further confirm his authenticity. He knew the law required the manager to stay, view the contents, and inventory exactly what was removed and by whom. He unlocked the box and slid the narrow rectangle out, metal screeching against metal.

Inside was a single bunch of paper, rubber-banded together. One doc.u.ment was blue-backed, and he immediately recognized the will he'd drawn years ago. About a dozen white envelopes were bound to it. He shuffled through them. All came from a Danya Chapaev and were addressed to Borya. Neatly trifolded in the stack were copies of letters from Borya to Chapaev. All the script was in English. The last doc.u.ment was a plain white envelope, sealed, with Rachel's name scrawled on the front in blue ink.

"The letters and this envelope are attached to the will. Mr. Borya obviously intended them a unit. There's nothing else in the box. I'll take it all."

"We've been instructed in situations like this to release only the will."

"It was bound together. These envelopes may relate to the will. The law states that I can have them."

The manager hesitated. "I'll have to call downtown to our general counsel's office for an okay."

"What's the problem? There's n.o.body to complain about anything. I wrote this will. I know what it says. Mr. Borya's only heir was his daughter. I'm here on her behalf."

"I still need to check with our lawyer."

He'd had enough. "You do that. Tell Cathy Holden that Paul Cutler is in your bank being jacked around by somebody who obviously doesn't know the law. Tell her if I have to go to court and get an order allowing me to have what I should have anyway, the bank's going to compensate me the two hundred and twenty dollars an hour I'm going to charge for the trouble."

The manager seemed to consider the words. "You know our general counsel?"

"I used to work for her."

The manager pondered his predicament quietly, then finally said, "Take 'em. But sign here."

EIGHTEEN.

Danya, How my heart aches every day for what happened to Yancy Cutler. What a fine man, his wife such a good woman. All the rest of the people on that plane were good people, too. Good people shouldn't die so violent or so sudden. My son-in-law grieves deeply and it pains me to think I may be responsible. Yancy telephoned the night before the crash. He was able to locate the old man you mentioned whose brother worked at Loring's estate. You were right. I should never have asked Yancy to inquire again while in Italy. It wasn't right to involve others. The burden rests with you and me. But why have we survived? Do they not know where we are? What we know? Maybe we're no longer a threat? Only those who ask questions and get too close draw their attention. Indifference is perhaps far better than curiosity. So many years have pa.s.sed, the Amber Room seems more a memory than a wonder of the world. Does anybody really care anymore? Stay safe and well, Danya. Keep in touch.

Karol Danya, The KGB came today. A fat Chechen who smelled like a sewer. He said he found my name in the Commission records. I thought the trail was too old and too cold to follow. But I was wrong. Be careful. He asked whether you are still alive. I told him the usual. I think we are the only two of the old ones left. All those friends gone. So sad. Maybe you're right. No more letters, just in case. Particularly now, since they know where I am. My daughter is about to have a child. My second grandchild. A girl this time, they tell me. Modern science. I liked the old ways when you wondered. But a little girl would be nice. My grandson is such a joy. I hope your grandchildren are well. Be safe, old friend.

Karol Dear Karol, The clipping enclosed is from the Bonn newspaper. Yeltsin arrived in Germany proclaiming he knew where the Amber Room was located. The newspapers and magazines buzzed with the announcement. Did it reach across the ocean to you? He claimed scholars uncovered the information from Soviet records. The Extraordinary Commission for Crimes against Russia, Yeltsin called us. Ha! All the fool did was extract a half billion marks in aid from Bonn, then apologized, saying the records weren't for the Amber Room but other treasures pilfered from Leningrad. More Russian bulls.h.i.+t. The Russians, Soviets, n.a.z.is. All the same. The current talk about restoring Russian heritage is more propaganda. What they do is sell our heritage. The papers every day are full of stories about paintings, sculptures, and jewels being sold. A rummage sale of our history. We must keep the panels safe. No more letters, at least for awhile. The photo of your granddaughter is appreciated. The joy she must bring you. Good health, my friend.

Danya Danya, I hope this letter finds you well. It's been too long since we last wrote. I thought perhaps after three years, it may be safe. There have been no more visits, and I have read few reports on anything concerning the panels. Since we last communicated, my daughter and her husband divorced. They love each other, yet simply cannot live together. My grandchildren are well. I hope yours are, too. We are both old. It would be nice to venture and see if the panels are really there. But neither of us can make the journey. Besides, it might still be too dangerous. Somebody was watching when Yancy Cutler asked questions about Loring. I know in my heart that bomb was not meant for an Italian minister. I still grieve for the Cutlers. So many have died looking for the Amber Room. Perhaps it should stay lost. No matter. Neither of us can protect it much longer. Good health, old friend.

Karol Rachel, My precious darling. My only child. Your father now rests in peace with your mother. We are surely together, for a merciful G.o.d would not deny two people who loved each other the opportunity of eternal happiness. I have penned this note to say what perhaps should have been said in life. You have always been aware of my past, what I did for the Soviets before emigrating. I pilfered art. Nothing more than a thief, but one sanctioned and encouraged by Stalin. I rationalized it at the time with my hatred for the n.a.z.is, but I was wrong. We stole so much from so many, all in the name of reparations. What we sought most was the Amber Room. Ours by heritage, stolen by invaders. The letters bound to this note tell some of the story of our search. My old friend Danya and I looked hard. 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. Maybe the danger comes from what Danya and I suspect. Maybe not. I haven't heard from my old comrade in many years. My last letter to him went unanswered. Perhaps he is with me now, too. My precious Maya. My friend Danya. Good companions for eternity. Hopefully it will be many years before you join us, my darling. Have a good life. Be successful. Take care of Marla and Brent. I love them so. I'm very proud of you. Be good. Maybe give Paul another chance. 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. Maybe the panels will be found one day. I hope not. Politicians should not be entrusted with such a treasure. Leave it in its grave. Tell Paul I'm so sorry. I love you.

NINETEEN.

6:34 p.m.

Paul's heart pounded as Rachel looked up from her father's final note, tears falling from her sad green eyes. He could feel the pain. Hard to tell where his stopped and hers started.

"He wrote so elegantly," she said.

He agreed.

"He learned English well, read incessantly. He knew more about participial phrases and dangling modifiers than I ever did. I think his broken speech was just a way to hold on to his heritage. Poor Daddy."

Her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore no makeup, was dressed only in a white terry-cloth robe over a flannel nightgown. The house was finally clear of all the mourners. The children were in their rooms, still upset from the emotional day. Lucy was scampering through the dining room.

"Have you read all these letters?" Rachel asked.

He nodded. "After I left the bank. I went back to your father's house and got the rest of this stuff."

They were sitting in Rachel's dining room. Their old dining room. The two folders with news articles on the Amber Room, a German map, the USA Today USA Today, the will, all the letters, and the note to Rachel were fanned out on the table. He'd told her what he found and where. He also told her about the USA USA article her father specifically asked for Friday and his questions on Wayland McKoy. article her father specifically asked for Friday and his questions on Wayland McKoy.

"Daddy was watching something on CNN about that when I left the kids with him. I remember the name." Her body sagged in the chair. "What was that file doing in the freezer? That's not like him. What's going on, Paul?"

"I don't know. But Karol was obviously interested in the Amber Room." He pointed to Borya's last note. "What did he mean about Phaethon and the tears of the Heliades?"

"Another story Mama used to tell me when I was little. Phaethon, the mortal son of Helios, G.o.d of the Sun. I was fascinated by it. Daddy loved mythology. He said thinking about fantasy was one of the things that got him through Mauthausen." She shuffled through the clippings and photocopies, glancing closely at a few. "He thought he was responsible for what happened to your parents and the rest of the people on that plane. I don't understand."

Neither did he. And he'd thought of little else during the past two hours. "Weren't your parents in Italy on museum business?" asked Rachel.

"The whole board went. The trip was to secure loans of works from Italian museums."

"Daddy seemed to think there was a connection."

He also recalled something else Borya wrote. I should never have asked him to inquire again while in Italy. I should never have asked him to inquire again while in Italy.

What did he mean, again again?

"Don't you want to know what happened?" Rachel suddenly asked, her voice rising.

He'd not liked that tone years ago and didn't appreciate it now. "I never said that. It's just that nine years have pa.s.sed, and it would be nearly impossible to find out. My G.o.d, Rachel, they never even found bodies."

"Paul, your parents may have been murdered, and you don't want to do anything about it?"

Impetuous and stubborn. What had Karol said? Got both traits from her mother. Got both traits from her mother. Right. Right.

"I didn't say that either. There's just nothing practical that can be done."

"We can find Danya Chapaev."

"What do you mean?"

"Chapaev. He may still be alive." She looked down at the envelopes, the return addresses. "Kehlheim couldn't be that hard to find."

"It's in southern Germany. Bavaria. I found it on the map."

"You looked?"

"Not hard to spot. Karol circled it."

She unfolded the map and saw for herself. "Daddy said they knew something on the Amber Room but never went to check. Maybe Chapaev could tell us what that was?"

He couldn't believe what she was saying. "Did you read what your father said? He told you to leave the Amber Room alone. Finding Chapaev is the one thing he didn't didn't want you doing." want you doing."

"Chapaev might know more about what happened to your parents."

"I'm a lawyer, Rachel, not an international investigator."

"Okay. Let's take this to the police. They could look into it."

"That's far more practical than your first suggestion. But the trail's still years old."

Her face hardened. "I hope to h.e.l.l Marla and Brent don't inherit your complacency. I'd like to think they'd want to know what happened if a plane blew out of the sky with you and me on it."

She knew exactly how to push his b.u.t.tons. It was one of the things he most resented about her. "Did you read those articles?" he asked. "People have died searching for the Amber Room. Maybe my parents. Maybe not. One thing's for certain. Your father didn't want you involved. And you're way out of your league. What you know about art could fit inside a thimble."

"Along with your nerve."

He stared hard into her angry eyes, bit his tongue, and tried to be understanding. She'd buried her father this morning. Still, one word kept reverberating through his brain.

b.i.t.c.h.

He took a deep breath before quietly saying, "Your second suggestion is the most practical. Why don't we let the police handle this." He paused. "I realize how upset you are. But, Rachel, Karol's death was an accident."

"Trouble is, Paul, if it wasn't, then add my father to the list of casualties along with your parents." She cut him one of her looks. The kind he'd seen too many times before. "Still want to be practical?"

TWENTY.

Wednesday, May 14, 10:25 a.m.

Rachel forced herself to climb out of bed and get the children dressed. She then dropped the kids off at school and reluctantly headed for the courthouse. She'd not been in her chambers since last Friday, having taken Monday and Tuesday off.

Throughout the morning her secretary made things easy, running interference, rerouting calls, deflecting lawyers and the other judges. Originally the week had been scheduled for civil jury trials, but they were all hastily postponed. An hour ago she'd called the Atlanta police department and requested somebody from Homicide be sent to her chambers. She wasn't the most popular judge with the police. Everyone seemed to a.s.sume that since she was once a hard-nosed prosecutor, she'd be a pro-police judge. But her rulings, if they could be labeled, tended to be defense-oriented. Liberal Liberal was the term the Fraternal Order of Police and the press liked to use. was the term the Fraternal Order of Police and the press liked to use. Traitor, Traitor, was the description she'd been told a lot of the narcotics detectives whispered. But she didn't care. The Const.i.tution was there to protect people. The police were supposed to work within its bounds, not outside them. Her job was to make sure they didn't take any shortcuts. How many times had her father preached, was the description she'd been told a lot of the narcotics detectives whispered. But she didn't care. The Const.i.tution was there to protect people. The police were supposed to work within its bounds, not outside them. Her job was to make sure they didn't take any shortcuts. How many times had her father preached, when government comes before law, tyranny is not far behind when government comes before law, tyranny is not far behind.

And if anyone should know, he should.

"Judge Cutler," her secretary said through the speaker phone. Most times they were simply Rachel and Sami; only when someone came around was she labeled judge judge. "A Lieutenant Barlow is here from the Atlanta police. In response to your call."

She quickly dabbed her eyes with a tissue. The picture of her father on the credenza had triggered more tears. She stood and smoothed her cotton skirt and blouse.

The paneled door opened and a thin man with wavy black hair strutted in. He closed the door behind him and introduced himself as Mike Barlow, a.s.signed to the homicide division.

She regained her judicial composure and offered a seat. "I appreciate your coming over, Lieutenant."

"No problem. The department always tries to accommodate the bench."

But she wondered. The tone was irritatingly cordial, bordering on condescending.

"After you called, I pulled the incident report on your father's death. I'm sorry about your loss. It appears to be one of those accidents that sometimes happen."

"My father was fairly independent. Still drove a car. He had no real health problems, and he'd climbed those stairs for years without a problem."

"Your point?"

She was liking his tone even less. "You tell me."

"Judge, I get the message. But there's nothing here to suggest foul play."

"He survived a n.a.z.i concentration camp, Lieutenant. I think he could climb stairs."

Barlow seemed unpersuaded. "The report says nothing appears missing. His wallet was on the dresser. The televisions, stereo, VCR were all there. Both doors were unlocked. No evidence of forced entry anywhere. Where's the burglary?"

"My father left the doors unlocked all the time."

"That's not smart, but it doesn't appear to have contributed to his death. Look, I agree, no evidence of robbery could lead to an implication of murder, but there's nothing to suggest anyone was even around when he died."

She was curious. "Did your people search the house?"

"I've been told they looked around. Nothing elaborate. There seemed no need. I'm curious, what do you think was the motive for murder? Your father have enemies?"