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From Publishers Weekly

First-time novelist Berry weighs in with a hefty thriller that’s long on interesting research but short on thrills. Atlanta judge Rachel Cutler and ex-husband Paul are divorced but still care for each other. Rachel’s father, Karol Borya, knows secrets about the famed Amber Room, a massive set of intricately carved panels crafted from the precious substance and looted by Nazis during WWII from Russia’s Catherine Palace. The disappearance of the panels, which together formed a room, remains one of the world’s greatest unsolved art mysteries. Borya’s secret gets him killed as two European industrialists/art collectors go head to head in a deadly race to find the fabled room. Searching for Borya’s killer, Rachel and Paul bumble their way to Europe, where their naivet‚ triggers more deaths. Berry has obviously done his homework, and he seems determined to find a place for every fact he’s unearthed. The plot slows for descriptions of various art pieces, lectures and long internal monologues in which characters examine their innermost feelings and motives in minute detail, while also packing in plenty of sex and an abundance of brutal killings. A final confrontation between all the principals ends in a looming Bavarian castle where Rachel is raped. All the right elements are in place, but the book is far too long and not as exciting as the ingredients suggest. Readers may end up wishing Berry had written a nonfiction account of the fascinating story of the Amber Room and skipped the fictional mayhem.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From

Give this man credit: whereas most lawyers who decide to write a novel stay fairly close to home, Berry, a Georgia trial attorney, wanders far off the beaten path. Although his debut novel features a trial judge as its central character and opens with a pretty typical courtroom scene, it soon steps outside the courtroom–way outside. When Judge Rachel Cutler’s father dies under suspicious circumstances, he leaves his daughter tantalizing clues to a decades-old secret: the Amber Room, an exquisite treasure that, so the legend goes, was appropriated by the Nazis when they invaded the Soviet Union. Now, to find out why her father died, and who’s responsible, Rachel (with her ex-husband, Paul) heads off to Germany, where she hopes to find the truth about the Amber Room. Based loosely, very loosely, on certain historical events, the novel is plotted cleverly and written with style and substance. A welcome change from the usual legal-thriller fare from wanna-be Turows. David Pitt
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Author
Steve Berry

Rights

Language
en

Published
2007-11-27

ISBN
9780345504388

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THE
AMBER
ROOM

STEVE BERRY

BALLANTINE BOOKS * NEW YORK

For my father,
who unknowingly kindled the fire decades ago,
and my mother,
who taught me the discipline to sustain the blaze

For whatever cause a country is ravaged, we ought to spare those edifices which do honor to human society, and do not contribute to increase an enemy's strength--such as temples, tombs, public buildings, and all works of remarkable beauty. . . . It is declaring one's self to be an enemy of mankind, thus wantonly to deprive them of these wonders of art.

--Emmerich de Vattel, The Law of Nations, 1758

I have studied in detail the state of the historic monuments in Peterhof, Tsarskoe Selo, and Pavlovsk, and in all three towns I have witnessed monstrous outrages against the integrity of these monuments. Moreover, the damage caused--a full inventory of which would be extremely difficult to give because it is so extensive--bears the marks of premeditation.

--Testimony of Iosif Orbeli, director of the Hermitage,
before the Nurnberg tribunal, February 22, 1946

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

i was once told that writing is a lonely endeavor and the observation is correct. But a manuscript is never completed in a vacuum, especially one that is fortunate enough to be published, and in my case there are many who helped along the way.

First, Pam Ahearn, an extraordinary agent who rode out every storm into calm waters. Next, Mark Tavani, a remarkable editor who gave me a chance. Then there are Fran Downing, Nancy Pridgen, and Daiva Woodworth, three lovely women who made every Wednesday night special. I am honored to be "one of the girls." The novelists David Poyer and Lenore Hart not only provided practical lessons, but they led me to Frank Green, who took the time to teach me what I should know. Also, Arnold and Janelle James, my in-laws, who never voiced a discouraging word. Finally, there are all those who listened to me ramble, read my attempts, and offered their opinions. I'm afraid to list names in fear of forgetting someone. Please know that each of you is important and your thoughtful consideration, without question, moved the journey along.

Above all, though, are two special people who mean the most. My wife, Amy, and daughter, Elizabeth, who together make all things possible, including this.

PROLOGUE

Mauthausen Concentration Camp, Austria
April 10, 1945

The prisoners called him Ears because he was the only Russian in Hut 8 who understood German. Nobody ever used his given name, Karol Borya. `Yxo--Ears--had been his label from the first day he entered the camp over a year ago. It was a tag he regarded with pride, a responsibility he took to heart.

"What do you hear?" one of the prisoners whispered to him through the dark.

He was cuddled close to the window, pressed against the frigid pane, his exhales faint as gossamer in the dry sullen air.

"Do they want more amusement?" another prisoner asked.

Two nights ago the guards came for a Russian in Hut 8. He was an infantryman from Rostov near the Black Sea, relatively new to the camp. His screams were heard all night, ending only after a burst of staccato gunfire, his bloodied body hung by the main gate the next morning for all to see.

He glanced quickly away from the pane. "Quiet. The wind makes it difficult to hear."

The lice-ridden bunks were three-tiered, each prisoner allocated less than one square meter of space. A hundred pairs of sunken eyes stared back at him.

All the men respected his command. None stirred, their fear long ago absorbed into the horror of Mauthausen. He suddenly turned from the window. "They're coming."

An instant later the hut's door was flung open. The frozen night poured in behind Sergeant Humer, the attendant for Prisoners' Hut 8.

"Achtung!"

Claus Humer was Schutzstaffel, SS. Two more armed SS stood behind him. All the guards in Mauthausen were SS. Humer carried no weapon. Never did. A six-foot frame and beefy limbs were all the protection he needed.

"Volunteers are required," Humer said. "You, you, you, and you."

Borya was the last selected. He wondered what was happening. Few prisoners died at night. The death chamber remained idle, the time used to flush the gas and wash the tiles for the next day's slaughter. The guards tended to stay in their barracks, huddled around iron stoves kept warm by firewood prisoners died cutting. Likewise, the doctors and their attendants slept, readying themselves for another day of experiments in which inmates were used indiscriminately as lab animals.

Humer looked straight at Borya. "You understand me, don't you?"

He said nothing, staring back into the guard's black eyes. A year of terror had taught him the value of silence.

"Nothing to say?" Humer asked in German. "Good. You need to understand . . . with your mouth shut."

Another guard brushed past with four wool overcoats draped across his outstretched arms.

"Coats?" muttered one of the Russians.

No prisoner wore a coat. A filthy burlap shirt and tattered pants, more rags than clothing, were issued on arrival. At death they were stripped off to be reissued, stinking and unwashed, to the next arrival. The guard tossed the coats on the floor.

Humer pointed. "Mantel anziehen."

Borya reached down for one of the green bundles. "The sergeant says to put them on," he explained in Russian.

The other three followed his lead.

The wool chafed his skin but felt good. It had been a long time since he was last even remotely warm.

"Outside," Humer said.

The three Russians looked at Borya and he motioned toward the door. They all walked into the night.

Humer led the file across the ice and snow toward the main grounds, a frigid wind howling between rows of low wooden huts. Eighty thousand people were crammed into the surrounding buildings, more than lived in Borya's entire home province in Belarus. He'd come to think that he would never see that place again. Time had almost become irrelevant, but for his sanity he tried to maintain some sense. It was late March. No. Early April. And still freezing. Why couldn't he just die or be killed? Hundreds met that fate every day. Was his destiny to survive this hell?

But for what?

At the main grounds Humer turned left and marched into an open expanse. More prisoners' huts stood on one side. The camp's kitchen, jail, and infirmary lined the other. At the far end was the roller, a ton of steel dragged across the frozen earth each day. He hoped their task did not involve that unpleasant chore.

Humer stopped before four tall stakes.

Two days ago a detail was taken into the surrounding forest, Borya one of ten prisoners chosen then, as well. They'd felled three aspens, one prisoner breaking an arm in the effort and shot on the spot. The branches were sheared and the logs quartered, then dragged back to camp and planted to the height of a man in the main grounds. But the stakes had remained bare the past couple of days. Now two armed guards watched them. Arc lights burned overhead and fogged the bitterly dry air.

"Wait here," Humer said.

The sergeant pounded up a short set of stairs and entered the jail. Light spilled out in a yellow rectangle from the open door. A moment later four naked men were led outside. Their blond heads were not shaved like the rest of the Russians, Poles, and Jews who constituted the vast majority of the camp's prisoners. No weak muscles or slow movements, either. No apathetic looks, or eyes sunk deep in their sockets, or edema swelling emaciated frames. These men were stocky. Soldiers. Germans. He'd seen their look before. Granite faces, no emotion. Stone cold, like the night.

The four walked straight and defiant, arms at their sides, none evidencing the unbearable cold their milky skin must have been experiencing. Humer followed them out of the jail and motioned to the stakes. "Over there."

The four naked Germans marched where directed.

Humer approached and tossed four coils of rope in the snow. "Tie them to the stakes."

Borya's three companions looked at him. He bent down and retrieved all four coils, handing them to the other three and telling them what to do. They each approached a naked German, the men standing at attention before the rough aspen logs. What violation had provoked such madness? He draped the rough hemp around his man's chest and strapped the body to the wood.

"Tight," Humer yelled.

He knotted a loop and pulled the coarse fiber hard across the German's bare chest. The man never winced. Humer looked away at the other three. He took the opportunity to whisper in German, "What did you do?"

No reply.

He pulled the rope tight. "They don't even do this to us."

"It is an honor to defy your captor," the German whispered.

Yes, he thought. It was.

Humer turned back. Borya knotted the last loop. "Over there," Humer said.

He and the other three Russians trudged across fresh snow, out of the way. To keep the cold at bay he stuffed his hands into his armpits and shifted from foot to foot. The coat felt wonderful. It was the first warmth he'd known since being brought to the camp. It was then that his identity had been completely stripped away, replaced by a number--10901--tattooed onto his right forearm. A triangle was stitched to the left breast of his tattered shirt. An R in his signified that he was Russian. Color was important, too. Red for political prisoners. Green for criminals. Yellow Star of David for Jews. Black and brown for prisoners of war.

Humer seemed to be waiting for something.

Borya glanced to his left.

More arc lights illuminated the parade ground all the way to the main gate. The road outside, leading to the quarry, faded into darkness. The command headquarters building just beyond the fence stood unlit. He watched as the main gate swung open and a solitary figure entered the camp. The man wore a greatcoat to his knees. Light trousers extended out the bottom to tan jackboots. A light-colored officer's hat covered his head. Outsize thighs hitched bowlegged in a determined gait, the man's portly belly leading the way. The lights revealed a sharp nose and clear eyes, the features not unpleasant.

And instantly recognizable.

Last commander of the Richthofen Squadron, Commander of the German Air Force, Speaker of the German Parliament, Prime Minister of Prussia, President of the Prussian State Council, Reichmaster of Forestry and Game, Chairman of the Reich Defense Council, Reichsmarschall of the Greater German Reich. The Fuhrer's chosen successor.

Hermann Goring.

Borya had seen Goring once before. In 1939. Rome. Goring appeared then wearing a flashy gray suit, his fleshy neck wrapped in a scarlet cravat. Rubies had adorned his bulbous fingers, and a Nazi eagle studded with diamonds was pinned to the left lapel. He'd delivered a restrained speech urging Germany's place in the sun, asking, Would you rather have guns or butter? Should you import lard or metal ore? Preparedness makes us powerful. Butter merely makes us fat. Goring had finished that oratory in a flurry, promising Germany and Italy would march shoulder to shoulder in the coming struggle. He remembered listening intently and not being impressed.

"Gentlemen, I trust you are comfortable," Goring said in a calm voice to the four bound prisoners.

No one replied.

"What did he say, `Yxo," whispered one of the Russians.

"He's ridiculing them."

"Shut up," Humer muttered. "Give your attention or you'll join them."

Goring positioned himself directly before the four naked men. "I ask each of you again. Anything to say?"

Only the wind replied.

Goring inched close to one of the shivering Germans. The one Borya had bound to the stake.

"Mathias, surely you don't want to die this way? You're a soldier, a loyal servant of the Fuhrer."

"The--Fuhrer--has nothing to do--with this," the German stammered, his body shivering in violet quakes.

"But everything we do is for his greater glory."

"Which is why I--choose to die."

Goring shrugged. A casual gesture, as someone would do if deciding whether to have another pastry. He motioned to Humer. The sergeant signaled two guards, who toted a large barrel toward the bound men. Another guard approached with four ladles and tossed them into the snow. Humer glared at the Russians. "Fill them with water, and go stand by one of those men."

He told the other three what to do and four ladles were picked up, then submerged.

"Spill nothing," Humer warned.

Borya was careful, but the wind buffeted a few drops out. No one noticed. He returned to the German he'd bound to the stake. The one called Mathias. Goring stood in the center, pulling off black leather gloves.

"See, Mathias," Goring said, "I'm removing my gloves so I can feel the cold, as your skin does."

Borya stood close enough to see the heavy silver ring wrapping the third finger of the man's right hand, a clutched mailed fist embossed on it. Goring stuffed his right hand into a trouser pocket and removed a stone. It was golden, like honey. Borya recognized it. Amber. Goring fingered the clump and said, "Water will be showered over you every five minutes until somebody tells me what I want to know, or you die. Either is acceptable to me. But, remember, whoever talks lives. Then one of these miserable Russians will take your place. You can then have your coat back and pour water on him until he dies. Imagine what fun that would be. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know. Now, anything to say?"

Silence.

Goring nodded to Humer.

"Giesse es," Humer said. Pour it.

Borya did, and the other three followed his lead. Water soaked into Mathias's blond mane, then trickled down his face and chest. Shivers accompanied the stream. The German uttered not a sound, other than the chatter of his teeth.

"Anything to say?" Goring asked again.

Nothing.

Five minutes later the process was repeated. Twenty minutes later, after four more dousings, hypothermia started setting in. Goring stood impassive and methodically massaged the amber. Just before another five minutes expired he approached Mathias.

"This is ridiculous. Tell me where das Bernstein-zimmer is hidden and stop your suffering. This is not worth dying for."

The shivering German only stared back, his defiance admirable. Borya almost hated being Goring's accomplice in killing him.

"Sie sind ein lugnerisch diebisch-schwein," Mathias managed in one breath. You are a lying, thieving pig. Then the German spat.

Goring reeled back, spittle splotching the front of his greatcoat. He released the buttons and shook the stain away, then culled back the flaps, revealing a pearl gray uniform heavy with decorations. "I am your Reichsmarschall. Second only to the Fuhrer. No one wears this uniform but me. How dare you think you can soil it so easily. You will tell me what I want to know, Mathias, or you will freeze to death. Slowly. Very slowly. It will not be pleasant."

The German spat again. This time on the uniform. Goring stayed surprisingly calm.

"Admirable, Mathias. Your loyalty is noted. But how much longer can you hold out? Look at you. Wouldn't you like to be warm? Pressing your body close to a big fire, your skin wrapped in a cozy wool blanket." Goring suddenly reached over and yanked Borya close to the bound German. Water splattered from the ladle onto the snow. "This coat would feel wonderful, would it not, Mathias? Are you going to allow this miserable cossack to be warm while you freeze?"

The German said nothing. Only shivered.

Goring shoved Borya away. "How about a little taste of warmth, Mathias?"

The Reichsmarschall unzipped his trousers. Hot urine arched out, steaming on impact, leaving yellow streaks on bare skin that raced down to the snow. Goring shook his organ dry, then zipped his trousers. "Feel better, Mathias?"

"Verrottet in der schweinsholle."

Borya agreed. Rot in hell pig.

Goring rushed forward and backhanded the soldier hard across the face, his silver ring ripping open the cheek. Blood oozed out.

"Pour!" Goring screamed.

Borya returned to the barrel and refilled his ladle.

The German named Mathias started shouting. "Mein Fuhrer. Mein Fuhrer. Mein Fuhrer." His voice grew louder. The other three bound men joined in.

Water rained down.

Goring stood and watched, now furiously fingering the amber. Two hours later, Mathias died caked in ice. Within another hour the remaining three Germans succumbed. No one mentioned anything about das Bernstein-zimmer.

The Amber Room.

PART ONE

ONE

Atlanta, Georgia
Tuesday, May 6, the present, 10:35 a.m.

Judge Rachel Cutler glanced over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. The lawyer had said it again, and this time she wasn't going to let the comment drop. "Excuse me, counselor."

"I said the defendant moves for a mistrial."

"No. Before that. What did you say?"

"I said, 'Yes, sir.' "

"If you haven't noticed, I'm not a sir."

"Quite correct, Your Honor. I apologize."

"You've done that four times this morning. I made a note each time."

The lawyer shrugged. "It seems such a trivial matter. Why would Your Honor take the time to note my simple slip of the tongue?"

The impertinent bastard even smiled. She sat erect in her chair and glared down at him. But she immediately realized what T. Marcus Nettles was doing. So she said nothing.

"My client is on trial for aggravated assault, Judge. Yet the court seems more concerned with how I address you than with the issue of police misconduct."

She glanced over at the jury, then at the other counsel table. The Fulton County assistant district attorney sat impassive, apparently pleased that her opponent was digging his own grave. Obviously, the young lawyer didn't grasp what Nettles was attempting. But she did. "You're absolutely right, counselor. It is a trivial matter. Proceed."

She sat back in her chair and noticed the momentary look of annoyance on Nettles's face. An expression that a hunter might give when his shot missed the mark.

"What of my motion for mistrial?" Nettles asked.

"Denied. Move on. Continue with your summation."

Rachel watched the jury foreman as he stood and pronounced a guilty verdict. Deliberations had taken only twenty minutes.

"Your Honor," Nettles said, coming to his feet. "I move for a presentence investigation prior to sentencing."

"Denied."

"I move that sentencing be delayed."

"Denied."

Nettles seemed to sense the mistake he'd made earlier. "I move for the court to recuse itself."

"On what grounds?"

"Bias."

"To whom or what?"

"To myself and my client."

"Explain."

"The court has shown prejudice."

"How?"

"With that display this morning about my inadvertent use of sir."

"As I recall, counselor, I admitted it was a trivial matter."

"Yes, you did. But our conversation occurred with the jury present, and the damage was done."

"I don't recall an objection or a motion for mistrial concerning the conversation."

Nettles said nothing. She looked over at the assistant DA. "What's the State's position?"

"The State opposes the motion. The court has been fair."

She almost smiled. At least the young lawyer knew the right answer.

"Motion to recuse denied." She stared at the defendant, a young white male with scraggly hair and a pockmarked face. "The defendant shall rise." He did. "Barry King, you've been found guilty of the crime of aggravated assault. This court hereby remands you to the Department of Corrections for a period of twenty years. The bailiff will take the defendant into custody."

She rose and stepped toward an oak-paneled door that led to her chambers. "Mr. Nettles, could I see you a moment?" The assistant DA headed toward her, too. "Alone."

Nettles left his client, who was being cuffed, and followed her into the office.

"Close the door, please." She unzipped her robe but did not remove it. She stepped behind her desk. "Nice try, counselor."

"Which one?"

"Earlier, when you thought that jab about sir and ma'am would set me off. You were getting your butt chapped with that half-cocked defense, so you thought me losing my temper would get you a mistrial."

He shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"What you have to do is show respect for the court and not call a female judge sir. Yet you kept on. Deliberately."

"You just sentenced my guy to twenty years without the benefit of a presentence hearing. If that isn't prejudice, what is?"

She sat down and did not offer the lawyer a seat. "I didn't need a hearing. I sentenced King to aggravated battery two years ago. Six months in, six months' probation. I remember. This time he took a baseball bat and fractured a man's skull. He's used up what little patience I have."

"You should have recused yourself. All that information clouded your judgment."

"Really? That presentence investigation you're screaming for would have revealed all that, anyway. I simply saved you the trouble of waiting for the inevitable."

"You're a fucking bitch."

"That's going to cost you a hundred dollars. Payable now. Along with another hundred for the stunt in the courtroom."

"I'm entitled to a hearing before you find me in contempt."

"True. But you don't want that. It'll do nothing for that chauvinistic image you go out of your way to portray."

He said nothing, and she could feel the fire building. Nettles was a heavyset, jowled man with a reputation for tenacity, surely unaccustomed to taking orders from a woman.

"And every time you show off that big ass of yours in my court, it's going to cost you a hundred dollars."

He stepped toward the desk and withdrew a wad of money, peeling off two one-hundred-dollar bills, crisp new ones with the swollen Ben Franklin. He slapped both on the desk, then unfolded three more.

"Fuck you."

One bill dropped.

"Fuck you."

The second bill fell.

"Fuck you."

The third Ben Franklin fluttered down.

TWO

Rachel donned her robe, stepped back into the courtroom, and climbed three steps to the oak dais she'd occupied for the past four years. The clock on the far wall read 1:45 P.M. She wondered how much longer she'd have the privilege of being a judge. It was an election year, qualifying had ended two weeks back, and she'd drawn two opponents for the July primary. There'd been talk of people getting into the race, but no one appeared until ten minutes before five on Friday to plunk down the nearly four-thousand-dollar fee needed to run. What could have been an easy uncontested election had now evolved into a long summer of fund-raisers and speeches. Neither of which were pleasurable.

At the moment she didn't need the added aggravation. Her dockets were jammed, with more cases being added by the day. Today's calendar, though, was shortened by a quick verdict in State of Georgia v. Barry King. Less than a half hour of deliberation was fast by any standard, the jurors obviously not impressed with T. Marcus Nettles's theatrics.

With the afternoon free, she decided to tend to a backlog of non-jury matters that had clogged over the past two weeks of jury trials. The trial time had been productive. Four convictions, six guilty pleas, and one acquittal. Eleven criminal cases out of the way, making room for the new batch her secretary said the scheduling clerk would deliver in the morning.

The Fulton County Daily Report rated all the local superior court judges annually. For the past three years she'd been ranked near the top, disposing of cases faster than most of her fellow judges, with a reversal rate in the appellate courts of only 2 percent. Not bad being right 98 percent of the time.

She settled behind the bench and watched the afternoon parade begin. Lawyers hustled in and out, some ferrying clients in need of a final divorce or a judge's signature, others looking for a resolution to pending motions in civil cases awaiting trial. About forty different matters in all. By the time she glanced again at the clock across the room, it was 4:15 and the docket had whittled down to two items. One was an adoption, a task she really enjoyed. The seven-year-old reminded her of Brent, her own seven-year-old. The last matter was a simple name change, the petitioner unrepresented by counsel. She'd specifically scheduled the case at the end, hoping the courtroom would be empty.

The clerk handed her the file.

She stared down at the old man dressed in a beige tweed jacket and tan trousers who stood before the counsel table.

"Your full name?" she asked.

"Karl Bates." His tired voice carried an East European accent.

"How long have you lived in Fulton County?"

"Thirty-nine years."

"You were not born in this country?"

"No. I come from Belarus."

"And you are an American citizen?"

He nodded. "I'm an old man. Eighty-one. Almost half my life spent here."

The question and answer was not relevant to the petition, but neither the clerk nor the court reporter said anything. Their faces seemed to understand the moment.

"My parents, brothers, sisters--all slaughtered by Nazis. Many died in Belarus. We were White Russians. Very proud. After the war, not many of us were left when the Soviets annexed our land. Stalin was worse than Hitler. A madman. Butcher. Nothing remained there when he was through, so I leave. This country is the land of promise, right?"

"Were you a Russian citizen?"

"I believe correct designation was Soviet citizen." He shook his head. "But I never consider myself Soviet."

"Did you serve in the war?"

"Only of necessity. The Great Patriotic War, Stalin called it. I was lieutenant. Captured and sent to Mauthausen. Sixteen months in a concentration camp."

"What was your occupation here after immigrating?"

"Jeweler."

"You have petitioned this court for a change of name. Why do you wish to be known as Karol Borya?"

"It is my birth name. My father named me Karol. It means 'strong-willed.' I was youngest of six children and almost die at birth. When I immigrate to this country, I thought, must protect identity. I work for government commissions while in Soviet Union. I hated Communists. They ruin my homeland, and I speak out. Stalin sent many countrymen to Siberian camps. I thought harm would come to my family. Very few could leave then. But before my death, I want my heritage returned."

"Are you ill?"

"No. But I wonder how long this tired body will hold out."

She looked at the old man standing before her, his frame shrunken with age but still distinguished. The eyes were inscrutable and deep-set, hair stark white, voice gravelly and enigmatic. "You look marvelous for a man your age."

He smiled.

"Do you seek this change to defraud, evade prosecution, or hide from a creditor?"

"Never."

"Then I grant your petition. You shall be Karol Borya once again."

She signed the order attached to the petition and handed the file to the clerk. Stepping from the bench, she approached the old man. Tears slipped down his stubbled cheeks. Her eyes had reddened, as well. She hugged him and softly said, "I love you, Daddy."

THREE


4:50 p.m.

Paul Cutler stood from the oak armchair and addressed the court, his lawyerly patience wearing thin. "Your Honor, the estate does not contest movant's services. Instead, we merely challenge the amount he's attempting to charge. Twelve thousand three hundred dollars is a lot of money to paint a house."

"It was a big house," the creditor's lawyer said.

"I would hope," the probate judge added.

Paul said, "The house is two thousand square feet. Not a thing unusual about it. The paint job was routine. Movant is not entitled to the amount charged."

"Judge, the decedent contracted with my client for a complete house painting, which my client did."

"What the movant did, Judge, was take advantage of a seventy-three-year-old man. He did not render twelve thousand three hundred dollars' worth of services."

"The decedent promised my client a bonus if he finished within a week, and he did."

He couldn't believe the other lawyer was pressing the point with a straight face. "That's convenient, considering the only other person to contradict that promise is dead. The bottom line is that our firm is the named executor on the estate, and we cannot in good conscience pay this bill."

"You want a trial on it?" the crinkly judge asked the other side.

The creditor's lawyer bent down and whispered with the housepainter, a younger man noticeably uncomfortable in a tan polyester suit and tie. "No, sir. Perhaps a compromise. Seven thousand five hundred."

Paul never flinched. "One thousand two hundred and fifty. Not a dime more. We employed another painter to view the work. From what I've been told, we have a good suit for shoddy workmanship. The paint also appears to have been watered down. As far as I'm concerned, we'll let the jury decide." He looked at the other lawyer. "I get two hundred and twenty dollars an hour while we fight. So take your time, counselor."

The other lawyer never even consulted his client. "We don't have the resources to litigate this matter, so we have no choice but to accept the estate's offer."

"I bet. Bloody damn extortionist," Paul muttered, just loud enough for the other lawyer to hear, as he gathered his file.

"Draw an order, Mr. Cutler," the judge said.

Paul quickly left the hearing room and marched down the corridors of the Fulton County probate division. It was three floors down from the melange of Superior Court and a world apart. No sensational murders, high-profile litigation, or contested divorces. Wills, trusts, and guardianships formed the extent of its limited jurisdiction--mundane, boring, with evidence usually amounting to diluted memories and tales of alliances both real and imagined. A recent state statute Paul helped draft allowed jury trials in certain instances, and occasionally a litigant would demand one. But, by and large, business was tended to by a stable of elder judges, themselves once advocates who roamed the same halls in search of letters testamentary.

Ever since the University of Georgia sent him out into the world with a juris doctorate, probate work had been Paul's specialty. He'd not gone right to law school from college, summarily rejected by the twenty-two schools he'd applied to. His father was devastated. For three years he labored at the Georgia Citizens Bank in the probate and trust department as a glorified clerk, the experience enough motivation for him to retake the law school admission exam and reapply. Three schools ultimately accepted him, and a third-year clerkship resulted in a job at Pridgen & Woodworth after graduation. Now, thirteen years later, he was a sharing-partner in the firm, senior enough in the probate and trust department to be next in line for full partnership and the department's managerial reins.

He turned a corner and zeroed in on double doors at the far end.

Today had been hectic. The painter's motion had been scheduled for over a week, but right after lunch his office received a call from another creditor's lawyer to hear a hastily arranged motion. Originally it was set for 4:30, but the lawyer on the other side failed to show. So he'd shot over to an adjacent hearing room and taken care of the house painter's attempted thievery. He yanked open the wooden doors and stalked down the center aisle of the deserted courtroom. "Heard from Marcus Nettles yet?" he asked the clerk at the far end.

A smile creased the woman's face. "Sure did."

"It's nearly five. Where is he?"

"He's a guest of the sheriff's department. Last I heard, they've got him in a holding cell."

He dropped his briefcase on the oak table. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Your ex put him in this morning."

"Rachel?"

The clerk nodded. "Word is he got smart with her in chambers. Paid her three hundred dollars then told her to F off three times."

The courtroom doors swung open and T. Marcus Nettles waddled in. His beige Neiman Marcus suit was wrinkled, Gucci tie out of place, the Italian loafers scuffed and dirty.

"About time, Marcus. What happened?"

"That bitch you once called your wife threw me in jail and left me there since this mornin'." The baritone voice carried a strain. "Tell me, Paul. Is she really a woman or some hybrid with nuts between those long legs?"

He started to say something, then decided to let it go.

"She climbs my ass in front of a jury because I called her sir--"

"Four times, I heard," the clerk said.

"Yeah. Probably was. After I move for a mistrial, which she should have granted, she gives my guy twenty years without a presentence hearin'. Then she wants to give me an ethics lesson. I don't need that shit. Particularly from some smart-ass bitch. I can tell you now, I'll be pumpin' money to both her opponents. Lots of money. I'm going to rid myself of that problem the second Tuesday in July."

He'd heard enough. "You ready to argue this motion?"

Nettles laid his briefcase on the table. "Why not? I figured I'd be in that cell all night. Guess the whore has a heart, after all."

"That's enough, Marcus," he said, his voice a bit firmer than he intended.

Nettles's eyes tightened, a penetrating feral stare that seemed to read his thoughts. "The shit you care? You've been divorced--what?--three years? She must gouge a chunk out of your paycheck every month in child support."

He said nothing.

"I'll be fuckin' damned," Nettles said. "You still got a thing for her, don't you?"

"Can we get on with it?"

"Son of a bitch, you do." Nettles shook his bulbous head.

He headed for the other table to get ready for the hearing. The clerk popped from her chair and walked back to fetch the judge. He was glad she'd left. Courthouse gossip blew from ear to ear like a wildfire.

Nettles settled his portly frame into the armchair. "Paul, my boy, take it from a five-time loser. Once you get rid of 'em, be rid of 'em."

FOUR


5:45 p.m.

Karol Borya cruised into his driveway and parked the Oldsmobile. At eighty-one, he was happy to still be driving. His eyesight was amazingly good, and his coordination, though slow, seemed adequate enough for the state to renew his license. He didn't drive much, or far. To the grocery store, occasionally to the mall, and over to Rachel's house at least twice a week. Today he'd ventured only four miles to the MARTA station, where he'd caught a train downtown to the courthouse for the name-change hearing.

He'd lived in northeast Fulton County nearly forty years, long before the explosion of Atlanta northward. The once forested hills of red clay, whose runoff had tracked into the nearby Chattahoochee River, were now covered in commercial development, high-end residential subdivisions, apartments, and roads. Millions lived and worked around him, Atlanta along the way having acquired the designations of metropolitan and "Olympic host."

He ambled out to the street and checked the curbside mailbox. The evening was unusually warm for May, good for his arthritic joints, which seemed to sense the approach of fall and downright hated winter. He walked back toward the house and noticed that the wooden eaves needed painting.

He sold his original acreage twenty-four years ago, garnering enough to pay cash for a new house. The subdivision then was one of the newer developments, the street now evolved into a pleasant nook under a canopy of quarter-century timber. His cherished wife, Maya, died two years after the house was completed. Cancer claimed her fast. Too fast. He hardly had time to say good-bye. Rachel was fourteen and brave, he was fifty-seven and scared to death. The prospect of growing old alone had frightened him. But Rachel had always stayed nearby. He was lucky to have such a good daughter. His only child.

He trudged into the house, and was there only a few minutes when the back door burst open and his two grandchildren rushed into the kitchen. They never knocked and he never locked the door. Brent was seven, Marla six. Both hugged him. Rachel followed them inside.

"Grandpa, Grandpa, where's Lucy?" Marla asked.

"Asleep in the den. Where else?" The stray had wandered into the backyard four years ago and never left.

The children bolted to the front of the house.

Rachel yanked open the refrigerator and found a pitcher of tea. "You got a little emotional in court."

"I know I say too much. But I thought of papa. I wish you knew him. He work the fields every day. A Tsarist. Loyal to end. Hated Communists." He paused. "I was thinking, I have no photo of him."

"But you have his name again."

"And for that I thank you, my darling. Did you learn where was Paul?"

"My clerk checked. He was tied up in probate court and couldn't make it."

"How is he doing?"

She sipped her tea. "Okay, I guess."

He studied his daughter. She was so much like her mother. Pearl white skin, frilly auburn hair, perceptive brown eyes that cast the prepossessing look of a woman in charge. And smart. Maybe too smart for her own good.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I get by. I always do."

"You sure, daughter?" He'd noticed changes lately. Some drifting, a bit more distance and fragility. A hesitancy toward life that he found disturbing.

"Don't worry about me, Daddy. I'll be fine."

"Still no suitors?" He knew of no men in the three years since the divorce.

"Like I have time. All I do is work and tend those two in there. Not to mention you."

He had to say it. "I worry about you."

"No need."

But she looked away while answering. Perhaps she wasn't quite so certain of herself. "Not good to be old alone."

She seemed to get the message. "You're not."

"I'm not speaking of me, and you know it."

She moved to the sink and rinsed her glass. He decided not to press and reached over and flicked on the counter television. The station was still set to CNN Headline News from the morning. He turned down the volume and felt he had to say, "Divorce is wrong."

She cut him one of her looks. "You going to start with the lecture?"

"Swallow that pride. You should try again."

"Paul doesn't want to."

His gaze held hers. "You both too proud. Think of my grandchildren."

"I did when I divorced. All we did was fight. You know that."

He shook his head. "Stubborn, like your mother." Or was she like him? Hard to tell.

Rachel dried her hands with the dish towel. "Paul will be by about seven to get the kids. He'll bring them home."

"Where you going?"

"Fund-raiser for the campaign. Going to be a tough summer, and I'm not looking forward to it."

He focused on the television and saw mountain ranges, steep inclines, and rocky crags. The sight was instantly familiar. A caption at the bottom left read STOD, GERMANY. He turned up the volume.

"--millionaire contractor Wayland McKoy thinks this area in central Germany may still harbor Nazi treasure. His expedition begins next week into the Harz Mountains of what was once East Germany. These sites have only recently become accessible, thanks to the fall of Communism and the reunification of East and West Germany." The image switched to a tight view of caves in forested inclines. "It's believed that in the final days of World War Two, Nazi loot was hastily stashed inside hundreds of tunnels crisscrossing these ancient mountains. Some were also used as ammunition dumps, which complicates the search, making the venture even more hazardous. In fact, more than two dozen people have lost their lives in this area since World War Two, trying to locate treasure."

Rachel came close and kissed him on the cheek. "I have to go."

He turned from the television. "Paul be here at seven?"

She nodded and headed for the door.

He immediately returned his attention to the television.

FIVE

Borya waited until the next half hour, hoping headline news would contain some story repeats. And he was lucky. The same report on Wayland McKoy's search of the Harz Mountains for Nazi treasure appeared at the end of the six-thirty segment.

He was still thinking about the information, twenty minutes later, when Paul arrived. By then he was in the den, a German road map unfolded on the coffee table. He'd bought it at the mall a few years back, replacing the dated National Geographic one he'd used for decades.

"Where are the children?" Paul asked.

"Watering my garden."

"You sure that's safe for your garden?"

He smiled. "It's been dry. They can't hurt."

Paul plopped into an armchair, his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned. "That daughter of yours tell you she put a lawyer in jail this morning?"

He didn't look up from the map. "He deserve it?"

"Probably. But she's running for reelection, and he's not one to mess with. That fiery temper is going to get her in trouble one day."

He looked at his former son-in-law. "Just like my Maya. Run off half-crazy in a moment."

"And she won't listen to a thing anybody says."

"Got from her mother, too."

Paul smiled. "I bet." He gestured to the map. "What are you doing?"

"Checking something. Saw on CNN. Fellow claims art is still in Harz Mountains."

"There was a story in USA Today on that this morning. Caught my eye. Some guy named McKoy from North Carolina. You'd think people would give up on the Nazi legacy thing. Fifty years is a long time for some three-hundred-year-old canvas to languish in a damp mine. It would be a miracle if it wasn't a mass of mold."

He creased his forehead. "The good stuff already found or lost forever."

"I guess you should know all about that."

He nodded. "A little experience there, yes." He tried to conceal his current interest, though his insides were churning. "Could you buy me copy of that USA newspaper?"

"Don't have to. Mine's in the car. I'll go get it."

Paul left through the front door just as the back door opened and the two children trotted into the den.

"Your papa's here," he said to Marla.

Paul returned, handed him the paper, then said to the children, "Did you drown the tomatoes?"

The little girl giggled. "No, Daddy." She tugged at Paul's arm. "Come see Granddaddy's vegetables."

Paul looked at him and smiled. "I'll be right back. That article is on page four or five, I think."

He waited until they left through the kitchen before finding the story and reading every word.

GERMAN TREASURES AWAIT?

By Fran Downing, Staff Writer

Fifty-two years have passed since Nazi convoys rolled through the Harz Mountains into tunnels dug specifically to secret away art and other Reich valuables. Originally, the caverns were used as weapons manufacturing sites and munitions depots. But in the final days of World War II, they became perfect repositories for pillaged loot and national treasures.

Two years ago, Wayland McKoy led an expedition into the Heimkehl Caverns near Uftrugen, Germany, in search of two railroad cars buried under tons of gypsum. McKoy found the cars, along with several old master paintings, toward which the French and Dutch governments paid a handsome finder's fee.

This time McKoy, a North Carolina contractor, real estate developer and amateur treasure hunter, is hoping for bigger loot. He's been a part of four past expeditions and is hoping his latest, which starts next week, will be his most successful.

"Think about it. It's 1945. The Russians are coming from one end, the Americans from another. You're the curator of the Berlin museum full of art stolen from every invaded country. You've got a few hours. What do you put on the train to get out of town? Obviously, the most valuable stuff."

McKoy tells the tale of one such train that left Berlin in the waning days of World War II, heading south for central Germany and the Harz Mountains. No records exist of its destination, and he's hoping the cargo lies within some caverns found only last fall. Interviews with relatives of German soldiers who helped load the train have convinced him of the train's existence. Earlier this year, McKoy used ground-penetrating radar to scan the new caverns.

"Something's in there," McKoy says. "Certainly big enough to be boxcars or storage crates."

McKoy has already secured a permit from German authorities to excavate. He's particularly excited about the prospects of foraging this new site, since, to his knowledge, no one has yet excavated the area. Once a part of East Germany, the region has been off-limits for decades. Current German law provides that McKoy can retain only a small portion of whatever is not claimed by rightful owners. Yet McKoy is undeterred. "It's exciting. Hell, who knows, the Amber Room could be hidden under all that rock."

The excavations will be slow and hard. Backhoes and bulldozers could damage the treasure, so McKoy will be forced to drill holes in the rocks and then chemically break them apart.

"It's slow going and dangerous, but worth the trouble," he says. "The Nazis had prisoners dig hundreds of caves, where they stored ammunition to keep it safe from the bombers. Even the caves used as art repositories were many times mined. The trick is to find the right cave and get inside safely."

McKoy's equipment, seven employees and a television crew are already waiting in Germany. He plans to head there over the weekend. The nearly $1 million cost is being borne by private investors hoping to cash in on the bonanza.

McKoy says, "There's stuff in the ground over there. I'm sure of it. Somebody's going to find all that treasure. Why not me?"

He looked up from the newspaper. Mother of Almighty God. Was this it? If so, what could be done about it? He was an old man. Realistically, there was little left he could do.

The back door opened and Paul strolled into the den. He tossed the paper on the coffee table.

"You still interested in all that art stuff?" Paul asked.

"Habit of lifetime."

"Would be kind of exciting to dig in those mountains. The Germans used them like vaults. No telling what's still there."

"This McKoy mentions Amber Room." He shook his head. "Another man looking for lost panels."

Paul grinned. "The lure of treasure. Makes for great television specials."

"I saw the amber panels once," he said, giving in to an urge to talk. "Took train from Minsk to Leningrad. Communists had turned Catherine Palace into a museum. I saw the room in its glory." He motioned with his hands. "Ten meters square. Walls of amber. Like a giant puzzle. All the wood carved beautifully and gilded gold. Amazing."

"I've read about it. A lot of folks regarded it as the eighth wonder of the world."

"Like stepping into fairy tale. The amber was hard and shiny like stone, but not cold like marble. More like wood. Lemon, whiskey brown, cherry. Warm colors. Like being in the sun. Amazing what ancient masters could do. Carved figurines, flowers, seashells. The scrollwork so intricate. Tons of amber, all handcrafted. No one ever do that before."

"The Nazis stole the panels in 1941?"

He nodded. "Bastard criminals. Strip room clean. Never seen again since 1944." He was getting angry thinking about it and knew he'd said too much already, so he changed the subject. "You said my Rachel put lawyer in jail?"

Paul sat back in the chair and crossed his ankles on an ottoman. "The Ice Queen strikes again. That's what they call her around the courthouse." He sighed. "Everybody thinks because we're divorced I don't mind."

"It bothers?"

"I'm afraid it does."

"You love my Rachel?"

"And my kids. The apartment gets pretty quiet. I miss all three of 'em, Karl. Or should I say, Karol. That's going to take some getting used to."

"Us both."

"Sorry about not being there today. My hearing got postponed. It was with the lawyer Rachel jailed."

"I appreciate help with petition."

"Any time."

"You know," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "she's seen no man since divorce. Maybe why she's so cranky?" Paul noticeably perked up. He thought he'd read him right. "Claims too busy. But I wonder."

His former son-in-law did not take the bait, and simply sat in silence. He returned his attention to the map. After a few moments, he said, "Braves on TBS."

Paul reached for the remote and punched on the television.

He didn't mention Rachel again, but all through the game he kept glancing at the map. A light green delineated the Harz Mountains, rolling north to south then turning east, the old border between the two Germanies gone. The towns were noted in black. Gottingen. Munden. Osterdode. Warthberg. Stod. The caves and tunnels were unmarked, but he knew they were there. Hundreds of them.

Where was the right cave?

Hard to say anymore.

Was Wayland McKoy on the right track?

SIX


10:25 p.m.

Paul cradled Marla and gently carried her into the house. Brent followed, yawning. A strange feeling always accompanied him when he entered. He and Rachel had bought the two-story brick colonial just after they married, ten years ago. When the divorce came, seven years later, he'd voluntarily moved out. Title remained in both their names and, interestingly, Rachel insisted he retain a key. But he used it sparingly, and always with her prior knowledge, since Paragraph VII of the final decree provided for her exclusive use and possession, and he respected her privacy no matter how much it sometimes hurt.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and laid Marla in her bed. Both children had bathed at their grandfather's house. He undressed her and slipped her into some Beauty and the Beast pajamas. He'd twice taken the children to see the Disney movie. He kissed her good night and stroked her hair until she was sound asleep. After tucking Brent in, he headed downstairs.

The den and kitchen were messy. Nothing unusual. A housekeeper came twice a week since Rachel was not noted for neatness. That was one of their differences. He was a perfectly in place person. Not compulsive, just disciplined. Messes bothered him, he couldn't help it. Rachel didn't seem to mind clothes on the floor, toys strewn about, and a sinkful of dishes.

Rachel Bates had been an enigma from the start. Intelligent, outspoken, assertive, but alluring. That she'd been attracted to him was surprising, since women were never his strong point. There'd been a couple of steady dates in college and one relationship he thought was serious in law school, but Rachel had captivated him. Why, he'd never really understood. Her sharp tongue and brusque manner could hurt, though she didn't mean 90 percent of what she said. At least that's what he told himself over and over to excuse her insensitivity. He was easygoing. Too easygoing. It seemed far less trouble to simply ignore her than rise to the challenge. But sometimes he felt she wanted him to challenge her.

Did he disappoint her by backing down? Letting her have her way?

Hard to say.

He wandered toward the front of the house and tried to clear his head, but each room assaulted him with memories. The mahogany console with the fossil stone top they'd found in Chattanooga one weekend antiquing. The cream-on-sand conversation sofa where they'd sat many nights watching television. The glass credenza displaying Lilliput cottages, something they both collected with zeal, many a Christmas marked by reciprocal gifts. Even the smell evoked fondness. The peculiar fragrance homes seemed to possess. The musk of life, their life, filtered by time's sieve.

He stepped into the foyer and noticed the portrait of him and the kids still on display. He wondered how many divorcees kept a ten by twelve of their ex around for all to see. And how many insisted that their ex-husband retain a key to the house. They even still possessed a couple of joint investments, which he managed for them both.

The silence was broken by a key scraping the front door lock.

A second later the door opened and Rachel stepped inside. "Kids any trouble?" she asked.

"Never."

He took in the black princess-seamed jacket that cinched her waist and the slim skirt cut above the knee. Long, slender legs led down to low-heeled pumps. Her auburn hair fell in a layered bob, barely brushing the tips of her thin shoulders. Green tiger eyes trimmed in silver dangled from each of her earlobes and matched her eyes, which looked tired.

"Sorry about not making it to the name change," he said. "But your stunt with Marcus Nettles held things up in probate court."

"He's a sexist bastard."

"You're a judge, Rachel, not the savior of the world. Can't you use a little diplomacy?"

She tossed her purse and keys on a side table. Her eyes hardened like marbles. He'd seen the look before. "What do you expect me to do? The fat bastard drops hundred-dollar bills on my desk and tells me to fuck off. He deserved to spend a few hours in jail."

"Do you have to constantly prove yourself?"

"You're not my keeper, Paul."

"Somebody needs to be. You've got an election coming up. Two strong opponents, and you're only a first-termer. Nettles is already talking about bankrolling both of them. Which, by the way, he can afford. You don't need that kind of trouble."

"Screw Nettles."

Last time he'd arranged the fund-raisers, handled advertising, and courted the people needed to secure endorsements, attract the press, and secure votes. He wondered who would run her campaign this time. Organization was not Rachel's strong suit. So far she hadn't asked for help, and he really didn't expect her to. "You can lose, you know."

"I don't need a political lecture."

"What do you need, Rachel?"

"None of your damn business. We're divorced. Remember?"

He recalled what her father said. "Do you? We've been apart three years now. Have you dated anyone during that time?"

"That's also none of your business."

"Maybe not. But I seem to be the only one who cares."

She stepped close. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Ice Queen. That's what they call you around the court-house."

"I get the job done. Rated highest of any judge in the county last time the Daily Report checked stats."

"That all you care about? How fast you clear a docket?"

"Judges can't afford friends. You either get accused of bias or are hated for a lack of it. I'd rather be the Ice Queen."

It was late, and he didn't feel like an argument. He brushed past her toward the front door. "One day you may need a friend. I wouldn't burn all my bridges if I were you." He opened the door.

"You're not me," she said.

"Thank God."

And he left.

SEVEN

Northeast Italy
Wednesday, May 7, 1:34 a.m.

His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close-cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.

Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.

Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.

The village of Pont-Saint-Martin lay a full ten kilometers to the south. The only way north was a snaking two-lane road that led eventually, after forty more kilometers, to the Austrian border and Innsbruck. The BMW he'd rented yesterday at the Venice airport waited a kilometer back in a stand of trees. After finishing his business he planned to drive north to Innsbruck, where tomorrow an 8:35 A.M. Austrian Airlines shuttle would whisk him to St. Petersburg, where more business awaited.

Silence surrounded him. No church bells clanging or cars screaming past on the autostrada. Just ancient groves of oak, fir, and larch patchworking the mountainous slopes. Ferns, mosses, and wildflowers carpeted the dark hollows. Easy to see why da Vinci included the Dolemites in the background of the Mona Lisa.

The forest ended. A grassy meadow of blossoming orange lilies spread before him. The chateau rose at the far end, a pebbled drive horseshoeing in front. The building was two stories tall, its redbrick walls decorated with gray lozenges. He remembered the stones from his last visit two months ago, surely crafted by masons who'd learned from their fathers and grandfathers.

None of the forty or so dormer windows flickered with light. The oaken front door likewise loomed dark. No fences, dogs, or guards. No alarms. Just a rambling country estate in the Italian Alps owned by a reclusive manufacturer who'd been semiretired for almost a decade.

He knew that Pietro Caproni, the chateau's owner, slept on the second floor in a series of rooms that encompassed the master suite. Caproni lived alone, except for three servants who commuted daily from Pont-Saint-Martin. Tonight, Caproni was entertaining, the cream-colored Mercedes parked out front probably still warm from a drive made earlier from Venice. His guest was one of many expensive working women. They would sometimes come for the night or the weekend, paid for their trouble in euros by a man who could afford the price of pleasure. Tonight's excursion had been timed to coincide with her visit, and he hoped she would be enough of a distraction to cover a quick in and out.

Pebbles crunched with each step as he crossed the drive and rounded the chateau's northeast corner. An elegant garden led back to a stone veranda, Italian wrought iron separating tables and chairs from grass. A set of French doors opened into the house, both knobs locked. He straightened his right arm and twisted. A stiletto slipped off its O-ring and slithered down his forearm, the jade handle nestling firmly in his gloved palm. The leather sheath was his own invention, specially designed for a dependable release.

He plunged the blade into the wooden jamb. One twist, and the bolt surrendered. He resecured the stiletto in his sleeve.

Stepping into a barrel-vaulted salon, he gently closed the glasspaneled door. He liked the surrounding decor of neoclassicism. Two Etruscan bronzes adorned the far wall under a painting, View of Pompeii, one he knew to be a collector's item. A pair of eighteenth-century bibliotheques hugged two Corinthian columns, the shelves brimming with antique volumes. From his last visit he remembered the fine copy of Guicciardini's Storia d'Italia and the thirty volumes of Teatro Francese. Both were priceless.

He threaded the darkened furniture, passed between the columns, then stopped in the foyer and listened up the stairs. Not a sound. He tiptoed across a wheel-patterned marble floor, careful not to scrape his rubber soles. Neapolitan paintings adorned the faux-marble panels. Chestnut beams supported the darkened ceiling two stories above.

He stepped into the parlor.

The object of his quest lay innocently on an ebony table. A match case. Faberge. Silver and gold with an enameled translucent strawberry red over a guilloche ground. The gold collar was chased with leaf tips, the thumbpiece cabochon sapphire. It was marked in Cyrillic initials, N. R. 1901. Nicholas Romanov. Nicholas II. The last Tsar of Russia.

He yanked a felt bag from his back pocket and reached for the case.

The room was suddenly flooded with light, shafts of incandescent rays from an overhead chandelier burning his eyes. He squinted and turned. Pietro Caproni stood in the archway leading to the foyer, a gun in his right hand.

"Buona sera, Signor Knoll. I wondered when you would return."

He struggled to adjust his vision and answered in Italian, "I didn't realize you would be expecting my visit."

Caproni stepped into the parlor. The Italian was a short, heavy-chested man in his fifties with unnaturally black hair. He wore a navy blue terry-cloth robe tied at the waist. His legs and feet were bare. "Your cover story from the last visit didn't check out. Christian Knoll, art historian and academician. Really, now. An easy matter to verify."

His vision settled as his eyes adjusted to the light. He reached for the match case. Caproni's gun jutted forward. He pulled back and raised his arms in mock surrender. "I merely wish to touch the case."

"Go ahead. Slowly."

He lifted the treasure. "The Russian government has been looking for this since the war. It belonged to Nicholas himself. Stolen from Peterhof outside Leningrad sometime in 1944, a soldier pocketing a souvenir from his time in Russia. But what a souvenir. One of a kind. Worth now on the open market about forty thousand U.S. dollars. That's if someone were foolish enough to sell. 'Beautiful loot' is the term, I believe, the Russians use to describe things such as this."

"I'm sure after your liberation this evening it would have quickly found its way back to Russia?"

He smiled. "The Russians are no better than thieves themselves. They want their treasures back only to sell them. Cash poor, I hear. The price of Communism, apparently."

"I am curious. What brought you here?"

"A photograph of this room in which the match case was visible. So I came to pose as a professor of art history."

"You determined authenticity from that brief visit two months ago?"

"I am an expert on such things. Particularly Faberge." He laid the match case down. "You should have accepted my offer of purchase."

"Far too low, even for 'beautiful loot.' Besides, the piece has sentimental value. My father was the soldier who pocketed the souvenir, as you so aptly describe."

"And you so casually display it?"

"After fifty years, I assumed nobody cared."

"You should be careful of visitors and photos."

Caproni shrugged. "Few come here."

"Just the signorinas? Like the one upstairs now?"

"And none of them are interested in such things."

"Only euros?"

"And pleasure."

He smiled and casually fingered the match case again. "You are a man of means, Signor Caproni. This villa is like a museum. That Aubusson tapestry there on the wall is priceless. Those two Roman capriccios are certainly valued collectibles. Hof, I believe, nineteenth century?"

"Good, Signor Knoll. I'm impressed."

"Surely you can part with this match case."

"I do not like thieves, Signor Knoll. And, as I said during your last visit, the item is not for sale." Caproni gestured with the gun. "Now you must leave."

He stayed rooted. "What a quandary. You certainly cannot involve the police. After all, you possess a treasured relic the Russian government would very much like returned--pilfered by your father. What else in this villa fits into that category? There would be questions, inquiries, publicity. Your friends in Rome will be of little help, since you will then be regarded as a thief."

"Lucky for you, Signor Knoll, I cannot involve the authorities."

He casually straightened, then twitched his right arm. It was an unnoticed gesture partially obscured by his thigh. He watched as Caproni's gaze stayed on the match case in his left hand. The stiletto released from its sheath and slowly inched down the loose sleeve until settling into his right palm. "No reconsideration, Signor Caproni?"

"None." Caproni backed toward the foyer and gestured again with the gun. "This way, Signor Knoll."

He wrapped his fingers tight on the handle and rolled his wrist forward. One flick, and the blade zoomed across the room, piercing Caproni's bare chest in the hairy V formed by the robe. The older man heaved, stared down at the handle, then fell forward, his gun clattering across the terrazzo.

He quickly deposited the match case into the felt bag, then stepped across to the body. He withdrew the stiletto and checked for a pulse. None. Surprising. The man died fast.

But his aim had been true.

He cleaned the blood off on the robe, slid the blade into his back pocket, then mounted the stairs to the second floor. More faux marble panels lined the upper foyer, periodically interrupted by paneled doors, all closed. He stepped lightly across the floor and headed toward the rear of the house. A closed door waited at the far end of the hall.

He turned the knob and entered.

A pair of marble columns defined an alcove where a king-size poster bed rested. A low-wattage lamp burned on the nightstand, the light absorbed by a symphony of walnut paneling and leather. The room was definitely a rich man's bedroom.

The woman sitting on the edge of the bed was naked. Long, dramatic red hair framed a pair of pyramid-like breasts and exquisite almond-shaped eyes. She was puffing on a thin black-and-gold cigarette and gave him only a disconcerting glance. "And who are you?" she quietly asked in Italian.

"A friend of Signor Caproni's." He stepped into the bedchamber and casually closed the door.

She finished the cigarette, stood, and strutted close, her thin legs taking deliberate strides. "You're dressed strangely for a friend. You look more like a burglar."

"And you seem unconcerned."

She shrugged. "Strange men are my business. Their needs are no different from anyone else's." Her gaze raked him from head to toe. "You have a wicked gleam in your eyes. German, no?"

He said nothing.

She massaged his hands through the leather gloves. "Powerful." She traced his chest and shoulders. "Muscles." She was close now, her erect nipples nearly touching his chest. "Where is the signor?"

"Detained. He suggested I might enjoy your company."

She looked at him, hunger in her eyes. "Do you have the capabilities of the signor?"

"Monetary or otherwise?"

She smiled. "Both."

He took the whore in his arms. "We shall see."

EIGHT

St. Petersburg, Russia
10:50 a.m.

The cab jerked to a stop and Knoll stepped out onto busy Nevsky Prospekt, paying the driver with two twenty-dollar bills. He wondered what happened to the ruble. It wasn't much better than play money anymore. The Russian government openly banned the use of dollars years ago on pain of imprisonment, but the cabdriver didn't seem to care, eagerly demanding and pocketing the bills before whipping the taxi away from the curb.

His flight from Innsbruck had touched down at Pulkovo Airport an hour ago. He'd shipped the match case from Innsbruck overnight to Germany with a note of his success in northern Italy. Before he too returned to Germany, there was one last errand to be performed.

The prospekt was packed with people and cars. He studied the green dome of Kazan Cathedral across the street and turned to spy the gilded spire of the distant Admiralty off to the right, partially obscured by a morning fog. He imagined the boulevard's past, when traffic was all horse-drawn and prostitutes arrested during the night swept the cobbles clean. What would Peter the Great think now of his "window to Europe"? Department stores, cinemas, restaurants, museums, shops, art studios, and cafes lined the busy five-kilometer route. Flashing neon and elaborate kiosks sold everything from books to ice cream and heralded the rapid advance of capitalism. What had Somerset Maugham described? Dingy and sordid and dilapidated.

Not anymore, he thought.

Change was the reason he was able to even come to St. Petersburg. The privilege of scouring old Soviet records had been extended to outsiders only recently. He'd made two previous trips this year--one six months ago, another two months back--both to the same depository in St. Petersburg, the building he now entered for the third time.

It was five stories with a rough-hewn stone facade, grimy from engine exhaust. The St. Petersburg Commercial Bank operated a busy branch out of one part of the ground floor, and Aeroflot, the Russian national airline, filled the rest. The first through third and fifth floors were all austere government offices: Visa and Foreign Citizen's Registration Department, Export Control, and the regional Agricultural Ministry. The fourth floor was devoted exclusively to a records depository. One of many scattered throughout the country, it was a place where the remnants of seventy-five years of Communism could be stored and safely studied.

Yeltsin had opened the documents to the world through the Russian Archival Committee, a way for the learned to preach his message of anti-Communism. Clever, actually. No need to purge the ranks, fill the gulags, or rewrite history as Khrushchev and Brezhnev managed. Just let historians uncover the multitude of atrocities, thievery, and espionage--secrets hidden for decades under tons of rotting paper and fading ink. Their eventual writings would be more than enough propaganda to serve the needs of the state.

He climbed black iron stairs to the fourth floor. They were narrow in the Soviet style, indicating to the knowledgeable, like himself, that the building was post-revolutionary. A call yesterday from Italy informed him that the depository would be open until 3:00 P.M. He'd visited this one and four others in southern Russia. This facility was unique, since a photocopier was available.

On the fourth floor a battered wooden door opened into a stuffy space, its pale green walls peeling from a lack of ventilation. There was no ceiling, only pipes and ducts caked in asbestos crisscrossing beneath the brittle concrete of the fifth floor. The air was cool and moist. A strange place to house supposedly precious documents.

He stepped across gritty tile and approached a solitary desk. The same clerk with wispy brown hair and a horsy face waited. He'd concluded last time the man to be an involuted, self-depreciating, nouveau Russian bureaucrat. Typical. Hardly a difference from the old Soviet version.

"Dobriy den," he said, adding a smile.

"Good day," the clerk replied.

In Russian, he stated, "I need to study the files."

"Which ones?" An irritating smile accompanied the inquiry, the same look he recalled from two months before.

"I'm sure you remember me."

"I thought your face familiar. The Commission records, correct?"

The clerk's attempt at coyness was a failure. "Da. Commission records."

"Would you like me to retrieve them?"

"Nyet. I know where they are. But thank you for your kindness."

He excused himself and disappeared among metal shelves brimming with rotting cardboard boxes, the stale air heavily scented with dust and mildew. He knew a variety of records surrounded him, many an overflow from the nearby Hermitage, most from a fire years ago in the local Academy of Sciences. He remembered the incident well. "The Chernobyl of our culture," the Soviet press labeled the event. But he'd wondered how unintentional the disaster may have been. Things always had a convenient tendency of disappearing at just the right moment in the USSR, and the reformed Russia was hardly any better.

He perused the shelves, trying to recall where he left off last time. It could take years to finish a thorough review of everything. But he remembered two boxes in particular. He'd run out of time on his last visit before getting to them, the depository having closed early for International Women's Day.

He found the boxes and slid both off the shelf, placing them on one of the bare wooden tables. About a meter square, each box was heavy, maybe twenty-five or thirty kilograms. The clerk still sat toward the front of the depository. He realized it wouldn't be long before the impertinent fool sauntered back and made a note of his latest interest.

The label on top of both boxes read in Cyrillic, EXTRAORDINARY STATE COMMISSION ON THE REGISTRATION AND INVESTIGATION OF THE CRIMES OF THE GERMAN-FASCIST OCCUPIERS AND THEIR ACCOMPLICES AND THE DAMAGE DONE BY THEM TO THE CITIZENS, COLLECTIVE FARMS, PUBLIC ORGANIZATIONS, STATE ENTERPRISES, AND INSTITUTIONS OF THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLIC.

He knew the Commission well. Created in 1942 to resolve problems associated with the Nazi occupation, it eventually did everything from investigating concentration camps liberated by the Red Army to valuing art treasures looted from Soviet museums. By 1945 the commission evolved into the primary sender of thousands of prisoners and supposed traitors to the gulags. It was one of Stalin's concoctions, a way to maintain control, and eventually employed thousands, including field investigators who searched western Europe, northern Africa, and South America for art pillaged by the Germans.

He settled down into a metal chair and started sifting page by page through the first box. The going was slow, thanks to the volume and the heavy Russian and Cyrillic diatribes. Overall, the box was a disappointment, mostly summary reports of various Commission investigations. Two long hours passed and he found nothing of interest. He started on the second box, which contained more summary reports. Toward the middle, he came to a stack of field reports from investigators. Acquisitors, like himself. But paid by Stalin, working exclusively for the Soviet government.

He scanned the reports one by one.

Many were unimportant narratives of failed searches and disappointing trips. There were some successes, though, the recoveries noted in glowing language. Degas's Place de la Concorde. Gauguin's Two Sisters. Van Gogh's last painting, The White House at Night. He even recognized the investigators' names. Sergei Telegin. Boris Zernov. Pyotr Sabsal. Maxim Voloshin. He'd read other field reports filed by them in other depositories. The box contained a hundred or so reports, all surely forgotten, of little use today except to the few who still searched.

Another hour passed, during which the clerk wandered back three times on the pretense of helping. He'd declined each offer, anxious for the irritating little man to mind his own business. Near five o'clock he found a note to Nikolai Shvernik, the merciless Stalin loyalist who had headed the Extraordinary Commission. But this memo was unlike the others. It was not sealed on official Commission stationery. Instead, it was handwritten and personal, dated November 26, 1946, the black ink on onionskin nearly gone:

Comrade Shvernik,

I hope this message finds you in good health. I visited Donnersberg but could not locate any of the Goethe manuscripts thought there. Inquiries, discreet of course, revealed previous Soviet investigators may have removed the items in November 1945. Suggest a recheck of Zagorsk inventories. I met with `Yxo yesterday. He reports activity by Loring. Your suspicions seem correct. The Harz mines were visited repeatedly by various work crews, but no local workers were employed. All persons were transported in and out by Loring. Yantarnaya komnata may have been found and removed. It is impossible to say at this time. `Yxo is following additional leads in Bohemia and will report directly to you within the week.

Danya Chapaev

Clipped to the tissue sheet were two newer sheets of paper, both photocopies. They were KGB information memos dated March, seven years ago. Strange they were there, he thought, tucked indiscriminately among fifty-plus-year-old originals. He read the first note typed in Cyrillic:

`Yxo is confirmed to be Karol Borya, once employed by Commission, 1946-1958. Immigrated to United States, 1958, with permission of then-government. Named changed to Karl Bates. Current address: 959 Stokeswood Avenue. Atlanta, Georgia (Fulton County), USA. Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts. Request additional instructions on how to proceed.

Danya Chapaev was a name he recognized. He'd looked for the old Russian five years ago but had been unable to find him, the only one of the surviving searchers he hadn't interviewed. Now there may be another. Karol Borya, aka Karl Bates. Strange, the nickname. The Russians seemed to delight in code words. Was it affection or security? Hard to tell. References like Wolf, Black Bear, Eagle, and Sharp Eyes he'd seen. But `Yxo? "Ears." That was unique.

He flipped to the second sheet, another KGB memo typed in Cyrillic that contained more information on Karol Borya. The man would now be eighty-one years old. A jeweler by trade, retired. His wife died a quarter century back. He had a daughter, married, who lived in Atlanta, Georgia, and two grandchildren. Six-year-old information, granted. But still more than he possessed on Karol Borya.

He glanced again at the 1946 document. Particularly the reference to Loring. It was the second time he'd seen that name among reports. Couldn't be Ernst Loring. Too young. More likely the father, Josef. The conclusion was becoming more and more inescapable that the Loring family had long been on the trail, as well. Maybe the trip to St. Petersburg had been worth the trouble. Two direct references to yantarnaya komnata, rare for Soviet documents, and some new information.

A new lead.

Ears.

"Will you be through soon?"

He looked up. The clerk stared down at him. He wondered how long the bastard had been standing there.

"It's after five," the man said.

"I didn't realize. I will be finished shortly."

The clerk's gaze roamed across the page in his hand, trying to steal a look. He nonchalantly tabled the sheet. The man seemed to get the message and headed back to his desk.

He lifted the papers.

Interesting the KGB had been searching for two former-Extraordinary Commission members as late as a few years ago. He'd thought the search for yantarnaya komnata ended in the mid-1970s. That was the official account, anyway. He'd encountered only a few isolated references dated to the eighties. Nothing of recent vintage, until today. The Russians don't give up, he'd give them that. But considering the prize, he could understand. He didn't give up either. He'd tracked leads the past eight years. Interviewed old men with failing memories and tight tongues. Boris Zernov. Pyotr Sabsal. Maxim Voloshin. Searchers, like himself, all looking for the same thing. But none knew anything. Maybe Karol Borya would be different. Maybe he knew where Danya Chapaev was. He hoped both men were still alive. It was certainly worth a flight to the United States to find out. He'd been to Atlanta once. During the Olympics. Hot and humid, but impressive.

He glanced around for the clerk. The impish man stood on the other side of the cluttered shelves, busily replacing files. Quickly, he folded the three sheets and pocketed them. He had no intention of leaving anything for another inquisitive mind to find. He replaced the two boxes on the shelf and headed for the exit. The clerk was waiting with the door open.

"Dobriy den," he told the clerk.

"Good day to you."

He left and the lock immediately clicked behind him. He imagined it would not take long for the fool to report the visit, surely receiving a gratuity in the post a few days from now for his attentiveness. No matter. He was pleased. Ecstatic. He had a new lead. Maybe something definitive. The start of a trail. Maybe even an acquisition.

The acquisition.

He bounded down the stairs, the words from the memo ringing in his ears.

Yantarnaya komnata.

The Amber Room.

NINE

Burg Herz, Germany
7:54 p.m.

Knoll stared out the window. His bedchamber occupied the upper reaches of the castle's west turret. The citadel belonged to his employer, Franz Fellner. It was a nineteenth-century reproduction, the original burned and sacked to the foundation by the French when they stormed through Germany in 1689.

Burg Herz, "Castle Heart," was an apt name, since the fortress rested nearly in the center of a unified Germany. Franz's father, Martin, acquired the building and surrounding forest after World War I, when the previous owner guessed wrong and backed the Kaiser. Knoll's bedroom, his home for the past eleven years, once served as the head steward's chambers. It was spacious, private, and equipped with a bath. The view below extended for kilometers and encompassed grassy meadows, the wooded heights of the Rothaar, and the muddy Eder flowing east to Kassel. The head steward had attended the senior Fellner every day for the last twenty years of Martin Fellner's life, the steward himself dying only a week after his master. Knoll had heard the gossip, all attesting they'd been more than employer and employee, but he'd never placed much merit in rumor.

He was tired. The last two months, without question, had been exhausting. A long trip to Africa, then a run through Italy, and finally Russia. He'd come a long way from a three-bedroom apartment in a government high-rise thirty kilometers north of Munich, his home until he was nineteen. His father was a factory worker, his mother a music teacher. Memories of his mother always evoked fondness. She was a Greek his father met during the war. He'd always called her by her first name, Amara, which meant "unfading," a perfect description. From her he inherited his sharp brow, pinched nose, and insatiable curiosity. She also hammered into him a passion for learning and named him Christian, as she was a devout believer.

His father molded him into a man, but that bitter fool also instilled a sense of anger. Jakob Knoll fought in Hitler's army as a fervent Nazi. To the end he supported the Reich. He was a hard man to love, but equally hard to ignore.

He turned from the window and glanced over at the nightstand beside the four-poster bed.

A copy of Hitler's Willing Executioners lay on top. The volume had caught his eye two months ago. One of a rash of books published lately on the psyche of the German people during the war. How did so many let such barbarism exist from so few? Were they willing participants, as the writer suggested? Hard to say about everyone. But his father was definitely one. Hate came easy to him. Like a narcotic. What was it he many times quoted from Hitler? I go the way Providence dictates with the assurance of a sleepwalker.

And that was exactly what Hitler had done--straight to his downfall. Jakob Knoll likewise died bitter, twelve years after Amara succumbed to diabetes.

Knoll was eighteen and alone when his genius IQ led to a scholarship at the University of Munich. Humanities had always interested him, and during his senior year he earned a fellowship to Cambridge University in art history. He recalled with amusement the summer he fell in briefly with neo-Nazi sympathizers. At the time those groups were not nearly so vocal as today, outlawed as they were by the German government. But their unique look at the world hadn't interested him. Then or now. Nor had hate. Both were unprofitable and counterproductive.

Particularly when he found women of color so alluring.

He spent only a year at Cambridge before dropping out and hiring on to work for Nordstern Fine Art Insurance Limited in London as a claims adjuster. He recalled how quickly he made a name for himself after retrieving a Dutch master thought lost forever. The thieves called, demanding a ransom of twenty million pounds or the canvas would be burned. He could still see the shock on his superiors' faces when he flatly told the thieves to burn it. But they hadn't. He knew they wouldn't. And a month later he recovered the painting after the culprits, in desperation, tried to sell it back to the owner.

More successes came equally as easy.

Three hundred million dollars' worth of old Masters taken from a Boston museum found. A $12 million Jean-Baptiste Oudry, stolen in northern England from a private collector recovered. Two magnificent Turners filched from the Tate Gallery in London located in a ramshackle Parisian apartment.

Franz Fellner met him eleven years ago, when Nordstern dispatched him to do an inventory on Fellner's collection. Like any careful collector Fellner insured his known art assets, the ones that sometimes appeared in European art or American specialty magazines, the publicity a way to make a name for himself, spurring black marketeers to seek him out with truly valuable treasures. Fellner lured him away from Nordstern with a generous salary, a room at Burg Herz, and the excitement that came from stealing back some of humanity's greatest creations. He possessed a talent for searching, enjoying immensely the challenge of finding what people went to enormous lengths to hide. The women he came across were equally enticing. But killing particularly excited him. Was that his father's legacy? Hard to say. Was he sick? Depraved? Did he really care? No. Life was good.

Damn good.

He stepped away from the window and entered the bathroom. The oriel above the toilet was hinged open and cool evening air rid the tiles of moisture from his earlier shower. He studied himself in the mirror. The brown dye used the past couple of weeks was gone, his hair once again blond. Disguises were not his usual forte, but he'd deemed a change of look wise under the circumstances. He'd shaved while bathing, his tanned face smooth and clean. His face still carried a confident air, the image of a forthright man with strong tastes and convictions. He splashed a bit of cologne onto his neck and dried his skin with a towel, then slipped on his dinner jacket.

The telephone on the nightstand rang in the outer room. He crossed the bedchamber and answered before the third ring.

"I'm waiting," the female voice said.

"And patience is not one of your virtues?"

"Hardly."

"I'm on my way."

Knoll descended the spiral staircase. The narrow stone path wound clockwise, copied from a medieval design that forced invading right-handed swordsmen to battle the central turret as well as castle defenders. The castle complex was huge. Eight massive towers adorned with half timbers accommodated more than a hundred rooms. Mullion and dormer windows enlivened the outside and provided exquisite views of the rich forested valleys beyond. The towers were grouped in an octagon around a spacious inner courtyard. Four halls connected them, all the buildings topped by a steeply pitched slate roof that bore witness to harsh German winters.

He turned at the base of the stairs and followed a series of slate tiled corridors toward the chapel. Barrel vaults loomed overhead. Battle-axes, spears, pikes, visored helmets, suits of mail--all collectors' pieces--lined the way. He'd personally acquired the largest piece of armor, a knight standing nearly eight feet tall, from a woman in Luxembourg. Flemish tapestries adorned the walls, all originals. The lighting was soft and indirect, the rooms warm and dry.

An arched door at the far end opened out to a cloister. He exited and followed a breezeway to a pillared doorway. Three stone faces carved into the castle facade watched his steps. They were a remnant of the original seventeenth-century structure, their identities unknown, though one legend proclaimed them to be of the castle's master builder and two assistants, the men killed and walled into the stone so that they could never build another similar structure.

He approached the Chapel of Saint Thomas. An interesting label, since it was not only the name of an Augustinian monk who founded a nearby monastery seven centuries ago, but also the first name of old Martin Fellner's head steward.

He shoved the heavy oak door inward.

She was standing in the center aisle, just beyond a gilded grille that separated the foyer from six oak pews. Incandescent fixtures illuminated a black-and-gold rococo altar beyond and cast her in shadows. The bottle-glass and bull's-eye windows left and right were dark. The stained-glass heraldic signs of castle knights loomed unimpressive, awaiting revivement by the morning sun. Little worship occurred here. The chapel was now a display room for gilded reliquaries--Fellner's collection, one of the most extensive in the world, rivaled most European cathedrals.

He smiled at his host.

Monika Fellner was thirty-four and the eldest daughter of his employer. The skin that covered her tall, svelte frame carried the swarthy tint of her mother's, who'd been a Lebanese her father passionately loved forty years before. But old Martin had not been impressed with his son's choice of wife and eventually forced a divorce, sending her back to Lebanon, leaving two children behind. He often thought Monika's cool, tailored, almost untouchable air the result of her mother's rejection. But that wasn't something she would ever voice or he would ever ask. She stood proud, like always, her tangled dark curls falling in carefree wisps. A flick of a smile creased her lips. She wore a taupe brocade jacket over a tight chiffon skirt, the slit rising all the way up to thin supple thighs. She was the sole heir to the Fellner fortune, thanks to the untimely death of her older brother two years ago. Her name meant "devout to God." Yet she was anything but.

"Lock it," she said.

He snapped the lever down.

She strutted toward him, her heels clicking off the ancient marble floor. He met her at the open gate in the grille. Immediately below her was the grave of her grandfather, MARTIN FELLNER 1868-1941 etched into the smooth gray marble. The old man's last wish was that he be buried in the castle he so loved. No wife accompanied him in death. The elder Fellner's head steward lay beside him, more letters carved in stone marking that grave.

She noticed his gaze down to the floor.

"Poor grandfather. To be so strong in business, yet so weak in spirit. Must have been a bitch to be queer back then."

"Maybe it's genetic?"

"Hardly. Though I have to say, a woman can sometimes provide an interesting diversion."

"Your father wouldn't want to hear that."

"I don't think he'd care right now. It's you he's rather upset with. He has a copy of the Rome newspaper. There's a front-page story on the death of Pietro Caproni."

"But he also has the match case."

She smiled. "You think success smooths anything?"

"I've found it to be the best insurance for job security."

"You didn't mention killing Caproni in your note yesterday."

"It seemed an unimportant detail."

"Only you would consider a knife in the chest unimportant. Father wants to talk with you. He's waiting."

"I expected that."

"You don't seem concerned."

"Should I be?"

She stared hard. "You're a hard bastard, Christian."

He realized that she possessed none of her father's sophisticated air, but in two ways they were much alike--both were cold and driven. Newspapers linked her with man after man, wondering who might eventually snag her and the resulting fortune, but he knew that no one would ever control her. Fellner had been meticulously grooming her the past few years, readying her for the day when she'd take over his communications empire along with his passion for collecting, a day that would surely soon arrive. She'd been educated outside Germany in England and the United States, adopting an even sharper tongue and brassy attitude along the way. But being rich and spoiled hadn't helped her personality either.

She reached out and patted his right sleeve. "No stiletto tonight?"

"Do I need it?"

She pressed close. "I can be quite dangerous."

Her arms went around him. Their mouths fused, her tongue searching with excitement. He enjoyed her taste and savored the passion she freely offered. When she withdrew, she bit his lower lip hard on the way. He tasted blood.

"Yes, you can." He dabbed the wound with a handkerchief.

She reached out and unzipped his trousers.

"I thought you said Herr Fellner was waiting."

"There's plenty of time." She pushed him down on the floor, directly atop her grandfather's grave. "And I didn't wear any underwear."

TEN

Knoll followed Monika across the castle's ground floor to the collection hall. The space consumed the better part of the northwest tower and was divided into a public room, where Fellner displayed his notable and legal items, and the secret room, where only he, Fellner, and Monika ventured.

They entered the public hall and Monika locked the heavy wooden doors behind them. Lighted cases stood in rows like soldiers at attention and displayed a variety of precious objects. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Frescoes adorned the ceiling with images depicting Moses giving laws to the people, the building of Babel, and the translation of the Septuagint.

Fellner's private study was off the north wall. They entered, and Monika strolled across the parquet to a row of bookcases, all inlaid oak and gilded in heavy baroque style. He knew the volumes were all collectibles. Fellner loved books. His ninth-century Beda Venerabilis was the oldest and most valuable he possessed, Knoll had been lucky enough to find a stash in a French parish rectory a few years back, the priest more than willing to part with them in return for a modest contribution to both the church and himself.

Monika withdrew a black controller from her jacket pocket and clicked the button. The center bookcase slowly revolved on its axis. White light spilled from a room beyond. Franz Fellner was standing amidst a long windowless space, the gallery cleverly hidden between the junction of two grand halls. High-pitched ceilings and the castle's oblong shape provided more architectural camouflage. Its thick stone walls were all soundproofed and a special handler filtered the air.

More collection cases stood in staggered rows, each illuminated by carefully placed halogen lights. Knoll wove a path through the cases, noticing some of the acquisitions. A jade sculpture he'd stolen from a private collection in Mexico, not a problem since the supposed owner had likewise stolen it from the Jalapa City Museum. A number of ancient African, Eskimo, and Japanese figurines retrieved from an apartment in Belgium, war loot thought long destroyed. He was especially proud of the Gauguin sculpture off to the left, an exquisite piece he'd liberated from a thief in Paris.

Paintings adorned the walls. A Picasso self-portrait. Correggio's Holy Family. Botticelli's Portrait of a Lady. Durer's Portrait of Maximillian I. All originals, thought lost forever.

The remaining stone wall was draped in two enormous Gobelin tapestries, looted by Hermann Goring during the war, recovered from another supposed owner two decades ago, and still hotly sought by the Austrian government.

Fellner stood beside a glass case containing a thirteenth-century mosaic depicting Pope Alexander IV. He knew it to be one of the old man's favorites. Beside him was the enclosure with the Faberge match case. A tiny halogen light illuminated the strawberry-red enamel. Fellner had obviously polished the piece. He knew how his employer liked to personally prepare each treasure, more insurance to prevent strange eyes from seeing his acquisitions.

Fellner was a lean hawk of a man with a craggy face the color of concrete and emotions to match. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that framed suspicious eyes. Surely, Knoll had often thought, they once bore the bright-eyed look of an idealist. Now they carried the pallor of a man approaching eighty, who'd built an empire from magazines, newspapers, television, and radio, but lost interest in making money after crossing the multibillion-dollar mark. His competitive nature was currently channeled into other, more private ventures. Activities where men with lots of money and limitless nerve could superachieve.

Fellner yanked a copy of the International Daily News off the collection case and thrust it forward. "You want to tell me why this was necessary?" The voice bore the rasp of a million cigarettes.

He knew the newspaper was one of Fellner's corporate possessions, and that a computer in the outer study was fed daily with articles from around the world. The death of a wealthy Italian industrialist was certainly something that would catch the old man's eye. At the bottom of the front page was the article:

Pietro Caproni, 58, founder of Due Mori Industries was found in his northern Italian estate yesterday with a fatal knife wound in the chest. Also found stabbed to death was Carmela Terza, 27, identification at the scene listing her residence as Venice. Police found evidence of a forced entry from a ground-floor door but have so far discovered nothing missing from the villa. Caproni was retired from Due Mori, the conglomerate he built into one of Italy's premier producers of wool and ceramics. He remained active as a major shareholder and consultant, and his death leaves a void in the company.

Fellner interrupted his reading. "We've had this discussion before. You've been warned to indulge your peculiarities on your own time."

"It was necessary, Herr Fellner."

"Killing is never necessary, if you do your job correctly."

He glanced over at Monika, who was watching with apparent amusement. "Signor Caproni intruded on my visit. He was waiting for me. He'd become suspicious from my previous trip. Which I made, if you recall, at your insistence."

Fellner seemed to immediately get the message. The older man's face softened. He knew his employer well.

"Signor Caproni did not want to share the match case without a fight. I simply obliged, concluding you desired the piece regardless. The only alternative was to leave without it and risk exposure."

"The signor did not offer the opportunity to leave? After all, he couldn't very well telephone the police."

He thought a lie better than the truth. "The signor actually wanted to shoot me. He was armed."

Fellner said, "The newspaper makes no mention of that."

"Evidence of the press's unreliability," he said with a smile.

"And what of the whore?" Monika said. "She armed, too?"

He turned toward her. "I was unaware you harbored such sympathy for working women. She understood the risks, I'm sure, when she agreed to become involved with a man like Caproni."

Monika stepped closer. "You fuck her?"

"Of course."

Fire lit her eyes. But she said nothing. Her jealousy was almost as amusing as it was surprising. Fellner broke the moment, conciliatory as always.

"Christian, you retrieved the match case. I appreciate that. But killing does nothing but draw attention. That's the last thing we desire. What if your semen is traced by DNA?"

"There was no semen other than the signor's. Mine was in her stomach."

"What about fingerprints?"

"I wore gloves."

"I realize you are careful. For that I'm grateful. But I am an old man who merely wants to pass what I have accumulated to my daughter. I do not desire to see any of us in jail. Am I clear?"

Fellner sounded exasperated. They'd had this discussion before, and he genuinely hated disappointing him. His employer had been good to him, generously sharing the wealth they'd meticulously accumulated. In many ways he was more like a father than Jakob Knoll had ever been. Monika, though, was nothing like a sister.

He noticed the look in her eyes. The talk of sex and death was surely arousing. Most likely she'd visit his room later.

"What did you find in St. Petersburg?" Fellner finally asked.

He reported the references to yantarnaya komnata, then showed both of them the sheets he'd stolen from the archives. "Interesting the Russians were still inquiring about the Amber Room, even recently. This Karol Borya, though, `Yxo, is somebody new."

"Ears?" Fellner spoke perfect Russian. "A strange designation."

Knoll nodded. "I think a trip to Atlanta may be worth the effort. Perhaps `Yxo is still alive. He might know where Chapaev is. He was the only one I did not find five years ago."

"I would think the reference to Loring is also further corroboration, " Fellner said. "That's twice you have found his name. The Soviets were apparently quite interested in what Loring was doing."

Knoll knew the history. The Loring family dominated the Eastern European steel and arms market. Ernst Loring was Fellner's main rival in collecting. He was a Czech, the son of Josef Loring, possessed of an air of superiority bred since youth. Like Pietro Caproni, a man definitely accustomed to having his way.

"Josef was a determined man. Ernst, unfortunately, did not inherit his father's character. I wonder about him," his employer said. "Something has always troubled me about him--that irritating cordiality he thinks I accept." Fellner turned to his daughter. "What about it, liebling? Should Christian head for America?"

Monika's face stiffened. At these moments she was most like her father. Inscrutable. Guarded. Furtive. Certainly, in the years ahead, she'd do him proud. "I want the Amber Room."

"And I want it for you, liebling. I've searched forty years. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've never understood how tons of amber could simply vanish." Fellner turned toward him. "Go to Atlanta, Christian. Find Karol Borya, this ` Yxo. See what he knows."

"You realize that if Borya is dead we are out of leads. I have checked the depositories in Russia. Only the one in St. Petersburg has any information of note."

Fellner nodded.

"The clerk in St. Petersburg is certainly on someone's payroll. He was once again attentive. That's why I kept the sheets."

"Which was wise. I'm sure Loring and I are not the only ones interested in yantarnaya komnata. What a find that would be, Christian. You'd almost want to tell the world."

"Almost. But the Russian government would want it returned, and if found here, the Germans would surely confiscate. It would make an excellent bargaining chip for the return of treasure the Soviets carted away."

"That's why we need to find it," Fellner said.

He leveled his gaze. "Not to mention the bonus you promised."

The old man chuckled. "Quite right, Christian. I have not forgotten."

"Bonus, Father?"

"Ten million euros. I promised years ago."

"And I'll honor it," Monika made clear.

Damn right she would, Knoll thought.

Fellner stepped from the display case. "Ernst Loring is surely looking for the Amber Room. He could well be the benefactor of that technocrat in St. Petersburg. If so, he knows about Borya. Let's not delay on this, Christian. You need to stay a step ahead."

"I intend to."

"Can you handle Suzanne?" the old man quizzed, a mischievous smile on his gaunt face. "She will be aggressive."

He noticed Monika openly bristle at the mention. Suzanne Danzer worked for Ernst Loring. Highly educated and possessed of a determined intent that could be lethal if necessary, only two months back she'd raced him across southwestern France looking for a pair of nineteenth-century jeweled Russian wedding crowns. More "beautiful loot" hidden away for decades by poachers. Danzer had won that race, finding the crowns with an old woman in the Pyrenees near the Spanish border. The woman's husband had liberated them from a Nazi collaborator after the war. Danzer had been unrelenting in securing the prize, a trait he greatly admired.

"I would expect no less of her," he said.

Fellner extended his hand. "Good hunting, Christian."

He accepted the gesture, then turned to leave, heading for the far wall. A rectangle parted in the stone as the bookcase on the other side swung open again.

"And keep me informed," Monika called out.

ELEVEN

Woodstock, England
10:45 p.m.

Suzanne Danzer sat up from the pillow. The twenty-year-old slept soundly beside her. She took a moment and studied his lean nakedness. The young man projected the assurance of a show horse. What a pleasure it had been screwing him.

She stood from the bed and crept across hardwood planks. The darkened bedroom was on the third floor of a sixteenth-century manor house, the estate owned by Audrey Whiddon. The old woman had served three terms in the House of Commons and eventually acquired the title of lady, purchasing the manor house at foreclosure after the previous owner defaulted on a minor mortgage. The elder Whiddon still sometimes visited, but Jeremy, her only grandson, was now its main resident.

How easy it had been to latch on to Jeremy. He was flighty and spirited, more interested in ale and sex than finance and profit. Two years at Oxford and already dropped twice for academic deficiencies. The old lady loved him dearly and used what influences she still retained to get the boy back in, hoping for no more disappointments, but Jeremy seemed unaccommodating.

Suzanne had been searching nearly two years for the last snuffbox. Four constituted the original collection. There was a gold box with a mosaic on the cover. An oval one trimmed with translucent green and red berries. Another fashioned of hard stone with silver mounts. And an enameled Turkish market box adorned with a scene of the Golden Horn. All were created in the nineteenth century by the same master craftsman--his mark distinctively etched into the bottom--and looted from a private collection in Belgium during World War II.

They were thought lost, melted for their gold, stripped of their jewels, the fate of many precious objects. But one surfaced five years ago at a London auction house. She'd been there and bought it. Her employer, Ernst Loring, was fascinated by the intricate workmanship of antique snuffboxes and possessed an extensive collection. Some legitimate, bought on the open market, but most covertly acquired from possessors like Audrey Whiddon. The box bought at auction had generated an ensuing court battle with the heirs of the original owner. Loring's legal representatives finally won, but the fight was costly and public, her employer harboring no desire of a repeat. So the acquisition of the remaining three was delegated to her surreptitious acquiring.

Suzanne had found the second in Holland, the third in Finland, the fourth quite unexpectedly when Jeremy tried to peddle it at another auction house, unknown to his grandmother. The alert auctioneer had recognized the piece and, knowing that he couldn't sell it, profited when she paid him ten thousand pounds to learn its whereabouts. She possessed many such sources at auction houses all over the world, people who kept their eyes open for stolen treasure, things they couldn't legally handle but could sell all too easily.

She finished dressing and combed her hair.

Fooling Jeremy had been easy. Like always, her fashion-model features, saucer-round azure eyes, and trim body played well. All masked a mien of controlled calm and made her appear as something other than what she was, something not to be feared, something easy to master and contain. Men quickly felt comfortable with her, and she'd learned that beauty could be a far better weapon than bullets or blades.

She tiptoed from the bedroom and down a wooden staircase, careful to minimize the squeaks. Dainty Elizabethan stencils decorated the towering walls. She'd once imagined living in a similar house with a husband and children. But that was before her father taught her the value of independence and the price of dedication. He'd also worked for Ernst Loring, dreaming one day of buying his own estate. But he never realized that ambition, dying in a plane crash eleven years ago. She'd been twenty-five years old, just out of college, yet Loring never hesitated, immediately allowing her to succeed her father. She'd learned her craft on the job and quickly discovered that she, like her father, instinctively possessed the ability to search, and she greatly enjoyed the chase.

She turned at the bottom of the stairs, slipped through the dining hall, and entered an oak-paneled piano room. The windows highlighting the adjacent grounds loomed dark, the white Jacobean ceiling muted. She approached the table and reached for the snuffbox.

Number four.

It was eighteen-carat gold, the hinged cover enameled en plein with an impregnation of Danae by Jupiter in a shower of even more gold. She drew the tiny box close and gazed at the image of the plump Danae. How had men once believed such obesity attractive? But apparently they had, since they found the need to fantasize that their gods desired such a butterball. She flipped the box over and traced her fingernail over the initials.

B. N.

Its craftsman.

She yanked a cloth from the pocket of her jeans. The case, less than four inches long, easily dissolved into its crimson folds. She stuffed the bundle into her pocket and then crossed the ground floor to the den.

Growing up on the Loring estate came with obvious advantages. A fine home, the best tutors, access to art and culture. Loring made sure the Danzer family was well cared for. But the isolation of Castle Lou-kov deprived her of childhood friends. Her mother died when she was three, and her father traveled constantly. It was Loring who took the time with her, and books became her trusted companions. She read once that the Chinese symbolized books with the power to ward off evil spirits. And for her they did. Stories became her escape. Particularly English literature. Marlowe's tragedies on kings and potentates, the poetry of Dryden, Locke's essays, Chaucer's tales, Malory's Morte d'Arthur.

Earlier, when Jeremy had shown her around the ground floor, she'd noticed one particular book in the library. Casually, she'd slipped the leather volume from the shelf and found the expected garish swastika bookplate inside, the inscription reading: EX LIBRIS ADOLF HITLER. Two thousand of Hitler's books, all from his personal library, had been hastily evacuated from Berchtesgaden and stashed in a nearby salt mine just days before the end of the war. American soldiers later found them, and they were eventually cataloged into the Library of Congress. But some were stolen before that happened. Several had turned up through the years. Loring owned none, desiring no reminders of the horror of Nazism, but he knew other collectors who did.

She slipped the book off the shelf. Loring would be pleased with this added treasure.

She turned to leave.

Jeremy stood naked in the darkened doorway.

"Is it the same one you looked at before?" he asked. "Grandmother has so many books. She'll not miss one."

She approached close and quickly decided to use her best weapon. "I enjoyed tonight."

"So did I. You didn't answer my question."

She gestured with the book. "Yes. It's the same one."

"You require it?"

"I do."

"Will you come back?"

A strange question considering the situation, but she realized what he truly wanted. So she reached down and grasped him where she knew he could not resist. He instantly responded to her gentle strokes. "Perhaps," she said.

"I saw you in the piano room. You're not some woman who just got out of a bad marriage, are you?"

"Does it matter, Jeremy? You enjoyed yourself." She continued to stroke him. "You're enjoying yourself now, aren't you?"

He sighed.

"And everything here is your grandmother's anyway. What do you care?"

"I don't."

She released her hold. His organ stood at attention. She kissed him gently on the lips. "I'm sure we'll be seeing one another again." She brushed past him and headed for the front door.

"If I hadn't given in, would you have harmed me to get the book and the box?"

She turned back. Interesting that someone so immature about life could be perceptive enough to understand the depths of her desires. "What do you think?"

He seemed to genuinely consider the inquiry. Perhaps the hardest he'd considered anything in a while.

"I think I'm glad I fucked you."

TWELVE

Volary, Czech Republic
Friday, May 9, 2:45 p.m.

Suzanne angled the porsche hard to the right, and the 911 Speedster's coil-spring suspension and torque steering grabbed the tight curve. She'd earlier hinged the glass-fiber hood back, allowing the afternoon air to whip her layered bob. She kept the car parked at the Ruzyne airport, the 120 kilometers from Prague to southwestern Bohemia an easy hour's drive. The car was a gift from Loring, a bonus two years ago after a particularly productive year of acquisitions. Metallic slate gray, black leather interior, plush velvet carpet. Only 150 of the model were produced. Hers bore a gold insigne on the dash. Draha. "Little darling," the nickname Loring bestowed upon her in childhood.

She'd heard the tales and read the press on Ernst Loring. Most portrayed him as baleful, stern, and dismissive, with the energy of a zealot and the morals of a despot. Not far off the mark. But there was another side of him. The one she knew, loved, and respected.

Loring's estate occupied a three-hundred-acre tract in southwestern Czech, only kilometers from the German border. The family had flourished under Communist rule, their factories and mines in Chomutov, Most, and Teplice vital to the old Czechoslovakia's once supposed self-sufficiency. She'd always thought it amusing that the family uranium mines north in Jachymov, manned with political prisoners--the worker death toll nearly 100 percent--were officially considered irrelevant by the new government. It was likewise unimportant that, after years of acid rain, the Sad Mountains had been transformed into eerie graveyards of rotting forests. A mere footnote that Teplice, once a thriving spa town near the Polish border, was renowned more for the short life expectancy of its inhabitants than for its refreshing warm water. She'd long ago noticed that no photos of the region were contained in the fancy picture books vendors hawked outside Prague Castle to the millions who visited each year. Northern Czech was a blight. A reminder. Once a necessity, now something to be forgotten. But it was a place where Ernst Loring profited, and the reason why he lived in the south.

The Velvet Revolution of 1989 assured the demise of the Communists. Three years later Czech and Slovakia divorced, hastily dividing the country's spoils. Loring benefited from both events, quickly allying himself with Havel and the new government of the Czech Republic, a name he thought dignified but lacking in punch. She'd heard his views about the changes. How his factories and foundries were in demand more than ever. Though spawned in Communism, Loring was a tried and true capitalist. His father, Josef, and his grandfather before that had been capitalists.

What did he say all the time? All political movements need steel and coal. Loring supplied both, in return for protection, freedom, and a more than a modest return on investment.

The manor suddenly loomed on the horizon. Castle Loukov. A former knight's hrad, the site a formidable headland overshadowing the swift Orlik Stream. Built in the Burgundian-Cistercian style, its earliest construction began in the fifteenth century, but it wasn't finished until the mid-seventeenth century. Triple sedilia and leaf capitals lined the towering walls. Oriels dotted vine-covered ramparts. A clay roof flashed orange in the midday sun.

A fire ravaged the entire complex during World War II, the Nazis confiscating it as a local headquarters, and the Allies finally bombing it. But Josef Loring wrestled back title, allying himself with the Russians who liberated the area on their way to Berlin. After the war the elder Loring resurrected his industrial empire and expanded, ultimately bequeathing everything to Ernst, his only surviving child, a move the government wholly supported.

Clever, industrious men were also always in demand, her employer had said many times.

She downshifted the Porsche to third. The engine groaned, then forced the tires to grab dry pavement. She twisted up the narrow road, the black asphalt surrounded by thick forest, and slowed at the castle's main gate. What once accommodated horse-drawn carriages and deterred aggressors had been widened and paved to easily accept cars.

Loring stood outside in the courtyard, dressed casually, wearing work gloves, apparently tending his spring flowers. He was tall and angular, with a surprisingly flat chest and strong physique for a man in his late seventies. Over the past decade she'd watched the silkened ash blond hair fade to the point of a lackluster gray, a matching goatee carpeting his creased jaw and wrinkled neck. Gardening had always been one of his obsessions. The greenhouses outside the walls were packed with exotic plants from around the world.

"Dobriy den, my dear," Loring called out in Czech.

She parked and exited the Porsche, grabbing her travel bag out of the passenger's seat.

Loring clapped dirt from his gloves and walked over. "Good hunting, I hope?"

She withdrew a small cardboard box from the passenger's seat. Neither Customs in London nor Prague questioned the trinket after she explained that it had been bought at a Westminister Abbey gift shop for less than thirty pounds. She was even able to produce a receipt, since she'd stopped by that very shop on the way to the airport and bought a cheap reproduction, one she trashed at the airport.

Loring yanked off his gloves and lifted the lid, studying the snuffbox in the graying afternoon. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Perfect."

She reached back into her bag and extracted the book.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A surprise."

He returned the gold treasure to the cardboard box, then gingerly cradled the volume, unfolding the front cover, marveling at the book plate.

"Draha, you amaze me. What a wonderful bonus."

"I recognized it instantly and thought you'd like it."

"We can certainly sell or trade this. Herr Greimel loves these, and I would very much like a painting he possesses."

"I knew you'd be happy."

"This should make Christian take notice, huh? Quite an unveiling at our next gathering."

"And Franz Fellner."

He shook his head. "Not anymore. I believe now it's Monika. She seems to be taking over everything. Slowly but surely."

"Arrogant bitch."

"True. But she's also no fool. I spoke to her at length recently. A bit impatient and eager. Seems to have inherited her father's spirit, if not his brains. But, who knows? She's young--maybe she'll learn. I'm sure Franz will teach her."

"And what of my benefactor. Any similar thoughts of retirement?"

Loring grinned. "What would I do?"

She gestured to the blossoms. "Garden?"

"Hardly. What we do is so invigorating. Collecting carries such thrills. I am as a child at Christmas opening packages."

He cradled his two treasures and led her inside his woodworking shop, which consumed the ground floor of a building adjacent to the courtyard. "I received a call from St. Petersburg," he told her. "Christian was in the depository again Monday. In the Commission records. Fellner obviously is not giving up."

"Find anything?"

"Hard to say. The idiot clerk should have gone through the boxes by now, but I doubt he has. Says it will take years. He seems far more interested in getting paid than working. But he was able to see that Knoll discovered a reference to Karol Borya."

She realized the significance.

"I don't understand this obsession of Franz's," Loring said. "So many things waiting to be found. Bellini's Madonna and Child, gone since the war. What a find that would be. Van Eyck's altarpiece of the Mystical Lamb. The twelve old masters stolen from the Treves Museum in '68. And those impressionist works stolen in Florence. There are not even any photos of those for identification purposes. Anyone would love to acquire just one of them."

"But the Amber Room is at the top of everyone's collection list," she said.

"Quite right, and that seems to be the problem."

"You think Christian will try to find Borya?"

"Without a doubt. Borya and Chapaev are the only two searchers left alive. Knoll never found Chapaev five years ago. He's probably hoping Borya knows Chapaev's whereabouts. Fellner would love the Amber Room to be Monika's first unveiling. There is no doubt in my mind that Franz will send Knoll to America, at least to try to find Borya."

"But shouldn't that be a dead end?"

"Exactly. Literally. But only if necessary. Let's hope Borya still has a tight lip. Maybe the old man finally died. He has to be approaching ninety. Go to Georgia, but stay out of the way unless forced to act."

A thrill ran through her. How wonderful to battle Knoll again. Their last encounter in France had been invigorating, the sex afterwards memorable. He was a worthy opponent. But dangerous. Which made the adventure that much more exciting.

"Careful with Christian, my dear. Not too close. You may have to do some unpleasant things. Leave him to Monika. They deserve one another."

She pecked the old man on the cheek with a soft kiss. "Not to worry. Your draha will not let you down."

THIRTEEN

Atlanta, Georgia
Saturday, May 10, 6:50 p.m.

Karol Borya settled into the chaise longue and read again the one article he always consulted when he needed to remember details. It was from the International Art Review, October 1972. He'd found it on one of his regular forays downtown to the library at Georgia State University. Outside of Germany and Russia, the media had shown little interest in the Amber Room. Fewer than two dozen English accounts had been printed since the war, most rehashes of historical facts or a pondering on the latest theory on what might have happened. He loved how the article began, a quote from Robert Browning, still underlined in blue ink from his first reading: Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

That observation was particularly relevant to the Amber Room. Unseen since 1945, its history was littered with political turmoil and marked by death and intrigue.

The idea came from Frederick I of Prussia, a complicated man who traded his precious vote as an elector of the Holy Roman Emperor to secure a hereditary kingship of his own. In 1701, he commissioned panels of amber for a study in his Charlottenburg palace. Frederick amused himself daily with amber chessmen, candlesticks, and chandeliers. He quaffed beer from amber tankards and smoked from pipes fitted with amber mouthpieces. Why not a study faced ceiling to floor with carved amber paneling? So he charged his court architect, Andreas Schulter, with the task of creating such a marvel.

The original commission was granted to Gottfried Wolffram, but in 1707, Ernst Schact and Gottfried Turau replaced the Dane. Over four years Schact and Turau labored, meticulously searching the Baltic coast for jewel-grade amber. The area had for centuries yielded tons of the substance, so much that Frederick trained whole details of soldiers in its gathering. Eventually, each rough chunk was sliced to no more than five millimeters thick, polished, and heated to change its color. The pieces were then fitted jigsaw style into mosaic panels of floral scrollwork, busts, and heraldic symbols. Each panel included a relief of the Prussian coat of arms, a crowned eagle in profile, and was backed in silver to enhance its brilliance.

The room was partially completed in 1712, when Peter the Great of Russia visited and admired the workmanship. A year later Frederick I died and was succeeded by his son, Frederick William I. As sons sometimes do, Frederick William hated everything his father loved. Harboring no desire to spend any more crown money on his father's caprice, he ordered the amber panels dismantled and packed away.

In 1716, Frederick William signed a Russian-Prussian alliance with Peter the Great against Sweden. To commemorate the treaty, the amber panels were ceremonially presented to Peter and transported to St. Petersburg the following January. Peter, more concerned with building the Russian Navy than with collecting art, simply stored them away. But, in gratitude, he reciprocated the gift with 248 soldiers, a lathe, and a wine cup he crafted himself. Included among the soldiers were fifty-five of his tallest guardsmen, this in recognition of the Prussian king's passion for tall warriors.

Thirty years passed until Empress Elizabeth, Peter's daughter, asked Rastrelli, her court architect, to display the panels in a study at the Winter Place in St. Petersburg. In 1755 Elizabeth ordered them carried to the summer palace in Tsarskoe Selo, thirty miles south of St. Petersburg, and installed in what came to be known as the Catherine Palace.

It was there that the Amber Room was perfected.

Over the next twenty years, forty-eight square meters of additional amber panels, most emblazoned with the Romanov crest and elaborate decorations, were added to the original thirty-six square meters, the additions necessary since the thirty-foot walls in the Catherine Palace towered over the original room the amber had graced. The Prussian king even contributed to the creation, sending another panel, this one with a bas-relief of the two-headed eagle of the Russian Tsars. Eighty-six square meters of amber were eventually crafted, the finished walls dotted with fanciful figurines, floral garlands, tulips, roses, seashells, monograms, and rocaille, all in glittering shades of brown, red, yellow, and orange. Rastrelli framed each panel in a cartouche of boiserie, Louis Quinze style, separating them vertically by pairs of narrow mirrored pilasters adorned with bronze candelabra, everything gilded to blend with the amber.

The centers of four panels were dotted with exquisite Florentine mosaics fashioned from polished jasper and agate and framed in gilded bronze. A ceiling mural was added, along with an intricate parquet floor of inlaid oak, maple, sandalwood, rosewood, walnut, and mahogany, itself as magnificent as the surrounding walls.

Five Konigsberg masters labored until 1770, when the room was declared finished. Empress Elizabeth was so delighted that she routinely used the space to impress foreign ambassadors. It also served as a kunstkammer, a cabinet of curiosities for her and later Tsars, the place where royal treasures could be displayed. By 1765, seventy amber objects--chests, candlesticks, snuffboxes, saucers, knives, forks, crucifixes, and tabernacles--graced the room. In 1780, a corner table of encrusted amber was added. The last decoration came in 1913, an amber crown on a pillow, the piece purchased by Tsar Nicholas II.

Incredibly, the panels survived 170 years and the Bolshevik Revolution intact. Restorations were done in 1760, 1810, 1830, 1870, 1918, 1935, and 1938. An extensive restoration was planned in the 1940s, but on June 22, 1941, German troops invaded the Soviet Union. By July 14, Hitler's army had taken Belarus, most of Latvia, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, reaching the Liga River less than a hundred miles from Leningrad. On September 17, Nazi troops took Tsarskoe Selo and the palaces in and around it, including the Catherine Palace, which had become a state museum under the Communists.

In the days before its capture, museum officials hastily shipped all the small objects in the Amber Room to eastern Russia. But the panels themselves had proved impossible to remove. In an effort to conceal them, a layer of wallpaper was slapped over, but the disguise fooled no one. Hitler ordered Erich Koch, gauleiter of East Prussia, to return the Amber Room to Konigsberg, which, in Hitler's mind, was where it rightly belonged. Six men took thirty-six hours to dismantle the panels, and twenty tons of amber was meticulously packed in crates and shipped west by truck convoy and rail, eventually reinstalled in the Konigsberg castle, along with a vast collection of Prussian art. A 1942 German news article proclaimed the event a "return to its true home, the real place of origination and sole place of origination of the amber." Picture postcards were issued of the restored treasure. The exhibit became the most popular of all Nazi museum spectacles.

The first Allied bombardment of Konigsberg occurred in August 1944. Some of the mirrored pilasters and a few of the smaller amber panels were damaged. What happened after that was unclear. Sometime between January and April 1945, as the Soviet Army approached Konigsberg, Koch ordered the panels crated and hidden in the cellar of the Blutgericht restaurant. The last German document that mentioned the Amber Room was dated January 12, 1945, and noted that the panels were being packed for transport to Saxony. At some point Alfred Rohde, the Room's custodian, supervised the loading of crates onto a truck convoy. Those crates were last seen on April 6, 1945, when trucks left Konigsberg.

Borya set the article aside.

Each time he read the words his mind always returned to the opening line. Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

How true.

He took a moment and thumbed through the file spread across his lap. It contained copies of other articles he'd collected through the years. He casually glanced over a few, his memory triggered by more details. It was good to remember.

To a point.

He rose from the chaise longue and stepped from the patio to twist off the faucet. His summer garden glistened from a good soaking. He'd waited all day to water, hoping it might rain, but the spring so far had been dry. Lucy watched from the patio, perched upright, her feline eyes studying his every move. He knew she didn't like the grass, particularly wet grass, finicky about her fur ever since achieving indoor status.

He grabbed the file folder. "Come, little kitty, inside."

The cat followed him through the back door and into the kitchen. He tossed the folder on the counter next to his dinner, a bacon-wrapped fillet marinating in teriyaki. He was about to start boiling some corn when the doorbell rang.

He shuffled out of the kitchen and headed toward the front of the house. Lucy followed. He peered through the peephole at a man dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, and striped tie. Probably another Jehovah's Witness or Mormon. They often came by about this time, and he liked talking to them.

He opened the door.

"Karl Bates? Once known as Karol Borya?"

The question caught him off guard, and his eyes betrayed him with an affirmative response.

"I'm Christian Knoll," the man said.

A faint German accent, which he instantly disliked, laced the words. A business card reiterating the name in raised black letters along with the label PROCURER OF LOST ANTIQUITIES was thrust forward but not offered. The address and phone number was Munich, Germany. He studied his visitor. Mid-forties, broad shouldered, wavy blond hair, sun-leathered skin tanned the color of cinnamon, and gray eyes that dominated an icy face--one that demanded attention.

"Why you want me, Mr. Knoll?"

"May I?" His visitor indicated a desire to come in, as he repocketed the card.

"Depends."

"I want to talk about the Amber Room."

He considered a protest but decided against it. He'd actually been expecting a visit for years.

Knoll followed him into the den. They both sat. Lucy skirted in to investigate, then took up a perch in an adjacent chair.

"You work for Russians?" he asked.

Knoll shook his head. "I could lie and say yes, but no. I'm employed by a private collector searching for the Amber Room. I recently learned of your name and address from Soviet records. It seems you once were on a similar quest."

He nodded. "Long time ago."

Knoll slipped a hand into his jacket and extracted three folded sheets. "I found these references in the Soviet records. They refer to you as `Yxo."

He scanned the papers. Decades had passed since he'd last read Cyrillic. "It was my name in Mauthausen."

"You were a prisoner?"

"For many months." He rolled over his right arm and pointed to the tattoo. "10901. I try to remove, but can't. German craftsmanship."

Knoll motioned to the sheets. "What do you know of Danya Chapaev?"

He noted with interest Knoll's ignoring of the ethnic jab. "Danya was my partner. We teamed till I leave."

"How did you come to work for the Commission?"

He eyed his visitor, debating whether to answer. He hadn't talked about that time in decades. Only Maya knew it all, the information dying with her twenty-five years ago. Rachel knew enough to understand and never forget. Should he talk about it? Why not? He was an old man on borrowed time. What did it matter anymore?

"After death camp I return to Belarus, but my homeland was gone. Germans like locust. My family was dead. Commission seemed good place to help rebuild."

"I've studied the Commission closely. An interesting organization. The Nazis did their share of looting, but the Soviets far outmatched them. Soldiers seemed satisfied with mundane luxuries like bicycles and watches. Officers, though, sent boxcars and planeloads of artwork, porcelain, and jewelry back home. The Commission apparently was the largest looter of all. Millions of items, I believe."

He shook his head in defiance. "Not looting. Germans destroy land, homes, factories, cities. Kill millions. Back then, Soviets think reparation."

"And now?" Knoll seemed to have sensed his hesitancy.

"I agree. Looting. Communists worse than Nazis. Amazing how time opens eyes."

Knoll was apparently pleased with the concession. "The Commission turned into a travesty, wouldn't you say? It eventually helped Stalin send millions to gulags."

"Which is why I leave."

"Is Chapaev still alive?"

The question came quick. Unexpected. Surely designed to elicit an equally quick response. He almost smiled. Knoll was good. "Have no idea. Not seen Danya since I leave. KGB came years back. Big smelly Chechen. I tell him same thing."

"That was very bold, Mr. Bates. The KGB should not be taken so lightly."

"Many years make me bold. What was he to do? Kill an old man? Those days are gone, Herr Knoll."

His shift from Mr. to Herr was intentional but, again, Knoll did not react. Instead, the German changed the subject.

"I've interviewed a lot of the former searchers. Telegin. Zernov. Voloshin. I never could find Chapaev. I didn't even know about you until last Monday."

"Others not mention me?"

"If they had, I would have come sooner."

Which was not surprising. Like him, they'd all been taught the value of a tight lip.

"I know the Commission's history," Knoll said. "It hired searchers to scour Germany and eastern Europe for art. A race against the army for the right to pillage. But it was quite successful and managed to get the Trojan gold, the Pergamum Altar, Raphael's Sistine Madonna, and the entire Dresden Museum collection, I believe."

He nodded. "Many, many things."

"As I understand, only now are some of those objects seeing the light of day. Most have been secreted away in castles or locked in rooms for decades."

"I read stories. Glasnost." He decided to get to the point. "You think I know where Amber Room is?"

"No. Otherwise you would have already found it."

"Maybe better stay lost."

Knoll shook his head. "Someone with your background, a lover of fine art, surely would not want such a masterpiece destroyed by time and elements."

"Amber last forever."

"But the form into which it is crafted does not. Eighteenth-century mastics could not be that effective."

"You are right. Those panels found today would be like jigsaw puzzle from box."

"My employer is willing to fund the reassembling of that puzzle."

"Who is employer?"

His visitor grinned. "I cannot say. That person prefers anonymity. As you well know, the world of collecting can be a treacherous place for the known."

"They seek a grand prize. Amber Room not seen in over fifty years."

"But imagine, Herr Bates, excuse me, Mr. Bates--"

"It's Borya."

"Very well. Mr. Borya. Imagine the room restored to its former glory. What a sight that would be. As of now, only a few color photographs exist, along with some black and whites that certainly do no justice to its beauty."

"I saw those pictures when searching. I also saw room before war. Truly magnificent. No photo could ever capture. Sad, but it seems lost forever."

"My employer refuses to believe that."

"Evidence good that panels were destroyed when Konigsberg was carpet bombed in 1944. Some think they rest at bottom of Baltic. I investigate Wilhelm Gustloff myself. Ninety-five hundred dead when Soviets send ship to bottom. Some say Amber Room in cargo hold. Moved from Konigsberg by truck to Danzig, then loaded for trip to Hamburg."

Knoll shifted in the chair. "I, too, looked into the Gustloff. The evidence is contradictory, at best. Frankly, the most credible story I researched was that the panels were shipped out of Konigsberg by the Nazis to a mine near Gottingen along with ammunition. When the British occupied the area in 1945, they exploded the mine. But, as with all other versions, ambiguities exist."

"Some even swore Americans find and ship across Atlantic."

"I heard that, too. Along with a version proposing the Soviets actually found and stored the panels somewhere unbeknownst to anyone now in power. Given the sheer volume of what was looted, that is entirely possible. But given the value and desire for the return of this treasure, not probable."

His visitor seemed to know the subject well. He'd reread all those theories earlier. He stared hard at the granite face, but blank eyes betrayed nothing of what the German was thinking. He recalled the practice it took to so inconspicuously post such a barrier. "Have you no concern for the curse?"

Knoll grinned. "I've heard of it. But such things are for the uninformed or the sensationalist."

"How rude I have been," he suddenly said. "You want a drink?"

"That would be nice," Knoll said.

"I be right back." He motioned to the cat sacked out on the couch. "Lucy will keep you company."

He stepped toward the kitchen and gave his visitor one last glance before pushing through the swinging door. He filled two glasses with ice and poured some tea. He also deposited the still marinating fillet in the refrigerator. He actually wasn't hungry anymore, his mind racing, like in the old days. He glanced down at the file folder with articles still lying on the counter.

"Mr. Borya?" Knoll called out.

The voice was accompanied by footsteps. Perhaps it was better the articles not be seen. He quickly yanked open the freezer and slid the folder onto the top rack next to the ice maker. He slammed the door shut just as Knoll pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. "Yes, Herr Knoll?"

"Might I use your rest room?"

"Down hall. Off the den."

"Thank you."

He didn't believe for a moment that Knoll needed to use the bathroom. More likely he needed to change a tape in a pocket recorder without the worry of interruption, or use the pretense as an opportunity to look around. It was a trick he'd utilized many times in the old days. The German was becoming annoying. He decided to have a little fun. From the cabinet beside the sink he retrieved the laxative his aging intestines forced him to take at least a couple of times a week. He trickled the tasteless granules into one of the tea glasses and stirred them in. Now the bastard really would need a bathroom.

He brought the chilled glasses into the den. Knoll returned and accepted the tea, downing several long swallows.

"Excellent," Knoll said. "Truly an American beverage. Iced tea."

"We proud of it."

"We? You consider yourself American?"

"Here many years. My home now."

"Is not Belarus independent again?"

"Leaders there no better than Soviets. Suspend constitution. Mere dictators."

"Did not the people give the Belarussian president that latitude?"

"Belarus is more like province of Russia, not true independence. Slavery takes centuries to shed."

"You do not seem to care for Germans or Communists."

He was tiring of the conversation, remembering how much he hated Germans. "Sixteen months in death camp can change your heart."

Knoll finished the tea. The ice cubes jangled as the glass banged the coffee table.

He went on, "The Germans and Communists rape Belarus and Russia. Nazis used Catherine Palace as barracks, then for target practice. I visit after war. Little left of regal beauty. Did not the Germans try and destroy Russian culture? Bombed palaces to rubble to teach us a lesson."

"I am not a Nazi, Mr. Borya, so I cannot answer your question."

A moment of strained silence passed. Then Knoll asked, "Why don't we quit sparring. Did you find the Amber Room?"

"As I said, room lost forever."

"Why don't I believe you?"

He shrugged. "I'm old man. Soon I die. No reason to lie."

"Somehow I doubt that last observation, Mr. Borya."

He grabbed Knoll's gaze with his own. "I tell you story--maybe it help with your search. Months before Mauthausen fell, Goring came to camp. He forced me to help torture four Germans. Goring had them tied naked to stakes in freezing cold. We poured water over them till dead."

"And the purpose?"

"Goring wanted das Bernstein-zimmer. The four men were some who evacuate amber panels from Konigsberg before Russians invade. Goring wanted Amber Room, but Hitler got it first."

"Any of the soldiers reveal information?"

"Nothing. Just yell 'Mein Fuhrer' until freeze to death. I still see their frozen faces in my dreams sometimes. Strange, Herr Knoll, in a sense I owe my life to a German."

"How so?"

"If one of four talk, Goring would have tied me to stake and kill same way." He was tired of remembering. He wanted the bastard out of his house before the laxative took effect. "I hate Germans, Herr Knoll. I hate Communists. I told KGB nothing. I tell you nothing. Now, go."

Knoll seemed to sense that further inquiry would be fruitless, and he stood. "Very well, Mr. Borya. Let it not be said I pressed. I will bid you a good night."

They walked to the foyer, and he opened the front door. Knoll stepped outside, turned, and extended his hand to shake. A casual gesture, seemingly more out of politeness than duty.

"A pleasure, Mr. Borya."

He thought again about the German soldier, Mathias, as he'd stood naked in the freezing cold, and how he'd responded to Goring.

He spat on the outstretched palm.

Knoll said nothing, nor did he move for a few seconds. Then, calmly, the German slipped a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the spittle away as the door slammed in his face.

FOURTEEN


9:35 p.m.

Borya once again scanned the article from International Art Review magazine and found the part he remembered:

. . . Alfred Rohde, the man who supervised the evacuation of the Amber Room from Konigsberg, was quickly apprehended after the war and summoned before Soviet authorities. The so-called Extraordinary State Commission on Damage Done by the Fascist-German Invaders was looking for the Amber Room and wanted answers. But Rohde and his wife were found dead on the morning they were to appear for questioning. Dysentery was the official cause, plausible since epidemics were raging at the time from polluted water, but speculation abounded they had been killed in order to protect the location of the Amber Room.

On the same day, Dr. Paul Erdmann, the physician who signed the Rohdes' death certificates, disappeared.

Erich Koch, Hitler's personal representative in Prussia, was ultimately arrested and tried by the Poles for war crimes. Koch was sentenced to death in 1946, but his execution was continuously postponed at the request of Soviet authorities. It was widely believed that Koch was the only man left alive who knew the actual whereabouts of the crates that left Konigsberg in 1945. Paradoxically, Koch's continued survival was dependent on his not revealing their location, since there was no reason to believe the Soviets would intervene in his behalf once they again possessed the Amber Room.

In 1965, Koch's lawyers finally obtained Soviet assurance that his life would be spared once the information was revealed. Koch then announced that the crates were walled into a bunker outside Konigsberg but claimed he was unable to remember the exact location as a result of Soviet rebuilding after the war. He went to his grave without revealing where the panels lay.

In the decades following, three West German journalists died mysteriously while searching for the Amber Room. One fell down the shaft of a disused salt mine in Austria, a place rumored to be a Nazi loot depository. Two others were killed by hit-and-run drivers. George Stein, a German researcher who long investigated the Amber Room, supposedly committed suicide. All these events fueled speculation of a curse associated with the Amber Room, making the search for the treasure even more intriguing.

He was upstairs in what was once Rachel's room. Now it was a study where he kept his books and papers. There was an antique writing desk, an oak filing cabinet, and a club chair where he liked to sit and read. Four walnut bookcases held novels, historical treatises, and classical literature.

He'd come upstairs after eating dinner, still thinking about Christian Knoll, and found more articles in one of the cabinets. They were all short, mainly fluff, containing no real information. The rest were still in the freezer. He needed to retrieve them, but didn't feel like climbing back up the stairs again afterward.

By and large the newspaper and magazine accounts on the Amber Room were contradictory. One would say the panels disappeared in January 1945, another April. Did they leave in trucks, by rail, or on the sea? Different writers offered different perspectives. One account noted that the Soviets torpedoed the Wilhelm Gustloff to the bottom of the Baltic with the panels, another mentioned bombing the ship from the air. One was sure that seventy-two crates left Konigsberg, the next noted twenty-six, another eighteen. Several accounts were sure the panels burned in Konigsberg during the bombing. Another tracked leads implying they made it surreptitiously across the Atlantic to America. It was difficult to extract anything useful, and no article ever mentioned the source of information. It could be double to triple hearsay. Or even worse, pure speculation.

Only one, an obscure publication, The Military Historian, noted the story of a train leaving occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945, with the crated Amber Room supposedly on board. Witness accounts vouched that the crates were offloaded in the tiny Czechoslovakian town of T ynec-nad-Sazavou. There, they were supposedly trucked south and stored in an underground bunker that housed the headquarters of Field Marshal von Schorner, commander of the million-strong German army, still holding out in Czechoslovakia. But the article noted that an excavation of the bunker by the Soviets in 1989 found nothing.

Close to the truth, he thought. Real close.

Seven years ago, when he first read the article, he'd wondered about its source, even tried to contact the author, but was unsuccessful. Now a man named Wayland McKoy was burrowing into the Harz Mountains near Stod, Germany. Was he on the right track? The only thing clear was that people had died searching for the Amber Room. What happened to Alfred Rohde and Erich Koch was documented history. So were the other deaths and disappearances. Coincidence? Perhaps. But he wasn't so sure. Particularly given what happened nine years ago. How could he forget. The memory haunted him every time he looked at Paul Cutler. And he wondered many times if two more names should not be added to the list of casualties.

A squeak came from the hall.

Not a sound the house usually made when empty.

He looked up, expecting to see Lucy bound into the room, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. He laid the articles aside and pushed himself up from the chair. He shuffled out into the second-floor foyer and peered down, past an oak banister, to the foyer below. Narrow sidelights framing the front door were dark, the ground floor illuminated by a single den lamp. Upstairs was dark, too, except for the floor lamp in the study. Just ahead, his bedroom door was open, the room black and quiet.

"Lucy? Lucy?"

The cat did not respond. He listened hard. No more sounds. Everything appeared quiet. He turned and started back into the study. Suddenly, someone lunged at him from behind, out of the bedroom. Before he could turn, a powerful arm locked around his neck, yanking him off the ground. The scent of latex bloomed from sheathed hands.

"Konnen wir reden mehr, `Yxo."

The voice was that of his visitor, Christian Knoll. He easily translated.

Now we talk further, Ears.

Knoll squeezed his throat hard, and his breath faltered.

"Miserable damn Russian. Spit on my hand. Who the fuck you think you are? I've killed for less."

He said nothing, the experience of a lifetime cautioning silence.

"You will tell me what I want to know, old man, or I will kill you."

He remembered similar words said fifty-two years ago. Goring informing the naked soldiers of their fate right before water was poured. What had the German soldier, Mathias, said?

It is an honor to defy your captor.

Yes, it still was.

"You know where Chapaev is, don't you?"

He tried to shake his head.

Knoll's grip tightened. "You know where das Bernstein-zimmer rests, don't you?"

He was about to pass out. Knoll loosened his grip. Air rushed into his lungs.

"I'm not someone to take lightly. I traveled a long way for information."

"I tell nothing."

"You sure? You said earlier that your time is short. Now it is shorter than you imagined. What of your daughter? Your grandchildren. Would you not like a few more years with them?"

He would, but not enough to be cowed by a German. "Go fuck, Herr Knoll."

His frail body was launched out over the stairs. He tried to cry out, but before he could muster the breath he pounded headfirst onto oak runners and rolled. His limbs splayed. Arms and legs raked the spindles as gravity sent him tumbling end over end. Something cracked. Consciousness flickered in and out. Pain seared his back. He finally settled spine first on the hard tile, agony radiating through his upper body. His legs were numb. The ceiling spun. He heard Knoll bound down the stairs, then watched him reach down and jerk him up by his hair. Ironic. He owed his life to a German, and now a German would take it.

"Ten million euros is one thing. But no Russian pissant will spit on me."

He tried to amass enough saliva to spit again, but his mouth was dry, his jaw frozen.

Knoll's arm encircled his neck.

FIFTEEN

Suzanne Danzer watched through the window and heard the crack as Knoll snapped the old man's neck. She saw the body go limp, the head left at an unnatural angle.

Knoll then shoved Borya aside and kicked the man's chest.

She'd picked up Knoll's trail this morning, after arriving in Atlanta on a flight from Prague. His actions so far had been predictable, and she initially located him as he cruised the neighborhood on a scouting mission. Any competent Acquisitor always studied the landscape first, making sure a lead was not a trap.

And if Knoll was anything, he was good.

He'd stayed downtown in his hotel most of the day, and she'd followed him earlier when he first visited Borya. But instead of returning to his hotel, Knoll waited in a car three blocks over and then backtracked to the house after dark. She'd watched as he entered through a rear door, the entrance apparently unlocked as the knob turned on the first try.

Obviously, the old man had been uncooperative. Knoll's temper was legendary. He'd tossed Borya down the stairs as casually as one tossed paper into the trash, then snapped the neck with apparent pleasure. She respected her adversary's talents, knew of the stiletto he sported on his forearm and his unhesitating ability to use it.

But she was not without talents of her own.

Knoll stood and looked around.

Her vantage point provided a clear view. The black jumpsuit and black cap she wore over her blond hair helped blend her into the night. The room the window opened into, a front parlor, was unlit.

Did he sense her?

She shrank below the sill into the tall hollies surrounding the house, careful with the prickly leaves. The night was warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead at the edge of the cap's elastic. She cautiously edged back up and saw Knoll disappear up the stairs. Six minutes later he returned, his hands empty, his jacket was once again smooth, his tie perfect. She watched as he bent down and checked Borya's pulse and then moved toward the back of the house. A few seconds later she heard a door open and close.

She waited ten minutes before creeping around to the rear of the house. With gloved hands, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and old age lingered in the air. She crossed the kitchen and headed toward the foyer.

In the dining room a cat suddenly bisected her path. She stopped, her heart pounding, and cursed the creature.

She sucked in a breath and entered the den.

The decor hadn't changed since her last visit, three years ago. The same hand-tufted camelback sofa, chiming wall clock, and iron Cambridge lamps. The lithographs on the wall had initially intrigued her. She'd wondered if any might be originals, but a close inspection last time revealed all to be copies. She'd broken in one evening after Borya left, her search revealing nothing on the Amber Room other than some magazine and newspaper reports. Nothing of any value. If Karol Borya knew anything of substance on the Amber Room, he certainly hadn't written it down or did not keep the information in his house.

She bypassed the body in the foyer and mounted the stairs. Another quick check in the study revealed nothing except that Borya had apparently been reading some of the Amber Room material recently. Several articles were strewn across the same tan chair she remembered from before.

She crept back downstairs.

The old man lay facedown. She tried for a pulse. None.

Good.

Knoll saved her the trouble.

SIXTEEN


Sunday, May 11, 8:35 a.m.

Rachel steered the car into her father's driveway. The mid-May morning sky was an inviting blue. The garage door was up, the Oldsmobile resting outside, dew sparkling on its maroon exterior. The sight was strange, since her father usually parked the car inside.

The house had changed little since her childhood. Red brick, white trim, charcoal shingled roof. The magnolia and dogwoods in front, planted twenty-five years ago when the family first moved in, now loomed tall and bushy along with hollies and junipers encircling the front and sides. The shutters were showing their age, and mildew was slowly advancing up the brick. The outside needed attention and she made a mental note to talk to her father about it.

She parked and the kids bolted out, running around to the back door.

She checked her father's car. Unlocked. She shook her head. He simply refused to lock anything. The morning Constitution lay in the driveway, and she walked down and retrieved it, then followed the concrete path around back. Marla and Brent were calling for Lucy in the backyard.

The kitchen door was also unlocked. The light over the sink was on. As careless as her father was about locks, he was downright neurotic about lights, burning one only when absolutely necessary. He would surely have switched it off last night before going to bed.

She called out, "Dad? You here? How many times do I have to tell you about leaving the door unlocked?"

The kids called for Lucy, then pushed through the swinging door toward the dining room and den.

"Daddy?" Her voice was louder.

Marla ran back into the kitchen. "Granddaddy's asleep on the floor."

"What do you mean?"

"He's asleep on the floor by the stairs."

She rushed from the kitchen to the foyer. The odd angle of her father's neck instantly told her he wasn't sleeping.

"Welcome to the High Museum of Art," the greeter said to each person passing through the wide glass doors. "Welcome. Welcome." People continued to file through the turnstile one at a time. Paul waited his turn in line.

"Morning, Mr. Cutler," the greeter said. "You didn't have to wait. Why didn't you come on up?"

"That wouldn't be fair, Mr. Braun."

"Membership on the board should have some privilege, shouldn't it?"

Paul smiled. "You would think. Is there a reporter here waiting for me? I was to meet him at ten."

"Yep. Fellow's been in the front gallery since I opened."

He headed off, his leather heels clicking against the shiny terrazzo. The four-story atrium was open all the way to the ceiling, semicircular pedestrian ramps girdled the towering walls on each floor, people milled up and down, and the rumble of muted conversations floated across the conditioned air.

He could think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than at the museum. He'd never been much of a churchgoer. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that admiring real human endeavor seemed more satisfying than pondering some omnipotent being. Rachel was the same way. He often wondered if their lackadaisical attitude toward religion affected Marla and Brent. Maybe the children needed exposure, he once argued. But Rachel had disagreed. Let them make up their own minds in their own time. She was staunchly antireligion.

Just one more of their debates.

He sauntered into the front gallery, its canvases a tantalizing sample of what awaited throughout the rest of the building. The reporter, a skinny, brisk-looking man with a scraggly beard and a camera bag slung over his right shoulder, stood in front of a large oil.

"Are you Gale Blazek?"

The young man turned and nodded.

"Paul Cutler." They shook hands, and he motioned to the painting. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Del Sarto's last, I believe," the reporter said.

He nodded. "We were fortunate to talk a private collector into lending it to us for a while, along with several other nice canvases. They're on the second floor with the rest of the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century Italians."

"I'll make a point to see them before I leave."

He noticed the huge wall clock. 10:15 A.M. "Sorry I'm late. Why don't we wander around and you can ask your questions."

The man smiled and withdrew a microrecorder from the shoulder bag. They strolled across the expansive gallery.

"I'll just get right into it. How long have you been on the museum's board?" the reporter asked.

"Nine years now."

"You a collector?"

He grinned. "Hardly. Only some small oils and a few watercolors. Nothing substantial."

"I've been told your talents lie in organization. The administration speaks highly of you."

"I love my volunteer work. This place is special to me."

A noisy group of teenagers poured in from the mezzanine.

"Were you educated in the arts?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I earned a BA from Emory in political science and took a few graduate courses in art history. Then I found out what art historians make and went to law school." He left out the part about not getting accepted on the first try. Not from vanity--it was just that after thirteen years it really didn't matter any longer.

They skirted the edge of two women admiring a canvas of St. Mary Magdalene.

"How old are you?" the reporter asked.

"Forty-one."

"Married?"

"Divorced."

"Me, too. How you handling it?"

He shrugged. No need to make any comment on the record about that. "I get by."

Actually, divorce meant a sparse two-bedroom apartment and dinners eaten either alone or with business associates, except the two nights a week he ate with the kids. Socializing was confined to State Bar functions, which was the only reason he served on so many committees, something to occupy his spare time and the alternate weekends he didn't have the kids. Rachel was good about visitation. Any time, really. But he didn't want to interfere with her relationship with the children, and he understood the value of a schedule and the need for consistency.

"How about you describe yourself for me."

"Excuse me?"

"It's something I ask all the people I profile. They can do it far better than I could. Who better to know you than you?"

"When the administrator asked me to do this interview and show you around, I thought the piece was on the museum, not me."

"It is. For next Sunday's Constitution magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits."

"What about the curators?"

"The administrator says you're one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on."

He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. "How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable. The kind of guy you'd want to be in a foxhole with."

"The kind of guy who makes sure your estate gets handled right after you're gone?"

He'd not said anything about being a probate lawyer. Obviously, the reporter had done some homework. "Something like that."

"You mentioned foxholes. Ever been in the military?"

"I came along after the draft. Post-Vietnam and all that."

"How long have you practiced law?"

"Since you know I'm a probate lawyer, I assume you also know how long I've practiced."

"Actually, I forgot to ask."

An honest answer. Fair enough. "I've been at Pridgen and Woodworth thirteen years now."

"Your partners speak highly of you. I talked to them Friday."

He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Nobody mentioned anything about that."

"I asked them not to. At least until after today. I wanted our talk to be spontaneous."

More patrons filed in. The chamber was getting crowded and noisy. "Why don't we walk into the Edwards Gallery. Less folks. We have some excellent sculptures on display." He led the way across the mezzanine. Sunlight poured past the walkways through tall sheets of thick glass laced into a white porcelain edifice. A towering jewel-toned ink drawing graced the far north wall. The aroma of coffee and almonds drifted from an open cafe.

"Magnificent," the reporter said, looking around. "What did the New York Times call it? The best museum a city's built in a generation?"

"We were pleased with their enthusiasm. It helped stock the galleries. Donors immediately felt comfortable with us."

Ahead stood a polished red-granite monolith in the center of the atrium. He instinctively moved toward it, never passing without stopping for a moment. The reporter followed. A list of twenty-nine names was etched into stone. His eyes always gravitated to the center:

YANCY CUTLER
JUNE 4, 1936-OCTOBER 23, 1998
DEDICATED LAWYER
PATRON OF THE ARTS
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM

MARLENE CUTLER
MAY 14, 1938-OCTOBER 23, 1998
DEVOTED WIFE
PATRON OF THE ARTS
FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM

"Your father was on the board, wasn't he?" the reporter asked.

"He served thirty years. Helped raise the money for this building. My mother was active, too."

He stood silent. Reverent, as always. It was the only memorial of his parents that existed. The airbus exploded far out to sea. Twenty-nine people dead. The entire museum board of directors, spouses, and several employees. No bodies found. No explanation for the cause other than a curt conclusion by Italian authorities that separatist terrorists had been responsible. The Italian Minister of Antiquities, on board, had been presumed the target. Yancy and Marlene Cutler were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"They were good people," he said. "We all miss them."

He turned, leading the reporter into the Edwards Gallery. An assistant curator raced across the atrium.

"Mr. Cutler, please wait." The woman hurried over, a look of concern on her face. "A call just came for you. I'm sorry. Your ex-father-in-law has died."

SEVENTEEN

Atlanta, Georgia
Tuesday, May 13

Karol Borya was buried at 11 a.m., the midspring morning cloudy and overcast with a lingering chill, unusual for May. The funeral was well attended. Paul officiated, introducing three of Borya's longtime friends who delivered moving eulogies. He then said a few words of his own.

Rachel stood in front, with Marla and Brent at her side. The mitered priest at St. Methodius Orthodox Church presided, Karol having been a regular parishioner. The ceremony was unhurried, tearful, and enhanced by a choir performance of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov. Interment was in the Orthodox cemetery adjacent to the church, a rolling patch of red clay and Bermuda grass shaded by mushrooming sycamore trees. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the priest's final words rang true, "From dust you come, to dust you go."

Though Borya fully adopted American culture, he'd always retained a religious connection with his homeland, strictly adhering to Orthodox doctrine. Paul didn't remember his ex-father-in-law as an overly devout man, just one who solemnly believed and transferred that belief into a good life. The old man had mentioned many times that he'd liked to be buried in Belarus, among the birch groves, marshlands, and sloping fields of blue flax. His parents, brothers, and sisters lay in mass graves, the exact locations dying with the SS officers and German soldiers who slaughtered them. Paul thought about talking with somebody at the State Department on the possibility of a foreign burial, but Rachel vetoed the idea, saying she wanted her father and mother nearby. Rachel also insisted the postfuneral gathering occur at her house, and about seventy-some people wandered in and out over two hours. Neighbors supplied food and drinks. She politely talked to everyone, accepted condolences, and expressed thanks.

Paul watched her carefully. She seemed to be holding up well. Around two o'clock, she disappeared upstairs. He found her in their former bedroom, alone. It'd been a while since he was last inside.

"You okay?" he asked.

She was perched on the edge of the four-poster bed, staring at the carpet, her eyes swollen from crying. He stepped closer.

"I knew this day would come," she said. "Now they're both gone." She paused. "I remember when Mama died. I thought it was the end of the world. I couldn't understand why she'd been taken away."

He'd often wondered if that was the source of her antireligious beliefs. Resentment for a supposed merciful God who would so callously deprive a young girl of her mother. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her he loved her and always would. But he stood still, fighting back tears.

"She used to read to me all the time. Strange, but what I remember most was her voice. So gentle. And the stories she'd tell. Apollo and Daphne. Perseus' battles. Jason and Medea. Everybody else got fairy tales." She smiled weakly. "I got mythology."

The comment was one of the rare times she'd ever mentioned anything specific about her childhood. The subject was not one she dwelled upon, and she'd made it clear in the past that she considered any inquiry an intrusion.

"That why you read the same kind of stuff to the kids?"

She wiped the tears from her cheek and nodded.

"Your father was a good man. I loved him."

"Even though you and I didn't make it, he always thought of you as his son. Told me he always would." She looked at him. "It was his fondest wish that we get back together."

His too, but he said nothing.

"Seems all you and I ever did was fight," she said. "Two stubborn people."

He had to say, "That's not all we did."

She shrugged. "You always were the optimist in the house."

He noticed the family picture angled atop the chest of drawers. They'd had it taken a year before the divorce. He, Rachel, and the kids. Their wedding picture was also still there, like the one downstairs in the foyer.

"I'm sorry about last Tuesday night," she said. "What I said when you left. You know how my mouth can be sometimes."

"I shouldn't have meddled. What happened with Nettles was none of my business."

"No, you're right. I overreacted with him. My temper gets me into more trouble." She brushed away more tears. "I've got so much to do. This summer is going to be difficult. I wasn't planning on a contested race this time. Now this."

He didn't voice the obvious. Maybe if she exercised a little diplomacy the lawyers appearing before her wouldn't feel so threatened.

"Look, Paul, could you handle Dad's estate? I just can't deal with that right now."

He reached out and lightly squeezed her shoulder. She did not resist the gesture. "Sure."

Her hand went up to his. It was the first time they'd touched in months. "I trust you. I know it'll get done right. He would have wanted you to handle things. He respected you."

She withdrew her hand.

He did, too. He started thinking like a lawyer. Anything to take his mind away from the moment. "You know where the will is?"

"Look around the house. It's probably in the study. It might be in his safe deposit box at the bank. I don't know. He gave me the key."

She walked over to the dresser. Ice Queen? Not to him. He recalled their first encounter twelve years ago at an Atlanta Bar Association meeting. He was a quiet first-year associate at Pridgen & Woodworth. She was an aggressive assistant district attorney. Two years they dated until she finally suggested they marry. They'd been happy in the beginning and the years passed quickly. What went wrong? Why couldn't things be good again? Maybe she was right. Perhaps they were better friends than lovers.

He hoped not.

He accepted the safe deposit key she offered and said, "Don't worry, Rach. I'll take care of things."

He left Rachel's house and drove straight to Karol Borya's. It was less than a half-hour journey through a combination of busy commercial boulevards and hectic neighborhood streets.

He parked in the driveway and saw Borya's Oldsmobile nestled in the garage. Rachel had given him the house key, and he unlocked the front door, his eyes immediately drawn to the foyer tiles, then up the staircase spindles, some splintered in half, others jutting at odd angles. The oak steps bore no evidence of an impact, but the police said the old man slammed into one and then tumbled to his death, his eighty-one-year-old neck breaking in the process. An autopsy confirmed the injuries and their apparent cause.

A tragic accident.

Standing in the stillness, an odd combination of regret and sadness shuddered through him. Always before he'd enjoyed coming over, talking art and the Braves. Now the old man was gone. Another link to Rachel severed. But a friend was gone, too. Borya was like a father to him. They'd become especially close after his parents were killed. Borya and his father had been good friends, linked by art. He now remembered both men with a pang in his heart.

Good men gone forever.

He decided to take Rachel's advice and first look upstairs in the study. He knew there was a will. He'd drafted it a few years back and doubted that Borya would have gone to anyone else to modify the language. A copy was certainly back at the firm in the retired files and, if necessary, he could use that. But the original could be worked through probate faster.

He climbed the stairs and searched the study. Magazine articles lay strewn on the club chair, a few scattered on the carpet. He shuffled through the pages. All concerned the Amber Room. Borya had spoken of the object many times through the years, his conviction the words of a White Russian who longed to see the treasure restored to the Catherine Palace. Beyond that, though, he hadn't realized the man's rather intense interest, apparently enough to collect articles and clippings dating back thirty years.

He rifled through the desk drawers and filing cabinets and found no will.

He scanned the bookshelves. Borya loved to read. Homer, Hugo, Poe, and Tolstoy lined the shelves, along with a volume of Russian fairy tales, a set of Churchill's Histories, and a leather-bound copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses. He seemed to also like southern writers, works by Flannery O'Connor and Katherine Anne Porter formed part of the collection.

His eyes were drawn to the banner on the wall. The old man had bought it at a kiosk in Centennial Park during the Olympics. A silver knight on a rearing horse, sword drawn, a six-ended golden cross adorning the shield. The background was blood red, the symbol of valor and courage, Borya had said, trimmed in white to embody freedom and purity. It was the national emblem of Belarus, a defiant symbol of self-determination.

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 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.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 document 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 document 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 nobody 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 passed, 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 bullshit. The Russians, Soviets, Nazis. 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 God 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 Nazis, 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, 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 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, God 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.

What did he mean, 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 passed, and it would be nearly impossible to find out. My God, 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. 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 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 hell 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 buttons. 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.

Bitch.

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 assume 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 was the term the Fraternal Order of Police and the press liked to use. Traitor, was the description she'd been told a lot of the narcotics detectives whispered. But she didn't care. The Constitution 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.

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. "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, assigned 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 Nazi 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?"

She did not answer him. Instead she asked, "What did the medical examiner say?"

"Broken neck. Caused by the fall. No evidence of other trauma except bruising on the arms and legs from the fall. Again, Judge, what makes you think your father's death was something other than accidental?"

She considered telling him about the file in the freezer, Danya Chapaev, the Amber Room, and Paul's parents. But the arrogant ass didn't even want to be here, and she'd sound like a conspiratorial nut. He was right. There was no proof her father had been shoved down the stairs. Nothing that connected his death to any "curse of the Amber Room," as some of the articles suggested. So what if her father was interested in the subject? He loved art. Once worked with it every day. So what if he was reading articles in his study, stashed more in his freezer, unfolded a German map in the den, and possessed a keen interest in a man heading for Germany to dig in forgotten caves? A huge leap from that to murder. Maybe Paul was right. She decided to let it lie with this guy.

"Nothing, Lieutenant. You're quite right. Just a tragic fall. Thanks for coming by."

Rachel sat sullen in her office and thought back to when she was sixteen, her father explaining for the first time about Mauthausen, and how the Russians and Dutch worked the stone quarry, hauling tons of boulders up a long series of narrow steps to the camp where more prisoners chiseled them into bricks.

The Jews, though, weren't so lucky. Each day they were tossed down the cliff into the quarry simply for sport, their screams echoing as bodies flew through the air, bets taken by the guards on how many times flesh and bones would bounce before being silenced by death. Eventually, her father explained, the SS had to stop the hurling because it so disrupted the work.

Not because they were killing people, she remembered him saying, only because it affected the work.

Her father cried that day, one of the few times ever, and so had she. Her mother had told her about his war experiences and what he'd done afterward, but her father hardly mentioned the time. She'd always noticed the smeared tattoo on his left forearm, wondering when he'd explain.

They forced us to run into electric fence. Some did willingly, tired of torture. Others were shot, hanged, or injected in the heart. The gas came later.

She'd asked how many died in Mauthausen. And he told her without hesitation that 60 percent of the two hundred thousand never made it out. He arrived in April 1944. The Hungarian Jews came shortly thereafter, every one of them slaughtered like sheep. He'd helped heave the bodies from the gas chamber to the oven, a daily ritual, commonplace, like taking out the garbage, the guards used to say. She remembered him telling her about one night in particular, toward the end, when Hermann Goring marched into the camp wearing a pearl gray uniform.

Evil on two legs, he called him.

Goring had ordered four Germans murdered, her father part of the detail that poured water over their naked bodies until they froze to death. Goring stood impassive the whole time, rubbing a piece of amber, wanting to know something about the Amber Room. Of all the horror that happened in Mauthausen, her father said, that night with Goring was what stayed with him.

And set his course in life.

After the war, he was sent to interview Goring in prison during the Nurnberg trials.

Did he remember you? she'd asked.

My face in Mauthausen meant nothing to him.

But Goring recalled the torture, saying he greatly admired the soldiers for holding out. German superiority, breeding, he'd said. Her love for her father multiplied tenfold after finally hearing about Mauthausen. What he endured was unimaginable and just to survive was an accomplishment. But to survive with his sanity intact seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Sitting in the quiet of her chambers, Rachel cried. That precious man was gone. His voice forever silent, his love only a memory. For the first time in her life she was alone. Her parents' entire family had either perished in the war or were inaccessible, somewhere in Belarus, strangers really, linked merely by genes. Only her two children were left. She remembered how they'd ended that conversation about Mauthausen twenty-four years ago.

Daddy, did you ever find the Amber Room?

He stared back at her with woeful eyes. She wondered then and now if there was something he wanted to tell her. Something she needed to know. Or was it better she not know? Hard to tell. And his words didn't help.

Never did, my darling.

But his tone was reminiscent of when he once explained there really was a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny, a Tooth Fairy. Hollow words that simply needed to be said. Now, after reading the letters between her father and Danya Chapaev and the note penned in his own hand, she was convinced that there was more to the story. Her father harbored a secret, and apparently had done so for years.

But he was gone.

Only one lead left.

Danya Chapaev.

And she knew what had to be done.

Rachel stepped off the elevator on the twenty-third floor and marched toward the paneled doors labeled PRIDGEN & WOODWORTH. The law firm consumed the entire twenty-third and twenty-fourth floors of the downtown high-rise, its probate division on the twenty-third.

Paul started with the firm right out of law school. She'd worked first with the DA's office, then with another Atlanta firm. They met eleven months later and married two years after that. Their courtship typical of Paul, never in a hurry to do anything. So careful. Deliberate. Afraid to take a chance, play the odds, or risk failure. She'd been the one to suggest marriage, and he readily agreed.

He was a handsome man, always had been. Not rugged, or dashing, just attractive in an ordinary way. And he was honest. Along with possessing a fanatical dependability. But his unbending dedication to tradition had slowly turned irksome. Why not vary Sunday dinner every once in a while? Roast, potatoes, corn, snap peas, rolls, and iced tea. Every Sunday for years. Not that Paul required it, only that the same thing always satisfied him. In the beginning, she'd liked that predictability. It was comforting. A known commodity that stabilized her world. Toward the end it became a tremendous pain in the ass.

But why?

Was a routine so bad?

Paul was a good, decent, successful man. She was proud of him, though she rarely voiced it. He was next in line to head the probate division. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old who needed two tries to get into law school. But Paul knew probate law. He studied nothing else, concentrating on all its nuances, even serving on legislative committees. He was a recognized expert on the subject, and Pridgen & Woodworth paid him enough money to prevent another firm from luring him away. The firm handled thousands of estates, many quite substantial, and most she knew were attributable to the statewide reputation of Paul Cutler.

She pushed through the doors and followed the maze of corridors to Paul's office. She'd called before leaving her chambers, so he was expecting her. She went straight in, closed the door, and announced, "I'm going to Germany."

Paul looked up. "You're what?"

"I didn't stutter. I'm going to Germany."

"To find Chapaev? He's probably dead. He didn't even return your father's last letter."

"I need to do something."

Paul stood from the desk. "Why do you always have to do something?"

"Daddy knew about the Amber Room. I owe it to him to check it out."

"Owe it to him?" His voice was rising. "You owe it to him to respect his last wish, which was to stay out of whatever it was. If anything, by the way. Damn, Rachel, you're forty years old. When are you going to grow up?"

She stayed surprisingly calm, considering how she felt about his lectures. "I don't want to fight, Paul. I need you to look after the children. Will you do that?"

"Typical, Rachel. Fly off the handle. Do the first thing that comes to mind. No thought. Just do it."

"Will you watch the kids?"

"If I said no, would you stay?"

"I'd call your brother."

Paul sat back down. His expression signaled surrender.

"You can stay at the house," she said. "It'll be easier on the kids. They're still pretty upset over Daddy."

"They'd be even more upset if they knew what their mother was doing. And have you forgotten about the election? It's less than eight weeks away, and you have two opponents working their asses off to beat you, now with Marcus Nettles's money."

"Screw the election. Nettles can have the damn judgeship. This is more important."

"What's more important? We don't even know what this is. What about your docket? How can you just up and leave?"

She notched two points for a nice try, but that wasn't going to discourage her. "The chief judge understood. I told him I needed some time to grieve. I haven't taken a vacation in two years. I have the leave accrued."

Paul shook his head. "You're going on a wild goose chase to Bavaria for an old man who's probably dead, looking for something that's probably lost forever. You're not the first one to search for the Amber Room. People have devoted their whole lives to looking, and found nothing."

She wasn't going to budge. "Daddy knew something important. I can feel it. This Chapaev may know also."

"You're dreaming."

"And you're pathetic." She instantly regretted the words and tone. There was no need to hurt him.

"I'm going to ignore that because I know you're upset," he slowly said.

"I'm leaving tomorrow evening on a flight to Munich. I need a copy of Daddy's letters and the articles from his files."

"I'll drop them off on the way home." His voice was filled with total resignation.

"I'll call from Germany and let you know where I'm staying." She headed for the door. "Pick up the kids at day care tomorrow."

"Rachel."

She stopped but did not turn back.

"Be careful."

She opened the door and left.

PART TWO

TWENTY-ONE


Thursday, May 15, 10:15 a.m.

Knoll left his hotel and caught a marta train to the Fulton County Courthouse. The KGB information sheet he'd pilfered from the St. Petersburg records depository indicated that Rachel Cutler was a lawyer and an office address was provided. But a visit to the law firm yesterday revealed that she'd left the firm four years earlier after being elected a superior court judge. The receptionist was more than courteous, providing the new phone number and office location at the courthouse. He decided that a call might bring a quick rebuke. A face-to-face unannounced visit seemed the best approach.

Five days had elapsed since he'd killed Karol Borya. He needed to ascertain what, if anything, the daughter knew about the Amber Room. Perhaps her father had mentioned something over the years. Perhaps she knew about Chapaev. A long shot, but he was rapidly running out of leads, and he needed to exhaust all the possibilities. A trail that once seemed promising was growing cold.

He boarded a crowded elevator and rose to the courthouse's sixth floor. The corridors were lined with crowded courtrooms and busy offices. He wore the light gray business suit, striped shirt, and pale yellow silk tie bought yesterday at a suburban men's store. He'd intentionally kept the colors soft and conservative.

He pushed through glass doors marked CHAMBERS OF THE HONORABLE RACHEL CUTLER and stepped into a quiet anteroom. A thirtyish black female waited behind a desk. The nameplate read, SAMI LUFFMAN. In his best English, he said, "Good morning."

The woman smiled and returned the greeting.

"My name is Christian Knoll." He handed her a card, similar to the one used with Pietro Caproni, except this one proclaimed only ART COLLECTOR, not academician, and bore no address. "I was wondering if I could speak to Her Honor?"

The woman accepted the card. "I'm sorry, Judge Cutler is not in today."

"It's quite important I speak to her."

"May I ask if this concerns a pending case in our court?"

He shook his head, cordial and innocent. "Not at all. It is a personal matter."

"The judge's father died last weekend and--"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, feigning emotion. "How terrible."

"Yes, it was awful. She's very upset and decided to take a little time off."

"That's so unfortunate, for both her and me. I am in town only until tomorrow and was hoping to talk to Judge Cutler before I leave. Perhaps you could forward a message and she could call my hotel?"

The secretary seemed to be considering the request, and he took the moment to study a framed photograph hanging behind her on the papered wall. A woman was standing before another man, right arm raised as if taking an oath. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair, an upturned nose, and intense eyes. She wore a black robe, so it was hard to tell about her figure. Her smooth cheeks were flushed with a tinge of rouge and her slight smile appeared appropriate for the solemn circumstance. He motioned to the photo. "Judge Cutler?"

"When she was sworn in, four years ago."

It was the same face he'd seen at Karol Borya's funeral Tuesday, standing in front of the assembled mourners, hugging two small children, a boy and a girl.

"I could give Judge Cutler your message, but I don't know if you would hear from her."

"Why is that?"

"She's leaving town later today."

"A long journey?"

"She's going to Germany."

"Such a wonderful place." He needed to know where, so he tried the three major points of entry. "Berlin is exquisite this time of year. As are Frankfurt and Munich."

"She's going to Munich."

"Ah! A magical city. Perhaps it will help with her grief?"

"I hope so."

He'd learned enough. "I thank you, Ms. Luffman. You have been most helpful. Here is the information on my hotel." He fabricated a place and room number, no need now for contact. "Please let Judge Cutler know I came by."

"I'll try," she said.

He turned to leave but gave the framed photograph on the wall one last look, freezing the image of Rachel Cutler in his mind.

He left the sixth floor and descended to street level. A bank of pay phones spread across one wall. He stepped over and dialed overseas to the private line in Franz Fellner's study. It was almost 5 P.M. in Germany. He wasn't sure who would answer or even who he was reporting to now. Power was clearly in transition--Fellner was phasing himself out while Monika assumed control. But the old man was not the type to let go easily, especially with something like the Amber Room at stake.

"Guten tag," Monika answered after two rings.

"You on secretary duty today?" he asked in German.

"About time you called in. It's been a week. Any luck?"

"We should get something straight. I don't check in like a schoolboy. Give me a job and leave me alone. I'll call when necessary."

"Touchy, aren't we?"

"I require no supervision."

"I'll remind you of that the next time you're between my legs."

He smiled. Hard to back her down. "I found Borya. He said he knew nothing."

"And you believed him?"

"Did I say that?"

"He's dead, right?"

"A tragic fall down the stairs."

"Father will not like this."

"I thought you were in charge?"

"I am. And frankly it matters not. But Father's right--you take too many risks."

"I took no unnecessary risks."

In fact, he'd been quite cautious. Careful on his first visit to touch nothing other than the tea glass, which he removed on the later visit. And when he returned the second time his hands were gloved.

"Let's say I decided the course necessary under the circumstances."

"What did he do, insult your pride?"

Amazing how she could read him even from four thousand miles away. He never realized himself to be so transparent. "That's unimportant."

"One day your luck will run out, Christian."

"You sound like you look forward to the day."

"Not really. You'll be hard to replace."

"In which way?"

"Every way, you bastard."

He smiled. Good to know he got under her skin, too. "I've learned Borya's daughter is on her way to Munich. She might be going to see Chapaev."

"What makes you think that?"

"The way Borya dodged me, and something he said about the panels."

Maybe better stay lost.

"The daughter could simply be vacationing."

"I doubt that. Too much of a coincidence."

"You going to follow her?"

"Later today. There's something I need to handle first."

TWENTY-TWO

Suzanne watched Christian Knoll from across the mezzanine. She was seated inside a crowded waiting room, CLERK OF COURT, TRAFFIC FINES stenciled on the outer glass wall. About seventy-five people waited their turn to approach a Formica counter and dispose of citations, the whole scene chaotic, stale cigarette smoke lingering in the air despite several NO SMOKING signs.

She'd been following Knoll since Saturday. Monday, he'd made two trips to the High Museum of Art and one to a downtown Atlanta office building. Tuesday, he attended Karol Borya's funeral. She'd watched the graveside service from across the street. He'd done little yesterday, a trip to the public library and a shopping mall, but today he was up early and on the move.

Her short blond hair was stuffed beneath a tendriled, brownish-red wig. Extra makeup splotched her face, and her eyes were shielded by a pair of cheap sunglasses. She wore tight jeans, a collarless 1996 Atlanta Olympics jersey, and tennis shoes. A cheap black bag was slung over one shoulder. She fit right in with the crowd, a People magazine open in her lap, her eyes constantly shifting from the page to the phone bank across the hectic mezzanine.

Five minutes ago she'd followed Knoll to the sixth floor and watched while he entered Rachel Cutler's chambers. She recognized the name and knew the connection. Knoll was obviously not giving up, most likely now reporting to Monika Fellner what he learned. That bitch would definitely be a problem. Young. Aggressive. Hungry. A worthy successor to Franz Fellner, and a nuisance in more ways than one.

Knoll hadn't stayed long in Rachel Cutler's office, certainly not long enough to meet with her. So she'd backed off, fearful he might notice her presence, unsure if the disguise would be effective camouflage. She'd worn a different ensemble each day, careful not to repeat anything he might recognize. Knoll was good. Damn good. Fortunately, she was better.

Knoll hung up the phone and headed for the street.

She tossed the magazine aside and followed.

Knoll flagged a cab and rode back to his hotel. He'd sensed somebody Saturday night at Borya's house after he twisted the old man's neck. But he definitely detected Suzanne Danzer on Monday, and every day since. She'd disguised herself well. But too many years in the field had honed his abilities. Little escaped him now. He'd almost been expecting her. Ernst Loring, Danzer's employer, wanted the Amber Room as much as Fellner did. Loring's father, Josef, had been obsessed with amber, amassing one of the largest private collections in the world. Ernst had inherited both the objects and his father's desire. Many times he'd heard Loring preach on the subject, and watched while he traded or bought amber pieces from other collectors, Fellner included. Surely Danzer had been dispatched to Atlanta to see what he was doing.

But how did she know where to find him?

Of course. The nosy clerk in St. Petersburg. Who else? The idiot must have stolen a look at the KGB sheet before he tabled it. He was certainly on the take, with Loring one of several likely benefactors--now the primary benefactor, since Danzer was here, and had been, he assumed, since Friday.

The cab pulled up to the Marriott and Knoll jumped out. Somewhere behind, Danzer was certainly following. She was probably registered here, as well. She would most likely duck into one of the ground-floor rest rooms and modify her disguise, switching wigs and accessories, maybe making a quick run to change clothes, probably paying one of the bellboys or concierges to alert her if he left the building.

He headed straight for his eighteenth-floor room. Inside, he dialed Delta reservations.

"I need a flight from Atlanta to Munich. Is there one leaving today?"

Computer keys were punched.

"Yes, sir, we have an outbound at 2:35 P.M. A direct flight to Munich."

He had to be sure there were no other flights. "Anything sooner or later?"

More keys were punched. "Not with us."

"How about another airline?"

More punching. "That's the only direct flight from Atlanta to Munich today. You could connect, though, on two others."

He gambled she was on the direct flight and not another to New York, Paris, Amsterdam, or Frankfurt with a connection into Munich. He confirmed the reservation, then hung up and quickly packed his travel bag. He needed to time his arrival at the airport precisely. If Rachel Cutler wasn't on the flight he'd chosen, he'd have to pick up her trail another way, perhaps when she called her office to let her secretary know where she could be reached. He could call back, give a correct phone number, and tickle her curiosity until she returned his call.

He headed down to check out. The lobby was busy. People rushing everywhere. But he quickly noticed a pixie brunette, fifty yards away, perched at an outside table in one of the lounges dotting the center atrium. As he suspected, Danzer had changed clothes. A peach-colored jumpsuit and sunglasses, more stylish and darker than before, replaced the grunge look.

He paid the clerk for the room, then headed outside for a cab to the airport.

Suzanne eyed the travel bag. Knoll was leaving? There was no time to return to her room. She'd have to follow and see where he went. That was exactly why she always packed light and included nothing she couldn't do without or replace.

She stood, threw five dollars on the table for a drink she'd sipped only twice, then headed toward the revolving doors and the street.

Knoll exited the cab at Hartsfield International Airport and checked his watch--1:25 P.M. He would have less than an hour to evade Danzer and make it to the gate. He tossed the driver three tens, folded the leather travel bag across his right arm, and marched inside the south terminal.

The lines for Delta ticketing were long. He needed to lose Danzer farther into the terminal, so he headed straight for the electronic check-in kiosk. The stiletto was stashed inside his travel bag, the only safe place, since the blade would never have survived the metal detectors. He obtained a boarding pass and checked his bag, then passed through a busy security checkpoint and cruised down a long escalator to the transportation mall. Danzer lingered fifty yards back. Just as he suspected, she'd been caught off guard by his sudden exit, with no time to modify her disguise. The same brunette wig, peach jumpsuit, and dark sunglasses from the Marriott. A bit sloppy for her. She should carry a backup. Something to vary the look if disguise was the only means of camouflage employed. He preferred electronic surveillance. It allowed the luxury of distance between hunter and hunted.

At the bottom of the escalator, he scampered with the rest of the afternoon travelers to the automatic trains. Hundreds crisscrossed the transportation mall. He boarded a train in the front car and noticed Danzer climb into the second car, positioning herself near the doors and forward windows so she could see what was happening ahead. He knew the airport well. The trains moved between six concourses, the International Concourse being farthest away. At the first stop, Concourse A, he and a hundred other people stepped off. Danzer surely was wondering what he was doing, certainly familiar enough with Hartsfield to know that no international flights used Con-courses A through D. Perhaps he was taking a domestic flight to another American city, she might be thinking. No matter. He knew she'd follow, probably already plotting how to get on and off the plane without him noticing.

He loitered on the train platform as if waiting for somebody. Instead he silently ticked off the seconds. Timing was critical. Danzer waited too, trying to seem uninterested, using the crowd for protection. She stood fifty feet away, apparently confident he noticed nothing. He waited exactly one minute then followed the crowd to an escalator.

The steps slowly rose.

It was thirty yards up to the busy concourse. Broad skylights four stories above admitted the afternoon sun. A ten-foot angled aluminum median separated the up escalator from the down. Every twenty feet a silk plant sprouted for decoration. The down escalator heading back toward the transportation mall was not nearly as crowded. No surveillance cameras or security guards were in sight.

He waited for the precise moment, then gripped the rubber handrail and leaped across the median, pivoting off the side of one of the silk planters and hopping onto the down escalator. He was now headed in the opposite direction and, as he passed Danzer, he tipped his head in mock salute.

The look on her face said it all.

He needed to move fast. It wouldn't be long before she copied what he did. He sidestepped the few travelers heading down and raced to ground level. His timing was perfect. A train roared into the station, heading outbound. The doors parted. A robotic voice announced, "Please move away from the doors to the center of the aisle." People streamed on. He glanced back and saw Danzer leap across the median onto the down escalator, her move not quite as graceful as his. She stumbled for a moment, then regained her balance.

He stepped onto the train.

"The doors are now closing," the robotic voice announced.

Danzer raced off the escalator straight for the train, but was too late. The doors closed and the train roared from the station.

He exited the train at the International Concourse. Danzer would eventually head that way, but the flight to Munich was surely boarding by now and he was nearly a mile from Concourse A. By the time she either ran through the transportation mall or waited for the next train he'd be lost in the crowd above, boarding the flight.

The concourse was huge and familiar. The largest international flight terminal in America. Five stories. Twenty-four gates. It would take an hour just to walk through and check every one. He stepped onto the escalator and started up. The same bright airy feel per-meated the space except, periodically, recessed showcases displayed a variety of Mexican, Egyptian, and Phoenician art. Nothing extravagant or precious, just ordinary pieces, placards at the bottom noting the particular Atlanta museum or collector that made the loan.

At the top of the escalator he followed a crowd to the right. The aroma of coffee wafted from a Starbucks off to the left. A crowd was poised at WH Smith, buying periodicals and newspapers. He stopped and studied the departure screens. Over the next thirty minutes a dozen or so flights were leaving the gates. Danzer would have no way to know which one he was taking, if any. After all, he could have headed back to the terminal, the initial trick with checking his bag merely a ploy.

He scanned the screen for the flight to Munich, found the gate, and marched down the concourse. When he arrived, the flight was already boarding.

He stepped into line and said at his turn, "Any more seats available on the plane?"

The attendant concentrated on the video monitor. "No, sir. All full."

Now, even if Danzer found him, there was no way she could follow. He hoped all the passengers showed up and no standby seats became available. He headed for the gate, thirty or so people ahead of him. He glanced toward the front of the line and noticed a woman sporting shoulder-length auburn hair dressed in a striking, dark blue pantsuit. She was handing her boarding pass to the attendant and entering the jet way.

The face was instantly recognizable.

Rachel Cutler.

Perfect.

TWENTY-THREE

Atlanta, Georgia
Friday, May 16, 9:15 a.m.

Suzanne strolled into the office. Paul Cutler rose from behind an oversize walnut desk and stepped toward her.

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me," she said.

"Not a problem, Ms. Myers."

Cutler used the surname she'd provided the receptionist. She knew Knoll liked to use his own name. More of his arrogance. She preferred anonymity. Less chance of leaving a lasting impression.

"Why don't you call me Jo?" she said.

She took the seat offered her and studied the middle-aged lawyer. He was short and lean with light brown hair, not bald, just thinning. He was dressed in the expected white shirt, dark pants, and silk tie, but the suspenders added a touch of maturity. He flashed a disarming smile and she liked his glinting slate-gray eyes. He appeared diffident and unassuming, someone she quickly decided could be charmed.

Luckily, she'd dressed for the part. A chestnut wig was pinned to the top of her head. Blue contact lenses tinted her eyes. A pair of octagonal clear lenses in gold frames added to the illusion. The crepe skirt with a double-breasted jacket and peak lapels had been bought yesterday at Ann Taylor and carried a distinctive feminine touch, the idea being to draw attention away from her face. When she sat, she crossed her legs, slowly exposing black stockings, and she tried to smile a bit more than usual.

"You're an art investigator?" Cutler asked. "Must be interesting work."

"It can be. But I'm sure your job is equally challenging."

She quickly took in the room's decor. A framed Winslow print hung over a leather settee, a Kupka watercolor on either side. Diplomas dotted another wall, along with numerous professional memberships and awards from the American Bar Association, Society of Probate Lawyers, and the Georgia Trial Lawyers Association. Two color photographs were apparently taken in what looked to be a legislative chamber--Cutler shaking hands with the same older man.

She motioned to the art. "A connoisseur?"

"Hardly. I do a little collecting. I'm active, though, with our High Museum."

"You must derive a lot of pleasure from that."

"Art is important to me."

"Is that why you agreed to see me?"

"That, and simple curiosity."

She decided to get down to business. "I went by the Fulton County Courthouse a little while ago. The secretary at your ex-wife's office indicated Judge Cutler was out of town. She wouldn't tell me where she'd gone and suggested I come talk to you."

"Sami called a little while ago and said this concerns my former father-in-law?"

"Yes, it does. Judge Cutler's secretary confirmed to me that a man visited yesterday, looking for your ex-wife. A tall, blond European. He used the name Christian Knoll. I've been tailing Knoll all week, but lost him yesterday afternoon at the airport. I fear he might be following Judge Cutler."

Concern waved across her host's face. Excellent. She'd guessed right.

"Why would this Mr. Knoll follow Rachel?"

She was gambling by being frank. Maybe fear would lower his barriers and she could learn exactly where Rachel Cutler had gone. "Knoll came to Atlanta to talk with Karol Borya." She decided to omit any reference that Knoll actually talked to Borya Saturday night. No need to make too much of a connection. "He must have learned that Borya died and sought out the daughter. It's the only logical explanation why he went to her office."

"How did he, or you, know anything about Karol?"

"You must know what Mr. Borya did when he was a Soviet citizen."

"He told us. But how do you know?"

"The records for the Commission Mr. Borya once worked for are now public in Russia. It's an easy matter to study the history. Knoll is looking for the Amber Room, and was probably hoping Borya knew something about it."

"But how did he know where to find Karol?"

"Last week Knoll perused records in a depository in St. Petersburg. These have become available for inspection only recently. He learned the information there."

"That doesn't explain why you're here."

"As I indicated, I followed Knoll."

"How did you know Karol died?"

"I didn't until I arrived in town Monday."

"Ms. Myers, what's all the interest in the Amber Room? We're talking about something that's been lost for over fifty years. Don't you think if it could have been found, it would have by now?"

"I agree, Mr. Cutler. But Christian Knoll thinks otherwise."

"You said you lost him in the airport yesterday. What makes you think he's following Rachel?"

"Just a hunch. I searched the concourses but never could find him. I noted several international flights that left within a few minutes after Knoll dodged me. One was to Munich. Two to Paris. Three to Frankfurt."

"She was on the one to Munich," he said.

Paul Cutler appeared to be warming to her. Starting to trust. To believe. She decided to take advantage of the moment. "Why is Judge Cutler going to Munich so soon after her father died?"

"Her father left a note about the Amber Room."

Now was time to press. "Mr. Cutler, Christian Knoll is a dangerous man. When he's after something, nothing gets in the way. I'd wager he was on that flight to Munich, too. It's important I speak with your ex-wife. Do you know where she's staying?"

"She said she'd call from there, but I haven't heard from her."

Concern laced the words. She glanced at her watch. "It's nearly three-thirty in Munich."

"I was thinking the same thing before you arrived."

"Do you know exactly where she was headed?" He didn't answer. She pressed harder. "I understand I'm a stranger to you. But I assure you I'm a friend. I need to find Christian Knoll. I can't go into the details because of confidentiality, but I strongly believe he is looking for your ex-wife."

"Then I think I ought to contact the police."

"Knoll would mean nothing to local law enforcement. This is a matter for the international authorities."

He hesitated, as if considering her words, weighing the options. Calling the police would take time. Involving European agencies even more time. She was here now, ready to act. The choice should be an easy one, and she wasn't surprised when he made it.

"She went to Bavaria to find a man named Danya Chapaev. He lives in Kehlheim."

"Who is Chapaev?" she asked, innocently.

"A friend of Karol's. They worked together at the Commission years ago. Rachel thought Chapaev might know about the Amber Room."

"What would lead her to believe that?"

He reached into a desk drawer and removed a bundle of letters. He handed them to her. "See for yourself. It's all there."

She took a few minutes and scanned each letter. Nothing definite or precise, just hints to what the two might have known or suspected. Enough, though, to cause her concern. There was no question now that she had to stop Knoll from teaming up with Rachel Cutler. That was exactly what the bastard planned to do. He learned nothing from the father, so he tossed him down the stairs and decided to charm the daughter to see what he could learn. She stood. "I appreciate the information, Mr. Cutler. I'm going to see if your ex-wife can be located in Munich. I have contacts there." She extended her hand to shake. "I want to thank you for your time."

Cutler stood and accepted the gesture. "I appreciate your visit and the warning, Ms. Myers. But you never did say what your interest is."

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that, but suffice it to say that Mr. Knoll is wanted for some serious charges."

"Are you with the police?"

"Private investigator hired to find Knoll. I work out of London."

"Strange. Your accent is more East European than British."

She smiled. "Quite right. Originally, I'm from Prague."

"Can you leave a phone number? Perhaps if I hear from Rachel, I can put the two of you in touch."

"No need. I'll check back with you later today or tomorrow, if that's all right."

She turned to leave and noticed the framed picture of an older man and woman. She motioned. "A handsome couple."

"My parents. Taken about three months before they died."

"I'm so sorry."

He accepted her condolences with a slight nod of the head, and she left the office without saying anything more. The last time she'd seen that same older couple they, and twenty or so others, were climbing out of the rain into an Alitalia airbus, preparing to leave Florence for a short hop across the Ligurian Sea to France. The explosives she'd paid to store on board were safe in the luggage compartment, the timer ticking away, set for zero thirty minutes later over open water.

TWENTY-FOUR

Munich, Germany
4:35 p.m.

Rachel was amazed. She'd never been in a beer hall. An oompah band, complete with trumpets, drums, an accordion, and cowbells blasted an earsplitting din. Long wooden tables were knotted with revelers, the aroma of tobacco, sausage, and beer thick and strong. Perspiring waiters in lederhosen and women in flaring dirndl dresses eagerly served one-liter tankards of dark beer. Maibock, she heard it called, a seasonal brew served only this time of year to herald the arrival of warm weather.

Most of the two hundred or so people surrounding her appeared to be enjoying themselves. She'd never cared for beer, always thought it an acquired taste, so she ordered a Coke along with a roasted chicken for dinner. The desk clerk at her hotel suggested the hall, discouraging her from the nearby Hofbrauhaus where tourists flocked.

Her flight from Atlanta arrived earlier that morning and, disregarding advice she'd always heard, she rented a car, checked into a hotel, and enjoyed a long nap. She would drive tomorrow to Kehlheim, about seventy kilometers to the south, within shouting distance of Austria and the Alps. Danya Chapaev had waited this long, he could wait another day, assuming he was even there to find.

The change of scenery was doing her good, though it was strange to look around at barrel-vaulted ceilings and the colorful costumes of the beer garden employees. She'd traveled overseas only once before, three years ago to London and a judicial conference sponsored by the State Bar of Georgia. Television programs about Germany had always interested her, and she'd dreamed about one day visiting. Now she was here.

She munched her chicken and enjoyed the spectacle. It took her mind off her father, the Amber Room, and Danya Chapaev. Off Marcus Nettles and the coming election. Maybe Paul was right and this was a total waste of time. But she felt better just being here, and that counted for something.

She paid her bill with euros obtained at the airport and left the hall. The late afternoon was cool and comfortable, sweater weather back home, a midspring sun casting the cobblestones in alternating light and shadows. The streets were crowded with thousands of tourists and shoppers, the buildings of the old town an intriguing mix of stone, half-timber, and brick, a villagelike atmosphere of the quaint and medieval. The entire area was pedestrian only, vehicles limited to an occasional delivery truck.

She turned west and strolled back toward the Marienplatz. Her hotel sat on the far side of the open square. A food market lay between, the stalls brimming with produce, meat, and cooked specialties. An outdoor beer garden spread out to the left. She remembered a little about Munich. Once the capital of Bavaria, home of the Duke and Elector, seat of the Wittelsbachs who ruled the area for 750 years. What had Thomas Wolfe called it? A touch of German heaven.

She passed several tourist groups with guides spouting French, Spanish, and Japanese. In front of the town hall she encountered an English group, the accent twinged with the cockney twang she remembered from her previous trip to England. She lingered at the back of the group, listening to the guide, staring up at the blaze of Gothic ornamentation rising before her. The tour group inched across the square, stopping on the far side, opposite the town hall. She followed and noticed the guide studying her watch. The clock face high above read 4:58 P.M.

Suddenly, the windows in the clock tower swung open and two rows of brightly colored enameled copper figurines danced out on a turntable. Music flooded the square. Bells clanged for five o'clock, echoed by more bells in the distance.

"This is the glockenspiel," the guide said over the noise. "It comes to life three times a day. Eleven, noon, and now at five. The figures on top are reenacting a tournament that used to accompany sixteenth-century German royal weddings. The figures below are performing the Dance of the Coppers."

The colorful figures twirled to the tune of lively Bavarian music. Everyone in the street stopped, their necks craned upward. The vignette lasted two minutes, then stopped, and the square sprang back to life. The tour group moved off and crossed one of the side streets. She lingered for a few seconds and watched the clock windows fully close, then followed across the intersection.

The blare of a horn shattered the afternoon.

She jerked her head to the left.

The front end of a car approached her. Fifty feet. Forty. Twenty. Her eyes focused on the hood and the Mercedes emblem, then on the lights and words that signified taxi.

Ten feet.

The horn still blared. She needed to move, but her feet wouldn't respond. She braced herself for the pain, wondering if the impact or the slam to the cobblestones would hurt worse.

Poor Marla and Brent.

And Paul. Sweet Paul.

An arm wrapped around her neck, and she was jerked back.

Brakes squealed. The taxi slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber steamed from the pavement.

She turned to see who now held her. The man was tall and lean, with a shock of corn-colored hair brushed across a tanned brow. Thin lips like slits cut with a razor creased a handsome face, the complexion a dusky hue. He was dressed in a wheat-colored twill shirt and checkered trousers.

"You okay?" he asked in English.

The peak of the moment had spent her emotions. She instantly realized how close she'd come to dying. "I think so."

A crowd gathered. The cabdriver was out of the car, looking on.

"She's okay, folks," her savior said. Then he said something in German and people started to leave. He spoke to the taxi driver in German, who responded and then sped off.

"The driver is sorry. But he said you appeared out of nowhere."

"I thought this was pedestrian only," she said. "I wasn't concerned about a car."

"The taxis are not supposed to be here, but they find a way. I reminded the driver of that, and he decided that leaving was the best course."

"There should be a sign or something."

"America, right? Everything has a sign in America. Not here."

She calmed down. "Thanks for what you did."

Two rows of even white teeth flashed a perfect smile. "My pleasure." He extended a hand. "I am Christian Knoll."

She accepted the offer. "Rachel Cutler. And I'm glad you were there, Mr. Knoll. I never saw that taxi."

"It would have been unfortunate otherwise."

She grinned. "Quite." She started to shake uncontrollably, the aftershock of what had almost just happened.

"Please, let me buy you a drink to calm you down."

"That's not necessary."

"You are shaking. Some wine would be good."

"I appreciate it, but--"

"As a reward for my effort."

That would be hard to refuse, so she surrendered. "Okay, maybe a little wine might be the thing."

She followed Knoll to a cafe about four blocks away, the twin copper towers of the main cathedral looming directly across the street. Clothed tables sprouted across the cobblestones, each filled with people cradling steins of dark beer. Knoll ordered a beer for himself and her a glass of Rhineland wine, the clear liquid dry, bitter, and good.

Knoll had been right. Her nerves were flustered. That was the closest she'd ever come to death. Strange her thoughts at the time. Brent and Marla were understandable. But Paul? She'd clearly thought of him, her heart aching for an instant.

She sipped the wine and let the alcohol and ambience soothe her nerves.

"I have a confession to make, Ms. Cutler," Knoll said.

"How about Rachel?"

"Very well. Rachel."

She sipped more wine. "What kind of confession?"

"I was following you."

The words got her attention. She set the wineglass down. "What do you mean?"

"I was following you. I have been since you left Atlanta."

She rose from the table. "I think perhaps the police should be involved in this."

Knoll sat impassive and sipped his beer. "I have no problem with that, if you so desire. I only ask that you hear me out first."

She considered the request. They were seated in the open. Beyond a wrought-iron railing, the street was full of evening shoppers. What would it hurt to hear him out? She sat back down. "Okay, Mr. Knoll, you've got five minutes."

Knoll set the mug on the table. "I traveled to Atlanta earlier in the week to meet your father. On arrival I learned of his death. Yesterday, I appeared at your office and learned of your trip here. I even left my name and number. Your secretary did not pass my message on?"

"I haven't talked with my office. What business did you have with my father?"

"I am looking for the Amber Room and thought he could be of assistance."

"Why are you looking for the Amber Room?"

"My employer seeks it."

"As do the Russians, I'm sure."

Knoll smiled. "True. But, after fifty years, we regard it as 'finders keepers,' I believe is the American saying."

"How could my father help?"

"He searched many years. Finding the Amber Room was given a high priority by the Soviets."

"That was fifty-plus years ago."

"With this particular prize, the passage of time is meaningless. If anything, it makes the search all the more intriguing."

"How did you locate my father?"

Knoll stuffed a hand into a pocket and handed her some folded sheets. "I discovered those last week in St. Petersburg. They led me to Atlanta. As you'll see, the KGB visited him a few years ago."

She unfolded and read. The typed words were in Cyrillic. An English translation appeared to the side in blue ink. She instantly noticed who'd signed the top sheet. Danya Chapaev. She also noted what was written on the KGB sheet about her father:

Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts.

But her father had known exactly where Chapaev lived. He'd corresponded with him for years. Why had he lied? And her father never mentioned anything about the KGB visiting him. Nor much about the Amber Room. It was a little unnerving to think the KGB had known about her, Marla, and Brent. She wondered what else her father held back.

"Unfortunately, I was not able to speak with your father," Knoll said. "I arrived too late. I am truly sorry about your loss."

"When did you arrive?"

"Monday."

"And you waited till yesterday to go by my office?"

"I learned of your father's death and did not want to intrude on your grief. My business could be postponed."

The connection to Chapaev started to ease her tension. This man may be credible, but she cautioned herself against complacency. After all, though handsome and charming, Christian Knoll was still a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger in a foreign country. "Were you on my flight over?"

He nodded. "I barely made it onto the plane."

"Why did you wait till now to speak up?"

"I was unsure of your visit. If it was personal, I did not want to interfere. If it concerned the Amber Room, I intended on approaching you."

"I don't appreciate being followed, Mr. Knoll. Not one damn bit."

His gaze soldered onto hers. "Perhaps it is fortunate I did."

The taxi flashed through her mind. Maybe he was right?

"And Christian will do fine," he said.

She told herself to back off. No need to be so hostile. He's right. He saved her life. "Okay. Christian it is."

"Does your trip involve the Amber Room?"

"I'm not sure I should answer that."

"If I were a danger, I would simply have let the taxi hit you."

A good point, but not necessarily good enough.

"Frau Cutler, I am a trained investigator. Art is my speciality. I speak the language here and am familiar with this country. You may be an excellent judge, but I would assume you are a novice investigator."

She said nothing.

"I am interested in information on the Amber Room, nothing more. I have shared with you what I am privy to. I only ask the same in return."

"And if I decline and go to the police?"

"I will simply disappear from sight, but will keep you under surveillance to learn what you do. It is nothing personal. You are a lead I intend to explore to the end. I simply thought we could work together and save time."

There was something rugged and dangerous about Knoll that she liked. His words came clear and direct, the voice sure. She searched his face hard for portents, but found none. So she made the kind of quick decision she was accustomed to making in court.

"Okay, Mr. Knoll. I've come to find Danya Chapaev. Apparently the same name on this sheet. He lives in Kehlheim."

Knoll lifted the mug and took a pull of beer. "That's south of here, toward the Alps near Austria. I know the village."

"He and my father were apparently interested in the Amber Room. Obviously, more so than I ever realized."

"Any idea what Herr Chapaev would know?"

She decided not to mention anything about the letters just yet. "Nothing other than they once worked together, as you seem to already know."

"How did you come by the name?"

She decided to lie. "My father talked of him for many years. They were close once."

"I can be of valuable assistance, Frau Cutler."

"In all honesty, Mr. Knoll, I was hoping for some time alone."

"I understand completely. I recall when my father died. It was very hard."

The sentiment sounded genuine, and she appreciated the concern. But he was still a stranger.

"You need assistance. If this Chapaev is privy to information, I can help develop it. I have a vast knowledge of the Amber Room. Knowledge that can help."

She said nothing.

"When do you plan to head south?" Knoll asked.

"Tomorrow morning." She answered too quickly.

"Let me drive you."

"I wouldn't want my children accepting rides from strangers. Why should I do the same?"

He smiled. She liked it.

"I was open and frank with your secretary about my identity and intentions. Quite a trail for somebody who intended to harm you." He downed the rest of his beer. "In any event, I would simply follow you to Kehlheim anyway."

She made another quick decision. One that surprised her. "All right. Why not. We'll go together. I'm staying at the Hotel Waldeck. A couple of blocks that way."

"I'm across the street from the Waldeck at the Elisabeth."

She shook her head and smiled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Knoll watched Rachel Cutler disappear into the crowd.

That went quite well.

He tossed a few euros on the table and left the cafe. He rounded several corners and recrossed the Marienplatz. Past the food market, busy with early diners and revelers, he headed for Maximilianstrasse, an elegant boulevard lined with museums, government offices, and shops. The pillared portico of the National Theater rose ahead. In front, a line of taxis wrapped the statue of Max Joseph, Bavaria's first king, patiently waiting for fares from the evening's early performance. He crossed the street and walked to the fourth taxi in line. The driver was standing outside, arms folded, propped against the Mercedes' exterior.

"Good enough?" the driver asked in German.

"More than enough."

"My performance afterwards convincing?"

"Outstanding." He handed the man a wad of euros.

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Christian."

"You, too, Erich."

He knew the driver well, having used him before when in Munich. The man was both reliable and corruptible, two qualities he sought in all his operatives.

"You getting soft, Christian?"

"How so?"

"You only wanted her frightened, not killed. So unlike you."

He smiled. "Nothing like a brush with death to breed trust."

"You want to fuck her or something?"

He didn't want to say much more, but he also wanted the man available in the future. He nodded and said, "A good way to get into the pants."

The driver counted off the bills. "Five hundred euros is a lot for a piece of ass."

But he considered the Amber Room and the ten million euros it would bring him. Then reconsidered Rachel Cutler and her attractiveness, which had lingered after she'd left.

"Not really."

TWENTY-FIVE

Atlanta, Georgia
12:35 p.m.

Paul was concerned. He'd skipped lunch and stayed in the office, hoping Rachel would call. It was after 6:30 P.M. in Germany. She'd mentioned the possibility of staying in Munich one night before heading to Kehlheim. So he wasn't sure if she'd call today, or tomorrow after she made it south to the Alps, or if she'd call at all.

Rachel was outspoken, aggressive, and tough. Always had been. That independent spirit was what made her a good judge. But it also made her hard to know, and even harder to like. Friends didn't come easy. But down deep, she was warm and caring. He knew that. Unfortunately, the two of them were like grease and fire. But were they, really? They both thought a quiet dinner at home better than a crowded restaurant. A video rental preferable to the theater. An afternoon with the kids at the zoo heaven, compared with a night out on the town. He realized she missed her father. They'd been close, particularly after the divorce. Karol had tried hard to get them back together.

What had the old man's note said?

Maybe give Paul another chance.

But it was no use. Rachel was determined that they were to live apart. She'd rebuffed every attempt he made at a reconciliation. Maybe it was time he obliged her and gave up. But there was something there. Her lack of a social life. Her reliance and trust in him. And how many men possessed a key to their ex-wife's house? How many still shared the title to property? Or continued to maintain a joint account for stocks? She'd never once insisted that their Merrill Lynch account be closed, and he'd managed it the last three years without her ever questioning his judgment.

He stared at the phone. Why hadn't she called? What was going on? Some man, Christian Knoll, was supposedly looking for her. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps not. All the information he possessed was the word of a rather attractive brunette with bright blue eyes and shapely legs. Jo Myers. She'd been calm and collected, handling his questions well, her answers quick and to the point. It was almost as if she could sense his apprehension toward Rachel, the doubts he harbored about her traveling to Germany. He'd volunteered a little too much, and that fact bothered him. Rachel had no business in Germany. Of that he was sure. The Amber Room was not her concern, and it was doubtful Danya Chapaev was even still alive.

He reached across his desk and retrieved his former father-in-law's letters. He found the note penned to Rachel and scanned down the page about halfway:


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.

He read a little farther and again found the warning:

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.

He'd read a lot of the classics, but couldn't recall the specifics. Rachel had been evasive three days ago when he asked her about the story at the dining room table.

He turned to his computer terminal and accessed the Internet. He selected a search engine and typed "Phaethon and the Heliades." The screen noted over a hundred sites. He randomly checked a couple. The third was the best, a Web page titled "The Mythical World of Edith Hamilton." He scanned through until he found the story of Phaethon, a bibliography noting the account was from Ovid's Metamorphoses.

He read the story. It was colorful and prophetic.

Phaethon, the illegitimate son of Helios, the Sun God, finally found his father. Feeling guilty, the Sun God granted his son one wish, and the boy immediately chose to take his father's place for a day, piloting the sun chariot across the sky from dawn to dusk. The father realized his son's folly and tried in vain to dissuade the boy, but he would not be deterred. So Helios granted the wish, but warned the boy how difficult the chariot was to command. None of the Sun God's cautions seemed to mean anything. All the boy saw was himself standing in the wondrous chariot, guiding the steeds that Zeus himself could not master.

Once airborne, though, Phaethon quickly discovered that his father's warnings were correct, and he lost control of the chariot. The horses darted to the top of the sky, then plunged close enough to the earth to set the world ablaze. Zeus, having no choice, unleashed a thunderbolt that destroyed the chariot and killed Phaethon. The mysterious river Eridanus received him and cooled the flames that engulfed his body. The Naiads, in pity for one so bold and so young, buried him. Phaethon's sisters, the Heliades, came to his grave and mourned. Zeus, taking pity on their sorrow, turned them into poplar trees that sprouted sadly murmuring leaves on the bank of the Eridanus.

He read the last lines of the story on the screen:

WHERE SORROWING THEY WEEP INTO THE STREAM FOREVER
EACH TEAR AS IT FALLS SHINES IN THE WATER
A GLISTENING DROP OF AMBER.

He instantly recalled the copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses he'd seen on Borya's bookshelves. Karol was trying to warn Rachel, but she wouldn't listen. Like Phaethon, she'd raced off on a foolish quest, not understanding the dangers or appreciating the risks. Would Christian Knoll be her Zeus? The one to hurl a thunderbolt.

He stared at the phone. Ring, dammit.

What should he do?

He could do nothing. Stay with the kids, look after them, and wait for Rachel to return from her wild goose chase. He could call the police and perhaps alert the German authorities. But if Christian Knoll was nothing more than a curious investigator, Rachel would soundly chastise him. Alarmist Paul, she'd say.

And he didn't need to hear that.

But there was a third option. The one most appealing. He glanced at his watch. 1:50 P.M. 7:50 in Germany. He reached for the phone book, found the number, and dialed Delta Airlines. The reservation clerk came on the line.

"I need a flight to Munich from Atlanta, leaving tonight."

TWENTY-SIX

Kehlheim, Germany
Saturday, May 17, 8:05 a.m.

Suzanne made good time. She'd left Paul Cutler's office yesterday and immediately flew to New York, where she caught the Concorde leaving at 6:30 for Paris. Arriving a little after 10 P.M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1 A.M. She'd managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Forggensee, east of Fussen.

The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake's east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a rambling marktplatz surrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze.

She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market. The air reeked of raw meat, damp produce, and spent tobacco. She strolled through the melange swarming with summer sojourners. Children played in noisy groups. Hammer blows echoed in the distance. An older man at one of the booths, with silver hair and an angled nose, caught her attention. He wasn't far from the age Danya Chapaev should be. She approached and admired his apples and cherries.

"Beautiful fruit," she said in German.

"My own," the older man said.

She bought three apples, smiled broadly, and warmed to him. Her image was perfect. Reddish-blond wig, fair skin, hazel eyes. Her breasts were enhanced two sizes by a pair of external silicone inserts. She'd padded her hips and thighs, as well, the fitted jeans two sizes larger to accommodate the manufactured bulk. A plaid flannel shirt and tan prairie boots rounded out the disguise. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, dark, but not enough to draw attention. Later, eyewitnesses would surely describe a busty, heavyset blonde.

"Do you know where Danya Chapaev lives?" she finally asked. "He's an old man. Lived here awhile. A friend of my grandfather. I came to deliver a present but lost directions to where he lives. I only found the village by luck."

The older man shook his head. "How careless, Fraulein."

She smiled, soaking in the rebuke. "I know. But I'm like that. My mind stays a thousand miles away."

"I don't know where a Chapaev lives. I'm from Nesselwang, to the west. But let me get someone from here."

Before she could stop him, he yelled to another man across the square. She didn't want to draw too much attention to her inquiry. The two men spoke in French, a language she wasn't overly proficient in, but she caught an occasional word here and there. Chapaev. North. Three kilometers. Near the lake.

"Eduard knows Chapaev. Says he lives north of town. Three kilometers. Right beside the lakeshore. That road there. Small stone chalet with a chimney."

She smiled and nodded at the information, then heard the man from across the square call out, "Julius! Julius!"

A boy of about twelve scampered toward the stall. He had light brown hair and a cute face. The vendor spoke to the lad, then the boy ran toward her. Behind, a flock of ducks sprang from the lake, up into the milky morning sky.

"You looking for Chapaev?" the boy asked. "That's my grandpapa. I can show you."

His young eyes scanned her breasts. Her smile broadened. "Then lead the way."

Men of all ages were so easy to manipulate.

TWENTY-SEVEN


9:15 a.m.

Rachel glanced across the front seat at Christian Knoll. They were speeding south on autobahn E533, thirty minutes south of Munich. The terrain framed by the Volvo's tinted windows featured ghostly peaks emerging from a curtain of haze, snow whitening the folds of the highest altitudes, the slopes below clothed in verdant fir and larch.

"It's beautiful out there," she said.

"Spring is the best time to visit the Alps. This your first time in Germany?"

She nodded.

"You will very much like the area."

"You travel a lot?"

"All the time."

"Where's home?"

"I have an apartment in Vienna, but rarely do I stay there. My work takes me all over the world."

She studied her enigmatic chauffeur. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his neck thick, his arms long and powerful. He was again dressed casually. Plaid chamois cloth shirt, jeans, boots, and smelled faintly of sweet cologne. He was the first European man she'd ever really talked with at length. Maybe that was the fascination. He'd definitely piqued her interest.

"The KGB sheet said you have two children. Is there a husband?" Knoll asked.

"Used to be. We're divorced."

"That's rather prevalent in America."

"I hear a hundred or more a week in my court."

Knoll shook his head. "Such a shame."

"People can't seem to live together."

"Is your ex-husband a lawyer?"

"One of the best." A Volvo whizzed by in the left-hand lane. "Amazing. That car's got to be going over a hundred miles an hour."

"Closer to one hundred and twenty," Knoll said. "We're doing nearly a hundred."

"That's a definite difference from home."

"Is he a good father?" Knoll asked.

"My ex? Oh, yes. Very good."

"Better father than husband?"

Strange, the questions. But she didn't mind answering, the anonymity of a stranger lessening the intrusion. "I wouldn't say that. Paul's a good man. Any woman would be thrilled to have him."

"Why weren't you?"

"I didn't say I wasn't. I simply said we couldn't live together."

Knoll seemed to sense her hesitancy. "I did not mean to pry. It's just that people interest me. With no permanent home or roots, I enjoy probing others. Simple curiosity. Nothing more."

"It's okay. No offense taken." She sat silent for a few moments, then said, "I should have called and told Paul where I'm staying. He's watching the children."

"You can let him know this evening."

"He's not happy I'm even here. He and my father said I should stay out of it."

"You discussed this with your father before his death?"

"Not at all. He left me a note with his will."

"Then why are you here?"

"Just something I have to do."

"I can understand. The Amber Room is quite a prize. People have searched for it since the war."

"So I've been told. What makes it so special?"

"Hard to say. Art has such a varying effect on people. The interesting thing about the Amber Room was that it moved everyone in the same way. I've read accounts from the nineteenth and the early part of the twentieth century. All agree it was magnificent. Imagine, an entire room paneled in amber."

"It sounds amazing."

"Amber is so precious. You know much about it?" Knoll asked.

"Very little."

"Just fossilized tree resin, forty to fifty millions of years old. Sap hardened by the millennia into a gem. The Greeks called it elektron, 'substance of the sun,' for the color and because, if you rub a piece with your hands, it produces an electric charge. Chopin used to finger chains of it before he played the piano. It warms to the touch and carries away perspiration."

"I didn't know that."

"The Romans believed if you were a Leo, wearing amber would bring you luck. If you were a Taurus, trouble was ahead."

"Maybe I should get some. I'm a Leo."

He smiled. "If you believe in that sort of thing. Medieval doctors prescribed amber vapor to treat sore throats. The boiling fumes are very fragrant and supposedly possessed medicinal qualities. The Russians call it 'incense from the sea.' They also--I'm sorry, I may be boring you."

"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 assurance, though, didn't he?"

"In the mid-1960s," Chapaev said. "But the fool claimed he was unable to remember the exact location. Konigsberg by then was renamed Kaliningrad and was part of the Soviet Union. The town was bombed to rubble during the war, and the Soviets bulldozed everything, then rebuilt. Nothing remained of the former city. He blamed everything on the Soviets. Said they destroyed his landmarks. Their fault he couldn't find the location now."

"Koch never knew anything, did he?" Knoll asked.

"Nothing. A mere opportunist trying to stay alive."

"Then tell us, old man, did you find the Amber Room?"

Chapaev nodded.

"You saw it?" Knoll asked.

"No. But it was there."

"Why did you keep it secret?"

"Stalin was evil. The devil incarnate. He pilfered and stole Russia's heritage to build the Palace of the Soviets."

"The what?" she asked.

"An immense skyscraper in Moscow," Chapaev said. "And he wanted to top the thing with a huge statue of Lenin. Can you imagine such a monstrosity? Karol, me, and all the others were collecting for the Museum of World Art that was to be a part of that palace. It was going to be Stalin's gift to the world. Nothing different from what Hitler planned in Austria. A huge museum of pilfered art. Thank God Stalin never built his monument either. It was all madness. Nothing sane. And nobody could stop the bastard. Only death did him in." The old man shook his head. "Utter, total madness. Karol and I were determined to do our part and never say anything about what we thought we found in the mountains. Better to leave it buried than to be a showpiece for Satan."

"How did you find the Amber Room?" she asked.

"Quite by accident. Karol stumbled onto a railroad worker who pointed us to the caves. They were in the Russian sector, what became East Germany. The Soviets even stole that, too, though that was one theft I agreed with. Such awful things happen whenever Germany unites. Wouldn't you say, Herr Knoll?"

"I do not opine on politics, Comrade Chapaev. Besides, I'm Austrian, not German."

"Odd. I thought I detected a Bavarian twang to your accent."

"Good ears for a man your age."

Chapaev turned toward her. "That was your father's nickname. `Yxo. Ears. They called him that in Mauthausen. He was the only one in the barracks who spoke German."

"I didn't know that. Daddy spoke little of the camp."

Chapaev nodded. "Understandable. I spent the last months of the war in one myself." The old man stared hard at Knoll. "To your accent, Herr Knoll, I used to be good at such things. German was my specialty."

"Your English is quite good, too."

"I have a talent for language."

"Your former job certainly demanded powers of observation and communication."

She was curious at the friction that seemed to exist. Two strangers, yet they acted as though they knew one another. Or, more accurately, hated one another. But the sparring was delaying their mission. She said, "Danya, can you tell us where the Amber Room is?"

"In the caves to the north. The Harz Mountains. Near Warthberg."

"You sound like Koch," Knoll said. "Those caves have been scoured clean."

"Not these. They were in the eastern portion. The Soviets chained them off. Refused to let anyone inside. There are so many. It would take decades to explore them all, and they are like rat mazes. The Nazis wired most with explosives and stored ammunition in the rest. That's one reason Karol and I never went to look. Better to let the amber rest quietly than risk exploding it."

Knoll slipped a small notebook and pen from his back pocket. "Draw a map."

Chapaev worked a few minutes on a sketch. She and Knoll sat silent. Only the crackle of the fire and the pen moving across the paper broke the stillness. Chapaev handed the pad back to Knoll.

"The right one can be found by the sun," Chapaev said. "The opening points due east. A friend who visited the area recently said the entrance is now chained shut with iron bars, the designation BCR-65 on the outside. The German authorities have yet to sweep the inside for explosives, so no one has ventured in as yet. Or so I am told. I drew a tunnel map as best I could remember. You will have to dig at the end. But you will hit the iron door that leads into the chamber after a few feet."

Knoll said, "You've kept this secret for decades. Yet now you freely tell two strangers?"

"Rachel is not a stranger."

"How do you know she's not lying about who she is?"

"I see her father in her, clearly."

"Yet you know nothing about me. You haven't even inquired as to why I'm here."

"If Rachel brought you, that is good enough for me. I am an old man, Herr Knoll. My time is short. Someone needs to know what I know. Maybe Karol and I were right. Maybe not. Nothing may be there at all. Why don't you go see to be sure." Chapaev turned to her. "Now if that's all you wanted, my child, I'm tired and would like to rest."

"All right, Danya. And thank you. We'll see if the Amber Room's there."

Chapaev sighed. "Do that, my child. Do that."

"Very good, comrade," Suzanne said in Russian as Chapaev opened the bedroom door. The old man's guests had just left, and she heard the car drive away. "Have you ever considered an acting career? Christian Knoll is hard to fool. But you did wonderfully. I almost believed you myself."

"How do you know Knoll will go to the cave?"

"He's eager to please his new employer. He wants the Amber Room so bad, he'll take the chance and look, even if he thinks it's a dead end."

"What if he thinks it's a trap?"

"No reason to suspect anything, thanks to your remarkable performance."

Chapaev's eyes locked on his grandson, the boy gagged and bound to an oak chair beside the bed.

"Your precious grandson greatly appreciates your performance." She stroked the child's hair. "Don't you, Julius?"

The boy tried to jerk back, humming behind the tape across his mouth. She raised the sound-suppressed pistol close to his head. His young eyes widened as the barrel nestled to his skull.

"There is no need for that," Chapaev quickly said. "I did as you asked. I drew the map exactly. No tricks. Though my heart aches for what may happen to poor Rachel. She doesn't deserve this."

"Poor Rachel should have thought of that before she decided to involve herself. This is not her fight, nor is it her concern. She should have left well enough alone."

"Could we go out into the other room?" he asked.

"As you wish. I don't think dear Julius will be traveling anywhere. Do you?"

They walked into the den. He closed the bedroom door. "The boy does not deserve to die," he quietly said.

"Your are perceptive, Comrade Chapaev."

"Do not call me that."

"You're not proud of your Soviet heritage?"

"I have no Soviet heritage. I was White Russian. Only against Hitler did I join with them."

"You harbored no reservations about stealing treasure for Stalin."

"A mistake of the times. Dear god. Fifty years I've kept the secret. Never once have I said a word. Can't you accept that and let my grandson live."

She said nothing.

"You work for Loring, don't you?" he asked. "Josef is surely dead. It must be Ernst, the son."

"Again, very perceptive, Comrade."

"I knew one day you would come. It was the chance I took. But the boy is not a part of this. Let him go."

"He's a loose end. As you have been. I read the correspondence between yourself and Karol Borya. Why couldn't you leave it alone? Let the matter die. How many more have you corresponded with? My employer does not desire to take any more chances. Borya's gone. The other searchers are gone. You are all that's left."

"You killed Karol, didn't you?"

"Actually, no. Herr Knoll beat me to it."

"Rachel does not know?"

"Apparently not."

"That poor child, the danger she is in."

"Her problem, Comrade, as I have said."

"I expect you to kill me. In some ways I welcome it. But please let the boy go. He cannot identify you. He does not speak Russian. He understood nothing we have said. Certainly that's not your actual appearance. The boy could never help the police."

"You know I cannot do that."

He lunged toward her, but muscles that perhaps once scaled cliffs and shimmied out of buildings had atrophied with age and disease. She easily sidestepped his meaningless attempt.

"There is no need for this, Comrade."

He fell to his knees. "Please. I beg you in the name of the Virgin Mary, let the boy go. He deserves a life." Chapaev hinged his body forward and pressed his face tight to the floor. "Poor Julius," he muttered through tears. "Poor, poor Julius."

She aimed the gun at the back of Chapeav's skull and considered his request.

"Dasvidaniya, Comrade."

TWENTY-NINE

"Weren't you a little rough on him?" Rachel said.

They were speeding north on the autobahn, Kehlheim and Danya Chapaev an hour south. She was driving. Knoll had said he'd take over in a little while and navigate the twisting roads through the Harz Mountains.

He glanced up from the sketch Chapaev had drawn. "You must understand, Rachel, I have been doing this many years. People lie far more than they tell the truth. Chapaev says the Amber Room rests in one of the Harz caves. That theory has been explored a thousand times. I pushed to be sure if he was being truthful."

"He appeared sincere."

"I am suspicious that, after all these years, the treasure is simply waiting at the end of a dark tunnel."

"Didn't you say there are hundreds of tunnels and most haven't been explored? Too dangerous, right?"

"That's correct. But I am familiar with the general area Chapaev describes. I have searched caves there myself."

She told him about Wayland McKoy and the ongoing expedition.

"Stod is only forty kilometers from where we will be," Knoll said. "Lots of caves there, as well, supposedly full of loot. If you believe what the treasure hunters say."

"You don't?"

"I have learned that anything worth having is usually already owned. The real hunt is for those who possess it. You would be surprised how many missing treasures are simply lying on a table in somebody's bedroom or hanging on the wall, as free as a trinket bought in a department store. People think time protects them. It doesn't. Back in the 1960s, a Monet was found in a farmhouse by a tourist. The owner had taken it in exchange for a pound of butter. Stories like that are endless, Rachel."

"That what you do? Search for those opportunities?"

"Along with other quests."

They drove on, the terrain flattening and then rising as the highway crossed central Germany and veered northwest into mountains. After a stop on the side of the road, Rachel moved to the passenger seat. Knoll pulled the car back on the highway. "These are the Harz. The northernmost mountains in central Germany."

The peaks were not the towering snowy precipices of the Alps. Instead the slopes rose at gentle angles, rounded at the top, covered in fir, beech, and walnut trees. Towns and villages were nestled throughout in tiny valleys and wide ravines. Off in the distance the silhouette of even higher peaks were visible.

"Reminds me of the Appalachians," she said.

"This is the land of Grimm," Knoll said. "The kingdom of magic. In the Dark Ages, it was one of the final venues for paganism. Fairies, witches, and goblins were supposed to roam out there. It is said the last bear and lynx in Germany were killed somewhere nearby."

"It's gorgeous," she said.

"Silver used to be mined here, but that stopped in the tenth century. Then came gold, lead, zinc, and barium oxide. The last mine closed before the war in the 1930s. That's where most of the caves and tunnels came from. Old mines the Nazis made good use of. Perfect hiding places from bombers, and tough for ground troops to invade."

She watched the winding road ahead and thought about Knoll's mention of the Brothers Grimm. She half expected to see the goose that laid the golden egg, or the two black stones that were once cruel brothers, or the Pied Piper luring rats and children with a tune.

An hour later they entered Warthberg. The dark outline of a bulwark wall encased the compact village, softened only by arching tresses and conical-roofed bastions. The architectural difference from the south was obvious. The red roofs and timeworn ramparts of Kehlheim were replaced with half-timbered facades sheathed in dull slate. Fewer flowers adorned the windows and the houses. There was a definite glow of medieval color, but it seemed tempered by a shellac of self-consciousness. Not a whole lot different, she concluded, from the contrast between New England and the Deep South.

Knoll parked in front of an inn with the interesting name of Goldene Krone. "Golden Crown," he told her before disappearing inside. She waited outside and studied the busy street. An air of commercialism sprang from the shop windows lining the cobbled lane. Knoll returned a few minutes later.

"I obtained two rooms for the night. It is nearly five o'clock, and daylight will last another five or six hours. But we'll head up into the hills in the morning. No rush. It has waited fifty years."

"It stays daylight that long around here?"

"We're halfway to the arctic circle, and it is almost summer."

Knoll lifted both their bags out of the rental. "I'll get you settled, then there are a few things I need to buy. After, we can have dinner. I noticed a place driving in."

"That'd be nice," she said.

Knoll left Rachel in her room. He'd noticed the yellow phone booth driving in and quickly retraced a path back toward the town wall. He didn't like using hotel room phones. Too much record keeping. The same was true for mobile phones. An obscure pay booth was always safer for a quick long-distance call. Inside, he dialed Burg Herz.

"About time. What's going on?" Monika asked as she answered the phone.

"I am trying to find the Amber Room."

"Where are you?"

"Not far away."

"I'm in no mood, Christian."

"The Harz Mountains. Warthberg." He told her about Rachel Cutler, Danya Chapaev, and the cave.

"We've heard this before," Monika said. "Those mountains are like ant mounds, and nobody has ever found a damn thing."

"I have a map. What could it hurt?"

"You want to screw her, don't you?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"She's learning a bit too much, wouldn't you say?"

"Nothing of any consequence. I had no choice but to take her along. I assumed Chapaev would be more at ease with Borya's daughter than with me."

"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?"

He grinned. "Photographs exist. If you have the pieces, it would not be difficult to reassemble the whole room. My hope is that the Nazis packed them well, since my employer is not interested in recreations. The original is what matters."

"Sounds like an interesting man."

He smiled. "Nice try . . . again. But I never said he."

They arrived at the hotel. Upstairs, at her room, Knoll stopped outside her door.

"How early in the morning?" she asked.

"We'll leave at seven-thirty. The clerk downstairs says breakfast is available after seven. The area we seek is not far, about ten kilometers."

"I appreciate everything you've done. Not to mention saving my life."

Knoll tipped his head. "My pleasure."

She smiled at the gesture.

"You've mentioned your husband, but no one else. Is there a man in your life?"

The question came suddenly. A bit too fast. "No." She instantly regretted her honesty.

"Your heart still longs for your ex-husband, doesn't it?"

Not any of this man's business, but for some reason she wanted to answer. "Sometimes."

"Does he know?"

"Sometimes."

"How long has it been?"

"Since what?"

"Since you made love to a man."

His gaze lingered longer than she expected. This man was intuitive, and it bothered her. "Not long enough that I'd hop in bed with a total stranger."

Knoll smiled. "Perhaps that stranger could help your heart forget?"

"I don't think that's what I need. But thanks for the offer." She inserted her key and opened the lock, then glanced back. "I think this is the first time I've ever actually been propositioned."

"And surely not the last." He bowed his head and smiled. "Good night, Rachel." And he walked off, toward the staircase and his own room.

But something grabbed her attention.

Interesting how rebukes seemed to challenge him.

THIRTY


Sunday, May 18, 7:30 a.m.

Knoll exited the hotel and studied the morning. A cotton fog wrapped the quiet village and surrounding valley. The sky was gloomy, a late-spring sun straining hard to warm the day. Rachel leaned against the car, apparently ready. He walked over. "The fog will help conceal our visit. Being Sunday is good, too. Most people are in church."

They climbed into the car.

"I thought you said this was a bastion of paganism," she said.

"That's for the tourist brochures and travel guides. Lots of Catholics live in these mountains, and have for centuries. They are a religious people."

The Volvo snarled to life, and he quickly navigated out of Warthberg, the cobbled streets nearly deserted and damp from a morning chill. The road east from town wound up and then down into another fog-draped valley.

"This area reminds me even more of the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina," Rachel said. "They're veiled like this, too."

He followed the map Chapaev provided and wondered if this was a wild goose chase. How could tons of amber stay hidden for more than half a century? Many had looked. Some had even died. He was well aware of the so-called curse of the Amber Room. But what harm could there be in a quick look into one more mountain? At least the journey would be interesting, thanks to Rachel Cutler.

Over a crest in the road they dropped back into another valley, thick stands of misty beech towering on either side. He came to where Chapaev's road map ended and parked in a pocket of woods. He said, "The rest of the way is on foot."

They climbed out and he retrieved a caver's pack from the trunk.

"What's in there?" Rachel asked.

"What we require." He slid the shoulder straps on. "Now we are merely a couple of hikers, out for the day."

He handed her a jacket. "Hang on to it. You're going to need it once we're underground."

He'd donned his jacket in the hotel room, the stiletto sheathed on his right arm beneath the nylon sleeve. He led the way into the forest, and the grassy terrain rose as they moved north from the highway. They followed a defined trail that wound the base of a tall range, while offshoots traced paths higher along wooded slopes toward the summits. Dark entrances to three shafts loomed in the distance. One was chained shut with an iron gate, a sign--GEFAHR-ZUTRITT VERBOTEN-EXPLOSIV--posted on the rough granite.

"What does that say?" Rachel asked.

"Danger. No Admittance. Explosives."

"You weren't kidding about that."

"These mountains were like bank vaults. The Allies found the German national treasury in one. Four hundred tons of art from Berlin's Kaiser Friedrich Museum was stashed here, too. The explosives were better than troops and watch dogs."

"Is some of that art what Wayland McKoy's after?" she asked.

"From what you told me, yes."

"You think he'll have any luck?"

"Hard to say. But I seriously doubt millions of dollars in old canvases are still waiting around here to be found."

The smell of damp leaves was thick in the heavy air.

"What was the point?" Rachel asked as they walked. "The war was lost. Why hide all that stuff?"

"You have to think like a German in 1945. Hitler ordered the army to fight to the last man or be executed. He believed if Germany held out long enough the Allies would eventually join him against the Bolsheviks. Hitler knew how much Churchill hated Stalin. He also read Stalin correctly and accurately predicted what the Soviets had in mind for Europe. Hitler thought Germany could remain intact by playing off the Soviets. He reasoned the Americans and the British would eventually join him against the Communists. Then, all those treasures could be saved."

"Foolishness," Rachel said.

"Madness is a better description."

Sweat beaded on his brow. His leather boots were stained from dew. He stopped and surveyed the various shaft entrances in the distance, along with the sky. "None point east. Chapaev said the opening faced east. And according to him it should be marked BCR-65."

He moved deeper into the trees. Ten minutes later, Rachel pointed and yelled, "There."

He stared ahead. Through the trees, another shaft entrance was visible, the opening barred by iron. A rusty sign affixed to the bars read BCR-65. He checked the sun. East.

Son of a bitch.

They approached close and he slid off the cave pack. He glanced around. No one was in sight, and no sounds disturbed the silence beyond the birds and an occasional rustle from fox squirrels. He examined the bars and gate. All the iron was purpled from heavy oxidation. A steel chain and hasp lock held the gate firmly shut. The chain and lock were definitely newer. Nothing unusual, though. German federal inspectors routinely resecured the shafts. He slipped bolt cutters from the cave pack.

"Nice to see you're prepared," Rachel said.

He snapped the chain and it slinked to the ground. He slid the cutters back into the pack and pulled open the gate.

The hinges screamed.

He stopped. No use attracting unnecessary attention.

He worked the gate open slowly, the tear of metal on metal quieter. Ahead was an arched opening about five meters high and four meters wide. Lichens clung to the blackened stone beyond the entrance and the stale air reeked of mold. Like a grave, he thought. "This opening is wide enough to accept a truck."

"Truck?"

"If the Amber Room is inside, so are trucks. There is no other way the crates could have been transported. Twenty-two tons of amber is heavy. The Germans would have driven trucks into the cave."

"They didn't have forklifts?"

"Hardly. We're talking about the end of the war. The Nazis were desperate to hide their treasure. No time for finesse."

"How did the trucks get up here?"

"Fifty years have passed. There were many roads and fewer trees then. This whole area was a vital manufacturing site."

He pulled two flashlights and a thick coil of twine from his pack, then reshouldered it. He closed the gate behind them and draped the chain and lock back across the bars, providing the appearance that the opening was still bolted shut.

"We might have company," he said. "That should keep people moving to another cavern. Many are unobstructed, much easier to enter."

He handed her a flashlight. Their two narrow beams pierced only meters ahead in the forbidding blackness. A piece of rusted iron protruded from the rock. He tied the end of the twine securely and handed the coil to Rachel.

"Unravel it on the way in. This is how we'll find our way out if we get disoriented."

He cautiously led the way forward, their flashlights revealing a rugged passage deep into the bowels of the mountain. Rachel followed him after slipping on her jacket.

"Be careful," he said. "This tunnel could be mined. That would explain the chaining."

"Comforting to know."

"Nothing worth having is ever easy to obtain."

He stopped and glanced back toward the entrance forty meters behind them. The air had turned fetid and cold. He fished Chapaev's drawing from his pocket and studied the route with the flashlight. "There should be a fork ahead. Let's see if Chapaev is right."

A suffocating pall permeated the air. Rotten. Nauseating.

"Bat guano," he said.

"I think I'm going to vomit."

"Breathe shallow and try to ignore it."

"That's like trying to ignore cow manure on your upper lip."

"These shafts are full of bats."

"Lovely."

He grinned. "In China, bats are revered as the symbol of happiness and long life."

"Happiness stinks."

A fork in the tunnel appeared. He stopped. "The map says to go right." He did. Rachel followed, the twine unraveling behind her.

"Let me know if you get to the end of the coil. I have more," he said.

The odor lessened. The new tunnel was tighter than the main shaft, yet still large enough for a transport truck. Dark capillaries branched off periodically. The echo of chirping bats, waiting for night, loomed clear.

The mountain was most certainly a labyrinth. They all were. Miners in search of ore and salt had burrowed for centuries. How wonderful it would be if this shaft turned out to be the one that led to the Amber Room. Ten million euros. All his. Not to mention Monika's gratitude. Perhaps then Rachel Cutler would be sufficiently excited to let him into her pants. Her rebuke last night had been more arousing than insulting. He wouldn't be surprised if her husband was the only man she'd ever been with. And that thought was intoxicating. Nearly a virgin. Certainly one since her divorce. What a pleasure having her was going to be.

The shaft started to narrow and rise.

His mind snapped back to the tunnel.

They were at least a hundred meters into the granite and limestone. Chapaev's diagram showed another fork ahead.

"I'm out of string," Rachel said.

He stopped and handed her a new coil.

"Tie the ends tight."

He studied the diagram. Supposedly their destination was just ahead. But something wasn't right. The tunnel was not wide enough now for a vehicle. If the Amber Room had been hidden here, it would have been necessary to carry the crates. Eighteen, if he remembered correctly. All cataloged and indexed, the panels wrapped in cigarette paper. Was there another chamber ahead? Nothing unusual for rooms to be carved out of the rock. Nature did some. Others were man-made. According to Chapaev, slabs of rock and silt blocked a doorway to one such chamber twenty meters ahead.

He walked on, careful with each step. The deeper into the mountain, the higher the risk of explosives. His flashlight beam broke the darkness ahead, and his eyes focused on something.

He stared hard.

What the hell?

Suzanne raised the binoculars and studied the entrance to the mine. The sign she'd attached to the iron gate three years ago, BCR-65, was still there. The ploy seemed to have worked. Knoll was getting careless. He'd raced straight to the mine, Rachel Cutler in tow. It was a shame things had come to this, but little choice remained. Knoll was certainly interesting. Exciting even. But he was a problem. A big problem. Her loyalty to Ernst Loring was absolute. Beyond reproach. She owed Loring everything. He was the family she'd never been allowed. All her life the old man had treated her as a daughter, their relationship perhaps closer than the one he possessed with his two natural sons, their love of precious art the glue bonding them to one another. He'd been so excited when she gave him the snuffbox and the book. Pleasing him gave her a sense of satisfaction. So a choice between Christian Knoll and her benefactor was simply no choice at all.

Still, it was too bad. Knoll had his good points.

She stood on the forested ridge undisguised, her blond hair looped to her shoulders, a turtleneck sweater wrapping her chest. She lowered the binoculars and reached for the radio controller, extending the retractable antenna.

Knoll obviously hadn't sensed her presence, thinking he'd rid himself of her in the Atlanta airport.

Not hardly, Christian.

A flick of a switch and the detonator activated.

She checked her watch.

Knoll and his damsel should be deep inside by now. More than enough distance to never get out. The authorities repeatedly warned the public about exploring the caverns. Explosives were common. Many had died through the years, which was why the government started licensing exploration. Three years ago there'd been an explosion in this same shaft, arranged by her when a Polish reporter crept too close. She'd lured him with visions of the Amber Room, the accident ultimately attributed to another unauthorized exploration, the body never found, buried under the rubble that Christian Knoll should be studying right about now.

Knoll examined the wall of rock and sand. He'd seen a tunnel end before. This wasn't a natural cessation. An explosion had caused what lay before him, and there was no way to shovel through the ceiling-to-floor debris.

And there was no iron door on the other side, either.

That much he knew.

"What is it?" Rachel asked.

"There was an explosion here."

"Maybe we made a wrong turn?"

"Not possible. I followed Chapaev's directions precisely."

Something was definitely wrong. His mind reeled off the facts. Chapaev's information offered with no resistance. The chain and lock newer than the gate. The iron hinges still working. The trail easy to follow. Too damn easy.

And Suzanne Danzer? In Atlanta? Maybe not.

The best thing to do was head back to the entrance, enjoy Rachel Cutler, then get out of Warthberg. He'd planned to kill her all along. No need to have a live source of information available for another Acquisitor to tap. Danzer was already on the trail. So it was only a matter of time before she tracked down Rachel and talked to her, perhaps learning about Chapaev. Monika wouldn't like that. Maybe Chapaev really did know where the Amber Room lay but had intentionally led them on this chase. So he decided to get rid of Rachel Cutler here and now, then head back to Kehlheim and squeeze information from Chapaev, one way or the other.

"Let's go," he said. "Roll up the string back to the entrance. I'll follow."

They started back through the maze, Rachel leading the way. His light revealed her firm ass and shapely thighs through tan jeans. He studied her slender legs and narrow shoulders. His groin started to respond.

The first fork appeared, then the second.

"Wait," he said. "I want to see what's down here."

"This way is out," she said, pointing left toward the string.

"I know. But while we're here. Let's see. Leave the string. We know the way from here."

She tossed the twine ball down and turned right, still leading the way.

He flicked his right arm. The stiletto released and slid down. He palmed the handle.

Rachel stopped and turned back, her light momentarily on him.

His light caught her shocked face as she saw the glistening blade.

Suzanne pointed the radio controller and pressed the button. The signal sped through the morning air to the explosive charges she'd set in the rock last night. Not enough of an explosion to draw attention from Warthberg, six kilometers away, but more than enough to bring the mountain down inside.

Ending another problem.

The ground shook. The ceiling crumbled. Knoll tried to steady himself.

Now he knew. It was a trap.

He turned and raced toward the entrance. Rock cascaded in a shower of stone and blinding dust. The air fouled. He held the flashlight in one hand, stiletto in the other. He quickly pocketed the knife and yanked his shirt out, using the clean hem to shield his nose and mouth.

More rock rained down.

The light toward the entrance ahead grew dusty and thick, veiled in a cloud, then obliterated behind boulders. It was now impossible to go that way.

He turned again and darted in the opposite direction, hoping there was another way out of the maze. Thankfully, his flashlight still worked. Rachel Cutler was nowhere to be seen. But it didn't matter. The rocks had saved him the trouble.

He raced deeper into the mountain, down the main shaft, past the point where he last saw her standing. The explosions seemed to have centered behind him, the walls and ceiling ahead stable, though the entire mountain now vibrated.

More rock pounded onto itself behind him. Definitely only one way to go now. A fork appeared in the shaft. He stopped and oriented himself. The original entrance behind him had faced east. So west lay ahead. The left fork appeared to go south, the right north. But, who knows? He had to be careful. Not too many turns. It would be easy to get lost, and he didn't want to die wandering underground until he either starved or dehydrated.

He lowered his shirttail and sucked in a lungful of air. He tried to recall what he could about the mines. Never was there only one way in or out. The sheer depth and extent of the tunnels demanded multiple entrances. During the war, though, the Nazis sealed off most of the portals, trying to secure their hiding places. He now hoped this mine wasn't one of those. What encouraged him was the air. Not as stale as when they were deeper inside.

He raised his hand. A slight breeze drifted from the left fork. Should he take the chance? Too many more turns and he'd never find his way back. Total darkness possessed no reference points, his present position known only because of the main shaft's orientation. But he could easily lose that frame of reference with a couple of indiscriminate moves.

What should he do?

He stepped left.

Fifty meters and the tunnel forked again. He held up his hand. No breeze. He recalled reading once that the miners designed their safety routes all in the same direction. One left turn meant all left turns until you were out. What choice did he have? Go left.

Two more forks. Two more lefts.

A shaft of light appeared ahead. Faint. But there. He scurried forward and turned the corner.

Daylight loomed a hundred meters away.

THIRTY-ONE

Kehlheim, Germany
11:30 a.m.

Paul glanced in the rearview mirror. A car rapidly approached, its lights flashing and siren hee-hawing. The green-and-white compact, POLIZEI on the doors in blue letters, zoomed past in the opposite lane and disappeared around a bend.

He drove on, entering Kehlheim ten kilometers later.

The quiet village was littered with brightly painted buildings that ringed a cobbled square. He wasn't much of a traveler. Only one trip overseas to Paris two years ago for the museum--a chance to tour the Louvre had been too enticing to pass up. He'd asked Rachel to go with him. She'd refused. Not a good idea for an ex-wife, he remembered her saying. He was never quite sure what she meant, though he sincerely thought she would have liked to go.

He'd been unable to get a flight out of Atlanta until yesterday afternoon, taking the children to his brother's house early in the morning. The lack of a call from Rachel worried him. But he'd not checked the answering machine since 9 A.M. yesterday. His flight was protracted by stops in Amsterdam and Frankfurt, which didn't get him into Munich until two hours ago. He'd cleaned up the best he could in an airport bathroom, but could definitely use a shower, shave, and change of clothes.

He cruised into the town square and parked in front of what appeared to be a grocery market. Bavaria obviously wasn't a Sunday place. All the buildings were closed down. The only activity was centered near the church, whose steeple was the highest point in the village. Parked cars hunched in tight rows across uneven cobbles. A group of older men stood on the church steps talking. Beards, dark coats, and hats predominated. He should have brought a jacket himself, but he'd packed in a hurry with only the essentials.

He walked over. "Excuse me. Any of you speak English?"

One man, seemingly the oldest of the four said, "Ja. A little."

"I'm looking for a man named Danya Chapaev. I understand he lives here."

"Not anymore. Dead now."

He was afraid of that. Chapaev had to have been old. "When did he die?"

"Last night. Killed."

Had he heard right? Killed? Last night? His greatest fear welled up inside him. The question immediately formed in his mind. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Nein. Just Danya."

He remembered the police car. "Where did this happen?"

He motored out of Kehlheim and followed the proffered directions. The house appeared ten minutes later, easy to spot with four police cars angled in front. A uniformed, stone-faced man stood guard at the open front door. Paul approached, but was stopped immediately.

"Nicht eintreten. Kriminelle szene," the policeman said.

"English, please."

"No entrance. Crime scene."

"Then I need to speak to the person in charge."

"I'm in charge," a voice said from inside, the English laced with a guttural German accent.

The man who approached the front doorway was middle-aged. Tufts of unruly black hair crowned a craggy face. A dark blue overcoat draped his thin frame down to the knees, an olive suit and knit tie showing underneath.

"I am Fritz Pannik. Inspector with the federal police. And you?"

"Paul Cutler. A lawyer from the United States."

Pannik brushed past the door guard. "What is a lawyer from America doing here on a Sunday morning?"

"Looking for my ex-wife. She came to see Danya Chapaev."

Pannik cut a look at the policeman.

He noticed the curious expression. "What is it?"

"A woman was asking directions to this house yesterday in Kehlheim. She is a suspect in this murder."

"You have a description?"

Pannik reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a notepad. He flipped open the leather flap. "Medium height. Reddish-blond hair. Big breasts. Jeans. Flannel shirt. Boots. Sunglasses. Hefty."

"That's not Rachel. But it could be somebody else."

He quickly told Pannik about Jo Myers, Karol Borya, and the Amber Room, describing his female visitor as she appeared. Thin, moderately chested, chestnut hair, brown eyes, a pair of octagonal gold frames. "I got the impression the hair wasn't hers. Call it lawyer intuition."

"But she read the letters Chapaev and this Karol Borya sent to one another?"

"Thoroughly."

"Did the envelopes note this location on them?"

"Only the town name."

"Is there more to the story?"

He told the inspector about Christian Knoll, Jo Myers's concerns, and his own.

"And you came to warn your ex-wife?" Pannik asked.

"More to see if she was okay. I should have come with her in the first place."

"But you considered her trip a waste of time?"

"Absolutely. Her father expressly asked her not to get involved." Beyond Pannik's shoulders, two policemen moved about inside. "What happened in there?"

"If you have the stomach, I'll show you."

"I'm a lawyer," he said, as if that meant anything. He didn't mention that he'd never handled a criminal case in his life and had never visited a crime scene before. But curiosity drove him. First Borya dead, now Chapaev murdered. But Karol had fallen down the stairs.

Or had he?

He followed Pannik inside. The warm room carried a peculiar, sickeningly sweet odor. Mystery novels always talked about the smell of death. Was that it?

The house was small. Four rooms. A den, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. From what he could see the furniture was old and tattered, yet the place was clean and cozy, the tranquillity shattered by the sight of an old man sprawled across a threadbare carpet, a large splotch of crimson leading from two holes in the skull.

"Shot point-blank," Pannik said.

His eyes were riveted on the corpse. Bile started to rise in his throat. He fought the urge, but to no avail.

He rushed from the room.

He was bent over, retching. The little bit he'd eaten on the plane was now puddled on the damp grass. He took a few deep breaths and got hold of himself.

"Finished?" Pannik asked.

He nodded. "You think the woman did that?"

"I don't know. All I know is that a female asked where Chapaev lived, and the grandson offered to show her the way. They left the marketplace together yesterday morning. The old man's daughter got concerned last night when the boy did not come home. She came over and found the boy tied up in the bedroom. Apparently the woman had a problem killing children, but didn't mind shooting an old man."

"The boy okay?"

"Shook up, but all right. He confirmed the description, but could offer little more. He was in the other room. He remembers hearing voices talking. But he couldn't determine any of the conversation. Then his papa and the woman came in for a moment. They spoke in another language. I tried a few sample words, and it appears they were speaking Russian. Then the old man and the woman left the room. He heard a shot. Silence after that till his mother arrived a few hours later."

"She shot the man square in the head?"

"At close range, too. The stakes must be high."

A policeman walked from inside. "Nichts im haus hinsichtlich des Bernstein-zimmer."

Pannik looked at him. "I had them search the house for anything on the Amber Room. There's nothing there."

A radio crackled from the hip of the German standing guard at the front door. The man slipped the transmitter from his waist, then approached Pannik. In English the policeman said, "I have to go. A call has come for search and rescue. I'm on duty this weekend."

"What's happened?" Pannik asked.

"Explosion in one of the mines near Warthberg. An American woman has been pulled out, but they're still searching for a man. Local authorities have requested our help."

Pannik shook his head. "A busy Sunday."

"Where's Warthberg?" Paul immediately asked.

"In the Harz Mountains. Four hundred kilometers to the north. They sometimes use our Alpine rescue teams when there are mishaps."

Wayland McKoy and Karol's interest in the Harz Mountains flashed through his mind. "An American woman was found? What's her name?"

Pannik seemed to sense the point of the inquiry and turned to the officer. Words passed between them, and the officer talked back into the radio.

Two minutes later, the words came through the speaker: "Die frau ist Rachel Cutler. Amerikanerin."

THIRTY-TWO


3:10 p.m.

The police chopper knifed north through the may afternoon. Past Wurzburg it started to rain. Paul sat next to Pannik, a team of search-and-rescue personnel strapped in behind them.

"A group of hikers heard the explosions and alerted authorities," Pannik said over the roar of the turbine. "Your ex-wife was pulled out near an entrance to one of the shafts. She's been taken to a local hospital, but managed to tell her rescuers about the man. His name is Christian Knoll, Herr Cutler."

He listened with great concern. But all he could see was Rachel lying in a hospital, bleeding. What was going on? What had Rachel gotten into? How had Knoll found her? What happened in that mine? Were Marla and Brent in any danger? He needed to call his brother and alert him.

"Seems Jo Myers was right," Pannik said.

"Did the reports mention Rachel's condition?"

Pannik shook his head.

The helicopter flew first to the scene of the explosion--the mine entrance was deep in the forest at the base of one of the higher mounds. The nearest clearing opened a half kilometer to the west, and the rescue personnel were deposited there to hike back. He and Pannik remained in the chopper and flew east of Warthberg to a regional hospital, where Rachel had been taken.

Inside, he headed straight for her fourth-floor room. Rachel was dressed in a blue gown. A large bandage lay across her scalp. She smiled from the bed when she saw him. "Why did I know you'd be here?"

He stepped closer. Her cheeks, nose, and arms were scraped and bruised. "I didn't have much else to do this weekend, so why not a trip to Germany."

"The children okay?"

"They're fine."

"How did you get here so fast?"

"I left yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

Before he could explain, Pannik, standing quiet at the door, stepped closer. "Frau Cutler, I'm Inspector Fritz Pannik, federal police."

Paul told Rachel about Jo Myers, Christian Knoll, and what happened to Danya Chapaev.

Shock invaded Rachel's face. "Chapaev's dead?"

"I need to call my brother," Paul said to Pannik, "and have him watch the kids closely. Maybe even alert the Atlanta police."

"You think they're in danger?" she asked.

"I don't know what to think, Rachel. You've got yourself into something really bad. Your father warned you to stay out of this."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy. I can read Ovid. He wanted you to stay the hell out of this. Now Chapaev is dead."

Her face tightened. "That's not fair, Paul. I didn't do that. I didn't know."

"But perhaps you pointed the way," Pannik made clear.

Rachel stared at the inspector, the realization clear on her face. Suddenly, Paul regretted chastising her. He wanted to help shoulder the blame, like always. "That's not entirely true," he said. "I showed the woman the letters. She learned about Kehlheim from me."

"And would you have done that if you did not think Frau Cutler to be in danger?"

No, he wouldn't have. He looked at Rachel. Tears welled in her eyes.

"Paul's right, Inspector. It's my fault. I wouldn't leave well enough alone. He and my father warned me."

"What of this Christian Knoll?" Pannik asked. "Tell me about him."

Rachel reported what she knew, which wasn't much. Then she said, "The man saved me from getting run down by a car. He was charming and courteous. I sincerely thought he wanted to help."

"What happened in the mine?" Pannik asked.

"We were following Chapaev's map. The tunnel was fairly wide, and all of a sudden it felt like an earthquake and an avalanche bisected the shaft. I turned back toward the entrance and started running. I only made it about halfway when the rocks knocked me down. Luckily, I wasn't buried. I lay there till some hikers came in and got me."

"And Knoll?" Pannik asked.

She shook her head. "I called out to him after the cave-in stopped, but nothing."

"He's probably still in there," Pannik said.

"Was it an earthquake?" Paul asked.

"We have no earthquakes here. Probably explosives from the war. The shafts are full of them."

"Knoll said the same thing," Rachel said.

The hospital room door opened, and a stocky policeman motioned to Pannik. The inspector excused himself and stepped outside.

"You're right," Rachel said. "I should have listened."

He wasn't interested in her concessions. "We need to get out of here and back home."

Rachel said nothing, and he was about to press the point when Pannik returned.

"The shaft has been cleared. No one else was found inside. There was another entrance, unblocked, out a far tunnel. How did you and Herr Knoll get to the mine?"

"We drove a rental car, then hiked."

"What kind of car?"

"A maroon Volvo."

"No car was found at the highway," Pannik said. "This Knoll is gone."

The inspector seemed to know something more. Paul asked, "What else did that policeman tell you?"

"That shaft was never used by the Nazis. No explosives were inside. Yet this is the second explosion there in three years."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning something quite strange is going on."

Paul left the hospital and hitched a ride in a police car to Warthberg. Pannik tagged along. Being a federal inspector gave him certain rank and privileges.

"Similar to your FBI," Pannik said. "I work for the nationwide police force. The locals cooperate with us all the time."

Rachel told them Knoll rented two rooms in the Goldene Krone. Pannik's badge gained immediate access to Rachel's room, which was tidy, bed made, suitcase gone. Knoll's room was empty, too. No maroon Volvo anywhere in sight.

"Herr Knoll left this morning," the hotel proprietor said. "Paid for both rooms and left."

"What time?"

"Around ten-thirty."

"You didn't hear about the explosion?"

"There are many explosions in the mines, Inspector. I don't pay much attention to who is involved."

"Did you see Knoll return this morning?" Pannik asked.

The man shook his balding head. They thanked the proprietor and stepped outside.

Paul said to Pannik, "Knoll's got a five-hour head start, but maybe the car could be spotted by a bulletin."

"Herr Knoll doesn't interest me. The most he's done right now is trespass."

"He left Rachel to die in that mine."

"That's no crime either. The woman is the one I seek. A murderess."

Pannik was right. But he realized the inspector's quandary. No accurate description. No real name. No physical evidence. No background. No nothing.

"Any idea where to look?" he asked.

Pannik stared out at the quiet village square. "Nein, Herr Cutler. Not a one."

THIRTY-THREE

Castle Loukov, Czech Republic
5:10 p.m.

Suzanne accepted the pewter goblet from Ernst Loring and wedged herself comfortably into an Empire chair. Her employer seemed pleased with the report.

She said, "I waited a half hour at the scene and left when the authorities started to arrive. No one emerged from the mine shaft."

"I will check with Fellner tomorrow on the pretense of something else. Perhaps he will say if something happened to Christian."

She sipped her wine, pleased with the day's activity. She'd driven straight from central Germany to Czech, crossing the border and speeding south to Loring's castle estate. The three hundred kilometers had been an easy two-and-a-half-hour trek in the Porsche.

"Very clever, maneuvering Christian like that," Loring said. "He is a difficult one to lead."

"He was too eager. But I have to say, Chapaev was quite convincing." She sipped more wine. The fruity vintage was Loring's own. "A shame. The old man was dedicated. He'd kept quiet a long time. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to silence him."

"It was good to leave the child unharmed."

"I don't kill children. He knew nothing more than what the other witnesses at the market would report. He was my leverage to get the old man to do what I wanted."

Loring's face bore a heavy, tired look. "I wonder when it will end. Every few years we seem forced to tend to this matter."

"I read the letters. Leaving Chapaev around would have been an unnecessary risk. More loose ends that would eventually have led to problems."

"Regretfully, draha, you are right."

"Were you able to learn anything more from St. Petersburg?"

"Only that Christian was definitely in the Commission records again. He noticed Father's name on a document Knoll was reading, but it was gone when he checked after Knoll left."

"Good thing Knoll is no longer a problem. With Borya and Chapaev gone, things should now be secure."

"I am afraid not," Loring said. "There is another problem."

She set her wine aside. "What?"

"An excavation has started near Stod. An American entrepreneur looking for treasure."

"People don't give up, do they?"

"The lure is too intoxicating. Hard to say for sure if this latest venture is in the right cavern. Unfortunately, there is no way to know until the cavern is explored. All I know is that he is in the generally correct area."

"We have a source?"

"Directly on the inside. He has kept me informed, but even he doesn't know for sure. Unfortunately, Father kept that precise information close to himself . . . not even trusting his son."

"You want me to travel there?"

"Please. Keep an eye on things. My source is reliable, but greedy. He demands too much and, as you know, greed is something I cannot tolerate. He's expecting contact from a woman. My personal secretary has been the only one to talk with him so far, and only by telephone. The source knows nothing of me. He will know you by Margarethe. If anything is found, make sure the situation stays contained. No trail leading out. If the location is unrelated, forget it, and, if need be, eliminate the source. But, please, let's try to minimize the killing."

She knew what he meant. "I had no choice with Chapaev."

"I understand, draha, and I appreciate the efforts. Hopefully, that death will be the end of the so-called curse of the Amber Room."

"Along with two more."

The old man grinned. "Christian and Rachel Cutler?"

She nodded.

"I believe you are pleased with your efforts. Strange, I thought I sensed a hesitancy the other day regarding Christian. Maybe a small attraction?"

She lifted the goblet and toasted her employer. "Nothing I can't live without."

Knoll sped south toward Fussen. There were too many police in and around Kehlheim to stay the night there. He'd fled Warthberg and returned south to the Alps to talk with Danya Chapaev, only to learn the old man had been murdered during the night. The police were searching for a woman who'd asked directions to the house yesterday and left the marketplace with Chapaev's grandson. Her identity was unknown. But not to him.

Suzanne Danzer.

Who else? Somehow she'd picked up the trail and beat him to Chapaev. All that information Chapaev had freely provided came from her. No question about it. He'd been sucked into a trap and nearly killed.

He recalled what Juvenal said in his Satires. Revenge is the delight of a mean spirit and petty mind. Proof of this is no one rejoices more in revenge than a woman.

Right. But he preferred Byron. Men love in haste but detest at leisure.

There'd be hell to pay when their paths crossed again. Bloody damn painful hell. Next time he'd have the advantage. He'd be ready.

The narrow streets of Fussen overflowed with spring tourists drawn by Ludwig's castle south of town. It was an easy matter to blend into the evening rush of revelers searching for dinner and spirits in the busy cafes. He paused for a half hour and ate in one of the least crowded, listening to delightful chamber music echoing from a summer concert across the street. After, he found a phone booth near his hotel and called Burg Herz. Franz Fellner answered.

"I heard about an explosion in the mountains today. A woman was pulled out, and they are still looking for the man."

"I won't be found," he said. "It was a trap." He told Fellner what happened from the time he left Atlanta to the moment he learned of Chapaev's murder a little while ago. "Interesting that Rachel Cutler may have survived. But it does not matter. She'll surely head back to Atlanta."

"You are sure Suzanne is involved?"

"Somehow she got ahead of me."

Fellner chuckled. "Perhaps you are getting old, Christian?"

"I was not careful enough."

"Cocksure is a better explanation," Monika suddenly said. She was obviously on an extension.

"I wondered where you were."

"Your mind was probably on how you were going to fuck her."

"How fortunate I am to have you to remind me of all my shortcomings."

Monika laughed. "Half the fun of all this, Christian, is watching you work."

He said, "It appears this trail is now frozen. Perhaps I should move on to other acquisitions?"

"Tell him, child," Fellner said.

"An American, Wayland McKoy, is excavating near Stod. Claims he's going to find the Berlin museum art, maybe the Amber Room. He's done this before with some success. Check it out just to be sure. At the very least you might pick up some good information, maybe a new acquisition."

"Is this excavation well known?"

"It's in the local papers, and CNN International ran several pieces on it," Monika said.

"We were aware of it before you traveled to Atlanta," Fellner said, "but thought Borya worth an immediate inquiry."

"Is Loring interested in this new dig?" he asked.

"He seems interested in everything else we do," Monika said.

"You're hoping Suzanne will be dispatched?" Fellner asked.

"More than hoping."

"Good hunting, Christian."

"Thank you, sir, and when Loring calls to learn if I'm dead, don't disappoint him."

"Need a little anonymity?"

"It would help."

THIRTY-FOUR

Warthberg, Germany
8:45 p.m.

Rachel strolled into the restaurant and followed Paul to a table, savoring the warm air laced with a scent of cloves and garlic. She was starving and feeling better. The full bandage from the hospital had been replaced with gauze and tape to the side of her head. She wore a pair of chinos and a long-sleeved shirt Paul bought at a local store, her tattered clothes from this morning no longer wearable.

Paul had checked her out of the hospital two hours ago. She was fine except for the bump on her head and a few cuts and scrapes. She'd promised the doctor to take it easy the next couple of days, Paul telling him they were headed back to Atlanta anyway.

A waiter stepped over, and Paul asked what type wine she'd like.

"A good red would be nice. Something local," she said, remembering last night's dinner with Knoll.

The waiter departed.

"I called the airline," Paul said. "There's a flight out of Frankfurt tomorrow. Pannik said he could arrange to get us to the airport."

"Where is the inspector?"

"Went back to Kehlheim to see about the investigation on Chapaev. He left a phone number."

"I can't believe all my stuff's gone."

"Knoll obviously wanted nothing left to trace you."

"He appeared so sincere. Charming, in fact."

Paul seemed to sense the attraction in her voice. "You liked him?"

"He was interesting. Said he was an art collector looking for the Amber Room. "

"That appeals to you?"

"Come on, Paul. Wouldn't you say that we live a mundane life? Work and home. Think about it. Traveling the world, looking for lost art--that would excite anyone."

"The man left you to die."

Her face tightened. That tone of his did it every time. "But he also saved my life in Munich."

"I should have come with you to start with."

"I don't recall inviting you." Her irritation was building. Why did it swell so easily? Paul was only trying to help.

"No, you didn't invite me. But I still should have come."

She was surprised by his reaction to Knoll. Hard to tell if he was jealous or concerned.

"We need to go home," he said. "There's nothing left here. I'm worried about the children. I can still see Chapaev's body."

"You believe the woman who came to see you killed Chapaev?"

"Who knows? But she certainly knew where to look, thanks to me."

Now seemed the right time. "Let's stay, Paul."

"What?"

"Let's stay."

"Rachel, haven't you learned your lesson? People are dying. We need to get out of here, before it's us. You were lucky today. Don't push it. This isn't some adventure novel. This is real. And foolishness. Nazis. Russians. We're out of our league."

"Paul, Daddy must have known something. Chapaev, too. We owe it to them to try."

"Try what?"

"There's one trail left to follow. Remember Wayland McKoy. Knoll told me Stod is not far from here. He might be on to something. Daddy was interested in what he was doing."

"Leave it alone, Rachel."

"What would it hurt?"

"That's exactly what you said about finding Chapaev."

She shoved her chair back and stood. "That's not fair, and you know it." Her voice rose. "If you want to go home, go. I'm going to talk to Wayland McKoy."

A few other diners started to notice. She hoped none of them spoke English. Paul's face carried the usual look of resignation. He'd never really known what to do with her. It was another of their problems. Impetuousness was foreign to his personality. He was a meticulous planner. No detail too small. Not obsessive. Just consistent. Had he ever done a spontaneous thing in his life? Yes. He'd flown here virtually on the spur of the moment. And she was hoping that counted for something.

"Sit down, Rachel," he quietly said. "For once could we discuss something rationally?"

She sat. She wanted him to stay, but would never admit it.

"You've got an election campaign to run. Why don't you channel all this energy into that?"

"I have to do this, Paul. Something is telling me to go on."

"Rachel, in the last forty-eight hours two people have turned up out of nowhere, both looking for the same thing, one possibly a killer, the other callous enough to leave you for dead. Karol is gone. So is Chapaev. Maybe your father was murdered. You were awfully suspicious about that before coming over here."

"I still am, and that's part of this. Not to mention your parents. They may have been victims also."

She could almost hear his analytical mind working. Weighing the options. Trying to think of the next argument to convince her to come home with him.

"All right," he said. "We'll go to see McKoy."

"You serious?"

"What I am is crazy. But I don't plan to leave you alone over here."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "You watch my back and I'll watch yours. Okay?"

He grinned. "Yeah, right."

"Daddy would be proud."

"Your father is probably turning in his grave. We're ignoring everything he wanted."

The waiter arrived with the wine and poured two glasses. She raised her glass. "To success."

He returned the toast. "Success."

She sipped the wine, pleased Paul was staying. But the vision flashed through her mind once again. What she saw as her flashlight revealed Christian Knoll the second before the explosion. A knife blade gleaming in his hand.

Yet she'd said nothing to Paul or Inspector Pannik. Easy to guess at both their reactions, especially Paul's.

She looked at her ex-husband, remembered her father and Chapaev, and thought of the children.

Was she doing the right thing?

PART THREE

THIRTY-FIVE

Stod, Germany
Monday, May 19, 10:15 a.m.

Wayland McKoy marched into the cavern. Cold damp air enveloped him, and darkness overtook the morning light. He marveled at the ancient shaft. Ein Silberbergwerk. A silver mine. Once the "treasury of the Holy Roman Emperors," the earth now lay spent and abandoned, a sordid reminder of the cheap Mexican silver that drove most of the Harz's mines out of business by 1900.

The whole area was spectacular. Knots of pine-clad hills, stunted scrub, and alpine meadows, all beautiful and rugged, yet an eeriness permeated. As Goethe had said in Faust: Where witches held their Sabbath.

It had once been the southwestern corner of East Germany, in the dreaded forbidden zone, and stilted border posts continued to dot the forest. The minefields, shrapnel-scattering trap guns, guard dogs, and barbed-wire fences were now gone. Wende, unification, had put an end to the need for containing an entire population and opened opportunities. Ones he was now exploiting.

He made his way down the wide shaft. The trail was marked every thirty meters by a hundred-watt bulb, and an electrical cord snaked a path back to the generator outside. The rock face was sharp, the floor rubble strewn, the work of an initial team he'd sent in last weekend to clear the passage.

That had been the easy part. Jackhammers and air guns. No need to worry about long-lost Nazi explosives, the tunnel had been sniffed by dogs and surveyed by demolitionists. The lack of anything even remotely concerned with explosives was worrisome. If this was indeed the right mine, the one Germans used to stash the art from Berlin's Kaiser Friedrich museum, then it would almost certainly have been mined. Yet nothing had been found. Just rock, silt, sand, and thousands of bats. The nasty little bastards populated offshoots of the main shaft during winter, and of all the species in the world, this one had to be endangered. Which explained why the German government had been so hesitant about granting him an exploration permit. Luckily, the bats left the mine every May, not to return until mid-July. A precious forty-five days to explore. That had been all the German government would grant. His permit required the mine be empty when the beasts returned.

The deeper he strolled into the mountain, the larger the shaft became--which also was troublesome. The normal routine was for the tunnels to narrow, eventually becoming impassable, the miners excavating until it proved impossible to burrow any farther. All the shafts were a testament to centuries of mining, each generation trying to better the one before and uncover a vein of previously undetected ore. But for all its width, the size of this shaft still concerned him. It was simply far too narrow to stash anything as large as the loot he was searching for.

He approached his three-man work crew. Two men stood on ladders, another below, each boring holes at sixty-degree angles into the rock. Cables fed air and electricity. The generators and compressors stood fifty meters behind him, outside in the morning air. Harsh, hot, blue-white lights illuminated the scene and drenched the crew in sweat.

The drills stopped and the men slipped off their ear protection. He, too, slipped off his sound muffs. "Any idea how we're doin'?" he asked.

One of the men shoved fogged goggles from his eyes and mopped the perspiration on his brow. "We've moved about a foot forward today. No way to tell how much farther, and I'm afraid to jackhammer."

Another of the men reached for a jug. Slowly, he filled the drilled holes with solvent. McKoy stepped close to the wall of rock. The porous granite and limestone instantly drank in the brown syrup from each hole, the caustic chemical expanding, creating fissions in the stone. Another goggled man approached with a sledgehammer. One blow and the rock shattered in sheets, crumbling to the ground. Another few inches forward now excavated.

"Slow goin'," he said.

"But the only way to do it," came a voice from behind.

McKoy turned to see Herr Doktor Alfred Grumer standing in the cavern. He was tall, with spindly arms and legs, gaunt to the point of caricature, a graying Vandyke beard bracketing pencil-thin lips. Grumer was the resident expert on the dig, possessed of a degree from the University of Heidelberg in art history. McKoy had latched on to Grumer three years ago during his last venture into the Harz mines. The man boasted both expertise and greed, two attributes he not only admired but also needed in his business associates.

"We're runnin' out of time," McKoy said.

Grumer stepped close. "There's another four weeks left on your permit. We'll get through."

"Assumin' there's something to get through to."

"The chamber is there. The radar soundings confirm it."

"But how goddamned far into that rock?"

"That's hard to say. But something is in there."

"And how the hell did it get there? You said the radar soundin's confirmed multiple sizable metallic objects." He motioned back beyond the lights. "That shaft is hardly big enough for three people to walk through."

A thin grin lined Grumer's face. "You assume this is the only way in."

"And you assume I'm a bottomless money pit."

The other men reset their drills and started a new bore. McKoy drifted back into the shaft, beyond the lights, where it was cooler and quieter. Grumer followed. He said, "If we don't make some progress by tomorrow, the hell with this drillin'. We're going to dynamite."

"Your permit requires otherwise."

He ran a hand through his wet black hair. "Fuck the permit. We need progress, and fast. I've got a television crew waitin' in town that's costing me two thousand a day. And those fat-ass bureaucrats in Bonn don't have a bunch of investors flying here tomorrow, expectin' to see art."

"This cannot be rushed," Grumer said. "There is no telling what awaits behind the rock."

"There's supposed to be a huge chamber."

"There is. And it contains something."

He softened his tone. It wasn't Grumer's fault the dig was going slow. "Somethin' gave the ground radar multiple orgasms, huh?"

Grumer smiled. "A poetic way of putting it."

"You better damn well hope so or we're both screwed."

"The German word for 'cave' is hohle," Grumer said. "The word for 'hell' is holle. I have always thought the similarity was not without significance."

"Fuckin' damn interesting, Grumer. But not the right sentiment at the moment, if you get my drift."

Grumer seemed unconcerned. As always. Another thing about this man that irritated the hell out of him.

"I came down to tell you we have visitors," Grumer said.

"Not another reporter?"

"An American lawyer and a judge."

"The lawsuits have started already?"

Grumer flashed one of his condescending grins. He wasn't in the mood. He should fire the irritating fool. But Grumer's contacts within the Ministry of Culture were too valuable to dispense with. "No lawsuits, Herr McKoy. These two speak of the Amber Room."

His face lit up.

"I thought you might be interested. They claim to have information."

"Crackpots?"

"Don't appear to be."

"What do they want?"

"To talk."

He glanced back at the wall of rock and the whining drills. "Why not? Nothing the hell goin' on here."

Paul turned as the door to the tiny shed swung open. He watched a grizzly bear of a man with a bull neck, thick waist, and bushy black hair enter the whitewashed room. A bulging chest and arms swelled a cotton shirt that was embroidered with MCKOY EXCAVATIONS, and an intense gaze through dark eyes immediately assessed the situation. Alfred Grumer, whom he and Rachel had met a few minutes ago, followed the man inside.

"Herr Cutler, Frau Cutler, this is Wayland McKoy," Grumer said.

"I don't want to be rude," McKoy said, "but this is a critical time around here, and I don't have a lot of time to chitchat. So what can I do for you?"

Paul decided to get to the point. "We've had an interesting last few days--"

"Which one of you is the judge?" McKoy asked.

"Me," Rachel said.

"What's a lawyer and judge from Georgia doin' in the middle of Germany bothering me?"

"Looking for the Amber Room," Rachel said.

McKoy chuckled. "Who the hell isn't?"

"You must think it's nearby, maybe even where you're digging," Rachel said.

"I'm sure you two legal eagles know that I'm not about to discuss any of the particulars of this dig with you. I have investors that demand confidentiality."

"We're not asking you to divulge anything," Paul said. "But you may find what's happened to us the past few days interesting." He told McKoy and Grumer everything that'd occurred since Karol Borya died and Rachel had been pulled from the mine.

Grumer settled down on one of the stools. "We heard about that explosion. Never found the man?"

"Nothing to find. Knoll was long gone." Paul explained what he and Pannik learned in Warthberg.

"You still haven't said what you want," McKoy said.

"You can start with some information. Who's Josef Loring?"

"A Czech industrialist," McKoy said. "He's been dead about thirty years. There was talk he found the Amber Room right after the war, but nothin' was ever verified. Another rumor for the books."

Grumer said, "Loring was noted for lavish obsessions. He owned a very extensive art collection. One of the largest private amber collections in the world. I understand his son still has it. How would your father know of him?"

Rachel explained about the Extraordinary Commission and her father's involvement. She also told them about Yancy and Marlene Cutler and her father's reservations about their deaths.

"What's Loring's son's name?" she asked.

"Ernst," Grumer said. "He must be eighty now. Still lives on the family estate in southern Czech. Not all that far from here."

There was something about Alfred Grumer that Paul simply did not like. The furrowed brow? The eyes that seemed to consider something else as the ears listened? For some reason, the German reminded him of the housepainter who two weeks ago tried to take the estate he represented for $12,300, easily settling for $1,250. No compunction about lying. More deception than truth in everything he said. Somebody not to be trusted.

"You have your father's correspondence?" Grumer asked Rachel.

Paul didn't want to show him, but thought the gesture would be a demonstration of their good faith. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew the sheets. Grumer and McKoy studied each letter in silence. McKoy particularly seemed riveted. When they finished, Grumer asked, "This Chapaev is dead?"

Paul nodded.

"Your father, Mrs. Cutler--by the way, are you two married?" McKoy asked.

"Divorced," Rachel said.

"And travelin' all over Germany together?"

Rachel's face screwed tight. "Is that relevant to anything?"

McKoy gave her a curious look. "Maybe not, Your Honor. But you two are the ones disruptin' my morning with questions. Like I was sayin', your father worked with the Soviets, looking for the Amber Room?"

"He was interested in what you're doing here."

"He say anythin' in particular?"

"No," Paul said. "But he watched the CNN report and wanted the USA Today account. The next thing we knew, he was studying a German map and reading old articles on the Amber Room."

McKoy ambled over and plopped down in an oak swivel chair. The springs groaned from the weight. "You think we might have the right tunnel?"

"Karol knew something about the Amber Room," Paul said. "So did Chapaev. My parents may have even known something. And somebody may have wanted them all kept quiet."

"But do you have anything that shows they were the target of that bomb?" McKoy asked.

"No," Paul said. "But after Chapaev's death, I have to wonder. Karol was very remorseful about what happened to my parents. I'm beginning to believe there's more to it than I thought."

"Too many coincidences, huh?"

"You could say that."

"What about the tunnel Chapaev directed you to?" Grumer asked.

"Nothing there," Rachel said. "And Knoll thought the collapsed end was from an explosion. At least that's what he said."

McKoy grinned. "Wild goose chase?"

"Most likely," Paul said.

"Any explanation as to why Chapaev would send you on a dead end?"

Rachel had to concede that she had no explanation. "But what about this Loring? Why would my father be concerned enough to have the Cutlers make inquiries about him?"

"The rumors concerning the Amber Room are widespread. So many, it is hard to keep them straight anymore. Your father may have been checking another lead," Grumer said.

"You know anything about this Christian Knoll?" Paul asked Grumer.

"Nein. Never heard the name."

"You here for a piece of the action?" McKoy suddenly asked.

Paul smiled. He'd half expected a sales pitch. "Hardly. We're not treasure hunters. Just a couple of folks deep into something we probably have no business in. Since we were in the neighborhood, we thought a look might be worth the trip."

"I've been diggin' in these mountains for years--"

The shed door burst open. A grinning man in filthy overalls said, "We're through!"

McKoy sprang from the chair. "Hot damn, Almighty. Call the TV crew. Tell 'em to get over here. And nobody goes inside till I get there."

The worker sprinted off.

"Let's go, Grumer."

Rachel thrust forward, blocking McKoy's path to the door. "Let us come."

"The shit for?"

"My father."

McKoy hesitated a few seconds, then said, "Why not? But stay the hell out of the way."

THIRTY-SIX

An uncomfortable feeling swept over Rachel. The shaft was wide but tighter than the one yesterday, and the entrance had faded behind them. Twenty-four hours earlier she'd almost been buried alive. Now she was back underground, following a trail of exposed bulbs deep inside another German mountain. The path ended in an open gallery with walls of gray-white rock surrounding her, the farthest wall broken by a black slit. A worker was swinging a sledgehammer, widening the slit into an aperture large enough for a person to pass through.

McKoy unclamped one of the flood lamps and stepped to the opening. "Anyone look inside?"

"No," a worker said.

"Good." McKoy lifted an aluminum pole from the sand and clicked the lamp to the end. He then extended the telescopic sections until the light was about ten feet away. He approached the opening and shoved the glow into the darkness.

"Son of a bitch," McKoy said. "The chamber's huge. I see three trucks. Oh, shit," He withdrew the light. "Bodies. Two I can see."

Footsteps approached from behind. Rachel turned to see three people racing toward them, video cameras, lights, and battery packs in hand.

"Get that stuff ready," McKoy said. "I want the initial look documented for the show." McKoy turned toward Rachel and Paul. "I sold the video rights. Going to be a TV special on this. But they wanted everything as it happened."

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.

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 ancient defiance and lordly power.

She stared upward.

The abbey's towering edifice seemed to lean forward, curving slightly inward, its twin yellow towers connected by a balcony that faced due west. She imagined a time when monks and prelates surveyed their domain from that lofty perch. "The Fortress of God," she recalled one medieval chronicler proclaiming of the site. Alternating amber and white-colored stone walls lined the exterior, capped by a rust-colored tile roof. How fitting. Amber. Maybe it was an omen. And if she believed in anything other than herself, she might have taken notice. But, at the moment, the only thing she noticed was the feeling of being watched.

Certainly Wayland McKoy would arouse interest. Maybe that was it. Somebody else was here. Searching. Watching. But where? Hundreds of windows lined the narrow street, most up several stories. The cobblestones were crowded with too many faces to digest. Someone could be in disguise. Or maybe somebody was a hundred meters up on the balcony of the abbey gazing down. She could just make out tiny silhouettes in the midday sun, tourists apparently enjoying a grand view.

No matter.

She turned and entered the Hotel Garni.

She approached the front desk and told the male clerk in German, "I need to leave a message for Alfred Grumer."

"Certainly." The man pushed her a pad.

She wrote, I will be at the church of St. Gerhard, 10:00 p.m. Be there. Margarethe. She folded the note.

"I'll see Herr Doktor Grumer receives it," the clerk said.

She smiled and handed him five euros for his trouble.

Knoll stood inside the Christinenhof's lobby and carefully parted the sheers for a ground-floor view of the street. He watched while less than a hundred feet away Suzanne Danzer stopped and looked around.

Did she sense him?

She was good. Her instincts sharp. He'd always liked Jung's comparisons of how the ancients viewed women as either Eve, Helen, Sophia, or Mary--corresponding to impulsive, emotional, intellectual, and moral. Danzer certainly possessed the first three, but nothing about her was moral. She was also one other thing--dangerous. But her guard was probably down, thinking he was buried under tons of rock in a mine forty kilometers away. Hopefully, Franz Fellner passed the word to Loring that his whereabouts were unknown, the ploy buying the time he'd need to figure out what was going on. Even more important, it would buy time to decide how to settle the score with his attractive colleague.

What was she doing here, out in the open, headed into the Hotel Garni? It was too much of a coincidence that Stod happened to be the headquarters for Wayland McKoy, that particular hotel where McKoy and his people were staying. Did she have a source on the excavation? If so, nothing unusual there. He'd many times cultivated sources on other digs so Fellner could have first crack at whatever might be uncovered. Adventurers were usually more than eager to sell at least some of their bounty on the black market, no one the wiser since everything they found was thought lost anyway. The practice avoided unnecessary government hassles and annoying seizures. The Germans were notorious for confiscating the best of what was pulled from the ground. Strict reporting requirements and heavy penalties governed violators. But greed could always be counted on to prevail, and he'd made several excellent purchases for Fellner's private collection from unscrupulous treasure hunters.

A light rain began to fall. Umbrellas sprouted. Thunder rolled in the distance. Danzer appeared back out of the Garni. He retreated to the window's edge. Hopefully, she wouldn't cross the street and enter the Christinenhof. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped lobby.

He was relieved when she casually rolled up her jacket collar and strolled back down the street. He headed for the front door and cautiously peered out. Danzer entered another hotel just down the street, the Gebler, as the sign out front announced, its cross-beamed facade sagging from the weight of centuries. He'd passed it on his way to the Christinenhof. It made sense she'd stay there. Nearby, convenient. He retreated back into the lobby and watched through the window, trying not to appear conspicuous to the few people loitering around. Fifteen minutes passed, and still she did not reappear.

He smiled.

Confirmation.

She was there.

THIRTY-EIGHT


1:15 p.m.

Paul studied alfred grumer with his lawyer eyes, examining every facet of the man's face, gauging a reaction, calculating a likely response. He, McKoy, Grumer, and Rachel were back in the shed outside the mine. Rain peppered the tin roof. Nearly three hours had passed since the initial find, and McKoy's mood, like the weather, had only dampened.

"What the fuck's going on, Grumer?" McKoy said.

The German was perched on a stool. "Two possible explanations. One, the trucks were empty when they were driven in the cavern. Two, somebody beat us inside."

"How could somebody beat us to it? It took four days to bore into that chamber, and the other way out is sealed shut with tons of crap."

"The violation could have happened long ago."

McKoy took a deep breath. "Grumer, I have twenty-eight people flyin' in here tomorrow. They've invested a shitload of money into this rat hole. What am I suppose to say to 'em? Somebody beat us to it?"

"The facts are the facts."

McKoy shot from the chair, rage in his eyes. Rachel cut him off. "What good is that going to do?"

"It'd make me feel a whole lot better."

"Sit down," Rachel said.

Paul recognized her court voice. Strong. Firm. A tone that allowed no hint of doubt. A tone she'd used too many times in their own home.

The big man backed off. "Jesus Christ. This is some shit." He sat back down. "Looks like I might need a lawyer. The judge here certainly can't do it. You available, Cutler?"

He shook his head. "I do probates. But my firm has a lot of good litigators and contract-law specialists."

"They're all across the pond and you're here. Guess who's elected."

"I assume all the investors signed waivers and acknowledgments of the risk?" Rachel asked.

"Lot of damn good that'll do. These people have money and lawyers of their own. By next week, I'll be waist deep in legal bullshit. Nobody'll believe I didn't know this was a dry hole."

"I don't agree with you," Rachel said. "Why would anyone assume you'd dig knowing there was nothing to find? Sounds like financial suicide."

"Maybe that little hundred-thousand-dollar fee I'm guaranteed whether we find anythin' or not?"

Rachel turned toward Paul. "Maybe you should call the firm. This guy does need a lawyer."

"Look, let me make somethin' clear," McKoy said. "I have a business to run back home. I don't do this for a livin'. It costs to do this kind of shit. On the last dig, I charged the same fee and made it back with more. Those investors got a good return. Nobody complained."

"Not this time," Paul said. "Unless those trucks are worth something, which I doubt. And that's assuming you can even get them out of there."

"Which you can't," Grumer said. "That other cavern is impassable. It would cost millions to clear it."

"Fuck off, Grumer."

Paul stared at McKoy. The big man's expression was familiar, a combination of resignation and worry. Lots of clients looked that way at one time or another. Actually, though, he wanted to stay around. In his mind he saw Grumer in the cavern again, brushing letters from the sand. "Okay, McKoy. If you want my help, I'll do what I can."

Rachel gave him a strange gaze, her thoughts easy to read. Yesterday he'd wanted to go home and leave all this intrigue to the authorities. Yet here he was, volunteering to represent Wayland McKoy, piloting his own chariot of fire across the sky at the whim of forces he did not understand and could not control.

"Good," McKoy said. "I can use the help. Grumer, make yourself useful and arrange rooms for these folks at the Garni. Put them on my tab."

Grumer did not appear pleased at being ordered around, but the German did not argue, and he headed for the phone.

"What's the Garni?" Paul asked.

"Where we're staying in town."

Paul motioned to Grumer. "He there, too?"

"Where else?"

Paul was impressed with Stod. It was a considerable city interlaced with venerable thoroughfares that seemed to have been taken straight from the Middle Ages. Row after row of black-and-white half-timbered buildings lined the cobbled lanes, pressed tight like books on a shelf. Above everything, a monstrous abbey capped a steep mountain spur high--the slopes leading up thick with larch and beech trees bursting in a spring flourish.

He and Rachel drove into town behind Grumer and McKoy, their path winding deep into the old town, ending just before the Hotel Garni. A small parking lot reserved for guests waited farther down the street, toward the river, just outside the pedestrian-only zone.

Inside the hotel he learned that McKoy's party dominated the fourth floor. The entire third floor had already been reserved for investors arriving tomorrow. After some haggling by McKoy and palm pressing of a few euros, the clerk made a room available on the second floor. McKoy asked if they wanted one or two rooms, and Rachel had immediately said one.

Upstairs, their suitcases had barely hit the bed before Rachel said, "Okay, what are you up to, Paul Cutler?"

"What are you up to? One room. I thought we were divorced. You like to remind me about it enough."

"Paul, you're up to something, and I'm not letting you out of my sight. Yesterday you were busting a gut to go home. Now you volunteer to represent this guy? What if he's a crook?"

"All the more reason he needs a lawyer."

"Paul--"

He motioned to the double bed. "Night and day?"

"What?"

"You going to keep me in your sight night and day?"

"It's not anything we both haven't seen before. We were married ten years."

He smiled. "I might get to like this intrigue."

"Are you going to tell me?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and told her what happened in the underground chamber, then showed her the wallet, which he'd kept all afternoon in his back pocket. "Grumer dusted the letters away on purpose. No doubt about it. That guy is up to something."

"Why didn't you tell McKoy?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I thought about it. But, like you say, he may be a crook."

"You're sure the letters were O-I-C?"

"As best I could make out."

"You think this has anything to do with Daddy and the Amber Room?"

"There's no connection at this point, except Karol was real interested in what McKoy was doing. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Rachel sat down beside him. He noticed the cuts and scrapes on her arms and face that had scabbed over. "This guy McKoy latched on to us kind of quick," she said.

"We may be all he's got. He doesn't seem to like Grumer much. We're just two strangers who came out of the woodwork. No interest in anything. No ax to grind. I guess we're deemed safe."

Rachel cradled the wallet and studied closely the scraps of decaying paper. "Ausgegeben 15-3-51. Verfallt 15-3-55. Gustav Muller. Should we get somebody to translate?"

"Not a good idea. Right now, I don't trust anyone, present company excepted of course. I suggest we find a German-English dictionary and see for ourselves."

Two blocks west of the Garni they found a translation dictionary in a cluttered gift shop, a thin volume apparently printed for tourists with common words and phrases.

"Ausgegeben means 'issued,' " he said. "Verfallt, 'expires,' 'ends.' " He looked at Rachel. "The numbers have to be dates. The European way. Backwards. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955. Gustav Muller."

"That's postwar. Grumer was right. Somebody beat McKoy to whatever was there. Sometime after March 1951."

"But what?"

"Good question."

"It had to be serious. Five bodies with holes in their heads?"

"And important. All three trucks were clean. Not a scrap of anything left to find."

He tossed the dictionary back on the shelf. "Grumer knows something. Why go to all the trouble of taking pictures then dusting the letters away? What's he documenting? And who for?"

"Maybe we should tell McKoy?"

He thought about the suggestion, then said, "I don't think so. Not yet, at least."

THIRTY-NINE


10:00 p.m.

Suzanne pushed through a velvet curtain separating the outer gallery and portal from the inner nave. The Church of St. Gerhard was empty. A message board outside proclaimed the sanctuary open until 11 P.M., which was the central reason she'd chosen the place for the meeting. The other was locale--blocks from Stod's hotel district, on the edge of old town, far away from the crowds.

The building's architecture was clearly Romanesque with lots of brick and a lofty front adorned by twin towers. Lucid, spatial proportions dominated. Blind arcades loomed in playful patterns. A beautifully adorned chancel stretched from the far end. The high altar, sacristy, and choir stalls were empty. A few candles flickered from a side altar, their glint like stars on the gilded ornamentation high overhead.

She walked forward and stopped at the base of a gilded pulpit. Chiseled figures of the Four Evangelists encircled her. She glanced at the steps leading up. More figures lined both sides. Allegories of Christian values. Faith, Hope, Charity, Prudence, Fortitude, Temperance, and Justice. She recognized the carver instantly. Riemenschneider. Sixteenth century. The pulpit above was empty. But she could imagine the bishop addressing the congregation, extolling the virtues of God and the advantages in believing.

She crept to the nave's far end, her eyes and ears alert. The quiet was unnerving. Her right hand was stuffed in her jacket pocket, ungloved fingers wrapped around a Sauer .32 automatic, a present from Loring three years back out of his private collection. She'd almost brought the new CZ-75B Loring gave her. It had been her suggestion that Christian be given one identical. Loring had smiled at the irony. Too bad Knoll would never get a chance to use his.

The corner of her eye caught a sudden movement. Her fingers tightened around the gun stock, and she spun. A tall, gaunt man pushed through a curtain and walked toward her.

"Margarethe?" he softly said.

"Herr Grumer?"

The man nodded and came close. He smelled of bitter beer and sausage.

"This is dangerous," he said.

"No one knows of our relationship, Herr Doktor. You have simply come to church to speak with your God."

"We need to keep it that way."

His paranoia did not concern her. "What have you learned?"

Grumer reached under his jacket and pulled out five photographs. She studied them in the bare light. Three trucks. Five bodies. Letters in the sand.

"The transports are empty. There is another entrance into the chamber blocked with rubble. The bodies are definitely postwar. The clothing and equipment give that away."

She gestured to the photo that showed letters in the sand. "How was this handled?"

"With a brush of my hand."

"Then why photograph them?"

"So you would believe me."

"And so you could up the price?"

Grumer smiled. She hated the pallor of greed.

"Anything more?"

"Two Americans have appeared at the site."

She listened while Grumer told her about Rachel and Paul Cutler.

"The woman is the one involved with the mine explosion near Warthberg. They have McKoy thinking about the Amber Room."

The fact that Rachel Cutler survived was interesting. "She say anything about another survivor in that explosion?"

"Only that there was one. A Christian Knoll. He left Warthberg after the explosion and took Frau Cutler's belongings."

Her guard suddenly stiffened. Knoll was alive. The situation, which a moment ago was entirely under control, now seemed frightening. But she needed to complete her mission. "Does McKoy still listen to you?"

"As much as he wants to. He's upset about the trucks being empty. Afraid investors on the dig will sue him. He's enlisted Herr Cutler's legal assistance."

"They are strangers."

"But I believe he trusts them more than me. The Cutlers also have letters that passed between Frau Cutler's father and a man named Danya Chapaev. They concern the Amber Room."

Old news. The same letters she'd read in Paul Cutler's office. But she needed to act interested. "You've seen these letters?"

"I have."

"Who has them now?"

"Frau and Herr Cutler."

A loose end that needed attention. "Obtaining the letters could up your worth considerably."

"I thought as much."

"And what is your price, Herr Grumer?"

"Five million euros."

"What makes you worth that?"

Grumer gestured to the photos. "I believe these show my good faith. That is clear evidence of postwar looting. Is that not what your employer seeks?"

She did not answer his inquiry, merely saying, "I'll pass the price along."

"To Ernst Loring?"

"I never said who I work for, nor should that matter. As I understand the situation, no one has related the identity of my benefactor."

"But Herr Loring's name has been mentioned by both the Cutlers and Frau Cutler's father."

This man was quickly becoming another loose end that would require tending. As were the Cutlers. How many more would there be? "Needless to say," she said, "the letters are important, as is what McKoy is doing. Along with time. I want this resolved quickly and am willing to pay for speed."

Grumer tipped his head. "Would tomorrow be soon enough for the letters? The Cutlers have rooms at the Garni."

"I'd like to be there."

"Tell me where you're staying, and I'll call when the way is clear."

"I'm at the Gebler."

"I know the place. You'll hear from me by eight A.M."

The curtain at the far end parted. A robed prior strolled silently down the center aisle. She glanced at her watch. Nearly 11 P.M. "Let's head outside. He's probably here to close the building."

Knoll retreated into the shadows. Danzer and a man emerged from the Church of St. Gerhard through sculptured bronze doors and stood on the front portico, not twenty meters away, the cobbled street beyond dark and empty.

"I'll have an answer tomorrow," Danzer said. "We will meet here."

"I don't think that's possible." The man gestured to a sign affixed to the stone next to the bronze portal. "Services are held here on Tuesdays at nine."

Danzer glanced at the announcement. "Quite right, Herr Grumer."

The man motioned off to the sky, the abbey sparkling gold and white in floodlight against the clear night. "The church there stays open to midnight. Few visit late. How about ten-thirty?"

"Fine."

"And a down payment would be nice to show your benefactor's good faith. Shall we say a million euros?"

Knoll did not know this man, but the idiot was being foolish trying to squeeze Danzer. He respected her abilities more than that, and this Grumer should, too. He was obviously an amateur she was using to learn what Wayland McKoy was doing.

Or was it more?

A million euros? Only the down payment?

The man named Grumer descended the stone steps to the street and turned east. Danzer followed, but went west. He knew where she was staying, that's how he'd found the church, following her from the Gebler. Certainly her presence complicated matters, but right now it was this Grumer who really interested him.

He waited for Danzer to disappear around a corner, then headed after his quarry. He stayed back--an easy matter to follow the man to the Garni.

Now he knew.

And he also knew exactly where Suzanne Danzer would be at ten-thirty tomorrow night.

Rachel switched off the bathroom light and stepped toward the bed. Paul was propped upright reading the International Herald Tribune he'd bought at the souvenir shop earlier when they'd found the German/English dictionary.

She thought about her ex-husband. In divorce after divorce, she watched people revel in destroying one other. Every little detail of their lives, unimportant years ago, suddenly became vital to their assertions of mental cruelty, or abuse, or simply to prove the marriage irretrievably broken as the law required. Was there really pleasure in that? How could there be? Thankfully, they'd not done that. She and Paul had settled their differences on a dismal Thursday afternoon, sitting calmly around the dining room table. The same one where, last Tuesday, Paul had told her about her father and the Amber Room. She'd been rough on him last week. There was no need to say that he was spineless. Why was she like that? It was so unlike her courtroom demeanor, where her every word and action was calculated.

"Your head still hurt?" Paul asked.

She sat on the bed, the mattress firm, a down comforter soft and warm. "A little."

The image of a glistening knife strobed through her mind. Had Knoll actually meant the blade for her? Was she doing the right thing by not telling Paul? "We need to call Pannik. Let him know what's happening and where we are. He's got to be wondering."

Paul looked up from the newspaper. "I agree. We'll do it tomorrow. Let's be sure if there's anything here first."

She thought again of Christian Knoll. His self-assurance had intrigued her and stirred feelings long suppressed. She was forty years old and had loved only her father, a short romance in college she thought was the real thing, and Paul. She hadn't been a virgin when she and Paul married, but neither was she experienced. Paul had been a shy, retiring sort who easily found comfort within himself. He was certainly no Christian Knoll, but he was loyal, faithful, and honest. Why had that once seemed boring to her? Was it her own immaturity? Probably. Marla and Brent adored their fa-ther. And they were his number one priority. Hard to fault a man for loving his children and being faithful to his wife. So what happened? They grew apart? That was the easiest explanation. But had they really? Maybe stress took its toll. God knows they both stayed under pressure. Laziness, though, seemed the best explanation. Not wanting to simply work at what she knew to be right. She'd read a phrase once--the contempt of familiarity--that supposedly described what, sadly, many marriages produced. An apt observation.

"Paul, I appreciate your doing all this. More than you know."

"I'd be lying if I said this wasn't fascinating. Besides, I might get a new client for the firm. Sounds like Wayland McKoy is going to need a lawyer."

"I have a feeling all hell's going to break loose around here tomorrow, when those investors get here."

Paul tossed the newspaper to the carpet. "I think you're right. It could get interesting." He then switched off the bedside light. The wallet from the underground chamber lay next to the lamp, her father's letters beside it.

She switched off the lamp on her side.

"This is really strange," he said. "Sleeping together for the first time in three years."

She curled under the comforter on her side. She wore one of his long-sleeved twill shirts, full of the comforting scent she remembered from a decade of marriage. Paul turned on his side, his back facing her, seemingly making sure her space was hers. She decided to make a move and spooned closer. "You're a good man, Paul Cutler."

Her arm wrapped around him. She felt him tense and wondered if it was nerves or shock.

"You're not so bad yourself," he said.

FORTY


Tuesday, May 20, 9:10 a.m.

Paul followed Rachel down the dank shaft to the chamber harboring the three trucks. He'd learned in the shed that McKoy had been underground since 7 A.M. Grumer had yet to appear at the site, which was nothing unusual according to the man on duty, since Grumer rarely appeared before midmorning.

They entered the lit chamber.

He took a moment and studied the three vehicles more closely. In yesterday's excitement there'd been no time for a detailed look. All the headlights, rearview mirrors, and windshields were whole. The barrel-shaped canvas beds were likewise relatively intact. Except for an icing of rust, the flattened tires, and moldy canvas, it was as though the vehicles could have been driven right out of their rocky garage.

Two of the cab doors were open. He glanced inside one. The leather seat was ripped and brittle from decay. The dials and gauges on the instrument panel were silent and still. Not a scrap of paper or anything tangible lay in sight. He found himself wondering where the trucks came from. Had they once transported German troops? Or Jews headed for the camps? Did they bear witness to the Russian advance on Berlin, or the Americans' simultaneous rush from the west? Strange, this surreal sight so deep inside a German mountain.

A shadow flared across the rock wall, revealing movement from the other side of the farthest vehicle.

"McKoy?" he called out.

"Over here."

He and Rachel rounded the trucks. The big man turned to face them.

"These are without a doubt Bussing NAGs. Four-and-half-ton diesels. Twenty feet long. Seven and a half feet wide. Ten feet high." McKoy moved close to a rusted side panel and banged it with his fist. Brownish-red snow fluttered to the sand below, but the metal held. "Solid steel and iron. These things can carry almost seven tons. Slow as hell, though. No more than twenty, twenty-one miles per hour, tops."

"What's the point?" Rachel asked.

"The point, Your Honor, is these damn things weren't used to haul a bunch of paintin's and vases. These were precious. Big haulers. For heavy loads. And the Germans sure didn't just dump 'em in a mine."

"Meaning?" Rachel said.

"This whole thing doesn't make a damn bit of sense." McKoy reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Paul. "I need you to look at this."

He unfolded the sheet and walked close to one of the light bars. It was a memorandum. He and Rachel read it in silence:

GERMAN EXCAVATIONS CORPORATION
6798 Moffat Boulevard
Raleigh, North Carolina 27615


To: Potential Partners

From: Wayland McKoy, CEO

Re: Own a Piece of History and Get a Free Vacation to Germany


German Excavations Corporation is pleased to be a sponsor and partner of the following program along with these contributing companies: Chrysler Motor Company (Jeep Division), Coleman, Eveready, Hewlett-Packard, IBM, Saturn Marine, Boston Electric Tool Company, and Olympus America, Inc.

In the waning days of World War II, a train left Berlin loaded with 1,200 art treasures. It reached the outskirts of the city of Magdeburg and was then diverted southward toward the Harz Mountains and was never seen again. We have an expedition now ready to locate and excavate that train.

Under German law, the rightful owners have ninety days to claim their artworks. Unclaimed works are then put up for auction with 50 percent of the proceeds going to the German government and fifty percent to the expedition and its sponsoring partners. An inventory list of the train can be provided on request. Minimum estimated value of the artwork, $360 million--with 50 percent going to the government. The partners' remaining sum of $180 million will be divided according to units purchased, less art claimed by original owners, less auction fees, taxes, etc.

All the partners' monies will be returned by funds of the presold media rights. All partners and spouses will be our guests in Germany for the expedition. Bottom line: We have found
the proper place. We have the contract. We have the research. We have the media sold. We have the experience and the equipment to effect excavation. German Excavations Corporation has a 45-day permit to dig. So far, the rights to 45 units at $25,000 per unit for the final stage of the expedition (Phase III) have been sold. We have about 10 units left at $15,000 per unit. Please feel free to call me if you're interested in this exciting investment.


Sincerely,

Wayland McKoy

President,

German Excavations Corporation

"That's what I sent to potential investors," McKoy said.

"What do you mean by 'All the partners' monies will be returned by funds of the presold media rights'?" Paul asked McKoy.

"Just what it says. A bunch of companies paid for the rights to film and broadcast what we find."

"But that presupposes you find something. They didn't pay you up front, did they?"

McKoy shook his head. "Shit, no."

"Trouble is," Rachel said, "you didn't say that in the letter. The partners could think, and rightfully so, that you already have the money."

Paul pointed to the second paragraph. " 'We have an expedition ready to excavate that train.' That sounds like you actually found it."

McKoy sighed. "I thought we did. The ground radar said there was somethin' big in here." McKoy motioned to the trucks. "And there damn well is."

"This true about the forty-five units at twenty five thousand dollars each?" Paul asked. "That's $1.25 million."

"That's what I raised. Then I sold the units for the other one hundred fifty thousand. Sixty investors in all."

Paul motioned to the letter. "Partners is what you call them. That's different from investor."

McKoy grinned. "Sounds better."

"Are these other listed companies also investors?"

"They supplied equipment either by donation or at reduced rates. So, in a sense, yes. They don't expect anythin' in return, though."

"You dangled sums like three hundred sixty million dollars, half maybe going to the partners, that can't be true."

"Damn well is. That's what researchers value the Berlin museum stuff."

"Assuming the art can be found," Rachel said. "Your problem, McKoy, is the letter misleads. It could even be construed as fraudulent."

"Since we're going to be so close, why don't you two call me Wayland. And, little lady, I did what was necessary to get the money. I didn't lie to anybody, and I wasn't interested in bilkin' these people. I wanted to dig and that's what I did. I didn't keep a dime, except what they were told I'd get up front."

Paul waited for a rebuke on "little lady," but none came. Instead, Rachel said, "Then you've got another problem. There's not a word in that letter about any hundred-thousand-dollar fee to you."

"They were all told. And, by the way, you're a real ray of sunshine through this storm."

Rachel did not back down. "You need to hear the truth."

"Look, half that hundred thousand went to Grumer for his time and trouble. He was the one who got the permit from the government. Without that, there'd have been no dig. The rest I kept for my time. This trip is costin' me plenty. And I didn't take my cut till the end. Those last units paid me and Grumer, along with our expenses. If I hadn't raised that, I was prepared to borrow it, that's how strong I felt about this venture."

Paul wanted to know, "When are the partners getting here?"

"Twenty-eight with their spouses are due after lunch. That's all that accepted the trips we offered."

He started thinking like a lawyer, studying each word in the letter, analyzing the diction and syntax. Was the proposal fraudulent? Maybe. Ambiguous? Definitely. Should he tell McKoy about Grumer and show him the wallet? Explain about the letters in the sand? McKoy was still an unknown commodity. A stranger. But weren't most clients? Perfect strangers one minute, trusted confidants the next. No. He decided to keep quiet and wait a little longer and see what developed.

Suzanne entered the garni and climbed a marble staircase to the second floor. Grumer had called ten minutes ago and informed her that McKoy and the Cutlers had left for the excavation site. Grumer waited at the end of the second floor hall.

"There," he said. "Room Twenty-one."

She stopped at the door, a slab of paneled oak stained dark, its jamb tattered from time and abuse. The lock was part of the doorknob, a tarnished piece of brass that accepted a regular key. No dead bolt. Lock picking had never been her specialty, so she slipped the letter opener commandeered from the concierge's desk into the jamb and worked the point, easily sliding the latch bolt out of the strike plate.

She opened the door. "Careful with our search. Let's not announce our visit."

Grumer started with the furniture. She moved to the luggage and discovered only one travel bag. She rifled through the clothes--mainly men's--and found no letters. She checked the bathroom. The toiletries were also mainly men's. Then she searched the more obvious places. Under the mattress and bed, on top of the armoire, beneath the drawers in the nightstands.

"The letters are not here," Grumer said.

"Search again."

They did. This time not caring about neatness. When they finished the room was a wreck. But still, no letters. Her patience was running thin. "Get to the site, Herr Doktor, and find those letters or there'll be not one euro paid to you. Understand?"

Grumer seemed to sense she was in no mood and only nodded before leaving.

FORTY-ONE

Burg Herz
10:45 a.m.

Knoll thrust his erect member deeper. Monika was hunched on all fours, back to him, her firm ass arched high, her head buried deep into a goose-down pillow.

"Come on, Christian. Show me what that bitch from Georgia missed."

He pumped harder, sweat beading on his brow. She reached back and gently massaged his balls. She knew exactly how to work him. And that fact alone bothered him. Monika knew him far too well.

He grasped her thin waist with both hands and torqued her body forward. She accepted the gesture and sighed like a cat after a satisfying kill. He felt her come a moment later, a deep moan confirming her delight. He pounded a few more seconds, then came, too. She continued her testicle massage, milking every drop of his pleasure.

Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.

She released her hold. He withdrew and relaxed onto the bed. She lay beside him, belly down. He caught his breath and allowed the last spasms of orgasm to shudder through him. He kept his body still, not giving the bitch the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it.

"Hell of a lot better than some mousy lawyer, huh?"

He shrugged. "Never got to sample the wares."

"What about that Italian whore you sliced up. Good?"

He kissed his index finger and thumb. "Mullissemo. Well worth whatever she charged."

"And Suzanne Danzer?

The resentment was clear. "Your jealousy is so unbecoming."

"Don't flatter yourself."

Monika raised up on one elbow. She'd been waiting in his room when he arrived a half hour ago. Burg Herz was only an hour west of Stod. He'd returned to his home base for further instructions, deciding a face-to-face talk with his employer was better than the telephone.

"I don't get it, Christian. What is it you see in Danzer? You prefer the finer things of life, not some charity case raised by Loring."

"That charity case, as you say, graduated with honors from the University of Paris. She speaks a dozen languages, that I know of. She is well versed in the arts and can fire a sidearm with expert accuracy. She is also attractive, and an excellent lay. I'd say Suzanne has some admirable credentials."

"Like one-upping you?"

He grinned. "To the devil her due, yes. But payback is truly hell."

"Don't make this personal, Christian. Violence draws too much attention. The world is not your personal playground."

"I am well aware of my duties and my limits."

Monika shot him a wiry grin, one he'd never liked. She seemed determined to make this as difficult as possible. It was so much easier when Fellner ran the show. Now business mixed with pleasure. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"Father should be through with his meeting. He said for us to come to the study."

He pushed up from the mattress. "Then let us not keep him waiting."

He followed Monika into her father's study. The old man sat behind an eighteenth-century walnut desk Fellner had purchased in Berlin two decades ago. He sucked on an ivory pipe with an amber mouthpiece, another rare collectible that once belonged to Alexander II of Russia, liberated from another thief in Romania.

Fellner looked tired, and Knoll hoped their remaining time together would not be short. That'd be a shame. He'd miss their banter on classical literature and art, along with their political debates. He'd learned a lot from his years at Burg Herz--a working education obtained while scouring the world for lost treasure. He appreciated the opportunity that had been extended, grateful for the life, determined to do what the old man wanted till the end.

"Christian. Welcome back. Sit. Tell me everything that happened." Fellner's tone was upbeat, his face alight with a warm smile.

He and Monika sat. He reported what he'd learned about Danzer and her meeting the night before with a man named Grumer.

"I know him," Fellner said. "Herr Doktor Alfred Grumer. An academic whore. Moves from university to university. But is connected in the German government and sells that influence. Not surprising a man like McKoy would attach himself to him."

"Obviously Grumer is Danzer's source at the site," Monika said.

"I agree," Fellner said. "And Grumer wouldn't be around unless there was a profit to be made. This may be more interesting than first thought. Ernst is intent on this. He called again this morning inquiring. Apparently he's concerned for your good health, Christian. I told him we had not heard from you in days."

"All of this certainly fits the pattern," Knoll said.

"What pattern?" Monika asked.

Fellner grinned at his daughter. "Perhaps it is time, liebling, you know it all. What do you say, Christian?"

Monika looked perturbed. He loved her obvious confusion. The bitch needed to realize she didn't know everything.

Fellner slid open one of the drawers and extracted a thick file. "Christian and I have followed this for years." Across the desk he spread an assortment of newspaper clippings and magazine articles.

"The first death we know of was in 1957. A German reporter from one of my Hamburg newspapers. He came here, looking for an interview. I indulged him, he was remarkably well informed, and a week later he was hit by a bus in Berlin. Witnesses swore he was pushed.

"The next death came two years later. Another reporter. Italian. A car forced him off an alpine road. Two more deaths in 1960, a drug overdose and a robbery gone wrong. From 1960 to 1970 there were a dozen more all over Europe. Reporters. Insurance adjusters. Police investigators. Their demises ranged from supposed suicides to three outright murders.

"My dear, all these people were looking for the Amber Room. Christian's predecessors, my first two Acquisitors, kept a close watch on the press. Anything that might seem related was thoroughly investigated. In the 1970s and '80s the incidents waned. Only six we know of during those twenty years. The last was a Polish reporter killed in a mine explosion three years ago." He looked at Monika. "I'm not sure of the exact location, but it was near where Christian's mishap occurred."

"I'd wager in the same mine," Knoll said.

"Very strange, wouldn't you say? Christian finds a name in St. Petersburg, Karol Borya, the next thing we know the man's dead along with his former colleague. Liebling, Christian and I have long thought Loring knows far more of the Amber Room than he wants to admit."

"His father loved amber," Monika said. "So does he."

"Josef was a secretive man. Moreso than Ernst. It was hard to ever know what he was thinking. Many times we talked on the subject of the Amber Room. I even offered a joint venture once--an all-out search for the panels--but he refused. Called it a waste of time and money. But something about his denials bothered me. So I started keeping this file, checking everything I could. I learned there were too many deaths, too many coincidences for it all to be random. Now Suzanne is trying to kill Christian. And paying a million euros for mere information on a treasure dig." Fellner shook his head. "I would say the trail we thought ice cold has warmed considerably."

Monika gestured to the clippings fanned on the desk. "You think all those people were murdered?"

"Is there any other logical conclusion?" Fellner said.

Monika stepped close to the desk and thumbed through the articles. "We were on target with Borya, weren't we?"

"I would say so," Knoll said. "How, I'm not sure. But it was enough for Suzanne to kill Chapaev and try to eliminate me."

"That dig site could be important," Fellner said. "I think the time for sparring is over. You have my permission, Christian, to handle the situation at will."

Monika stared at her father. "I thought I was to be in charge."

Fellner smiled. "You must indulge an old man one last quest. Christian and I have worked this for years. I feel we may be on to something. I ask your permission, liebling, to intrude on your domain."

Monika managed a weak smile, clearly not pleased. But, Knoll thought, what could she say? Never had she openly defied her father, though privately she'd many times vented her anger over his perpetual patience. Fellner was raised in the old school, where men ruled and women gave birth. He commanded a financial empire that dominated the European communications market. Politicians and industrialists courted his favor. But his wife and son were dead, and Monika was the only remaining Fellner. So he'd been forced to mold a woman into his image of a man. Luckily, she was tough. And smart.

"Of course, Father. Do as you wish."

Fellner reached over and cupped his daughter's hand. "I know you don't understand. But I love you for your deference."

Knoll couldn't resist. "Something new."

Monika shot him a hard glance.

Fellner chuckled. "Quite right, Christian. You know her well. You two will make quite a team."

Monika retreated to a chair.

Fellner said, "Christian, return to Stod and find out what is going on. Handle Suzanne however you desire. Before I die I want to know about the Amber Room, one way or the other. If you have any doubts, remember that mine shaft and your ten million euros."

He stood. "I assure you, I will not forget either."

FORTY-TWO

Stod
1:45 p.m.

The garni's grand salon was full. Paul stood off to the side next to Rachel, watching the drama unfold. Certainly, if ambience counted, the room's decor should definitely help Wayland McKoy. Colorful, thickly framed maps of old Germany hung from oak-paneled walls. A shimmering brass chandelier, burnished antique chairs, and a richly designed Oriental carpet rounded out the atmosphere.

Fifty-six people filled the chairs, their faces a mixture of wonder and exhaustion. They'd been bussed straight from Frankfurt, after arriving by air four hours ago. Their ages varied from early thirties to mid-sixties. Race varied, too. Most were white, two black couples, both older, and one Japanese pair. They all seemed eager and anticipatory.

McKoy and Grumer stood at the front of the long room along with five of the excavation's employees. A television with VCR rested on a metal stand. Two somber men sat in the rear, notebooks in hand, and appeared to be reporters. McKoy wanted to exclude them, but both flashed identification from ZDF, a German news organization that had optioned the story, and insisted on staying. "Just watch what you say," Paul had warned.

"Welcome, partners," McKoy said, smiling like a television evangelist. A murmur of conversation receded.

"There's coffee, juice, and danish outside. I know you've had a long journey and are tired. Jet lag's hell, right? But I'm sure you're also anxious to hear how things are goin'."

The direct approach had been Paul's idea. McKoy had favored stalling, but Paul had argued that would do nothing but arouse suspicions. "Keep the tone pleasant and mild," he'd warned. "No 'fuck you' every other word like I heard yesterday, okay?" McKoy repeatedly assured him he was housebroken, fully schooled on how to handle a crowd.

"I know the question on all your minds. Have we found anythin'? No, not yet. But we did make progress yesterday." He motioned to Grumer. "This is Herr Doktor Alfred Grumer, professor of art antiquities at the University of Mainz. Herr Doktor is our resident expert on the dig. I'll let him explain what happened."

Grumer stepped forward, looking the part of an elderly professor in a tweed wool jacket, corduroy pants, and knit tie. He stood with his right hand stuffed in his trouser pocket, his left arm free. With a disarming smile he said, "I thought I would tell you a little something about how this venture came about.

"Looting art treasure is a time-honored tradition. The Greeks and Romans always stripped a defeated nation of their valuables. Crusaders during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries pilfered all across Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Western European churches and cathedrals continue to be adorned with their plunder.

"In the seventeenth century, a more refined method of stealing began. After a military defeat the great royal collections--there were no museums in those days--were purchased rather than stolen. An example. When Tsarist armies occupied Berlin in 1757, Frederick II's collections were not touched. To have tampered with them would have been regarded as barbaric, even by the Russians, who were themselves deemed barbarians by Europeans.

"Napoleon was perhaps the greatest looter of all. Germany's, Spain's, and Italy's museums were stripped clean so the Louvre could be stocked full. After Waterloo, at the Congress of Vienna in 1815, France was ordered to return the stolen art. Some was, but a lot remained the property of France and can still be seen in Paris."

Paul was impressed with how Grumer handled himself. Like a teacher in class. The group seemed fascinated by the information.

"Your President Lincoln issued an order during the American Civil War that called for the protection of Southern classical works of art, libraries, scientific collections, and precious instruments. A conference in Brussels in 1874 endorsed a similar proposal. Nicholas II, the Russian Tsar, proposed even more ambitious protections, which were approved at the Hague in 1907, but these codes proved of limited value during the two world wars following.

"Hitler completely ignored the Hague Convention and mimicked Napoleon. The Nazis created an entire administrative department that did nothing but steal. Hitler wanted to build a supershowcase--the Fuhrermuseum--to be the largest collection of art in the world. He intended to locate this museum in Linz, Austria, his birthplace. The Sonderauftrag Linz, Hitler called it. Special Mission Linz. It was to become the heart of the Third Reich, designed by Hitler himself."

Grumer paused a moment, seemingly allowing the information to be absorbed.

"Plunder for Hitler, though, served another purpose. It demoralized the enemy, and this was especially true in Russia, where the Imperial palaces around Leningrad were decimated in full view of local townspeople. Not since the Goths and Vandals had Europe witnessed so spiteful an assault on human culture. Museums all over Germany were stocked full with stolen art, particularly the Berlin museums. It was in the waning days of the war, with the Russians and Americans close, that a trainload of this art was evacuated from Berlin south to the Harz Mountains. Here, in this region where we are right now."

The television sprang to life with a panning image of a mountain range. Grumer pointed a controller and paused the video on a forested scene.

"The Nazis loved hiding things underground. The Harz Mountains now surrounding us were used extensively, since they were the closest underground depositories to Berlin. Examples of what was found after the war proves this point. The German national treasury was hidden here along with over a million books, paintings of all descriptions, and tons of sculptures. But perhaps the strangest cache was found not far from here. An American team of soldiers reported finding a fresh brick wall, nearly two meters thick, five hundred meters into the mountain. It was removed, and a locked steel door waited on the other side."

Paul watched the partners' faces. They were riveted. He was, too.

"Inside, the Americans found four enormous caskets. One was decorated with a wreath and Nazi symbols, the name Adolf Hitler on the side. German regimental banners draped the other three coffins. A jeweled scepter and orb, two crowns, and swords were also found. The whole thing had a theatrical arrangement, like a shrine. Imagine what these soldiers thought. Here was the tomb of Hitler. But, alas, it wasn't. Instead the coffins contained the remains of Field Marshal von Hindenburg, Hindenburg's wife, Frederick the Great, and Frederick William I."

Grumer pointed the remote control and released the video. The color image shifted to the inside of the underground chamber. McKoy had traveled to the site earlier and remade the video from yesterday, an edited version to buy a little time with the partners. Grumer now used that video to explain the digging, the three transports, and the bodies. Fifty-six pairs of eyes were glued to the screen.

"Finding these trucks is most exciting. Obviously, something of great value was moved here. Trucks were a precious commodity, and to forfeit three in a mountain meant a lot was at stake. The five bodies only add to the mystery."

"What did you find inside the trucks?" came the first question from the audience.

McKoy stepped to the front. "They're empty."

"Empty?" several asked at once.

"That's right. All three beds were bare." McKoy motioned to Grumer, who popped in another videotape.

"This is not unusual," Grumer said.

An image rematerialized, an area of the chamber intentionally not filmed on the first tape.

"This shows the other entrance to the chamber." Grumer pointed at the screen. "We hypothesize there may be another chamber past this point. That's where we will now dig."

"You're telling us the trucks are empty," an older man asked.

Paul realized that this was the hard part. The questions. Reality. But they'd gone over everything, he and Rachel prepping McKoy like a witness about to be cross-examined. Paul had approved the strategy of saying there may be another chamber. Hell, there might be. Who knows? At least it would keep the partners happy a few days until McKoy's crew could burrow into the other entrance and learn for sure.

McKoy fended off the challenges well, each inquiry answered completely and with a smile. The big man was right. He did know how to work a crowd. Paul's eyes constantly scanned the spacious salon, trying to gauge the individual reaction.

So far, so good.

Most seemed satisfied with the explanation.

Toward the back of the room, at the double doorway leading out to the lobby, he noticed a woman slip in. She was short, with medium-length blond hair, and stayed in the shadows, making it hard to distinguish her face. Yet there was something familiar about her.

"Paul Cutler here is my legal counsel," McKoy said.

He turned at the mention of his name.

"Mr. Cutler is available to assist Herr Doktor Grumer and myself in the event we have any legal difficulties at the site. We don't expect any, but Mr. Cutler, a lawyer from Atlanta, has graciously volunteered his time."

He smiled at the group, uncomfortable with the loose representations but powerless to say anything. He acknowledged the crowd, then turned back to the doorway.

The woman was gone.

FORTY-THREE

Suzanne scampered out of the hotel. She'd seen and heard enough. McKoy, Grumer, and both Cutlers were there and apparently busy. By her count, five workers were there, as well. According to Grumer's information, that left two other people on the payroll, probably at the site standing guard.

She'd caught Paul Cutler's momentary glance, but his notice shouldn't be a problem. Her physical appearance was far different from last week in his Atlanta office. To be safe, she'd stayed in the shadows and lingered only a few moments, long enough to see what was going on and take inventory. She'd taken a chance going to the Garni, but she didn't trust Alfred Grumer. He was too German, too greedy. A million euros? The fool must be dreaming. Did he think her benefactor that gullible?

Outside, she hustled back to her Porsche, then sped east to the excavation and parked in thick woods about a half kilometer away. After a quick hike, she found a work shed and shaft entrance. The generators outside hummed. No trucks, cars, or people were visible.

She slipped into the open shaft and followed a trail of bulbs to a semidarkened gallery. Three halogen light bars were dark, the only available illumination was what spilled from a cavernous chamber beyond. She crept over and tested the air above one of the lights. Warm. She looked down and discovered that the trio of lamps had been unplugged.

In the shadows across the gallery she caught the glimpse of a form lying prone. She stepped close. A man in coveralls lay in the sand. She tried a pulse. Weak, but there.

She glanced into the chamber through an opening in the rock. A shadow danced across the far wall. She crouched low and slipped inside. No shadows betrayed her entrance, the powderlike sand cushioning each step. She decided not to ready her gun until she saw who was there.

She made it to the nearest truck and bent down, looking out from beneath the chassis. A pair of legs and boots stood on the side of the farthest truck. The feet moved right. Casual, unhurried. Her presence was obviously unknown. She stood still and decided to stay anonymous.

The legs stopped toward the rear of the farthest transport.

Canvas cracked. Whoever it was must be looking in a truck bed. She used the moment to slip around to the front end of the closest transport and dash to the hood of the next truck. Whoever it was now stood catty-corner to her on the opposite side. She carefully peered around at the figure twenty feet away.

Christian Knoll.

A chill swept through her.

Knoll checked inside the last truck bed. empty. These trucks had been picked clean. There was nothing in any of the cabs or beds. But who'd done that? McKoy? No way. He'd heard nothing in town about a significant find. Besides, there'd be remnants. Packing crates. Filler material. Yet nothing was here. And would McKoy leave a rich site guarded by only one easily overpowered man if he'd found a fortune in stolen art? The more logical explanation was these trucks were empty when McKoy breached the chamber.

But how?

And the bodies. Were they robbers from decades ago? Perhaps. Nothing unusual about that. Many of the Harz chambers had been pillaged, most by U.S. and Soviet armies that raped the region after the war, some later by scavengers and treasure hunters before the government took control of the area. He stepped to one of the bodies and stared down at the blackened bones. This whole scenario was strange. Why was Danzer so interested in what was obviously nothing? Interested enough to cultivate a covert source that wanted a million euros merely as a downpayment for information.

What kind of information?

A feeling surged through him. One he'd learned to trust. One that told him in Atlanta that Danzer was on his trail. One that told him now that somebody else was in the chamber.

He told himself to keep his moves casual. A sudden turn would spook his visitor. Instead, he slowly strolled down the length of the truck and led whoever it was farther from the entrance, placing himself in between. The intruder, though, intentionally avoided the light bars, allowing no shadow to betray any movement. He stopped and crouched, staring beneath the three transports for legs and feet.

There were none.

Suzanne stood rigid before one of the crushed wheel assemblies. She'd followed Knoll deeper into the chamber and heard when his footsteps stopped. He was making no effort to mask sound, and that worried her. Did he sense her? Like in Atlanta? Maybe he was looking underneath the trucks as she'd done. If so, there'd be nothing to see. But he wouldn't hesitate long. She was not used to such an adversary. Most of her opponents did not possess the cunning of Christian Knoll. And once he ascertained it was her, there'd be hell to pay. Surely by now he'd learned about Chapaev, realized the mine had been a trap, and narrowed the list of likely suspects who would have set that trap to one.

Knoll's path across the chamber was also cause for concern.

He was leading her in. The bastard knew.

She withdrew the Sauer, her finger instantly wrapped around the trigger.

Knoll twisted his right arm and released the stiletto. He palmed the lavender-jade handle and prepared himself. He stole another look beneath the trucks. No feet. Whoever it was obviously had used the wheel mounts as protection. He decided to act and pivoted off the rusted hood of the nearest transport and landed on the other side.

Suzanne Danzer stood twenty feet away, hugging a rear wheel mount. Shock filled her face at the sight of him. Her gun came up and leveled. He leaped in front of the adjacent transport. Two muffled shots exited the barrel, the bullets ricocheting off the rock wall.

He rose up and hurled the stiletto.

Suzanne dived to the ground, anticipating the knife. It was Knoll's trademark, and the tip had glistened in the light as he landed for the first assault. She realized that her shots would only be enough to momentarily distract him, so when Knoll rebounded, cocked his wrist, and propelled the blade her way, she was ready.

The stiletto swooshed past, slicing into the petrified canvas of the nearest transport's bed, its blade piercing the thin layer of rigid cloth down to the handle. There'd be only a second before he charged. She fired another shot in Knoll's direction. Again, the bullet damaged only rock.

"Not this time, Suzanne," Knoll slowly said. "You're mine."

"You're unarmed."

"Are you sure?"

She stared down at her gun, wondering how many shots were left in the clip. Four? Her eyes scanned the chamber, her mind reeling. Knoll was between her and the only way out. She needed something to stop the bastard long enough to allow her to escape this rat cage. Her eyes surveyed the rock walls, trucks, and lights.

The lights.

Darkness would be her ally.

She quickly popped the clip from the pistol and replaced it with the spare from her pocket. Now she had seven shots. She aimed at the nearest light bar and fired. Lamps exploded in an electrical shower of sparks and smoke. She rose and darted for the opening, firing at the other light bar. Another blinding explosion flared, then extinguished and the chamber was plunged into total darkness. She set her course just as the last bits of light faded and hoped she ran straight.

If not, a wall of rock would be waiting for her.

Knoll dashed for the stiletto as the first light bar exploded. He realized there'd be only a few more seconds of vision, and Danzer was right, without the knife he was unarmed. A gun would be nice. He'd foolishly left the CZ-75B in his hotel room, thinking it not necessary for this short foray. He actually preferred the stealth of a blade to a gun, but fifteen rounds would have come in handy right now.

He yanked the stiletto free of the canvas and turned. Danzer was racing for the opening to the shaft. He readied himself for another throw.

A light bar exploded in a blinding flash.

Then the room congealed into darkness.

Suzanne ran straight ahead and bisected the opening leading out to the gallery. Ahead, the main shaft was strung with bulbs. She focused on the glow closest to her and raced straight for it, then charged down the narrow shaft, using her gun to rake the bulbs clean and extinguish the trail.

Knoll was blinded by the last flash. He closed his eyes and told himself to stand still, stay calm. What had Monika said about Danzer earlier?

Mousy little thing.

Hardly. Dangerous as hell was a better description.

The acrid odor of an electrical burn filled his nostrils. The chamber started to cool from the darkness. He opened his eyes. Black slowly dissolved and even darker forms appeared. Beyond the opening, past the gallery to the main shaft, lights flashed as bulbs exploded.

He ran toward them.

Suzanne raced for daylight. Footsteps echoed from behind. Knoll was coming. She had to move fast. She emerged into a dim afternoon and sprinted through thick forest toward her car. The half kilometer would take a minute or so to traverse. Hopefully she had enough of a lead on Knoll to give her time. Maybe he wouldn't know which direction she went after exiting.

She zigzagged past tall pines, through dense ferns, breathing hard, commanding her legs to keep moving.

Knoll exited the tunnel and quickly took stock of the surroundings. Off to his right, clothing flashed through the trees fifty meters away. He took in the shape of the runner.

A woman.

Danzer.

He sprinted in her direction, stiletto in hand.

Suzanne reached the porsche and leaped in. She revved the engine, slammed the gear shift into first, and plunged the accelerator to the floor. Tires spun, then grabbed, and the car lurched forward. In the rearview mirror, she saw Knoll emerge from the trees, knife in hand.

She sped to the highway and stopped, then cocked her head out the window and saluted before speeding away.

Knoll almost smiled at the gesture. Payback for his mocking of her in the Atlanta airport. Danzer was probably proud of herself, pleased with her escape, another one-up on him.

He checked his watch. 4:30 P.M.

No matter.

He knew exactly where she'd be in six hours.

FORTY-FOUR


4:45 p.m.

Paul watched the last partner file out of the salon. Wayland McKoy had smiled at each one, shook their hands, and assured them that things were going to be great. The big man seemed pleased. The meeting had gone well. For nearly two hours they'd fended questions, lacing their answers with romantic notions of greedy Nazis and forgotten treasure, using history as a narcotic to dull the investors' curiosity.

McKoy walked over. "Friggin' Grumer was pretty good, huh?" Paul, McKoy, and Rachel were now alone, all the partners upstairs, settling into their rooms. Grumer had left a few minutes ago.

"Grumer did handle himself well," Paul said. "But I'm not comfortable with this stalling."

"Who's stallin'? I intend to excavate that other entrance, and it could lead to another chamber."

Rachel frowned. "Your ground radar soundings indicate that?"

"Shit if I know, Your Honor."

Rachel took the rebuke with a smile. She seemed to be warming to McKoy, his abrupt attitude and sharp tongue not all that different from her own.

"We'll bus the group out to the site tomorrow and let 'em get an eyeful," McKoy said. "That should buy us a few more days. Maybe we'll get lucky with the other entrance."

"And pigs will fly," Paul said. "You've got a problem, McKoy. We need to be thinking through your legal position. How about I contact my firm and fax them that solicitation letter. The litigation department can look at it."

McKoy sighed. "What's that goin' to cost me?"

"Ten thousand retainer. We'll work off that at two-fifty an hour. After, it's by the hour, paid by the month, expenses on you."

McKoy sucked in a deep breath. "There goes my fifty thousand. Damn good thing I haven't spent it."

Paul wondered if it was time McKoy knew about Grumer. Should he show him the wallet? Tell him about the letters in the sand? Perhaps he knew all along about the chamber being barren and simply withheld the information. What had Grumer said this morning? Something about suspecting the site was dry. Maybe they could blame everything on him, a foreign citizen, and claim justifiable reliance. If not for Grumer, McKoy wouldn't have dug. That way the partners would be forced to go after Grumer in the German courts. Costs would skyrocket, perhaps making litigation an economic impracticability. Maybe enough of a problem to send the wolves in retreat. He said, "There's something else I need--"

"Herr McKoy," Grumer said as he rushed into the salon. "There's been an incident at the site."

Rachel studied the worker's skull. A knot the size of a hen's egg sprouted beneath the man's thick brown hair. She, Paul, and McKoy were in the underground chamber.

"I was standing out there," the man motioned to the outer gallery, "and the next thing I knew, everything went black."

"You didn't see or hear anyone?" McKoy asked.

"Nothing."

Workers were busy replacing the blown-out bulbs in the light bars. One lamp was already glowing again. She studied the scene. Smashed lights, bulbs obliterated in the main shaft, one of the canvas awnings ripped down the side.

"The guy must have got me from behind," the man said, rubbing the back of his head.

"How do you know it was a guy?" McKoy asked.

"I saw him," another worker said. "I was in the shed outside going over the tunnel routes for the area. I saw a woman race out of the shaft with a gun in her hand. A man came out right after. He had a knife. They both disappeared into the woods."

"You go after 'em?" McKoy asked.

"Shit, no."

"Why the hell not?"

"You pay me to dig, not be a hero. I headed in here. Place was black as soot. I went back out and got a flashlight. That's when I found Danny lying in the gallery."

"What did the woman look like?" Paul asked.

"Blonde, I think. Short. Fast as a jackrabbit."

Paul nodded. "She was at the hotel earlier."

McKoy said, "When?"

"While you and Grumer were talking. Came in for a minute then left."

McKoy understood. "Just the fuck long enough to see if we were all there."

"Looks that way," Paul said. "I think it was the same woman from my office. Different look, but there was something familiar about her."

"Lawyer intuition shit?" McKoy said.

"Something like that."

"Did you get a look at the man?" Rachel asked the worker.

"Tall guy. Light hair. With a knife."

"Knoll," she said.

Visions of the knife blade from the mine flashed through her mind. "They're here, Paul. Both of them are here."

Rachel was uneasy when she and Paul climbed the Garni's stairs to their second-floor room. Her watch read 8:10 P.M. Earlier, Paul had telephoned Fritz Pannik but got only an answering service. He left a message about Knoll and the woman, his suspicions, and asked the inspector to call. But there was no return message waiting at the front desk.

McKoy had insisted they eat dinner with the partners. Fine by her--the more crowds, the better. She, Paul, McKoy, and Grumer had divided the group between them, the talk all of the dig and what might be found. Her thoughts, though, stayed on Knoll and the woman.

"That was tough," she said. "I had to watch every word I said so no one could say later I misled them. Maybe this wasn't such a bright idea?"

Paul turned down the hall toward their room. "Look who's not adventurous now."

"You're a respected lawyer. I'm a judge. McKoy has latched on to us like Velcro. If he did bilk these people, we could become accomplices. Your daddy used to say all the time, 'If you can't run with the big dogs, get back under the porch.' I'm ready to climb back under."

He fished the room key from his pocket. "I don't think McKoy ripped anybody off. The more I study that letter, the more I read it as ambiguous, not false. I also think McKoy is genuinely shocked by the find. Now, Grumer--him, I'm not so sure about."

He unlocked the door and switched on the overhead light.

The room was wrecked. Drawers were yanked out. The armoire door swung open. The mattress was askew with the sheets half off. All their clothes lay strewn on the floor.

"The maid service in this place sucks," Paul said.

She wasn't amused. "This doesn't bother you? Somebody's searched this place. Oh, shit. Daddy's letters. And that wallet you found."

Paul closed the door. He slipped off his coat and yanked out his shirttail. A body wallet wrapped his abdomen. "Going to be a little difficult for anybody to find."

"Mother of God. I'll never berate your obsessiveness again. That was damn smart, Paul Cutler."

He lowered his shirt. "Copies of your daddy's letters are back at the office in the safe just in case."

"You expected this?"

He shrugged. "I didn't know what to expect. I just wanted to be prepared. With Knoll and the woman now around, anything can happen."

"Maybe we should get out of here. That judges' campaign waiting back home doesn't seem so bad right now. Marcus Nettles is a piece of cake compared to this."

Paul was calm. "I think it's time we do something else."

Instantly, she understood. "I agree. Let's go find McKoy."

Paul watched McKoy attack the door. Rachel stood behind him. The effects of three huge steins of beer showed in the intensity of McKoy's pounding.

"Grumer, unlock this goddamned door," McKoy screamed.

The door opened.

Grumer was still dressed in the long-sleeved shirt and trousers worn at dinner. "What is it, Herr McKoy? Has there been another incident?"

McKoy pushed into the room, shoving Grumer aside. Paul and Rachel followed. Two bedside lamps burned soft. Grumer had obviously been reading. An English copy of Polk's Dutch Influence on German Renaissance Painting lay parted on the bed. McKoy grabbed Grumer by the shirt and slammed him hard against the wall, rattling the picture frames.

"I'm a North Carolina redneck. Right now, a half-drunk North Carolina redneck. You may not know what that means, but I'll tell you it ain't good. I'm in no damn mood, Grumer. No damn fuckin' mood at all. Cutler tells me you dusted away letters in the sand. Where are the pictures?"

"I know nothing of what he says."

McKoy released his grip and rammed a fist into Grumer's stomach. The man doubled over, choking for air.

McKoy yanked him up. "Let's try it one more time. Where are the pictures?"

Grumer struggled for breath, coughing up bile, but managed to point to the bed. Rachel grabbed the book. Inside were a clutch of color photographs showing the skeleton and letters.

McKoy dropped Grumer to the carpet and studied the pictures. "I want to know why, Grumer. What the hell for?"

Paul wondered if he should issue a caution on the violence, but decided that Grumer had it coming. Besides, McKoy probably wouldn't listen anyway.

Grumer finally answered. "Money, Herr McKoy."

"Fifty thousand dollars I paid you wasn't enough?"

Grumer said nothing.

"Unless you want to start coughin' up blood, you'd better tell me everything."

Grumer seemed to get the message. "About a month ago, I was approached by a man--"

"Name."

Grumer caught a breath. "He gave no name."

McKoy reared back his fist.

"Please . . . it is true. No name at all, and he talked only by telephone. He'd read about my employment on this dig and offered twenty thousand euros for information. I saw no harm. He told me a woman named Margarethe would contact me."

"And?"

"I met her last evening."

"Did she or you search our room?" Rachel asked.

"Both of us. She was interested in the letters from your father."

"She say why?" McKoy asked.

"Nein. But I think I may know." Grumer was starting to breathe normally again, but his right arm hugged his stomach. He propped himself up against the wall. "Have you ever heard of Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitaten?"

"No," McKoy said. "Enlighten me."

"It is a group of nine people. Their identities unknown, but all are wealthy art lovers. They employ locators, their own personal collectors, called Acquisitors. The ingenious part of their association is as the name implies. 'Retrievers of Lost Antiquities.' They steal only what is already stolen. Each member's Acquisitor jousts for a prize. It's a sophisticated and expensive game, but a game nonetheless."

"Get to the point," McKoy said.

"This Margarethe, I suspect, is an Acquisitor. She never said, nor implied, but I believe my guess correct."

"What about Christian Knoll?" Rachel asked.

"The same. These two are competing for something."

"I'm gettin' the urge to beat the fuck out of you again," McKoy said. "Who does Margarethe work for?"

"Only a guess, but I would say Ernst Loring."

The name got Paul's attention, and he saw that Rachel was listening, too.

"From what I have been told, the club members are very competitive. There are thousands of lost objects to retrieve. Most from the last war, but many have been stolen from museums and private collections throughout the world. Quite clever, actually. To steal the stolen. Who's going to complain?"

McKoy moved toward Grumer. "You're tryin' my patience. Get to the damn point."

"The Amber Room," Grumer said between breaths.

Rachel forced a hand into McKoy's chest. "Let him explain."

"Again, this is only conjecture on my part. But the Amber Room left Konigsberg sometime between January and April 1945. No one knows for sure. The records are unclear. Erich Koch, the gauleiter of Prussia, evacuated the panels on Hitler's direct order. Koch, though, was a protege of Hermann Goring, in reality more loyal to Goring than Hitler. The rivalry between Hitler and Goring for art is well documented. Goring justified his collecting by wanting to create a museum of national art at Karinhall, his home. Hitler was supposed to have first choice on any spoils, but Goring beat him to many of the best pieces. As the war progressed, Hitler took more and more personal control of the fighting, which limited the time he could devote to other matters. Goring, though, stayed mobile and was ferocious in collecting."

"What the fuck has this got to do with anything?" McKoy said.

"Goring wanted the Amber Room to become part of his Karinhall collection. Some argue it was he, not Hitler, who ordered the evacuation of the amber from Konigsberg. He wanted Koch to keep the amber panels safe from the Russians, the Americans, and Hitler. But it was believed Hitler discovered the plan and confiscated the treasure before Goring could secure them."

"Daddy was right," Rachel softly said.

Paul stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"He told me once about the Amber Room and interviewing Goring after the war. All Goring said was Hitler beat him to it." She then told them about Mauthausen and the four German soldiers that were frozen to death.

"Where did you learn all your information?" Paul asked Grumer. "My father-in-law had a lot of articles on the Amber Room and none mentioned any of what you've just said." He'd purposefully omitted the reference to former father-in-law, and Rachel did not correct him like she usually did.

"There would be no mention," Grumer said. "The Western media rarely deals with the Amber Room. Few people even know what it is. German and Russian scholars, though, have long researched the subject. I've heard this particular information on Goring repeated often, but never such a firsthand account as Frau Cutler relates."

McKoy said, "How does this fit into our dig?"

"One account states that three trucks eventually were loaded with the panels somewhere west of Konigsberg, after Hitler took control. Those trucks headed west and were never seen again. They would have been heavy transports--"

"Like Bussing NAGs," McKoy said.

Grumer nodded.

McKoy plopped on the edge of the bed. "The three trucks we found?" The harsh tone had softened.

"Too much of a coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"But the trucks are empty," Paul said.

"Exactly," Grumer said. "Perhaps the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities know even more of the story. Maybe that explains two Acquisitors' rather intent interest."

"But you don't even know if Knoll and this woman have anything to do with that group," Rachel said.

"No, Frau Cutler, I do not. But Margarethe does not impress me as being an independent collector. You were around Herr Knoll. Would you say the same?"

"Knoll refused to say who he worked for."

"Which makes him even more suspect," McKoy said.

Paul slipped the wallet found at the site from his jacket pocket and handed it to Grumer. "What about this?" He explained where it was found.

"You discovered what I was looking for," Grumer said. "The information Margarethe requested concerned any possible dating of the site beyond 1945. I searched all five skeletons, but found nothing. This proves the site was violated postwar."

"There's some writing on a scrap of paper inside. What is it?"

Grumer looked close. "Appears to be some sort of permit or license. Issued March 15, 1951. Expires March 15, 1955."

"And this Margarethe wanted to know this?" McKoy asked.

Grumer nodded. "She was willing to pay handsomely for the information."

McKoy ran a hand through his hair. The big man looked worn out. Grumer took the moment to explain. "Herr McKoy, I had no idea the site was dry. I was as excited as you when we broke through. The signals, though, were becoming clearer. No explosives or even remnants. Narrow passage in. Lack of any door or steel reinforcement for the shaft or the chamber. And the trucks. Heavy transports should not be there."

"Unless the goddamned Amber Room used to be there."

"That is correct."

"Tell us more about what happened," Paul said to Grumer.

"There is little to tell. Stories attest that the Amber Room was placed in crates, then loaded onto three trucks. The trucks were supposedly heading south to Berchesgarten and the safety of the Alps. But the Soviet and American armies were all over Germany. There was nowhere to go. Supposedly, the trucks were hidden. But there is no record where. Perhaps their hiding place was the Harz mines."

"You figure since this Margarethe was so interested in Borya's letters and is here, the Amber Room must have something to do with all this," McKoy asked.

"It would seem a logical conclusion."

Paul asked, "Why do you think Loring is her employer?"

"Only a guess based on what I've read and heard through the years. The Loring family was, and is, interested in the Amber Room."

Rachel had a question. "Why erase the letters? Did Margarethe pay you to do that?"

"Not really. She only made clear that nothing should remain that dates the chamber past 1945."

"Why was that a concern?" Rachel asked.

"I truly have no idea."

"What does she look like?" Paul asked.

"She's the same woman as you described this afternoon."

"You realize that she could have killed Chapaev and Rachel's father."

"And you didn't say a damn word?" McKoy said to Grumer. "I ought to beat the livin' fuck out of you. You understand how much shit I'm in with a dry site. Now this." The big man rubbed his eyes, seemingly trying to calm himself, then quietly asked, "When's the next contact, Grumer?"

"She indicated that she would call me."

"I want to know the second that bitch does. I've had enough. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly," Grumer said.

McKoy stood and headed for the door. "You better, Grumer. Let me know the second you hear from that woman."

"Of course. Anything you say."

The phone was ringing in their room when Paul opened the door. Rachel followed him inside as he answered. It was Fritz Pannik. He quickly recounted to Pannik what happened earlier, telling the inspector that the woman and Knoll were nearby, or at least had been a few hours ago.

"I will dispatch someone from the local police to take a statement from everyone first thing in the morning."

"You think those two are still here?"

"If what Alfred Grumer says is true, I would say yes. Sleep light, Herr Cutler, and I will see you tomorrow."

Paul hung up and sat on the bed.

"What do you think?" Rachel asked, sitting beside him.

"You're the judge. Did Grumer seem credible?"

"Not to me. But McKoy seemed to buy what he was saying."

"I don't know about that. I get the feeling McKoy's holding something back, too. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something he's not saying. He was listening closely to Grumer on the Amber Room. But we can't worry about that now. I'm concerned about Knoll and the woman. They're roaming around here, and I don't like it."

She sat down on the bed beside him. His eyes caught the swell of her breasts through the tight-fitting turtleneck sweater. Ice Queen? Not to him. He'd felt her body all last night, unnerved by the closeness. Periodically he'd taken in her scent as she slept. At one point, he tried to imagine himself three years back, still married to her, still able to physically love her. Everything was surreal. Lost treasure. Killers wandering about. His ex-wife in bed with him.

"Maybe you were right to begin with," Rachel said. "We're in way over our heads and should just get out of here. There's Marla and Brent to think about." She looked at him. "And there's us." Her hand came to his.

"What do you mean?"

She softly kissed him on the lips. He sat perfectly still. She then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard.

"Are you sure about this, Rachel?" he asked as they parted.

"I don't know why I'm so hostile sometimes. You're a good man, Paul. You don't deserve the hurt I caused."

"It wasn't all your fault."

"There you go again. Always shouldering blame. Can't you let me take the blame just once?"

"Sure. You're welcome to it."

"I want it. And there's something else I want."

He saw the look in her eye, understood, and instantly rose from the bed. "This is really weird. We haven't been together in three years. I've grown accustomed to that. I thought we were through . . . in that way."

"Paul, for once go with your instincts. Everything doesn't have to be planned. What's wrong with good old-fashioned lust?"

He held her gaze with his. "I want more than that, Rachel."

"So do I."

He moved toward the window, putting distance between them, and parted the sheers, anything to buy a little time. This was too much too fast. He stared down at the street, thinking about how long he'd dreamed of hearing those words. He'd not gone to court for the divorce hearing. Hours later, the final judgment had rolled out of the fax machine, his secretary laying it on his desk without a word. He'd refused to look at it, shoveling the paper, unread, into the trash. How could a judge's signature silence what his heart knew to be right?

He turned back.

Rachel looked lovely, even with yesterday's cuts and scrapes. They truly were an odd couple from the beginning. But he'd loved her and she'd loved him. Together they'd produced two children, whom they both worshiped. Did they now have a second chance?

He turned back to the window and tried to find answers in the night. He was about to step toward the bed and surrender when he noticed someone appear on the street.

Alfred Grumer.

The Doktor walked with a firm, determined gait, apparently having just exited the Garni's front entrance two stories below.

"Grumer's leaving," he said.

Rachel jumped up and pushed close for a look. "He didn't say anything about leaving."

He grabbed his jacket and shot for the door. "Maybe he got the call from Margarethe. I knew he was lying."

"Where are you going?"

"You have to ask?"

FORTY-FIVE

Paul led Rachel out through the hotel entrance and turned in Grumer's direction. The German was a hundred yards ahead, briskly negotiating the cobbled street between the dark shops and busy cafes that were still luring customers with beer, food, and music. Streetlights periodically lit the way with a mustard glow.

"What are we doing?" Rachel asked.

"Finding out what he's up to."

"Is this a good idea?"

"Maybe not. But we're doing it anyway."

He didn't say that it also relieved him of a difficult decision. He wondered if Rachel was merely lonely or scared. It bothered him what she'd said in Warthberg, defending Knoll even though the bastard had left her to die. He didn't like being second choice.

"Paul, there's something you need to know."

Grumer was ahead, still moving fast. He didn't break stride. "What?"

"Right before the explosion in the mine, I turned around and Knoll had a knife."

He stopped and stared at her.

"He had a knife in his hand. Then the shaft's ceiling gave way."

"And you're just now telling me this?"

"I know. I should have. But I was afraid you wouldn't stay or that you'd tell Pannik and he'd interfere."

"Rachel, are you nuts? This shit is serious. And you're right, I wouldn't have stayed, nor would I have let you. And don't tell me that you can do what the hell you want." His attention shot to the right. Grumer disappeared around a corner. "Damn. Come on."

He started to trot, his jacket flapping. Rachel kept pace. The street began to incline. He reached the corner where Grumer had just been and stopped. A closed konditorei stood to the left with an awning that skirted the corner. He cautiously glanced around. Grumer was still walking fast, seemingly unconcerned if anybody was behind him. The Doktor bisected a small square centered by a fountain bowered in geraniums. Everything--the streets, shops, and plants--reflected the maniacal cleanliness of German civic pride.

"We need to stay back," Paul said. "But it's darker here, and that'll help."

"Where are we going?"

"It looks like we're headed up toward the abbey." He glanced at his watch--10:25 P.M.

Ahead, Grumer suddenly disappeared left into a row of black hedges. They scampered up and saw a concrete walk dissolve into the blackness. A posted sign announced, ABBEY OF THE SEVEN SORROWS OF THE VIRGIN. The arrow pointed forward.

"You're right. He is going to the abbey," Rachel said.

They started up the four-person-wide stone path. It wound a steep course through the night to the rock-strewn bluff. Halfway, they passed a couple strolling arm in arm. They reached a sharp turn. Paul stopped. Grumer was ahead, still climbing fast.

"Come here," he said to Rachel, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, cradling her close. "If he looks back, all he'll see are two lovers walking. He'll never see our faces at this distance."

They walked slowly.

"You're not going to get away this easy," Rachel said.

"What do you mean?"

"In the room. You know where we were headed."

"I don't plan to get away."

"You just needed time to think, and this little jog gives you that."

He didn't argue. She was right. He did need to think, but not now. Grumer was his main concern at the moment. The climb was winding him, his calves and thighs tightening. He thought he was in shape, but his three-mile runs in Atlanta were usually on flat earth, nothing like this murderous incline.

The path crested ahead and Grumer disappeared over the top.

The abbey was no longer a distant edifice. Here the facade spanned two football fields, rising sharply from the cliff shoulder, the walls elevated by a vaulted stone foundation. Bright sodium vapor lights hidden in the forested base flooded the colored stone. Rows of tall mullioned windows glistened up three stories.

A lighted gateway rose ahead, buildings stacked on either side and above. Two bastions flanked the main portal. A semidarkened forecourt lay beyond. Fifty yards ahead, Grumer disappeared through the open portal. The bright lights surrounding the gate worried him. Pigeons cooed from somewhere beyond the glare. No one else was in sight.

He led Rachel forward and glanced up at sculptures of the apostles Peter and Paul resting on blackened stone pedestals. On either side saints and angels vied with fish and mermaids. A coat of arms framed the portal's center, two golden keys on a royal blue background. A huge cross towered over the gable, the inscription clear under the flood lights. ABSIT GLORIARI NISI IN CRUCE.

"Glory only in the cross," he muttered.

"What?"

He pointed up. "The inscription. 'Glory only in the cross.' From Galatians, 6:14."

They passed through the portal. A freestanding sign identified the space beyond as GATEKEEPER'S COURT. Thankfully, the courtyard was unlit. Grumer was now at the far end, rushing up a wide set of stone steps, entering what looked like a church.

"We can't go in after him," Rachel said. "How many people could be in there at this hour?"

"I agree. Let's find another way in."

He studied the courtyard and surrounding buildings. Three-story structures rose on all sides, the facades baroque and adorned with Roman arches, elaborate cornices, and statues that added the required religious tone. The majority of windows were dark. Shadows danced behind drawn sheers in the few that were lit.

The church Grumer entered jutted forward from the opposite end of the dark courtyard, its symmetrical twin towers flanked by a brightly lit octagonal dome. It seemed an appendage of the farthest building, which would actually be the front of the abbey, the side facing Stod and the river, overlooking the highest point of the bluff.

He pointed to the far side of the courtyard, beyond the church, at a set of double oak doors. "Maybe those lead to another way."

They hustled across the cobbled courtyard, past islands of trees and shrubs. A cool wind eased by, leaving a chill. He tried the lock. It opened. He pushed the leaden door inward--slowly, to minimize the squeaks. An alleylike passageway spanned out before them, four dim incandescent fixtures glowed at the far end. They stepped inside. Halfway down the corridor, a staircase rose up with wooden balustrades. Oil paintings of kings and emperors lined the way up. Beyond the staircase, farther down the musty corridor, another closed door waited.

"The church would be on this level. That door ought to lead inside," he whispered.

The latch opened on the first try. He inched the door open, toward him. Warm air flooded the cool corridor. A heavy velvet curtain extended in both directions, a narrow passageway spanning left and right. Light flitted through periodic slits in the curtain and from the bottom. He gestured for quiet and led Rachel into the church.

Through one of the curtain slits he spied the interior. Scattered pools of orange light lit the huge nave. The explosive architecture, ceiling frescoes, and rich colored stucco combined into a visual symphony, nearly overpowering in depth and form. Brownish red, gray, and gold predominated. Fluted marble pilasters reached toward a vaulted ceiling, each one adorned in elaborate gilt moldings supporting an array of statuary.

His gaze drifted to the right.

A gilded crown framed the center of an oversize high altar. A huge medallion bore the inscription, NON CORONABITUR, NISI LEGITIME CERTAVERIT. Without a just fight, there is no victory, he silently translated. The Bible again. Timothy 2:5.

Two people stood off to the left--Grumer and the blonde from this morning. He glanced back over his shoulder and mouthed to Rachel. "She's here. Grumer's talking to her again."

"Can you hear?" Rachel whispered in his ear.

He shook his head, then pointed left. The narrow corridor ahead would lead them closer to where the two stood, the velvet draping down to the stone floor enough to protect them from sight. A small wooden staircase rose at the far end, ascending to what was most likely the choir. He concluded the curtained passage was probably used by acolytes who served Mass. They tiptoed forward. Another slit allowed him a view. He cautiously peered out, standing perfectly rigid before the velvet. Grumer and the woman stood near a forward people's altar. He'd read about this addition made to many European churches. The baroque Catholic of the Middle Ages sat far from the high altar, only passively experiencing God's closeness. Contemporary worshipers, thanks to liturgical reforms, demanded more active participation. So people's altars were added to ancient churches, the walnut of the podium and altar matching the rows of empty pews beyond.

He and Rachel were now about twenty meters from Grumer and the woman, whose whispers were difficult to hear in the hushed emptiness.

Suzanne glared at Alfred Grumer, who was taking a surprisingly gruff attitude with her.

"What happened today at the excavation site?" Grumer asked in English.

"One of my colleagues appeared and became impatient."

"You are drawing a lot of attention to the situation."

She disliked the German's tone. "It was not my choosing. I had to deal with the matter, as it presented itself."

"Do you have my money?"

"You have my information?"

"Herr Cutler found a wallet at the site. It dates from 1951. The chamber was breached postwar. Is that not what you wanted?"

"Where is this wallet?"

"I could not retrieve it. Perhaps tomorrow."

"And Borya's letters?"

"There is no way I could secure them. After what happened this afternoon, everyone is on edge."

"Two failures and you want five million euros?"

"You wanted information on the site and the dating. I supplied that. I also eliminated the evidence in the sand."

"That was your own concoction. A way to up the price of your services. The reality is that I have no proof of anything you've said."

"Let's talk reality, Margarethe. And that reality is the Amber Room, correct?"

She said nothing.

"Three German heavy transports, empty. A sealed underground chamber. Five bodies, all shot in the head. A 1951 to 1955 dating. This is the chamber where Hitler hid the room, and somebody robbed it. I would guess that somebody was your employer. Otherwise, why all the concern?"

"Speculation, Herr Doktor."

"You did not blink at my insistence on five million euros." Grumer's voice carried a smug tone she was liking less and less.

"Is there more?" she asked.

"If I recall correctly, a pervasive story circulated during the 1960s concerning Josef Loring being a Nazi collaborator. But, after the war, he managed to become well connected with the Czechoslovakian Communists. Quite a trick, actually. His factories and foundries, I assume, were powerful inducements for lasting friendships. The talk, I believe, was that Loring found Hitler's hiding place for the Amber Room. The locals in this area swore Loring came several times with crews and quietly excavated the mines before the government took control. In one, I would imagine, he found the amber panels and Florentine mosaics. Was it our chamber, Margarethe?"

"Herr Doktor, I neither admit nor deny any of what you are saying, though the history lesson does carry some fascination. What of Wayland McKoy? Is this current venture over?"

"He intends to excavate the other opening, but there will be nothing to find. Something you already know, correct? I would say the dig is over. Now, did you bring the payment we discussed?"

She was tired of Grumer. Loring was right. He was a greedy bastard. Another loose end. One that needed immediate attention.

"I have your money, Herr Grumer."

She reached into her jacket pocket and wrapped her right hand around the Sauer's checkered stock, a sound suppressor already screwed to the short barrel. Something suddenly swept past her left shoulder and thudded into Grumer's chest. The German gasped, heaved back, and then crumpled to the floor. In the dim altar light she immediately noticed the lavender-jade handle with an amethyst set in the pommel.

Christian Knoll leaped from the choir to the nave's stone floor, a gun in hand. She withdrew her own weapon and dived behind the podium, hoping the walnut was more wood than veneer.

She risked a quick look.

Knoll fired a muffled shot, the bullet ricocheting off the podium centimeters from her face. She reeled back and scrunched tight behind the podium.

"Very inventive in that mine, Suzanne," Knoll said.

Her heart raced. "Just doing my job, Christian."

"Why was it necessary to kill Chapaev?"

"Sorry, my friend, can't go into it."

"That is a shame. I did hope to learn your motives before killing you."

"I'm not dead yet."

She could hear Knoll chuckling. A sick laugh that echoed through the stillness.

"This time I'm armed," Knoll said. "Herr Loring's gift to me, in fact. A very accurate weapon."

The CZ-75B. Fifteen-shot magazine. And Knoll had used only one bullet. Fourteen chances left to kill her. Too damn many.

"No light bars to shoot out here, Suzanne. In fact, there is nowhere to go."

With a sickening dread, she realized he was right.

Paul had heard only scattered bits of the conversation. Obviously his initial doubts about Grumer had been proved right. The Doktor was apparently playing both ends against the middle and had just discovered the price that deceit sometimes elicited.

He'd watched in horror as Grumer died and the two combatants squared off, muffled shots popping through the church like pillows fluffing. Rachel stood behind him, staring over his shoulder. They stood rigid, neither moving for fear of revealing their presence. He knew they had to get out of the church, but their exit needed to be absolutely silent. Unlike the two in the nave, they were unarmed.

"That's Knoll," Rachel whispered in his ear.

He'd figured that. And the woman was definitely Jo Myers, or Suzanne, as Knoll called her. He'd instantly recognized the voice. No doubt now that she'd killed Chapaev, since she'd not denied the allegation when Knoll asked about it. Rachel pressed tight against him. She was shaking. He reached back and squeezed her leg, pressing her close, trying to calm her down, but his hand shook, too.

Knoll hunched low in the second row of pews. He liked the situation. Though his opponent was unfamiliar with the church's layout, it was clear Danzer had nowhere to go without him having at least a few seconds to shoot.

"Tell me something, Suzanne, why the mine explosion? We've never crossed that line before."

"What did I do, cramp your style with the Cutler woman? You were probably going to fuck her, then kill her, right?"

"Both thoughts crossed my mind. In fact, I was just getting ready to do the first when you so rudely interrupted."

"Sorry, Christian. Actually, the Cutler woman should thank me. I saw she survived the explosion. I don't think she would have been as lucky with your knife. Kind of like Grumer over there, right?"

"As you say, Suzanne, only doing my job."

"Look, Christian, maybe we don't have to take this to the extreme. How about a truce? We can go back to your hotel and sweat out our frustrations. How about it?"

Tempting. But this was serious business, and Danzer was only buying time.

"Come on, Christian, I guarantee it'll be better than what that spoiled bitch Monika puts out. You've never complained in the past."

"Before I consider that, I want some answers."

"I'll try."

"What is so important about that chamber?"

"Can't talk about that. Rules, you know."

"The trucks are empty. Nothing there. Why all the interest?"

"Same answer."

"The records clerk in St. Petersburg is on the payroll, right?"

"Of course."

"You knew I went to Georgia all along?"

"I thought I did a good job staying out of the way. Obviously not."

"Were you at Borya's house?"

"Of course."

"If I hadn't twisted that old man's neck, you would have?"

"You know me too well."

Paul was pressed to the curtain as he heard Knoll admit to killing Karol Borya. Rachel gasped and stepped back, bumping him forward, which rippled the velvet. He realized the movement and her sound would be more than enough to attract the attention of both combatants. In an instant, he shoved Rachel to the floor, rolling in mid-flight, absorbing most of the impact on his right shoulder.

Knoll heard a gasp and saw the curtain move. He fired three shots into the velvet, chest high.

Suzanne saw the curtain move, but her interest was in getting out of the church. She used the moment of Knoll's three shots to send one of her own in his direction. The bullet splintered one of the pews. She saw Knoll duck for cover, so she bolted into the shadows of the high altar, leaping forward into a dark archway.

"let's go," Paul mouthed. He pulled Rachel to her feet and they raced toward the door. The bullets had pierced the curtain and found stone. He hoped Knoll and the woman would be too preoccupied with each other to bother with them. Or maybe they'd team up against what might be deemed a common enemy. He wasn't going to stay around and find out which route they took.

They made it to the door.

His shoulder pounded with pain, but adrenaline streaking through his veins worked like anesthetic. Out in the corridor, beyond the church, he said, "We can't go back into the courtyard--we'll be sitting ducks."

He turned toward a stairway leading up.

"Come on," he said.

Knoll saw Danzer leap into a dark archway, but the pillars, podium, and altar impeded a clear shot, the long shadows no help either. At the moment, though, he was more interested in who was behind the curtain. He'd entered the church that way himself, climbing the wooden stairway at the passage's end to the choir.

He cautiously approached the curtain and peered behind, gun ready.

Nobody was there.

He heard a door open, then close. He quickly stepped over to Grumer's body and withdrew the stiletto. He cleaned the blade and slipped the knife up his sleeve.

Then he parted the curtain and followed.

Paul led the way up the staircase, giving the heavily framed ghostly images of kings and emperors that lined the way only a passing glance. Rachel hustled behind him.

"That bastard killed Daddy," she said.

"I know, Rachel. But right now we're in sort of a mess."

He turned on the landing and nearly leaped up the last flight. Another dark corridor waited at the top. He heard a door open behind them. He froze, stopping Rachel, covering her mouth with his hand. Footsteps came from below. Slow. Steady. Their way. He motioned for quiet, and they tiptoed to the left--the only way to go--toward a closed door at the far end.

He tried the latch handle.

It opened.

He inched the door inward and they slipped inside.

Suzanne stood in a dark cubicle behind the high altar, the sweet scent of incense strong from two metal pots against the wall. Colorful priestly vestments hung in two rows on metal racks. She needed to finish what Knoll had started. The son of a bitch had certainly one-upped her. How he found her was of concern. She was careful leaving the hotel, checking her backside repeatedly on the way up to the abbey. No one had followed her, of that she was certain. No. Knoll was in the church, waiting. But how? Grumer? Possibly. It worried her that Knoll somehow knew her business so intimately. She'd wondered why there'd been no hot pursuit from the mine earlier, Knoll's show of disappointment as she sped away not nearly as satisfying as she'd expected.

She stared back out through the archway.

He was still in the church, and she needed to find him and settle this matter. Loring would want that. No more loose ends. None at all. She peered out and watched as Knoll disappeared through a curtain.

A door opened, then closed.

She heard footsteps climbing stairs.

Sauer in hand, she cautiously headed for the source of the sound.

Knoll heard faint steps above. Whoever it was had gone up the staircase.

He followed, gun ready.

Paul and Rachel stood inside a cavernous space, a freestanding sign proclaiming in German MARMOREN KAMMER, the English beneath reading MARBLE HALL. Pilastered marble columns, evenly spaced around the four walls, rose at least forty feet, each one decorated in gold leaf, the surrounding colors a soft peach and light gray. Magnificent frescoes of chariots, lions, and Hercules decorated the ceiling. A three-dimensional architectural painting framed the room, creating an illusion of depth to the walls. Incandescent light splashed across the ceiling. The motif might have been interesting if not for the fact that someone with a gun was probably coming after them.

He led the way as they scampered across checkerboard tile, bisecting a brass floor grille that rushed warm air up into the hall. Another ornate door waited at the opposite end. As far as he could see, it was the only other way out.

The door they entered through suddenly creaked inward.

Instantly, Paul opened the door in front of him and they slipped out onto a rounded terrace. Beyond a thick stone balustrade, blackness extended to the broad tangle of Stod below. The velvet bowl overhead was thick with stars. Behind them, the abbey's well-lit amber-and-white facade loomed stark against the night. Stone lions and dragons stared down and seemed to keep watch. A chilling breeze swept over them. The ten-person-wide terrace rounded in a horseshoe to another door at the opposite end.

He led Rachel around the loop to the far door.

It was locked.

Back across, the door they'd just come through began to open. He quickly looked around and saw there was nowhere to go. Over the railing was nothing but a sheer drop hundreds of meters down to the river.

Rachel seemed to sense their quandary, too, and she looked at him, fear filling her eyes, surely thinking the same thing he was.

Were they going to die?

FORTY-SIX

Knoll opened the door and saw that it led out to an open terrace. He stood still. Danzer was still lurking somewhere behind him. But maybe she'd fled the abbey. No matter. As soon as he determined who else had been in the church, he'd head straight to her hotel. If he didn't find her there, he'd find her somewhere else. She would not be disappearing this time.

He peered around the edge of the thick oak door and surveyed the terrace. No one was there. He stepped out and closed the door, then crossed the wide loop. Halfway, he stole a quick glance over the side. Stod blazed to the left, the river ahead, a long drop down. He reached the other door and determined it was locked.

Suddenly, the door from the Marble Hall, at the other end of the loop, swung open and Danzer leaped out into the night. He lunged behind the stone rail and thick spindles.

Two muffled shots streaked his way.

The bullets missed.

He returned fire.

Danzer sent another round his way. Stone splinters from the ricochet momentarily blinded him. He crawled to the door nearest him. The iron lock was furred in rust. He fired two shots into the handle and the latch gave way.

He yanked open the door and quickly crawled inside.

Suzanne decided enough. She saw the door at the other end of the horseshoe open. No one walked inside, so Knoll must have crawled. The confines were tightening, and Knoll was far too dangerous to keep openly pursuing him. She now knew that he was on the abbey's upper stories, so the smart move was to backtrack and head down to town before he had a chance to find his way out. She needed to get out of Germany, preferably back to Castle Loukov and the safety of Ernst Loring. Her business here was finished. Grumer was dead, and, as with Karol Borya, Knoll had saved her the trouble. The excavation site seemed secure. So what she was now doing seemed foolish.

She turned and raced back through the Marble Hall.

Rachel clung to the cold stone spindle. Paul dangled beside her, desperately gripping his own spindle. It had been her idea to leap over the railing and hang on just as someone exited the far door. Below her boots was a cascading blackness. A strong wind buffeted their bodies. Her grip was weakening by the second.

They'd listened in horror as bullets careened off the terrace and out into the chilly night, hoping that whoever was following them did not glance over the side. Paul had managed a look as the near door's lock was shot through and someone crawled inside. "Knoll," he'd mouthed. But for the last minute--silence. Not one sound.

Her arms ached. "I can't hold on much longer," she whispered.

Paul ventured another look. "There's nobody there. Climb." He swung his right leg out, then pulled himself up and over the railing. He reached down and helped her up. Once on firm ground, they both leaned against the cold stone and stared down at the river below.

"I can't believe we did that," she said.

"I've got to be out of my damn mind to be in the middle of this."

"As I remember, you're the one who dragged me up here."

"Don't remind me."

Paul inched the half-closed door open and she followed him inside. The room was an elegant library lined floor to ceiling with inlaid bookshelves of shiny walnut, everything gilded in baroque style. They passed through a wrought-iron gate and quickly crossed a slick parquet floor. Two huge wooden globes flanked either side, set in recesses between the shelves. The warm air smelled of musty leather. A yellow rectangle of light extended from a doorway at the far end where the top of another staircase was visible.

Paul motioned ahead. "That way."

"Knoll came in here," she reminded.

"I know. But he had to have taken off after that shootout."

She followed Paul out of the library and down the staircase. A darkened corridor below immediately wound to the right. She hoped there was a door somewhere that led back to the inner courtyard. At the bottom she saw Paul turn, then a black shadow shot from the darkness and Paul's body folded to the floor.

A gloved hand encircled her neck.

She was lifted from the last step and slammed against the wall. Her vision blurred, then refocused, and she was staring straight into the feral eyes of Christian Knoll, a knife blade pinched into the bottom of her chin.

"That your ex-husband?" His words came in a throaty whisper, his breath warm. "Come to your rescue?"

Her eyes stole a look at Paul sprawled across the stone. He wasn't moving. She looked back at Knoll.

"You may find this hard to believe, but I have no complaint with you, Frau Cutler. Killing you would certainly be the most efficient thing to do, but not necessarily the smartest. First your father dies, then you. And so close together. No. As much as I might want to rid myself of a nuisance, I cannot kill you. So, please. Go home."

"You killed . . . my father."

"Your father understood the risks he took in life. Even seemed to appreciate them. You should have taken the advice he offered. I am quite familiar with Phaethon's story. A fascinating tale about impulsive ways. The helplessness of the elder generation trying to teach the younger. What did the Sun God tell Phaethon? 'Look in my face and if you could, look in my heart, see there a father's anxious blood and passion.' Heed the warning, Frau Cutler. My mind can easily change. Would you want those precious children of yours to cry tears of amber if a lightning bolt struck you dead?"

She suddenly visualized her father lying in the casket. She'd buried him in his tweed jacket, the same one he'd worn to court the day she changed his name. She'd never believed that he merely fell down the stairs. Now his killer was here, pressed against her. She shifted and tried to knee Knoll in the crotch, but the hand around her neck tightened, and the knife tip broke the skin.

She gasped and sucked in a deep breath.

"Now, now, Frau Cutler. None of that."

Knoll released his right hand from her throat, but kept the blade firm to her chin. He let his palm travel the length of her body to her crotch, and he cupped her in a tight clasp. "I could tell that you found me intriguing." His hand drifted up and massaged her breasts through the sweater. "A shame I don't have more time." He suddenly clamped tight on her right breast and twisted.

The pain stiffened her.

"Take my advice, Frau Cutler. Go home. Have a happy life. Raise your kids." His head motioned to Paul. "Please your ex-husband and forget about all this. It does not concern you."

She managed through the pain to say again, "You . . . killed my . . . father."

His right hand released her breast and throttled her neck. "The next time we meet, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?"

She said nothing. The knife tip moved deeper. She wanted to scream but couldn't.

"Do you understand?" Knoll slowly asked.

"Yes," she mouthed.

He withdrew the blade. Blood trickled from the wound in her neck. She stood rigid against the wall. She was concerned about Paul. He still hadn't moved.

"Do as I say, Frau Cutler."

He turned to leave.

She lunged at him.

Knoll's right hand arched up and the knife handle caught her square below the right temple. Her eyes flashed white. The corridor spun. Bile erupted in her throat. Then she saw Marla and Brent rushing toward her, arms outstretched, their mouths moving but the words inaudible as blackness overtook them.

PART FOUR

FORTY-SEVEN


11:50 p.m.

Suzanne raced down the incline back to stod. Along the way she passed three late-night strollers to whom she paid no attention. Her only concern at the moment was to get back to the Gebler, grab her belongings, and disappear. She needed the safety of the Czech border and Castle Loukov, at least until Loring and Fellner could resolve this matter, member to member.

Knoll's sudden appearance had again caught her off guard. The bastard was determined, she'd give him that. She decided not to underestimate him a third time. If Knoll was in Stod, she needed to get out of the country.

She found the street below and trotted toward her hotel.

Thank god she'd packed. Everything was ready to go, her plan all along had been to leave after tending to Alfred Grumer. Fewer streetlamps illuminated the way than earlier, but the Gebler's entrance was well lit. She entered the lobby. A night clerk behind the front desk was pounding a keyboard and never looked up. Upstairs, she shouldered her travel bag and threw some euros on the bed, more than enough to cover the bill. No time for any formal checkout.

She took a moment and caught her breath. Maybe Knoll didn't know where she was staying. Stod was a big town with lots of inns. No, she decided. He knew and was probably headed here right now. She thought back to the abbey's terrace. Knoll was after whoever else had been in the church. And that other presence was likewise of concern to her. But she wasn't the one who tossed a knife into Grumer's chest. Whatever he or she saw was more Knoll's problem than hers.

In her travel bag she found a fresh clip for the Sauer and popped it into place. She then pocketed the gun. Downstairs, she stepped quickly through the lobby and out the front door. She looked right, then left. Knoll was a hundred yards away, moving straight in her direction. When he spotted her, he started to run. She bolted ahead, down a deserted side street, and rounded a corner. She kept running and quickly turned two more corners. Maybe she could lose Knoll in the maze of venerable buildings that all looked alike.

She stopped. Her breathing came hard.

Footsteps echoed from behind.

Coming closer.

In her direction.

Knoll's breath condensed in the dry air. His timing had been nearly perfect. A few moments more and he would have caught the bitch.

He turned a corner and halted.

Only silence.

Interesting.

He gripped the CZ and stepped cautiously forward. He'd studied the layout of the old part of town yesterday from a map obtained at the tourist bureau. The buildings covered blocks interrupted by narrow cobbled streets and even tighter alleys. Steep roofs, dormer windows, and arcades adorned with mythological creatures loomed everywhere. It would be easy to get lost in the warren of sameness. But he knew exactly where Danzer's slate-gray Porsche was parked. He'd found it yesterday on a reconnaissance mission, knowing that she would certainly have a quick means of transportation nearby.

So he started in that direction, the same direction the running footsteps had initially been headed.

He stopped fast.

Still, only silence.

No more soles slapping cobblestone in the distance.

He inched forward and turned a corner. The street ahead was a straight line, the only glow breaking the darkness loomed at the far end. Halfway, an intersection appeared. The lane to the right stretched about thirty meters, dead-ending into what looked like the back of a shop. A small black Dumpster rested just to the right, a parked BMW to its left. It was more an alley than a street. He stepped to the end and checked the car. Locked. He lifted the Dumpster lid. Empty except for newspapers and a few trash bags that smelled of rotting fish. He tried the doorknobs for the building. Locked.

He stepped back to the main street, gun in hand, and turned right.

Suzanne waited a full five minutes before slithering out from under the BMW. She'd wiggled beneath, thankful for her petite size. Just in case, though, the 9mm was ready. But Knoll had not looked underneath, seemingly satisfied the car doors were locked, the alley apparently empty.

She retrieved her travel bag from the Dumpster where she'd stashed it under some newspapers. A lingering odor of fish accompanied the leather bag. She pocketed the Sauer and decided to use another route to her car, perhaps even leaving the damn thing and renting another in the morning. She could always come back later and retrieve the Porsche after this was settled. An Acquisitor's job was to do what his or her employer desired. Even though Loring had told her to handle things at her discretion, the situation with Knoll and the risk of drawing attention was escalating. Also, killing her opponent was proving far more difficult than she'd first imagined.

She stopped in the alley before the intersection and listened a few seconds more.

No footsteps could be heard.

She scooted out and instead of turning right as Knoll had done, she went left.

From a darkened doorway, a fist slammed her forehead. Her neck whipped back, then recoiled. The pain momentarily froze her, and a hand encircled her throat. Her body was lifted, then pounded into a damp stone wall. A sickening smile filled Christian Knoll's Nordic face.

"How stupid do you take me for?" Knoll said, inches from her.

"Come on, Christian. Can't we settle this? I meant what I said back at the abbey. Let's go back to your room. Remember France? That was fun."

"What's so important that you have to kill me?" His grip tightened.

"If I say, you'll let me go?"

"I am in no mood, Suzanne. My orders are to do as I please, and I believe you know what pleases me."

Buy some time, she thought. "Who else was in the church?"

"The Cutlers. It seems they have a continuing interest. Care to enlighten me?"

"How would I know?"

"I believe you know a lot more than you are willing to state." He squeezed harder.

"Okay. Okay, Christian. It's the Amber Room."

"What of it?"

"That chamber was where Hitler hid it. I had to be sure, that's why I'm here."

"Sure of what?"

"You know Loring's interest. He's looking for it, just like Fellner. We're just privileged to information you don't have."

"Such as?"

"You know I can't say. This isn't fair."

"And blowing me up is? What is going on, Suzanne? This is no ordinary quest."

"I'll make you a deal. Let's go back to your room. We'll talk after. Promise."

"I'm not feeling amorous right now."

But the words had the desired effect. The hand around her throat relaxed just enough for her to pivot off the wall and knee him solidly in the groin.

Knoll crumpled in pain.

She kicked him once more between the legs, driving the toe of her boot into his cupped hands. Her adversary crashed to the cobbles and she rushed away.

Blinding pain racked Knoll's groin. Tears welled in his eyes. The bitch had done it again. Quick as a cat. He'd relaxed only a second to readjust his grip. But enough for her to strike.

Damn.

He stared up to see Danzer disappearing down the street. His groin ached. He was having trouble breathing, but he could probably still take a shot at her. He reached for the pistol in his pocket, then stopped.

No need.

He'd tend to her tomorrow.

FORTY-EIGHT


Wednesday, May 21, 1:30 a.m.

Rachel opened her eyes. Her head pounded. Her stomach churned as if from seasickness. The stench of vomit rose from her sweater. Her chin ached. She gently traced the outline of a blood pimple, then remembered the knifepoint boring in.

Hovering over her was a man dressed in the brown cassock of a monk. His face was old and withered, and he watched her intently with anxious watery eyes. She was propped against the wall, in the corridor where Knoll had attacked her.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You tell us," said Wayland McKoy.

She looked beyond the monk and tried to focus. "I can't see you, McKoy."

The big man stepped closer.

"Where's Paul?" she asked.

"Over there, still out. Got a nasty blow to the head. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just have one monster headache."

"I bet you do. The monks heard some shots from the church. They found Grumer, then you two. Your room keys led them to the Garni and I hustled up here."

"We need a doctor."

"That monk is a doctor. He says your head's fine. No cracks."

"How about Grumer?" she asked.

"Aggravatin' the devil, probably."

"It was Knoll and the woman. Grumer came up here to meet with her again and Knoll killed him."

"Fuckin' bastard got what he deserved. Any reason why you two didn't invite me?"

She massaged her head. "You're lucky we didn't."

Paul groaned a few feet away. She pulled herself across the stone floor. Her stomach started to calm down. "Paul, you all right?"

He was rubbing the left side of his head. "What happened?"

"Knoll was waiting for us."

She slid close and checked his head.

"How did your chin get cut?" McKoy asked her.

"Not important."

"Look, Your Honor, I've got a dead German upstairs and police askin' a thousand questions. You two are found sprawled out cold, and you tell me it's not important. What the fuck's goin' on?"

"We need to call Inspector Pannik," Paul said to her.

"I agree."

"Excuse me. Hello? Remember me?" McKoy said.

The monk handed her a wet rag. She dabbed it to the side of Paul's head. Blood stained the cloth.

"I think he cut you," she said.

Paul reached up to her chin. "What did happen there?"

She decided to be honest. "A warning. Knoll told us to go home and stay out of this."

McKoy bent close. "Stay out of what?"

"We don't know," she said. "All we're sure of is the woman killed Chapaev and Knoll killed my father."

"How do you know that?"

She told him what happened.

"I couldn't hear all of what Grumer and the woman were saying in the church," Paul said. "Only little bits and pieces. But I think one of them--Grumer, maybe--mentioned the Amber Room."

McKoy shook his head. "I never dreamed things would go this far. What the crap have I done?"

Paul said, "What do you mean, done?"

McKoy said nothing.

"Answer him," Rachel said.

But McKoy stayed silent.

McKoy stood in the underground chamber, his mind a swirling montage of apprehension, and stared at the three rusted transports. He turned his gaze slowly to the ancient rock face, searching for a message. An old cliche, if the walls could talk, kept racing through his mind. Could these walls tell him more than he already knew? Or more than he already suspected? Would they explain why the Germans drove three valuable trucks deep into a mountain and then dynamited the only exit? Or was it even the Germans who sealed the exit? Could they describe how a Czech industrialist breached the cavern years later, stole what was there, and then blasted the entrance shut? Or maybe they knew nothing at all. As silent as the voices that had tried through the years to forge a trail, only to find a path leading to death.

Behind him, footsteps approached through the opening from the outer gallery. The other exit from the chamber was still stuffed tight with rock and rubble, his crews yet to start any excavation. They wouldn't until tomorrow at the earliest. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 11:00 A.M. He turned to see Paul and Rachel Cutler emerge through the shadows. "I didn't expect you two this early. How're your heads?"

"We want answers, McKoy, and no more stalling," Paul said. "We're in this whether we, or you, like it or not. You kept wondering last night what you'd done. What did you mean?"

"You don't plan to take Knoll's advice and go home?"

"Should we?" Rachel asked.

"You tell me, Judge."

"Quit delaying," Paul said. "What's going on?"

"Come over here." He led them across the chamber to one of the skeletons embedded in the sand. "There isn't much left of what these guys were wearin', but from the scraps the uniforms appear World War Two vintage. The camouflage pattern is definitely U.S. Marine." He bent down and pointed. "That sheath is for an M4 bayonet, U.S. issue from the war. I'm not certain, but the pistol holster is probably French. The Germans didn't wear American issue or use French equipment. After the war, though, all sorts of European military and paramilitary used American-issue stuff. The French Foreign Legion. Greek National Army. Dutch Infantry." He motioned across the chamber. "One of the skeletons over there is wearing breeches and boots with no pockets. Hungarian Soviets dressed like that after the war. The clothing. The empty trucks. And the wallet you found cinches things."

"Cinches what?" Paul asked.

"This place was robbed."

"How do you know about what these guys were wearing?" Rachel asked.

"Contrary to what you might think, I'm not some dumb-ass North Carolina redneck. Military history is my passion. It's also part of my preparation on these digs. I know I'm right. I felt it Monday. This chamber was breached postwar. No doubt about it. These poor slobs were either ex-military, current military, or workers dressed in surplus. They were shot when the job was finished."

"Then all that you did with Grumer was an act?" Rachel asked.

"Shit, no. I wanted this place to be full of art, but after that first look Monday, I knew we had a violated site. I just didn't realize how violated till now."

Paul pointed to the sand. "That's the corpse with the letters." He bent down and retraced O, I, and C in the sand, spacing the letters as he remembered. "They were like that."

McKoy retrieved Grumer's photographs from his pocket.

Paul then added three additional letters--L, R, N--filling in the blank spaces--and changed the C to a G. The word now read LORING.

"Son of a bitch," McKoy said, comparing the photo to the ground. "I think you're right, Cutler."

"What made you think of that?" Rachel asked Paul.

"It was hard to see clear. It could have been a half G. Anyway, the name keeps coming up. Your father even mentioned it in one of his letters." Paul reached in his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet. "I read it again a while ago."

McKoy studied the handwritten paragraph. Halfway down, the Loring name caught his eye:

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 have never asked Yancy to inquire again while in Italy.

McKoy grabbed Paul's gaze with his own. "You believe your parents were the target of that bomb?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." Paul motioned to the sand. "Grumer talked last night about Loring. Karol talked about him. My father may have talked about him. Maybe even this guy here in the sand was talking about him. All I know is Knoll killed Rachel's father and the woman killed Chapaev."

"Let me show you somethin' else," McKoy said. He led them to a map lying flat near one of the light bars. "I took some compass readings this morning. The other shaft that's sealed goes northeast." He bent and pointed. "This is a map of the area from 1943. There used to be a paved road that paralleled the base of the mountain to the northeast."

Paul and Rachel squatted close to the map.

"I'd wager these trucks were driven in here through the other sealed entrance, over this road. They would have needed a compact surface. They're too heavy for mud and sand."

"You believe what Grumer said last night?" Rachel asked.

"That the Amber Room was here? No doubt about it."

"How can you be so sure?" Paul asked.

"My guess is this chamber wasn't sealed by the Nazis, but by whoever looted it after the war. The Germans would have needed to get the amber panels back after they were stashed. It makes no sense to blast the entrance shut. But the guy who came in here in the 1950s, now that bastard wouldn't want anyone to know what he'd found. So he murdered the help and collapsed the shaft. Our findin' this was a fluke, thanks to ground radar. The fact that we gained entrance, just another fluke."

Rachel seemed to understand. "Always pays to be lucky."

"The Germans and the looter probably didn't even know that another shaft passed this close to the chamber. Like you say, just dumb luck on our part, lookin' for railroad cars full of art."

"They had rail lines going into these mountains?" Paul asked.

"Damn right. That's how they moved munitions in and out."

Rachel stood and gazed at the trucks. "Then this could be the place Daddy talked about going to see?"

"It well could," McKoy said.

"Back to the original question, McKoy. What did you mean about what you'd done?" Paul asked.

McKoy stood. "You two I don't know from shit to shine-ola. But for some reason I trust you. Let's walk back outside to the shed, and I'll tell you all about it."

Paul noticed the midmorning sun as it cast a dusty hue through the shed's dingy panes.

"How much do you know about Hermann Goring?" McKoy asked.

"Just what's on the History Channel," Paul said.

McKoy smiled. "He was the number-two Nazi. But Hitler finally ordered his arrest in April 1945, thanks to Martin Bormann. He convinced the Fuhrer that Goring intended to mount a coup for power. Bormann and Goring never got along. So Hitler branded him a traitor, stripped him of his titles, and arrested him. The Americans found him just as the war ended, when they took control of southern Germany.

"While he was imprisoned, awaitin' trial on war crimes, Goring was heavily interrogated. The conversations were eventually memorialized in what came to be called Consolidated Interrogation Reports. These were considered secret documents for years."

"Why?" Rachel asked. "Seems like they would be more historical than secret. The war was over."

McKoy explained that there were two good reasons why the Allies suppressed the reports. The first was because of the avalanche of art restitution requests that came after the war. Many were speculative and spurious. No government had the time or money to fully investigate and process hundreds of thousands of claims. And the CIRs would have done nothing but amplify those claims. The second reason was more pragmatic. The general assumption was that everyone--apart from a handful of corrupt people--nobly resisted Nazi terror. But the CIRs revealed how French, Dutch, and Belgian art dealers profited from the invaders by supplying art for the Sonderauftrag Linz project, Hitler's Museum of World Art. Suppression of the reports eased the embarrassment that fact would have caused a great many.

"Goring tried to have his pick of the art spoils before Hitler's thieves arrived in any conquered country. Hitler wanted to purge the world of what he considered decadent art. Picasso, van Gogh, Matisse, Nolde, Gauguin, and Grosz. Goring recognized value in these masterpieces."

"What does any of that have to do with the Amber Room?" Paul asked.

"Goring's first wife was a Swedish countess, Karin von Kantzow. She visited the Catherine Palace in Leningrad before the war and loved the Amber Room. When she died in 1931 Goring buried her in Sweden, but the Communists desecrated her grave, so he built an estate he called Karinhall north of Berlin and encased her body there in an immense mausoleum. The whole place was gaudy and vulgar. A hundred thousand acres, stretching north to the Baltic Sea and east to Poland. Goring wanted to duplicate the Amber Room in her memory so he constructed an exact ten-by-ten-meter chamber ready to accept the panels."

"How do you know that?" Rachel asked.

"The CIRs contain interviews with Alfred Rosenberg, head of the ERR, the department Hitler created to oversee the looting of Europe. Rosenberg talked repeatedly of Goring's obsession with the Amber Room."

McKoy then described the fierce competition between Goring and Hitler for art. Hitler's taste reflected Nazi philosophy. The farther east the origin of a work, the less valuable. "Hitler possessed no interest in Russian art. He considered the entire nation subhuman. But Hitler didn't regard the Amber Room as Russian. Frederick I, King of Prussia, had given the amber to Peter the Great. So the relic was German, and its return to German soil was considered culturally important.

"Hitler himself ordered the panels evacuated from Konigsberg in 1945. But Erich Koch, the Prussian provincial governor, was loyal to Goring. Now here's the rub. Josef Loring and Koch were connected. Koch desperately needed raw materials and efficient factories to deliver the quotas Berlin imposed on all provincial governors. Loring worked with the Nazis, opening family mines, foundries, and factories to the German war effort. Hedgin' his bets, though, Loring also worked with Soviet intelligence. This may explain why it was so easy for him to prosper under Soviet rule in Czechoslovakia after the war."

"How do you know all this?" Paul asked.

McKoy stepped over to a leather briefcase angled from the top of a survey table. He retrieved a sheaf of stapled papers and handed them to Paul. "Go to the fourth page. I marked the paragraphs. Read 'em."

Paul flipped the sheets and found the marked sections:


Interviews with several contemporaries of Koch and Josef Loring confirm the two met often. Loring was a major financial contributor to Koch and maintained the German governor in a lavish lifestyle. Did this relationship lead to information about, or perhaps the actual acquisition of the Amber Room? The answer is hard to say. If Loring possessed either knowledge of the panels or the panels themselves, the Soviets apparently knew nothing.

Quickly after the war, in May 1945, the Soviet government mounted a search for the amber panels. Alfred Rohde, the director of the Konigsberg art collections for Hitler, became the Soviets' initial information source. Rohde was passionately fond of amber, and he told Soviet investigators that crates with the panels were still in the Konigsberg palace when he left the building on April 5, 1945. Rohde showed investigators the burned-out room where he said the crates were stored. Bits of gilded wood and copper hinges (that were believed part of the original Amber Room doors) still remained. The conclusion of destruction became inescapable, and the matter was considered closed. Then, in March 1946, Anatoly Kuchumov, curator of the palaces at Pushkin, visited Konigsberg. There, in the same ruins, he found crumbled remains of the Florentine mosaics from the Amber Room. Kuchumov firmly believed that while other parts of the room may have burned, the amber did not, and he ordered a new search.

By then, Rohde was dead, he and his wife having died on the same day they were ordered to reappear for a new round of Soviet interrogations. Interestingly, the physician that signed the Rohdes' death certificate also disappeared the same day. At that point, the Soviet Ministry of State Security took over the investigation along with the Extraordinary State Commission, which continued to search until nearly 1960.

Few have accepted the conclusion that the amber panels were lost at Konisgberg. Many experts question if the mosaics were actually destroyed. The Germans were very clever when necessary and, given the prize and personalities involved, anything is possible. In addition, given Josef Loring's intense postwar efforts in the Harz region, his passion for amber, and the unlimited amount of money and resources available to him, perhaps Loring did find the amber. Interviews with heirs of local residents confirm that Loring visited the Harz region often, searching the mines, all with the knowledge and approval of the Soviet government. One man even stated Loring was working on the assumption that the panels were trucked from Konigsberg west into Germany, their ultimate destination south to the Austrian mines or the Alps, but the trucks were diverted by the impending approach of the Soviet and American armies. Best estimates state three trucks were involved. Nothing can be confirmed, however.

Josef Loring died in 1967. His son, Ernst, inherited the family fortune. Neither has ever spoken publicly on the subject of the Amber Room.

"You knew?" Paul said. "All that Monday and yesterday was an act? You've been after the Amber Room all along?"

"Why'd you think I let you hang around? Two strangers appear out of nowhere. You think I'd have wasted two seconds with you if the first things out of your mouth weren't 'We're looking for the Amber Room,' and 'Who the hell's Loring?' "

"Fuck you, McKoy," Paul said, surprised at his own language. He couldn't recall cursing so crudely, or as much as he had the past few days. Apparently, this North Carolina redneck was wearing off on him.

"Who wrote this?" Rachel asked, motioning to the paper.

"Rafal Dolinski, a Polish reporter. He did a lot of work on the Amber Room. Kind of obsessed with the subject, if you ask me. When I was over here three years ago, he approached me. He's the one who got me all hyped up over amber. He'd done a lot of research and was writin' an article for some European magazine. He was hopin' for an interview with Loring to cinch some interest by a publisher. He sent a copy of this entire thing to Loring, along with a request to talk. The Czech never responded, but a month later Dolinski was dead." McKoy paused, then looked straight at Rachel. "Blown up in a mine near Warthberg."

Paul said, "Goddammit, McKoy. You knew all this and didn't tell us. Now Grumer's dead."

"Shit on Grumer. He was a greedy, lyin' bastard. He got himself killed by sellin' out. That's not my problem. I didn't tell him any of this on purpose. But somethin' was tellin' me this was the right chamber. Ever since the radar soundings. Could be a rail car, but if not, it could be three trucks with the Amber Room inside. When I saw those damn things Monday, waitin' in the dark, I thought I'd hit the mother lode."

"So you bilked investors for the opportunity to find out if you're right," Paul said.

"I figured either way, they'd win. Paintings or amber. What do they care?"

"You're a damn good actor," Rachel said. "Fooled me."

"My reaction when I saw the trucks empty wasn't an act. I was hopin' my gamble had paid off and the investors wouldn't mind a little change in booty. I was bankin' that Dolinski was wrong and the panels were never found by Loring, or anyone else. But when I saw that other sealed entrance and the empty beds, I knew I was in deep shit."

"You're still in deep shit," Paul said.

McKoy shook his head. "Think about it, Cutler. Somethin's happenin' here. This isn't some dry hole. That chamber back there was not meant to be found. We just stumbled onto it, thanks to good ole modern technology. Now, all at once, somebody is awfully interested in what we're doin', and they're awfully interested in what Karol Borya and Chapaev knew. Interested enough to kill 'em. Maybe they were interested enough to kill your parents."

Paul stared hard at McKoy.

"Dolinski told me about a lot of folks who ended up dead searchin' for the amber. Stretches all the way back to just after the war. Spooky as hell. Now he may well be one of 'em."

Paul did not argue the point. McKoy was right. Something definitely was going on and it involved the Amber Room. What else could it be? There were simply too many coincidences.

"Assuming you're right, what do we do now?" Rachel finally asked in a voice that signaled resignation.

McKoy's response was quick. "I'm going to the Czech Republic and talk to Ernst Loring. I think it's about time somebody did."

"We're going, too," Paul said.

"We are?" Rachel asked.

"You're damn right. Your father and my parents may have died over this. I've come this far. I plan to finish."

Rachel's look was curious. Was she discovering something about him? Something she may never have noticed before. A determination that hid beneath a deep veneer of controlled calm. Maybe she was. He was certainly discovering something about himself. The experience last night had jolted him. The rush when he and Rachel fled from Knoll. The terror in dangling from a balcony hundreds of feet above a blackened German river. They'd been lucky to escape with only a couple knots on their heads. But he was determined now to learn what had happened to Karol Borya, his parents, and Chapaev.

"Paul," Rachel said, "I don't want something like last night to happen again. This is foolish. We have two children. Remember what you tried to tell me last week and in Warthberg. I agree with you now. Let's go home."

His gaze bored into her. "Go. I'm not stopping you."

The sharpness of his tone and quickness of his response unnerved him. He recalled mouthing similar words to her three years ago when she told him she was filing for divorce. Bravado at the time. Words said only for her benefit. Proof that he could handle the situation. This time the words were more. He was going to Czech, and she could go with him or go home. He really didn't care which.

"Ever thought about somethin', Your Honor?" McKoy suddenly said.

Rachel looked at him.

"Your father kept Chapaev's letters and copied the ones he sent back. Why? And why leave 'em for you to find? If he really didn't want you involved, he would have burned the damn things and taken the secret to his grave. I didn't know that old man, but I can think like him. He was a treasure hunter once. He'd want the amber found, if there was any way possible. And you're the only one he trusted with the information. Granted, he went through his asshole to get to his appetite in sendin' the message, but the message is still loud and clear. 'Go find it, Rachel.' "

He was right, Paul thought. That's exactly what Borya had done. He'd never really considered it before now.

Rachel grinned. "I think my daddy would have liked you, McKoy. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow. Right now, I've got to handhold the partners to buy us a little more time."

FORTY-NINE

Nebra, Germany
2:10 p.m.

Knoll sat in the silence of a tiny hotel room and thought about die Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitaten, the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were nine of the wealthiest men in Europe. Most were industrialists, but there were two financiers, a land baron, and one doctor among its current membership. Men with little to do except search the world for stolen treasure. Most of them were well-known private collectors, and their interests varied: old Masters. Contemporary. Impressionist. African. Victorian. Surrealist. Neolithic. Diversity was what made the club interesting. It also defined specific territories where a member's Acquisitor concentrated his or her collecting. Most times, those territorial lines were not crossed. Occasionally, members vied with one another to see who could locate the same object faster. A race for acquisition, the challenge lying in finding what was thought lost forever. In short, the club was an outlet. A way for rich men to dispense a competitive spirit that rarely knew any bounds.

But that was okay. He knew no bounds either and liked it that way.

He thought back to last month's gathering.

Club meetings rotated between members' estates, the locales varying from Copenhagen south to Naples. It was customary that an unveiling occur at each gathering, preferably a find by the host's Acquisitor. Sometimes that wasn't possible and other members would volunteer an unveiling, but Knoll knew how each member longed to show off something new when it was their turn to entertain. Fellner particularly liked the attention. As did Loring. Just another facet of their intense competition.

Last month had been Fellner's turn. All nine members had traveled to Burg Herz, but only six Acquisitors had been free to attend. That was not unusual, since quests took precedence over the courtesy of appearing at another Acquisitor's unveiling. But jealousy could also account for an absence. Exactly, he assumed, why Suzanne Danzer had skipped the affair. Next month was Loring's turn in the rotation and Knoll had planned to return the courtesy, boycotting Castle Loukov. That was a shame, since he and Loring got along well. Loring had several times rewarded him with gifts for acquisitions that ultimately ended up in the Czech's private collection. Club members routinely stroked another's Acquisitor, thereby multiplying by nine the pairs of eyes scouring the world in search of treasure they found particularly enticing. Members routinely traded or sold among themselves. Auctions were common. Items of collective interest were bidded out at the monthly gathering, a way for a member to raise funds from acquisitions of no particular personal interest while keeping the treasures within the group.

It was all so orderly, so civilized.

So why was Suzanne Danzer so eager to change the rules?

Why was she trying to kill him?

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He'd been waiting nearly two hours after driving west from Stod to Nebra, a tiny hamlet halfway to Burg Herz. He stood and opened the door. Monika immediately stepped inside. The scent of sweet lemons accompanied her entrance. He closed and locked the door behind her.

She surveyed him up and down. "Rough night, Christian?"

"I'm not in the mood."

She plopped on the bed, cocking one leg in the air, the crotch of her jeans exposed.

"For that, either," he said. His groin still ached from Danzer's kicks, though he was not about to tell her that.

"Why was it necessary that I drive here to meet you?" she asked. "And why can't Father be involved?"

He told Monika what happened in the abbey, about Grumer, and the chase through Stod. He left out the final street confrontation and said, "Danzer got away before I could reach her, but she mentioned the Amber Room. She said the chamber in that mountain was where Hitler hid the panels in 1945."

"You believe her?"

He'd considered that point all day. "I do."

"Why didn't you go after her?"

"No need. She's headed back to Castle Loukov."

"How do you know that?"

"Years of sparring."

"Loring called again yesterday morning. Father did as you asked and told him we hadn't heard from you."

"Which explains why Danzer so openly traipsed around Stod."

She was studying him closely. "What are you thinking of doing?"

"I want permission to invade Castle Loukov. I want to go into Loring's preserve."

"You know what Father would say."

Yes, he did. Club rules expressly forbade one member from invading the privacy of another. After an unveiling, the whereabouts of any acquisition was nobody's business. The glue that bound their collective secrecy was the mere knowledge of acquisition that all nine possessed on each other. Club rules also forbade revelations of sources unless the acquiring member desired to say. That secrecy protected not only the member but the Acquisitor, as well, assuring that cultivated information could be harvested again without interference. Privacy was the key to their entire union, a way for similar men of similar interests to exact similar pleasure. The sanctity of their individual estates was an inviolate rule, any breach of which required instant expulsion.

"What's the matter?" he said. "No nerve? Are you not now in charge?"

"I have to know why, Christian."

"This is way beyond a simple acquisition. Loring has already violated club rules by having Danzer try to kill me. More than once, I might add. I want to know why, and I believe the answer is in Volary."

He hoped he'd gauged her correctly. Monika was proud and arrogant. She'd clearly resented her father's usurpation yesterday. That anger should cloud her better judgment, and she didn't disappoint him.

"Fucking right. I want to know what that bitch and old fart are doing, too. Father thinks we're imagining all this, that there was some sort of misunderstanding. He wanted to talk to Loring, tell him the truth, but I talked him out of it. I agree. Do it."

He saw the hungry look in her eye. To her, competition was an aphrodisiac.

"I'm heading there today. I suggest no more contact until I'm in and out. I'm even willing to accept the blame, if caught. I was acting on my own, and you know nothing."

Monika grinned. "How noble, my knight. Now come over here and show me how much you missed me."

Paul watched Fritz Pannik stroll into the garni's dining room and walk straight to the table he and Rachel occupied. The inspector sat down and told them what he knew so far.

"We have checked the hotels and learned that a man matching Knoll's description was registered across the street in the Christinenhof. A woman matching the description of this Suzanne was registered a few doors down at the Gebler."

"You know anything more about Knoll?" Paul asked.

Pannik shook his head. "Unfortunately, he is an enigma. Interpol has nothing in their files, and without fingerprint identification there is no realistic way to learn more. We know nothing of his background, or even where he resides. The mention of an apartment in Vienna to Frau Cutler was certainly false. To be safe, I checked the information. But nothing suggests Knoll lives in Austria."

"He must have a passport," Rachel said.

"Several probably, and all under assumed names. A man such as this would not register his true identity with any government."

"And the woman?" Rachel asked.

"We know even less about her. The crime scene for Chapaev was clean. He died of nine-millimeter wounds from close range. That suggests a certain callousness."

He told Pannik about the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities and Grumer's theory about Knoll and the woman.

"I have never heard of such an organization, but will make inquiries. The name Loring, though, is familiar. His foundries produce the best small arms in Europe. He also is a major steel producer. One of the leading industrialists in Eastern Europe."

"We're going to see Ernst Loring," Rachel said.

Pannik cocked his head in her direction. "And the purpose of the visit?"

She told him what McKoy said about Rafal Dolinski and the Amber Room. "McKoy thinks he knows something about the panels, maybe about my father, Chapaev, and--"

"Herr Cutler's parents?" Pannik asked.

"Maybe," Paul said.

"Forgive me, but don't you believe that this matter should be handled by the proper authorities? The risks appear to be escalating."

"Life's full of risks," Paul said.

"Some are worth taking. Some are foolish."

"We think it's worth taking," Rachel said.

"The Czech police are not the most cooperative," Pannik said. "I would assume that Loring has enough contacts in the justice ministry to make any official inquiry difficult at the least. Though the Czech Republic is no longer Communist, remnants of secrecy remain. Our department finds official information requests are many times delayed beyond what we consider reasonable."

"You want us to be your eyes and ears?" Rachel said.

"The thought did occur to me. You are private citizens on a purely personal mission. If you happen to learn enough for me to institute official action, then so much the better."

He had to say, "I thought we were taking too many risks."

Pannik's eyes were cold. "You are, Herr Cutler."

Suzanne stood on the balcony that jutted from her bedchamber. A late afternoon sun burned blood orange and gently warmed her skin. She felt safe and alive at Castle Loukov. The estate spread for miles, once the domain of Bohemian princes, the surrounding woods game preserves, all the deer and boar exclusively for the ruling class. Villages also once dotted the forests, places where quarrymen, masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths lived while working on the castle. It took two hundred years to finish the walls and less than an hour for the Allies to bomb them to rubble. But the Loring family rebuilt, this latest incarnation every bit as magnificent as the original.

She stared out over the rustling treetops, her lofty perch facing southeast, a light breeze refreshing her. The villages were all gone, replaced by isolated houses and cottages, residences where generations of Loring's staff had lived. Housing had always been provided for stewards, gardeners, maids, cooks, and chauffeurs. About fifty all total, the families perpetually residing on the estate, their children simply inheriting the jobs. The Lorings were generous and loyal to their help--the life beyond Castle Loukov was generally brutal--so it was easy to see why employees served for life.

Her father had been one of those people, a dedicated art historian with an untamable streak. He became Ernst Loring's second Acquisitor a year before she was born. Her mother died suddenly when she was three. Both Loring and her father spoke of her mother often, and always in glowing terms. She'd apparently been a lovely lady. While her father traveled the world acquiring, her mother tutored Loring's two sons. They were much older, she'd never really been close with either, and by the time she was a teenager they were gone to university. Neither returned to Castle Loukov much. Neither knew anything of the club, or of what their father did. That was a secret only she and her benefactor shared.

Her love of art had always endeared her to Loring. His offer to succeed her father came the day after he was buried. She'd been surprised. Shocked. Unsure. But Loring harbored no doubts on either her intelligence or resolve, and his unfettered confidence was what constantly inspired her to succeed. But now, standing alone in the sun, she realized that she'd chanced far too many risks over the past few days. Christian Knoll was not a man to take lightly. He was well aware of her attempts on his life. She'd twice made a fool of him. Once in the mine, the other with the kick in the groin. Never before had their quests risen to this level. She was uncomfortable with the escalation, but understood its need. Still, this matter required resolution. Loring needed to talk with Franz Fellner and reach some accommodation.

A light knock came from inside.

She reentered her bedchamber and answered the door. One of the house stewards said, "Pan Loring si preje vas videt. Ve studovne."

Loring wanted to see her in his study.

Good, she needed to talk with him, as well.

The study was two floors down at the northwest end of the castle's ground floor. Suzanne had always considered it a hunter's room, since the walls were lined with antlers and horns, the ceiling decorated with the heraldic animals of Bohemian kings. A huge seventeenth-century oil painting dominated one wall and depicted muskets, game bags, hog spears, and powder horns in astonishingly realistic terms.

Loring was already comfortable on the sofa when she walked in. "Come here, my child," he said in Czech.

She sat beside him.

"I have thought long and hard about what you reported earlier, and you are right, something needs to be done. The cavern in Stod is most certainly the place. I thought it would never be found, but it now apparently has."

"How can you be sure?"

"I cannot. But from the few things Father told me before he died, the location certainly appears genuine. The trucks, bodies, the sealed entrance."

"That trail is cold again," she made clear.

"Is it, my dear?"

Her analytical mind took over. "Grumer, Borya, and Chapaev are dead. The Cutlers are amateurs. Even though Rachel Cutler survived the mine, what does it matter? She knows nothing other than what was in her father's letters, and that isn't much. Fleeting references, easily discounted."

"You said her husband was in Stod, at the hotel, with McKoy's group."

"But, again, there is no trail leading here. Amateurs will make little progress, as in the past."

"Fellner, Monika, and Christian are not amateurs. I'm afraid we have tickled their curiosity a bit too much."

She knew of Loring's conversations with Fellner over the past few days, conversations where Fellner had apparently lied and said he knew nothing of Knoll's whereabouts. "I agree. Those three are certainly planning something. But you can handle the matter with Pan Fellner, face-to-face."

Loring pushed himself up from the couch. "This is so difficult, draha. I have so few years left--"

"I won't hear talk like that," she said quickly. "You are in good health. Many productive years to go."

"I'm seventy-seven. Be realistic."

The thought of him dying bothered her. Her mother died when she was too young to feel the loss. The pain from when her father died was still quite real, the memories vivid. Losing the other father in her life would be more than difficult.

"My two sons are good men. They run the family businesses well. And when I am gone, all that will belong to them. It is their birthright." Loring faced her. "Money is so transparent. There is a certain thrill from the making of it. But it simply remakes itself if invested and managed wisely. Little skill is needed to perpetuate billions in hard currency. This family is proof of that. The bulk of our fortune was made two hundred years ago and simply passed down."

"I think you underestimate the value of your and your father's careful steerage through two world wars."

"Politics does sometimes interfere, but there will always be refuges where currency can be safely invested. For us, it was America."

Loring came back and sat on the edge of the couch. He smelled of bitter tobacco, as did the entire room. "Art, though, draha, is much more fluid. It changes as we change, adapts as we do. A masterpiece of five hundred years ago might be frowned upon today.

"Yet, amazingly, some art forms can and do last the millennia. That, my dear, is what excites me. You understand that excitement. You appreciate it. And because of that, you have brought great joy to my life. Though my blood does not course through your veins, my spirit does. There is no doubt that you are my daughter in spirit."

She'd always felt that way. Loring's wife had died nearly twenty years ago. Nothing sudden or unexpected. A painful bout with cancer that slowly claimed her. His sons left decades ago. He had few pleasures, other than his art, gardening, and woodworking. But his tired joints and atrophied muscles severely restricted those activities. Though he was a billionaire, residing in a castle fortress and possessed of a name known throughout Europe, she was, in many ways, all this old man had left.

"I've always thought of myself as your daughter."

"When I am gone, I want you to have Castle Loukov."

She said nothing.

"I am also bequeathing you a hundred and fifty million euros so you can maintain the estate, along with my entire art collection, public and private. Of course, only you and I know the extent of the private collection. I have also left instructions that you are to inherit my club membership. It is mine to do with as I please. I want you to succeed in my place."

His words were too much. She struggled to speak. "What of your sons? They are your rightful heirs."

"And they will receive the bulk of my wealth. This estate, my art, and the money are nowhere near what I possess. I have discussed this with both of them, and neither offered any objection."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you will do me proud and let all this live on."

"There is no doubt."

He smiled and lightly squeezed her hand. "You have always done me proud. Such a good daughter." He paused. "Now, though, we must do one final thing to ensure the safety of what we have worked so hard to achieve."

She understood. She'd understood all day. There really was only one way to solve their problem.

Loring stood, walked to the desk, and calmly dialed the phone. When the connection was made with Burg Herz he said, "Franz, how are you this evening?"

A pause while Fellner spoke on the other end. Loring's face was knotted. She knew this was difficult for him. Fellner was not only a competitor, but also a longtime friend.

Yet it had to be done.

"I very much need to talk with you, Franz. It is vitally important. . . . No, I would like to send my plane for you and talk this evening. Unfortunately, there is no way I can leave the Republic. I can have the jet there within the hour and have you back home by midnight. . . . Yes, please bring Monika--this concerns her, as well--and Christian, too. . . . Oh, still have not heard from him? A shame. I'll have the plane at your landing field by five-thirty. I'll see you soon."

Loring hung up and sighed. "Such a pity. To the end, Franz continues to maintain the charade."

FIFTY

Prague, Czech Republic
6:50 p.m.

The sleek gold-and-gray corporate jet rolled across the tarmac and settled to a stop. The engines whined down. Suzanne stood with Loring in the dim light of late evening as workers nestled metal stairs close to the open hatch. Franz Fellner exited first, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Monika followed, sporting a white turtleneck, navy blue silhouette blazer, and tight-fitting jeans. Typical, Suzanne thought. A vile mix of breeding and sexuality. And though Monika Fellner had just stepped off a multimillion-dollar private jet at one of Europe's premier metropolitan airports, her face reflected the disdain of someone clearly slumming.

Only three years separated them, with Monika the elder. Monika started attending club functions a couple of years back, making no secret of the fact that she would someday succeed her father. Everything had come so easily to her. Suzanne's life had been so radically different. Though she'd grown up at the Loring estate, she was always expected to work hard, study hard, acquire hard. She'd wondered many times if Knoll was a divisive factor between them. Monika had made it clear more than once that she considered Christian her property. Until a few hours ago, when Loring told her Castle Loukov would one day be hers, she'd never considered a life like Monika Fellner's. But that reality was now at hand, and she couldn't help but wonder what dear Monika would think if she knew they would soon be equals.

Loring stepped forward and briskly shook Fellner's hand. He then hugged and kissed Monika lightly on the cheek. Fellner acknowledged Suzanne with a smile and a polite nod, club member to Acquisitor.

The drive to Castle Loukov in Loring's touring Mercedes was pleasant and relatively quiet, the talk of politics and business. Dinner was waiting in the dining hall when they arrived. As the main course was served, Fellner asked in German, "What is so urgent, Ernst, that we need to speak this evening?"

Suzanne noticed that, so far, Loring had kept the mood friendly, using light conversation to put his guests at ease. Her employer sighed. "It is the matter of Christian and Suzanne."

Monika cut Suzanne a look, one she'd seen before and grown to hate.

"I know," Loring said, "that Christian was unharmed in the mine explosion. As I am sure you know, Suzanne caused the explosion."

Fellner set his knife and fork on the table and faced his host. "We are aware of both."

"Yet you continued to tell me the past two days you knew nothing of Christian's whereabouts."

"Frankly, I did not consider the information any of your business. At the same time I kept wondering, why all the interest?" Fellner's tone had harshened, the need for appearances seemingly gone.

"I know of Christian's visit to St. Petersburg two weeks ago. In fact, that is what started all this."

"We assumed you were paying the clerk." Monika's tone was brusque, more so than her father's.

"Again, Ernst, what is this visit about?" Fellner asked.

"The Amber Room," Loring slowly said.

"What of it?"

"Finish your dinner. Then we will talk."

"Truthfully, I am not hungry. You fly me three hundred kilometers on short notice to talk, so let us talk."

Loring folded his napkin. "Very well, Franz. You and Monika come with me."

Suzanne followed as Loring led their guests through the castle's ground-floor maze. The wide corridors wound past rooms adorned with priceless art and antiques. This was Loring's public collection, the result of six decades of personal acquiring and another ten decades before that by his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Some of the most valuable objects in the world rested in the surrounding chambers--the full extent of Loring's public collection was known only to her and her employer, all protected behind thick stone walls and the anonymity a rural estate in a former Communist-bloc country provided.

And soon it would all be hers.

"I am about to breach one of our sacred rules," Loring said. "As a demonstration of my good faith, I intend to show you my private collection."

"Is that necessary?" Fellner asked.

"I believe it is."

They passed Loring's study and continued down a long hall to a solitary room at the end. It was a tight rectangle, topped by a groined vault ceiling with murals that depicted the zodiac and portraits of the Apostles. A massive delft tile stove consumed one corner. Walnut display cases lined the walls, their seventeenth-century wood inlaid with African ivory. The glass shelves brimmed with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century porcelain. Fellner and Monika took a moment and admired some of the pieces.

"The Romanesque Room," Loring said. "I don't know if you two have been here before."

"I haven't," Fellner said.

"Neither have I," Monika said.

"I keep most of my precious glass here." Loring gestured to the tiled stove. "Merely for looks, the air comes from there." He pointed to a floor grate. "Special air handlers, as I am sure you utilize."

Fellner nodded.

"Suzanne," Loring said.

She stepped before one of the wooden cases, fourth in a line of six, and slowly said in a low voice, "A common experience resulting in a common confusion." The cabinet and a section of the stone wall rotated on a center axis, stopping halfway, creating an entrance to either side.

"Voice activated to my tone and Suzanne's. Some members of the staff know of this room. It, of course, has to be cleaned from time to time. But, as I am sure with your people, Franz, mine are absolutely loyal and have never spoken of this outside the estate. To be safe, though, we change the password weekly."

"This week's is interesting," Fellner said. "Kafka, I believe. The opening line to A Common Confusion. How fitting."

Loring grinned. "We must be loyal to our Bohemian writers."

Suzanne stepped aside and allowed Fellner and Monika to enter first. Monika brushed past, casting her a look of cool disgust. She then followed Loring inside. The spacious chamber beyond was dotted with more display cases, paintings and tapestries.

"I am sure you have a similar place," Loring said to Fellner. "This is from over two hundred years of collecting. The past forty with the club."

Fellner and Monika weaved through the individual cases.

"Marvelous things," Fellner said. "Very impressive. I recall many from unveilings. But, Ernst, you have been holding back." Fellner stood in front of a blackened skull encased in glass. "Peking Man?"

"Our family has possessed it since the war."

"As I recall, it was lost in China during transport to the United States."

Loring nodded. "Father acquired it from the thief who stole it from the marines in charge."

"Amazing. This dates our ancestry back a half million years. The Chinese and Americans would kill to have it returned. Yet here it rests, in the middle of Bohemia. We live in odd times, don't we?"

"Quite right, old friend. Quite right." Loring motioned to the double doors at the far end of the long chamber. "There, Franz."

Fellner walked toward a set of tall enameled doors. They were painted white and veined in gilded molding. Monika followed her father.

"Go ahead. Open them," Loring said.

Suzanne noticed that, for once, Monika kept her mouth shut. Fellner reached for the brass handles, twisted them, and pushed the doors inward.

"Mother of God," Fellner said, stepping inside the brightly lit chamber.

The room was a perfect square, its ceiling high and arched and covered in a colorful mural. Mosaic pieces of whiskey-colored amber divided three of the four walls into clearly defined panels. Mirrored pilasters separated each panel. Amber molding created a wainscoting effect between tall, slender upper panels and short, rectangular lower ones. Tulips, roses, sculpted heads, figurines, seashells, flowers, monograms, rocaille, scrollwork, and floral garlands--all forged in amber--sprang from the walls. The Romanov crest, an amber bas-relief of the two-headed eagle of the Russian Tsars, emblazoned many of the lower panels. More gilded molding spread like vines across the uppermost fringes and above three sets of white double doors. Cherub carvings and feminine busts dotted the spaces in between and above the upper panels, and likewise framed the doors and windows. The mirrored pilasters were dotted with gilded candelabra that sprouted electric candles, all burning bright. The floor was a shiny parquet, the woodwork as intricate as the amber walls, the polished surface reflecting the bulbs like distant suns.

Loring stepped inside. "It is exactly as in the Catherine Palace. Ten meters square with the ceiling seven and a half meters tall."

Monika had maintained better control than her father. "Is this why all the games with Christian?"

"You were coming a bit close. This has been a secret for over fifty years. I could not let things continue to escalate and risk exposure to the Russians or Germans. I do not have to tell you what their reaction would be."

Fellner crossed the room to the far corner, admiring the marvelous amber table fitted tight at the junction of two lower panels. He then moved to one of the Florentine mosaics, the colored stone polished and framed in gilded bronze. "I never believed the stories. One swore the Soviets had saved the mosaics before the Nazis arrived at the Catherine Palace. Another said remnants were found in the Konigsberg ruins after the bombing in 1945 crumbled it to dust."

"The first story is false. The Soviets were not able to spirit the four mosaics away. They did try to dismantle one of the upper amber panels, but it fell apart. They decided to leave the rest, including the mosaics. The second story, though, is true. An illusion staged by Hitler."

"What do you mean?"

"Hitler knew Goring wanted the amber panels. He also knew of Erich Koch's loyalty to Goring. That is why the Fuhrer personally ordered the panels moved from Konigsberg and sent a special SS detachment to make the transfer, just in case Goring became difficult. Such a strange relationship between Hitler and Goring. Complete distrust of one another, yet total dependency. Only in the end, when Bormann was finally able to undermine Goring, did Hitler turn on him."

Monika drifted to the windows, which consisted of three sets of twenty-pane casements from floor to midway up, each topped by half-moons, three sets of eight-paned, arched windows overhead. The lower casements were actually double doors shaped to look like windows. Beyond the panes came light and what appeared to be a garden scene.

Loring noticed her interest.

"This room is entirely enclosed within stone walls, the space not even noticeable from the outside. I commissioned a mural to be painted and the lighting perfected to provide an illusion of outside. The original room opened to the Catherine Palace's grand courtyard, so I chose a nineteenth-century setting at a time after the courtyard had been enlarged and enclosed with fencing." Loring stepped close to Monika. "The ironworks of the gates there in the distance are exact. The grass, shrubs, and flowers are from contemporary pencil drawings used as models. Quite remarkable, actually. It appears as if we are standing on the second floor of the palace. Can you imagine the military parades that regularly occurred, or watching the nobles taking their evening promenade while a band played in the distance?"

"Ingenious." Monika turned back toward the Amber Room. "How were you able to reproduce the panels so exactly? I visited St. Petersburg last summer and toured the Catherine Palace. The restored Amber Room was nearly complete. They have the moldings, gild, windows, and doors replaced and many of the panels. Quite good work, but not like this."

Loring stepped to the center of the room. "It is quite simple, my dear. The vast majority of what you see is original, not a reproduction. Do you know the history?"

"Some," Monika said.

"Then you surely know that the panels were in a deplorable condition when the Nazis stole them in 1941. The original Prussian craftsmen fastened the amber to solid oak slabs with a crude mastic of beeswax and tree sap. Keeping amber intact in such a situation is akin to preserving a glass of water for two hundred years. No matter how careful one is, eventually the water will either spill or evaporate." He motioned around. "The same is true here. Over two centuries the oak expanded and contracted, and in some places rotted. Dry stove heating, bad ventilation, and the humid climate in and around Tsarskoe Selo only made things worse. The oak pulsed with the seasons, the mastic eventually cracked and pieces of amber dropped off. Nearly thirty percent was gone by the time the Nazis arrived. Another ten percent was lost during the theft. When Father found the panels, they were in a sorry state."

"I always believed Josef knew more than he acknowledged," Fell-ner said.

"You cannot imagine how disappointed Father was when he finally found them. He'd searched for seven years, imagined their beauty, recalled their majesty when he'd seen them in St. Petersburg before the Russian Revolution."

"They were in that cavern outside Stod, right?" Monika asked.

"Correct, my dear. Those three German transports contained the crates. Father found them during the summer of 1952."

"But how?" Fellner asked. "The Russians were looking in earnest, as were private collectors. Back then, everyone wanted the Amber Room and no one believed it had been destroyed. Josef was under the yoke of the Communists. How did he manage such a feat? And, even more important, how did he manage to keep it?"

"Father was close with Erich Koch. The Prussian gauleiter confided in him that Hitler wanted the panels transported south out of the occupied Soviet Union before the Red Army arrived. Koch was loyal to Goring, but he was no fool. When Hitler ordered the evacuation, he complied, and initially told Goring nothing. But the panels made it only as far as the Harz region, where they were hidden in the mountains. Koch eventually told Goring, but even Koch did not know where precisely they were hidden. Goring located four soldiers from the evacuation detail. Rumor was he tortured them, but they told him nothing of the panels' whereabouts." Loring shook his head. "Goring was fairly insane by the end of the war. Koch was scared to death of him, which was one reason he scattered pieces from the Amber Room--door hinges, brass knobs, stones from the mosaics--at Konigsberg. To telegraph a false message of destruction not only to the Soviets, but to Goring, as well. But those mosaics were reproductions the Germans had been working on since 1941."

"I never accepted the story that the amber burned in the Konigsberg bombings," Fellner said. "The whole town would have smelled like an incense pot."

Loring chuckled. "That is true. I never understood why no one noted that. There was never a mention of an odor in any report of the bombing. Imagine twenty tons of amber slowly smoldering away. The scent would have drifted for miles, and lingered for days."

Monika lightly stroked one of the polished walls. "None of the cold pomposity of stone. Almost warm to the touch. And much darker than I imagined. Certainly darker than the restored panels in the Catherine Palace."

"Amber darkens with time," her father said. "Though sliced into pieces, polished, and glued together, amber will continue to age. The Amber Room of the eighteenth century would have been a much brighter place than this room is today."

Loring nodded. "And though the pieces in these panels are millions of years old, they are as fragile as crystal and equally finicky. That is what makes this treasure even more amazing."

"It sparkles," Fellner said. "It is like standing in the sun. Radiance, but no heat."

"Like the original, the amber here is backed with silver foil. Light simply comes back."

"What do you mean like the original panels?" Fellner asked.

"As I mentioned, Father was disappointed when he breached the chamber and found the amber. The oak had rotted, nearly all the pieces had fallen off. He carefully recovered everything and obtained copies of photographs the Soviets had made of the room before the war. Like the current restorers at Tsarskoe Selo, Father used those pictures to rebuild the panels. The only difference--he possessed the original amber."

"Where did he find the craftsmen?" Monika asked. "My recollection is that the knowledge of how to fashion the amber was lost in the war. Most of the old masters were killed."

Loring nodded. "Some survived, thanks to Koch. Goring intended to create a room identical to the original and instructed Koch to jail the craftsmen for safekeeping. Father was able to locate many before the war ended. After, he offered them a good life for themselves and whatever remained of their family. Most accepted his offer and lived here in seclusion, rebuilding this masterpiece slowly, piece by piece. Several of their descendants still live here and maintain this room."

"Is that not risky?" Fellner asked.

"Not at all. These men and their families are loyal. Life in the old Czechoslovakia was difficult. Very brutal. To a man, they were grateful for the generosity the Lorings showed them. All we ever asked was their best work and secrecy. It took nearly ten years to complete what you see here. Thankfully, the Soviets insisted on training their artists as realists, so the restorers were competent."

Fellner waved his hands at the walls. "Still, this must have cost a fortune to complete."

Loring nodded. "Father purchased the amber needed for replacement pieces on the open market, which was expensive, even in the 1950s. He also employed some modern techniques while rebuilding. The new panels are not oak. Instead, pieces of pine, ash, and oak were fused together. Separate pieces allow for expansion, and a moisture barrier was added between the amber and the wood. The Amber Room is not only fully restored, it will also last."

Suzanne stood quiet near the doors and carefully watched Fellner. The old German was openly stunned. She marveled at what it took to astonish a man like Franz Fellner, a billionaire with an art collection to rival any museum in the world. But she understood his shock, recalling how she felt the first time Loring showed her.

Fellner pointed. "Where do the two other sets of doors lead?"

"This room is actually in the center of my private gallery. We walled the sides and placed the doors and windows exactly as in the original. Instead of rooms in the Catherine Palace, these doors flow to other private collection areas."

"How long has the room been here?" Fellner asked.

"Fifty years."

"Amazing you have been able to conceal it," Monika said. "The Soviets are difficult to deceive."

"Father fostered good relations with both the Soviets and the Germans during the war. Czechoslovakia provided a convenient route for the Nazis to funnel currency and gold to Switzerland. Our family aided many such transfers. The Soviets, after the war, enjoyed the same courtesy. The price of that favor was the freedom to do as we pleased."

Fellner grinned. "I can imagine. The Soviets could ill afford you to inform the Americans or the British about what was transpiring."

"There is an old Russian saying, 'But for the bad, it would not be good.' It refers to the ironic tendency of how Russian art seems to spring from turmoil. But it likewise explains how this was made possible."

Suzanne watched Fellner and Monika approach the chest-high cases lining two of the amber walls. Inside were an assortment of objects. A seventeenth-century chessboard with pieces, an eighteenth-century samovar and flask, a woman's toilet case, a sand glass, spoons, medallions, and ornate boxes. All of amber, crafted, as Loring explained, by either Konigsberg or Gda nsk artisans.

"The pieces are lovely," Monika said.

"Like the kunstkammer of Peter the Great's time, I keep my amber objects in my room of curiosity. Most were collected by Suzanne or her father. Not for public display. War loot."

The old man turned toward Suzanne and smiled. He then looked back toward their guests.

"Shall we retire to my study, where we can sit and talk a bit more?"

FIFTY-ONE

Suzanne took a seat beyond Monika, Fellner, and Loring. She preferred to watch from the side, allowing her boss this moment of triumph. A steward had just withdrawn after serving coffee, brandy, and cake.

"I always wondered about Josef's loyalties," Fellner said. "He survived the war remarkably well."

"Father hated the Nazis," Loring said. "His foundries and factories were placed at their disposal, but it was an easy matter to forge weak metal, or produce bullets that rusted, or guns that did not like the cold. It was a dangerous game--Nazis were fanatical about quality, but his relationship with Koch helped. Rarely was he questioned about anything. He knew the Germans would lose the war, and he foretold the Soviet takeover of Eastern Europe, so he worked covertly with Soviet intelligence throughout."

"I never realized," Fellner said.

Loring nodded. "He was a Bohemian patriot. He simply operated in his own way. After the war, the Soviets were grateful. They needed him, too, so he was left alone. I was able to continue that relationship. This family has worked closely with every Czechoslovakian regime since 1945. Father was right about the Soviets. And so, I might add, was Hitler."

"What do you mean?" Monika asked.

Loring brought the fingers of both hands together in his lap. "Hitler always believed the Americans and British would join him in a war against Stalin. The Soviets were Germany's real enemy, and he believed Churchill and Roosevelt felt the same way. That's why he hid so much money and art. He intended to retrieve it all, once the Allies joined him in a new alliance to defeat the USSR. A madman for sure, but history has proved a lot of Hitler's vision correct. When Berlin was blockaded by the Soviets in 1948, America, England, and Germany immediately joined against the Soviets."

"Stalin scared everybody," Fellner said. "Moreso than Hitler. He murdered sixty million to Hitler's ten. When he died in 1953, we all felt safer."

After a moment Loring said, "I assume Christian reported the skeletons found in the cavern at Stod?"

Fellner nodded.

"They worked the site, foreigners hired in Egypt. There was a huge shaft then, only the outer entrance dynamited shut. Father found it, cleared the opening, and removed the crumbled panels. He then sealed the chamber with the bodies inside."

"Josef killed them?"

"Personally. While they slept."

"And you've been killing people ever since," Monika said.

Loring faced her. "Our Acquisitors assured that the secret remained safe. I do have to say, the ferocity and determination with which people have searched surprised us. Many became obsessed with finding the amber panels. Periodically, we would leak false leads, rumors to keep searchers moving in a different direction. You might recall an article in Rabochaya Tribuna from a few years back. They reported Soviet military intelligence had located the panels in a mine near an old tank base in East Germany, about two hundred fifty kilometers southeast of Berlin."

"I have that article," Fellner said.

"All false. Suzanne arranged a leak to the appropriate people. Our hope was that most people would use common sense and give up the search."

Fellner shook his head. "Too valuable. Too intriguing. The lure is almost intoxicating."

"I understand completely. Many times I venture into the room to simply sit and stare. The amber is almost therapeutic."

"And priceless," Monika said.

"True, my dear. I read something once about war loot--artifacts made of precious stones and metals--the writer postulated that they would never have survived the war intact, the sum of their individual parts being far greater than the whole. One commentator, I believe in the London Times, wrote that the fate of the Amber Room could be gauged similarly. He concluded only objects like books and paintings, whose total configuration, as opposed to the actual raw material used in their composition, would survive a war."

"Did you help with that postulation?" Fellner asked.

Loring lifted his coffee from the side table and smiled. "The writer conceived that on his own. But we did make sure the article received wide circulation."

"So what happened?" Monika asked. "Why was it necessary to kill all those people?"

"In the beginning, we had no choice. Alfred Rohde supervised the loading of the crates in Konigsberg and was aware of their ultimate destination. The fool told his wife, so Father eliminated both before they told the Soviets. By then, Stalin had empaneled a commission to investigate. The Nazi ruse at Konigsberg Palace did not deter the Soviets at all. They believed the panels still existed and they searched with a vengeance."

"But Koch survived the war and talked to the Soviets," Fellner said.

"That's true. But we funded his legal defense until the day he died. After the Poles convicted him of war crimes, the only thing that kept him from the gallows was a Soviet veto. They thought he knew where the Amber Room was hidden. The reality was that Koch knew only the trucks left Konigsberg headed west, then south. He knew nothing of what happened later. It was our suggestion that he tantalize the Soviets with the prospects of finding the panels. Not until the 1960s did they finally agree to terms. His life was spared in return for the information, but it was an easy matter then to blame everything on time. The Konigsberg of today is far different from the one that existed during the war."

"So, by funding Koch's legal defense, you assured his loyalty. He'd never betray his only revenue source, nor would he ever play the trump card, since there would be no reason to trust the Soviets to keep their word."

Loring smiled. "Exactly, old friend. The gesture also kept us in constant contact with the only living person we knew of who could provide any meaningful information on the panels' location."

"One also that would be difficult to kill without drawing undue attention."

Loring nodded. "Thankfully, Koch cooperated and never revealed anything."

"And the others?" Monika asked.

"Occasionally some ventured close, and it became necessary for accidents to be arranged. Sometimes we dispensed with caution and simply killed them, particularly when time was of the essence. Father conceived the 'curse of the Amber Room' and fed the story to a reporter. Typical of the press, and please forgive my insolence, Franz, but the phrase caught on quickly. Made good headlines, I presume."

"And Karol Borya and Danya Chapaev?" Monika asked.

"These two were the most troublesome of all, though I did not fully realize until just recently. They were close to the truth. In fact, they may well have stumbled onto the same information we found after the war. For some reason they kept the information to themselves, guarding what they considered to be secret. It appears hatred for the Soviet system may have contributed to their attitude.

"We knew about Borya from his work with the Soviet's Extraordinary Commission. He eventually immigrated to the United States and disappeared. Chapaev's name was familiar, too. But he melted into Europe. Since there was no apparent danger from either, we left them alone. Until, of course, Christian's recent intervention."

"Now they are silenced forever," Monika said.

"The same thing you would have done, my dear."

Suzanne watched Monika bristle at Loring's rebuke. But he was right. The bitch would surely kill her own father to protect her vested interests.

Loring broke the moment and said, "We learned of Borya's whereabouts about seven years ago quite by accident. His daughter was married to a man named Paul Cutler. Cutler's father was an American art enthusiast. Over the course of several years, the senior Cutler made inquires across Europe about the Amber Room. Somehow he tracked down a relative of one of the men who worked here at the estate on the duplicate. We now know that Chapaev provided Borya with the name, and Borya asked Cutler to make inquiries. Four years ago those inquiries reached a point that forced us to act. So a plane was exploded. Thanks to lax Italian police authorities, and some well-placed contributions, the crash was attributed to terrorists."

"Suzanne's handiwork?" Monika asked.

Loring nodded. "She's quite gifted in that regard."

"Does the clerk in St. Petersburg work for you?" Fellner asked.

"Of course. The Soviets, for all their inefficiency, had a nasty tendency to write everything down. There are literally millions of pages of records, no telling what is in them, and no way to efficiently scan them all. The only way to ensure against curious minds stumbling across something interesting was to pay the clerks for attentiveness."

Loring finished his coffee, then set the porcelain cup and saucer aside. He looked straight at Fellner. "Franz, I am telling you all this as a show of good faith. Regretfully, I let the present situation get out of hand. Suzanne's attempt on Christian's life and their joust yesterday in Stod is evidence of how this could continue to escalate. That might eventually bring unwanted attention to both of us, not to mention the club. I thought that if you knew the truth we could stop the battling. There is nothing to find regarding the Amber Room. I am sorry about what happened to Christian. I know Suzanne did not want to do it--she acted on my orders--what I thought necessary at the time."

"I, too, regret what has happened, Ernst. I will not lie and say that I am glad you have the panels. I wanted them. But a part of me is joyous they are safe and intact. I always feared the Soviets would locate them. They are no better than Gypsies when it comes to preserving treasure."

"Father and I both felt the same. The Soviets allowed such a deterioration of the amber that it is almost a blessing the Germans stole it. Who knows what would have happened if the Amber Room's future had been left to Stalin or Khrushchev? The Communists were far more concerned with building bombs than preserving heritage."

"You propose some sort of truce?" Monika asked.

Suzanne almost smiled at the bitch's impatience. Poor darling. No unveiling of the Amber Room lay in her future.

"That is exactly what I desire." Loring turned. "Suzanne, if you please."

She stood and walked to the study's far corner. Two pine cases rested on the parquet floor. She carried them by rope handles to where Franz Fellner sat.

"The two bronzes you have admired so greatly all these years," Loring said.

Suzanne lifted the lid to one of the crates. Fellner fished the vessel from a bed of shredded cedar and admired it in the light. Suzanne knew the piece well. Tenth century. Liberated by her from a man in New Delhi who stole both from a village in southern India. They remained among India's most coveted lost objects, but had safely rested in Castle Loukov the past five years.

"Suzanne and Christian battled hard for those," Loring said.

Fellner nodded. "Another fight we lost."

"They are yours now. As an apology for what has happened."

"Herr Loring, forgive me," Monica said quietly. "But I make the decisions relative to the club now. Ancient bronzes are intriguing, but they do not hold the same interest for me. I'm wondering how this matter needs to be handled. The Amber Room has long been one of the most sought-after prizes. Are the other members to be told?"

Loring frowned. "I would prefer the issue remain among us. The secret has stayed safe a long time, and the fewer who know the better. But, under the circumstances, I will defer to your decision, my dear. I trust the remaining members to keep the information confidential, as with all acquisitions."

Monika sat back in her chair and smiled, apparently pleased with the concession.

"There is one other item I want to address," Loring said, this time specifically to Monika. "As with you and your father, things will eventually change here, as well. I have left instructions in my will that Suzanne shall take over this estate, my collections, and my club membership, once I am gone. I have also left her enough cash to adequately handle any need."

Suzanne enjoyed the look of shock and defeat that invaded Monika's face.

"She will be the first Acquisitor ever elevated to club membership. Quite an accomplishment, would you not say?"

Neither Fellner nor Monika said anything. Fellner seemed enraptured with the bronze. Monika sat silent.

Fellner laid the bronze gingerly back into the crate. "Ernst, I consider this matter closed. It is unfortunate things deteriorated as they did. But I understand now. I believe I would have done the same under the circumstances. To you, Suzanne, congratulations."

She nodded at the gesture.

"On telling the members, let me consider the situation," Monika said. "I'll have an answer for you by June's meeting on how to proceed."

"That is all an old man can ask, my dear. I will await your decision." Loring looked at Fellner. "Now, would you like to stay the night?"

"I think we should return to Burg Herz. I have business in the morning. But I assure you, the trip was worth the trouble. Before we go, though, may I see the Amber Room one last time?"

"Certainly, old friend. Certainly."

The ride back to Prague's Ruzyne airport was quiet. Fellner and Monika sat in the Mercedes's backseat, Loring in the passenger seat next to Suzanne. Several times Suzanne glanced at Monika in the rearview mirror. The bitch's face stayed tight. She was obviously not pleased by the two elder men dominating the earlier conversation. Clearly Franz Fellner was not a man to let go easily and Monika was not the type to share.

About halfway Monika said, "I must ask your forgiveness, Herr Loring."

He turned to face her. "For what, my dear?"

"My abruptness."

"Not at all. I recall when my father turned over membership to me. I was much older than you and equally determined. He, like your father, found it difficult to let go. But if it is any conciliation, eventually he fully retired."

"My daughter is impatient. Much like her mother was," Fellner said.

"More like you, Franz."

Fellner chuckled. "Perhaps."

"I assume Christian will be told of all this?" Loring said to Fellner.

"Immediately."

"Where is he?"

"I really do not know." Fellner turned to Monika. "Do you, liebling?"

"No, Father. I haven't heard from him."

They arrived at the airport a little before midnight. Loring's jet waited on the oily tarmac, fueled, ready to go. Suzanne parked beside the aircraft. All four of them climbed out and Suzanne popped the trunk. The plane's pilot clambered down the jet's metal stairs. Suzanne pointed to the two pine cases. The pilot lifted each and moved to an open cargo bay door.

"I had the bronzes packed tight," Loring said over the whine of the engines. "They should make the trip with no problem."

Suzanne handed Loring an envelope.

"Here are some registration papers I prepared and had certified by the ministry in Prague. They should be of assistance if any customs officials make an inquiry at the landing strip."

Fellner pocketed the envelope. "I rarely have inquiries."

Loring smiled. "I assumed as much." He turned to Monika and embraced her. "Lovely to see you, my dear. I look forward to our battles in the future, as I am sure Suzanne does."

Monika smiled and kissed the air above Loring's cheeks. Suzanne said nothing. She knew her role well. An Acquisitor's place was to act, not speak. One day she'd be a club member and could only hope her own Acquisitor conducted himself or herself similarly. Monika gave her a quick disconcerting glance before climbing the stairs. Fellner and Loring shook hands, then Fellner disappeared into the jet. The pilot slammed the cargo doors shut and hopped up the stairs, closing the hatch behind him.

Suzanne and Loring stood as the jet taxied toward the runway, the warm air from its engines rushing past. They then climbed into the Mercedes and left. Just outside the airport, Suzanne stopped the car on the side of the road.

The sleek jet shot down the darkened runway and arched into the clear night sky. Distance masked any sound. Three commercial jets rolled across the tarmac, two arriving, one leaving. They sat in the car, necks cocked to the right and up.

"Such a shame, draha," Loring whispered.

"At least their evening was pleasant. Herr Fellner was in awe of the Amber Room."

"I am pleased he was able to see it."

The jet vanished into the western sky, its running lights fading with altitude.

"The bronzes were returned to the glass cases?" Loring asked.

She nodded.

"Pine containers packed tight?"

"Of course."

"How does the device work?"

"A pressure switch, sensitive to altitude."

"And the compound?"

"Potent."

"When?"

She glanced at her watch and calculated velocity against the time. Based on what she believed to be the jet's ascent rate, five thousand feet would be just about--

In the distance a brilliant yellow flash filled the sky for an instant, like a star going nova, as the explosives she'd placed in the two pine crates ignited the jet fuel and obliterated any trace of Fellner, Monika, and the two pilots.

The light faded.

Loring's eyes stayed off in the distance, where the explosion occurred. "Such a shame. A six-million-dollar jet gone." He slowly turned toward her. "But the price to be paid for your future."

FIFTY-TWO


Thursday, May 22, 8:50 a.m.

Knoll parked in the woods about a half kilometer off the highway. The black Peugeot was a rental, obtained in Nurnberg yesterday. He'd spent the night a few kilometers to the west in a picturesque Czech village, making a point to get a good night's sleep, knowing today and tonight were going to be arduous. He'd eaten a light breakfast at a small cafe, then left quickly so no one would recall anything about him. Loring surely possessed eyes and ears everywhere in this part of Bohemia.

He knew the local geography. He was actually already on Loring land, the ancient family estate spanning for miles in all directions. The castle was situated toward the northwest corner, surrounded by dense forests of birch, beech, and poplar. The Sumava region of southwest Czech was an important timber source, but the Lorings had never needed to market their lumber.

He retrieved his backpack from the trunk and started the hike north. Twenty minutes later Castle Loukov appeared. The fortification was perched on a rocky mount, high above the treetops less than a kilometer away. To the west, the muddy Orlik Stream inched a path south. His vantage point offered a clear view of the compound's east entrance--the one used by motor vehicles--and the west postern gate used exclusively by staff and delivery trucks.

The castle was an impressive sight. A varied array of towers and buildings rose skyward behind rectangular walls. He knew the layout well. The lower floors were mainly ceremonial halls and exquisitely decorated public rooms, the upper stories littered with bedrooms and living quarters. Somewhere, hidden among the rambling stone structures, was a private collection chamber similar to what Fellner and the other seven members possessed. The trick would be finding it and determining how to get inside. He had a pretty good idea where the space might be, a conclusion he'd made at one of the club meetings based on the architecture, but he still was going to have to search. And fast. Before morning.

Monika's decision to allow the invasion was not surprising. She'd do anything to assert control. Fellner had been good to him, but Monika was going to be better. The old man would not live forever. And though he'd miss him, the possibilities Monika presented were nearly intoxicating. She was tough, but vulnerable. He could master her, of that he was sure. And by doing that he could master the fortune she'd inherit. A dangerous game, granted, but one worth the risks. It helped that Monika was incapable of love. But so was he. They were a perfect match, lust and power all the mastic they would need to bind them permanently.

He slipped off the backpack and found his binoculars. From the safety of a thick stand of poplar trees, he studied the castle's entire length. Blue sky backclothed its silhouette. His gaze angled off to the east. Two cars appeared on the paved road, both winding up the steep incline.

Police cars.

Interesting.

Suzanne dropped a freshly baked cinnamon bun on the china plate and added a dab of raspberry jam. She took a seat at the table, Loring already perched at the far end. The room was one of the castle's smaller dining spaces, reserved for the family. Oak cases filled with Renaissance goblets lined one of the alabaster walls. Another wall was encrusted with Bohemian semiprecious stones that outlined gilded icons of Czech patrons. She and Loring were eating alone, as they did every morning when she was there.

"The Prague newspaper is headlined with the explosion," Loring said. He folded the newspaper and set it on the table. "The reporter proposes no theories. Merely states the plane exploded shortly after takeoff, all aboard killed. They do name Fellner, Monika, and the pilots."

She sipped her coffee. "I am sorry about Pan Fellner. He was a respectable man. But good riddance to Monika. She would have been a blight to us all, eventually. Her reckless ways would have developed into a problem."

"I believe you are right, draha."

She savored a bite of warm bun. "Perhaps the killing may now end?"

"I certainly hope so."

"It is a part of my job I do not relish."

"I would not expect you to."

"Did my father enjoy it?"

Loring stared at her. "Where did that come from?"

"I was thinking about him last night. He was so gentle with me. I never knew he possessed such capabilities."

"Dear, your father did what was necessary. As you do. You are so much like him. He would be proud."

But she wasn't particularly proud of herself at the moment. Murdering Chapaev and all the others. Would their images linger in her mind forever? She feared they might. And what about her own motherhood? She'd once thought that a part of her future. But after yesterday that ambition might need adjustment. The possibilities now were both endless and exciting. The fact that people died to make it all possible was regrettable, but she could not dwell on it. Not anymore. It was time to move forward and her conscience be damned.

A steward appeared and crossed the terrazzo floor, stopping at the table. Loring glanced up.

"Sir, the police are here and wish to speak with you."

She glanced at her employer and smiled. "I owe you a hundred crowns."

He'd wagered her last evening, on the drive back from Prague, that the police would appear at the castle before ten. It was 9:40.

"Show them in," Loring said.

A few moments later, four uniformed men strolled briskly into the dining hall.

"Pan Loring," the lead man said in Czech, "we are so happy to learn you are well. The tragedy with your jet was awful."

Loring rose from the table and stepped toward the police. "We are all in shock. Herr Fellner and his daughter were guests here last evening for dinner. The two pilots have been in my employ many years. Their families live on the estate. I am about to visit their widows. It is tragic."

"Forgive this intrusion. But we need to ask some questions. Particularly, why this might have happened."

Loring shrugged. "I cannot say. Only that my offices reported several threats made against me during the past few weeks. One of my manu-facturing concerns is considering an expansion into the Middle East. We have been involved in some public negotiations there. The callers apparently did not desire my corporate presence in the country. We reported the threats to the Saudis and I can only assume this may be related. Beyond that I cannot say. I never realized I had so violent an enemy."

"Do you have any information on these calls?"

Loring nodded. "My personal secretary is familiar with them. I have instructed him to be available today in Prague."

"My superiors wanted me to assure you that we will get to the bottom of what happened. In the meantime, do you think it wise to reside here without protection?"

"These walls afford me ample security, and the staff has now been alerted. I will be fine."

"Very well, Pan Loring. Please be aware that we are here if you need us."

The policemen withdrew. Loring stepped back to the table. "Your impressions?"

"No reason not to accept what was said. Your connections in the justice ministry should also help."

"I will place a call later, thanking them for the visit, and pledge full cooperation."

"The club members should be called personally. Your sorrow clear."

"Quite right, I'll tend to that now."

Paul drove the Land Rover. Rachel sat in the front seat, McKoy in the back. The big man had stayed silent most of the way east from Stod. The autobahn had taken them as far as Nurnberg, then a series of two-laned highways wound across the German border into southwestern Czech.

The terrain had become progressively hilly and forested, alternating grain fields and lakes dotting the rolling countryside. Earlier, when he reviewed the road map to determine the fastest route east, he'd noticed Ceske Budejovice, the region's largest town, and recalled a CNN report on its Budvar beer, better known by its German name, Budweiser. The American company by the same name had tried in vain to purchase the namesake, but the townspeople had steadfastly refused the millions offered, proudly noting that they were producing beer centuries before America even existed.

The route into Czech led them through a series of quaint medieval towns, most adorned with either an overlooking castle or battlements with thick stone walls. Directions from a friendly shopkeeper adjusted the route, and it was a little before two o'clock when Rachel spotted Castle Loukov.

The aristocratic fortress was perched on a craggy height above a dense forest. Two polygonal towers and three rounded ones rose high above an outer stone curtain encrusted with shiny mullion windows and dark arrow slits. Casements and semicircular bastions wrapped the gray-white silhouette, and chimneys rose all around. A red, white, and blue flag flapped in the light afternoon breeze. Two wide bars and a triangle. Paul recognized it as the Czech national emblem.

"You almost expect armored knights to come storming out on horseback," Rachel said.

"Son of a bitch knows how to live," McKoy said. "I like this Loring already."

Paul navigated the Rover up a steep road to what appeared to be the main gate. Huge oak doors reinforced with iron straps were swung open, revealing a paved courtyard. Colorful rosebushes and spring flowers lined the buildings. Paul parked and they climbed out. A gray metallic Porsche sat beside a cream-colored Mercedes.

"Sucker drives good, too," McKoy said.

"Wonder where the front door is?" Paul asked.

Six separate doors opened to the courtyard from the various buildings. Paul took a moment and studied the dormers, crested gables, and richly patterned half-timbering. An interesting architectural combination of Gothic and baroque, proof, he assumed, of a prolonged construction and multiple human influences.

McKoy pointed and said, "My guess is that door there."

The arched oak door was surrounded by pillared ashlars, an elaborate coat of arms etched into the gable surmount. McKoy approached and banged a burnished metal knocker. A steward answered and McKoy politely explained who they were and why they were there. Five minutes later they were seated in a lavish hall. Stag heads, boars, and antlers sprouted from the walls. A fire raged in a huge granite hearth, the long space softly illuminated by stained-glass lamps. Massive wooden pillars supported an ornate stuccoed ceiling, and part of the walls were adorned with heavy oil paintings. Paul surveyed the canvases. Two Rubens, a Durer, and a Van Dyck. Incredible. What the High Museum would give to display just one of them.

The man who quietly entered through the double doors was nearing eighty. He was tall, his hair a lusterless gray, the faded goatee covering his neck and chin withdrawn with age. He possessed a handsome face that, for someone of such obvious wealth and stature, made little impression. Maybe, Paul thought, the mask was intentionally kept free of emotion.

"Good afternoon. I am Ernst Loring. Ordinarily I do not accept uninvited visitors, particularly those who just drive through the gate, but my steward explained your situation, and I have to say, I am intrigued." The older man spoke clear English.

McKoy introduced himself and offered his hand, which Loring shook. "Glad to finally meet you. I've read about you for years."

Loring smiled. The gesture seemed gracious and expected. "You must not believe any of what you read or hear. I am afraid the press likes to make me far more interesting than I truly am."

Paul stepped forward and introduced himself and Rachel.

"A pleasure to meet you both," Loring said. "Why don't we sit? Some refreshments are on the way."

They all took a seat in the neo-Gothic armchairs and sofa that faced the hearth. Loring turned toward McKoy.

"The steward mentioned a dig in Germany. I read a piece on that the other day, I believe. Surely that requires your constant attention. Why are you here and not there?"

"Not a damn thing there to find."

Loring's face showed curiosity, nothing more. McKoy told their host about the dig, the three transports, five bodies, and letters in the sand. He showed Loring the photographs Alfred Grumer had taken along with one more snapped yesterday morning after Paul traced the remaining letters to form LORING.

"Any explanation why the dead guy scrawled your name in that sand?" McKoy asked.

"There is no indication that he did. As you say, this is speculation on your part."

Paul sat silent, content to let McKoy lead the charge, and gauged the Czech's reaction. Rachel seemed to be appraising the older man, too, her look similar to when she watched a jury during a trial.

"However," Loring said, "I can see why you might think that. The original few letters are somewhat consistent."

McKoy grabbed Loring's gaze with his own. "Pan Loring, let me get to the point. The Amber Room was in that chamber, and I think you or your father were there. Whether you still have the panels, who knows? But I think you once did."

"Even if I possessed such a treasure, why would I openly admit that to you?"

"You wouldn't. But you might not want me to release all this information to the press. I signed several production agreements with news agencies around the world. The dig is a definite bust, but this stuff is the kind of dynamite that could allow me to recoup at least some of what my investors are out. I figure the Russians will be really interested. From what I hear they can be, shall we say, persistent in recoverin' their lost booty?"

"And you thought I might be willing to pay for silence?"

Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. A shakedown? He had no idea McKoy had come to Czech to blackmail Loring. Neither, apparently, did Rachel.

"Hold on, McKoy," Rachel said, her voice rising. "You never said a word about extortion."

Paul echoed her sentiment. "We want no part of this."

McKoy was undeterred. "You two need to get with the program. I thought about it on the way over. This guy isn't goin' to take us on a tour of the Amber Room, even if he does have it. But Grumer's dead. Five other men are dead back in Stod. Your father, your parents, Chapaev, they're all dead. Bodies littered everywhere." McKoy glared at Loring. "And I think this son of a bitch knows a shitload more than he wants us to believe."

A vein pulsed in the old man's temple. "Extraordinary rudeness from a guest, Pan McKoy. You come to my home and accuse me of murder and thievery?" The voice was firm but calm.

"I haven't accused you. But you know more than you're willin' to say. Your name has been mentioned with the Amber Room for years."

"Rumors."

"Rafal Dolinski," McKoy said.

Loring said nothing.

"He was a Polish reporter who contacted you three years back. He sent a narrative of an article he was working on. Nice fellow. Real likable. Very determined. Got blown up in a mine a few weeks later. You recall?"

"I know nothing of that."

"A mine near the one that Judge Cutler here got a real close look at. Maybe even the same one."

"I read about that explosion a few days ago. I did not realize the connection to this moment."

"I bet," McKoy said. "I think the press will love this speculation. Think about it, Loring. It's got all the aroma of a great story. International financier, lost treasure, Nazis, murder. Not to mention the Germans. If you found the amber in their territory, they're goin' to want it back, too. Would make an excellent bargainin' chip with the Russians."

Paul felt he had to say, "Mr. Loring, I want you to know Rachel and I knew nothing of this when we agreed to come here. Our concern is finding out about the Amber Room, to satisfy some curiosity Rachel's father generated, nothing more. I'm a lawyer. Rachel is a judge. We would never be a party to blackmail."

"No need for explanation." Loring said. He turned to McKoy. "Perhaps you are correct. Speculation may be a problem. We live in a world where perception is far more important than reality. I will take this urging more as a form of insurance than blackmail." A smile curled on the old man's thin lips.

"Take it any way you want. All I want is to get paid. I've got a serious cash-flow problem, and a whole lot of things to say to a whole lot of people. The price of silence is risin' by the minute."

Rachel's face tightened. Paul figured she was about to explode. She hadn't liked McKoy from the start. She'd been suspicious of his overbearing ways, concerned about their getting intertwined with his activities. He could hear her now. His doing they were in as deep as they were. His problem to get them out.

"Might I make a suggestion?" Loring offered.

"Please," Paul said, hoping for some sanity.

"I would like time to think about this situation. Surely, you do not plan to travel all the way back to Stod. Stay the night. We'll have dinner and talk more later."

"That would be marvelous," McKoy quickly said. "We were plannin' to find a room somewhere anyway."

"Excellent, I will have the stewards bring your things inside."

FIFTY-THREE

Suzanne opened the bedchamber door. A steward said in Czech, "Pan Loring wants to see you in the Ancestors' Room. He said to take the back passages. Stay out of the main halls."

"He say why?"

"We have guests for the night. It may be related to them."

"Thank you. I'll head downstairs immediately."

She closed the door. Strange. Take the back passages. The castle was reamed with a series of secret corridors once used by aristocracy as a means of escape, now utilized by staff who maintained the castle's infrastructure. Her room was toward the rear of the complex, beyond the main halls and family quarters, halfway to the kitchen and work areas, past the point where the covert passages started.

She left the bedchamber and descended two floors. The nearest entry into the hidden corridors was a small sitting room on the ground floor. She stepped close to a paneled wall. Intricate moldings framed richly stained slabs of grain-free walnut. Above the Gothic fireplace she found a release switch camouflaged as part of the scrollwork. A section of wall beside the fireplace sprang open. She stepped into the passage and pulled the panel shut.

The mazelike route wound in right angles down a narrow, single-person corridor. Outlines of doors in the stone appeared periodically, leading out into either hallways or rooms. She'd played here as a child, imagining herself a Bohemian princess darting for freedom from infidel invaders breaching the castle walls, and so she was familiar with their path.

The Ancestors' Room possessed no entrance into the maze, the Blue Room being the closest point of egress. Loring named the space for its gold-embossed blue leather wall hangings. She exited and listened at the door for any sounds emanating from the corridor outside. Hearing none, she quickly slipped down the hall and stepped into the Ancestors' Room, closing the door behind her.

Loring was standing in an oriel-like semicircular bay before leaded glass windows. On the wall, above two lions carved in stone, was the family coat of arms. Portraits of Josef Loring and the rest of the ancestors adorned the walls.

"It seems providence has delivered us a gift," he said. Loring told her about Wayland McKoy and the Cutlers.

She raised and eyebrow. "This McKoy has nerve."

"More than you realize. He does not intend any extortion. I would imagine he was testing to see my reaction. He is more astute than he wants his listener to perceive. He did not come for money. He came to find the Amber Room, probably wanting me to invite them to stay."

"Then why did you?"

Loring clasped his hands behind his back and stepped close to the oil painting of his father. The quiet, involuted stare of the elder Loring glared down. In the image, shocks of white hair drooped across the furrowed brow, the stare one of an enigmatic man who dominated his era, and somehow expected the same of his children. "My sisters and brother did not survive the war," Loring quietly said. "I always thought that a sign. I was not the firstborn. None of this was meant to be mine."

She knew that, so she wondered if Loring was talking to the painting, perhaps finishing a conversation he and his father had started decades ago. Her father had told her about old Josef. How demanding, uncompromising, and difficult he could be. He'd expected a lot from his last surviving child.

"My brother was to inherit. Instead I was given the responsibility. The past thirty years have been difficult. Very difficult, indeed."

"But you survived. Prospered, in fact."

He turned to face her. "Another sign from providence, perhaps?" He stepped close to her. "Father left me with a dilemma. On the one hand, he bestowed a treasure of unimaginable beauty. The Amber Room. On the other, I am forced to constantly fend off challenges to ownership. Things were so different in his day. Living behind the Iron Curtain came with the advantage of being able to kill whomever you wanted." Loring paused. "Father's sole wish was that all this be kept in the family. He was particularly emphatic about that. You are family, draha, as much as my own flesh and blood. Truly, my daughter in spirit."

The old man stared at her for a few seconds and then lightly brushed her cheek with his hand.

"Between now and this evening, stay in your room, out of sight. Later, you know what we must do."

Knoll crept through the woods, the forest thick but not impassable. He minimized his approach by choosing an open route under the enveloping canopy, following defined trails, detouring only at the end to make his final assault unnoticed.

The early evening loomed cool and dry, the night ahead surely to be outright cold. The setting sun angled to the west, its rays piercing the spring leaves and leaving only a muted glow. Sparrows squawked overhead. He thought about Italy, two weeks ago, traversing another forest, toward another castle, on another quest. That journey had ended in two deaths. He wondered what tonight's sojourn would bring.

His path led him up a steady incline, the rocky spur ending at the base of the castle walls. He'd been patient all afternoon, waiting in a grove of beech trees about a kilometer south. He'd watched the two police cars come and go early in the morning, wondering what business they'd had with Loring. Then, midafternoon, a Land Rover entered the main gate and had not left. Perhaps the vehicle brought guests. Distractions that could occupy Loring and Suzanne long enough to mask his brief visit, like he'd hoped for from the Italian whore who'd visited Pietro Caproni. As yet he did not know if Danzer was even in residence, her Porsche had neither entered nor left, but he assumed she was there.

Where else would she be?

He stopped his advance thirty meters from the west entrance. A door appeared below a massive round tower. The rough stone curtain rose twenty meters, smooth and devoid of openings except for an occasional arrow slit. Batters at the base sloped outward, a medieval innovation for strength and a way for stones and missiles dropped from above to bounce toward attackers. He mused at their usefulness to modern invaders. Much had changed in four hundred years.

He traced the walls skyward. Rectangular windows with iron grilles lined the upper stories. Surely, in medieval days, the tower's job had been to defend the postern entrance. But its height and size seemed also to provide a ready transition between the varying roof line of the adjacent wings. He was familiar with the entrance from club meetings. It was used mainly by the staff, a paved cul-de-sac outside the walls allowed vehicles to turn around.

He needed to slip inside quickly and quietly. He studied the heavy wood door reinforced with blackened iron. Almost certainly it would be locked, but not protected by an alarm. He knew Loring, like Fellner, maintained loose security. The vastness of the castle, along with its remote location, was much more effective than any overt system. Besides, nobody outside of club members and Acquisitors knew any of what was really stashed within the confines of each member's residence.

He peered through thick brush and noticed a black slit at the edge of the door. Quickly, he trotted over and saw that the door was indeed open. He pushed through into a wide, barrel-vaulted passage. Three hundred years ago the entrance would have been used to haul cannons inside or allow castle defenders to sweep outside. Now the route was lined with tread marks from rubber tires. The dark passage twisted twice. One left, the other right. He knew that to be a defense mechanism to slow down invaders. Two portcullises, one halfway up the incline, the other near the end, could be used to lead invaders astray.

Another obligation of the monthly host for a club function was to provide overnight accommodations for members and Acquisitors, if requested. Loring's estate contained more than enough beds to sleep everyone. Historic ambience was probably why most members accepted Loring's hospitality. Knoll had stayed many times at the estate and recalled Loring once explaining the castle's history, how his family defended the walls for nearly five hundred years. Battles to the death fought within this very passage. He also remembered discussions about the array of secret corridors. After the bombing, during rebuilding, back passages allowed a ready way to heat and cool the many rooms, along with providing running water and electricity to chambers once warmed only by flames. He particularly recalled one of the secret doors that opened from Loring's study. The old man had showed his guests the novelty one night. The castle was littered with a maze of such passages. Fellner's Burg Herz was similar, the innovation a common architectural addition for fifteenth and sixteenth century fortresses.

He crept up the dim path, stopping at the end of an inclined entrance. A small inner ward lay ahead. Buildings from five epochs surrounded him. One of the castle's circular keeps towered at the far end. Sounds of pots clanging and voices spilled from the ground floor. The aroma of meat grilling mixed with a potent miasma from garbage containers off to one side. Tattered vegetable and fruit crates, along with wet cardboard boxes, were stacked like building blocks. The courtyard was clean, but was definitely the working bowels of this immense showpiece--the kitchens, stables, garrison hall, buttery, and salting house from ancient days--now where the hired help toiled to ensure the rest of the place stayed immaculate.

He lingered in the shadows.

Windows abounded in the upper stories, any one of which could allow a pair of eyes to spot him and raise an alarm. He needed to get inside without arousing suspicion. The stiletto was snug against his right arm under a cotton jacket. Loring's gift, the CZ-75B, was strapped in a shoulder harness, two spare ammunition clips in his pocket. Forty-five rounds in all. But the last thing he wanted was that kind of trouble.

He crouched low and crept up the final few feet, hugging a stone wall. He slipped over the wall's edge onto a narrow walk and darted for a door ten meters away. He tried the lock. It was open. He stepped inside. Smells of fresh produce and dank air immediately greeted him.

He stood in a short hall that spilled into a darkened room. A massive, octagonal oak support held up a low beamed ceiling. A blackened hearth dominated one wall. The air was chilled, boxes and crates stacked high. It was apparently an old pantry now used for storage. Two doors led out. One directly ahead, the other to the left. Recalling the sounds and smells outside, he concluded the left exit surely led to the kitchen. He needed to head east, so he chose the door ahead and stepped into another hall.

He was just about to start forward when he heard voices and movement from around the corner ahead. He quickly backtracked into the storage room. He decided, instead of leaving, to take up a position behind one of the walls of crates. The only artificial light was a bare bulb suspended from the center rafter. He hoped the approaching voices were merely passing through. He did not want to kill or even maim any member of the staff. Bad enough he was doing what he was, he didn't need to compound Fellner's embarrassment with violence.

But he'd do what he had to.

He squeezed behind a crate stack, his back rigid against the rough stone wall. He was able to peer out, thanks to the pile's unevenness. The silence was broken only by a trapped fly that buzzed at the dingy windows.

The door opened.

"We need cucumbers and parsley. And see if the canned peaches are there, too," a male voice said in Czech.

Luckily, neither man pulled the chain for the overhead light, relying instead on the afternoon sun filtered by the nasty leaded panes.

"Here," the other male said.

Both men moved to the other side of the room. A cardboard box was dropped to the floor, a lid jerked open.

"Is Pan Loring still upset?"

Knoll peered out. One man wore the uniform required of all Loring's staff. Maroon trousers, white shirt, thin black tie. The other sported the jacketed butler's ensemble of the serving staff. Loring often bragged about designing the uniforms himself.

"He and Pani Danzer have been quiet all day. The police came this morning to ask questions and express condolences. Poor Pan Fellner and his daughter. Did you see her last night? Quite a beauty."

"I served drinks and cake in the study after dinner. She was exquisite. Rich, too. What a waste. The police have any idea what happened?"

"Ne. The plane simply exploded on the way back to Germany, all aboard killed."

The words slapped Knoll hard across the face. Did he hear right? Fellner and Monika dead?

Rage surged through him.

A plane had blown up with Monika and Fellner on board. Only one explanation made any sense. Ernst Loring had ordered the action, with Suzanne as his mechanism. Danzer and Loring had gone after him and failed. So they killed the old man and Monika. But why? What was going on? He wanted to palm the stiletto, push the crates aside, and slash the two staffers to pieces, their blood avenging the blood of his former employers. But what good would that do? He told himself to stay calm. Breathe slow. He needed answers. He needed to know why. He was glad now that he'd come. The source of all that happened, all that may happen, was somewhere within the ancient walls that encompassed him.

"Bring the boxes and let's go," one of the men said.

The two men left through the door toward the kitchen. The room again went quiet. He stepped from behind the crates. His arms were tense, his legs tingling. Was that emotion? Sorrow? He didn't think himself capable. Or was it more the lost opportunity with Monika? Or the fact that he was suddenly unemployed, his once orderly life now disrupted? He willed the feeling from his brain and left the storage room, reentering the inner corridor. He twisted left and right until he found a spiral staircase. His knowledge of the castle's geography told him that he needed to ascend at least two floors before reaching what was regarded as the main level.

At the top of the staircase he stopped. A row of leaded glass windows opened to another courtyard. Across the bailey, on the upper story of the far rectangular keep, through a set of windows apparently opened to the evening, he saw a woman. Her body darted back and forth. The room's location was not dissimilar from the location of his own room at Burg Herz. Quiet. Out of the way. But safe. Suddenly the woman settled in the open rectangle, her arms reaching out to swing the double panes inward.

He saw the girlish face and wicked eyes.

Suzanne Danzer.

Good.

FIFTY-FOUR

Knoll gained entrance to the back passages more easily than he expected, watching from a cracked-open door while a maid released a hidden panel in one of the ground-floor corridors. He figured he was in the south wing of the west building. He needed to cross to the far bastion and move northeast to where he knew the public rooms were located.

He entered the passage and stepped lightly, hoping not to encounter any of the staff. The lateness of the day seemed to lessen the chances of that happening. The only people drifting about now would be chambermaids making sure any guests' needs were taken care of for the night. The dank corridor was lined overhead with air ducts, water pipes, and an electrical conduit. Bare bulbs lit the way.

He negotiated three spiral staircases and found what he thought was the north wing. Tiny Judas holes dotted the walls, set in recessed niches and shielded by rusty lead covers. Along the way, he slid a few open and spied a view into various rooms. The peepholes were another holdover from the past, an anachronism when eyes and ears were the only way to learn information. Now they were nothing but ready navigation markers, or a delicious opportunity for a voyeur.

He stopped at another viewpoint and twisted open a lead cover. He recognized the Carolotta Room from the handsome bed and escritoire. Loring had named the space for the mistress of King Ludwig I of Bavaria, and her portrait adorned the far wall. He wondered what decoration disguised the peephole. Probably the wood carvings he recalled from having been assigned the chamber one night.

He moved on.

Suddenly, he heard voices vibrating though the stone. He searched for a look. Finding a Judas hole, he peered inside and saw the figure of Rachel Cutler standing in the middle of a brightly lit room, maroon towels wrapped around her naked frame and wet hair.

He stopped his advance.

"I told you McKoy was up to something," Rachel said.

Paul was sitting before a polished rosewood escritoire. He and Rachel were sharing a room on the castle's fourth floor. McKoy had been given another room farther down. The steward who brought their bag upstairs had explained that the space was known as the Wedding Chamber, in honor of the seventeenth-century portrait of a couple in allegorical costume that hung over the sleigh bed. The room was spacious and equipped with a private bath, and Rachel had taken the opportunity to soak in the tub for a few minutes, cleaning up for dinner that Loring informed them would be at six.

"I'm uncomfortable with this," he said. "I imagine Loring is not a man to take lightly. Especially to blackmail."

Rachel slipped the towel from her head and stepped back into the bathroom, dabbing her locks dry. A hair dryer came on.

He studied a painting on the far wall. It was a half-figure of a penitent St. Peter. A da Cortona or maybe a Reni. Seventeenth-century Italian, if he remembered correctly. Expensive, provided one could even be found outside a museum. The canvas appeared original. From what little he knew about porcelain, the figurines resting on corbels attached to the wall on either side of the painting were Riemenschneider. Fifteenth-century German and priceless. On the way up the staircase to the bedroom they'd passed more paintings, tapestries, and sculptures. What the museum staff in Atlanta would give to display just a fraction of the items.

The hair dryer clicked off. Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, fingers teasing her auburn hair. "Like a hotel room," she said. "Soap, shampoo, and hair dryer."

"Except that the room is decorated with fine art worth millions."

"This stuff's original?"

"From what I can see."

"Paul, we have to do something about McKoy. This is going too far."

"I agree. But Loring bothers me. He's not at all what I expected."

"You've been watching too many James Bond movies. He's just a rich old man who loves art."

"He took McKoy's threat too calmly for me."

"Should we call Pannik and let him know we're staying over?"

"I don't think so. Let's just play it by ear right now. But I vote to get out of here tomorrow."

"You won't get any grief from me on that."

Rachel undraped the towel and slipped on a pair of panties. He watched from the chair, trying to remain impassive.

"It's not fair," he said.

"What's not?"

"You dancing around naked."

She snapped her bra in place, then walked over and climbed in his lap. "I meant what I said last night. I want to try again."

He stared at the Ice Queen, seminaked in his arms.

"I never stopped loving you, Paul. I don't know what happened. I think my pride and anger just took hold. There came a point when I felt stifled. It's nothing you did. It was me. After I went on the bench, something happened. I can't really explain."

She was right. Their problems had escalated after she was sworn in. Perhaps the mollification from everyone saying "Yes, ma'am" and "Her Honor" all day was hard to leave behind at the office. But to him she was Rachel Bates, a woman he loved, not an item of respect or a conduit to the wisdom of Solomon. He argued with her, told her what to do, and complained when she didn't do it. Perhaps, after a while, the startling contrast between their two worlds became difficult to delineate. So difficult that she'd ultimately rid herself of one side of the conflict.

"Daddy's death and all this has brought things home to me. All of Mama's and Daddy's family were killed in the war. I have no one other than Marla and Brent . . . and you."

He stared at her.

"I mean that. You are my family, Paul. I made a big mistake three years ago. I was wrong."

He realized how hard it was for her to say those words. But he wanted to know, "How so?"

"Last night when we were darting though that abbey, hanging from the balcony, that's enough to bring anything home. You came over here when you thought I was in danger and risked a lot for me. I shouldn't be so difficult. You don't deserve that. All you ever asked was a little peace and quiet and consistency. All I ever did was make things hard."

He thought of Christian Knoll. Though Rachel had never admitted anything, she'd been attracted to him. He could feel it. But Knoll had left her to die. Perhaps that act had served as a reminder to her analytical mind that not everything was as it appeared. Her ex-husband included. What the hell. He loved her. Wanted her back. Time to put up or shut up.

He kissed her.

Knoll watched as the Cutlers embraced, aroused by the sight of a half-dressed Rachel Cutler. He'd concluded during the car trip from Munich to Kehlheim that she still cared for her ex-husband. Which was most likely why she rebuked his advances in Warthberg. She was definitely attractive. Full bosom, thin waist, inviting crotch. He'd wanted her in the mine and fully intended to have her until Danzer intruded with the explosion. So why not rectify the situation tonight? What did it matter anymore? Fellner and Monika were dead. He was unemployed. And none of the other club members would hire him after what he was about to do.

A knock on the bedchamber door caught his attention.

He stared hard through the Judas hole.

"Who is it?" Paul asked.

"McKoy."

Rachel hopped up and grabbed her clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Paul stood and opened the door. McKoy stepped in, dressed in a pair of evergreen corduroy pants and a striped crew shirt. Brown chukkas wrapped his big feet.

"Kind of casual, McKoy," he said.

"My tux is at the cleaners."

Paul slammed the door shut. "What were you doing with Loring?"

McKoy faced him. "Lighten up, counselor. I wasn't tryin' to shake the old fart down."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Yeah, McKoy, what was all that about?" Rachel asked, stepping from the bathroom, now dressed in pleated jeans and a tight-fitting turtleneck.

McKoy eyed her up and down. "You dress down well, Your Honor."

"Get to the point," she said.

"The point was to see if the old man would crack, and he did. I pushed to see what he was made of. Get real. If there was nothin' to Loring's involvement, he would have said sayonara, get the hell out of here. As it was he couldn't hardly wait for us to spend the night."

"You weren't serious?" Paul asked.

"Cutler, I know you two think I'm pond scum, but I do have morals. True, they're relatively loose most of the time. But I still have 'em. This Loring either knows somethin' or wants to know somethin'. Either way, he's interested enough to put us up for the night."

"You think he's part of that club Grumer rambled about?" Paul asked.

"I hope not," Rachel said. "That could mean Knoll and that woman are around."

McKoy was unconcerned. "That's a chance were goin' to have to take. I got a feelin' about this. I've also got a bunch of investors waitin' in Germany. So I need answers. My guess is the old bastard downstairs has got 'em."

"How long can your people hold off the partners' curiosity?" Rachel asked.

"Couple of days. No more. They're goin' to start on that other tunnel in the mornin', but I told 'em to take their time. Personally, I think it's a total waste."

"How do we need to handle dinner?" Rachel asked.

"Easy. Eat the man's food, drink his liquor, and turn on the information vacuum cleaner. We need to get more than we give. Understand?"

Rachel smiled. "Yeah, I understand."

Dinner was cordial, Loring leading his guests in pleasant conversation about art and politics. Paul was fascinated by the extent of the old man's art knowledge. McKoy stayed on his best behavior, accepting Loring's hospitality, profusely complimenting their host on the meal. Paul watched it all carefully, noting Rachel's intense interest in McKoy. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to cross the line.

After dessert, Loring escorted them on a tour of the castle's expansive ground floor. The decor seemed a mixture of Dutch furniture, French clocks, and Russian chandeliers. Paul noticed an emphasis on classicism along, with realistically clear images in all the carvings. There was a well-balanced composition throughout, an almost plastic-perfect shape and form. The craftsmen had certainly known their trade.

Each space carried a name. The Walderdorff Chamber. Molsberg Room. Green Room. Witches' Room. All were decorated with antique furniture--most originals, Loring explained--and art, so much that Paul was having trouble taking it all in, and he wished a couple of the museum's curators were there to explain. In what Loring called the Ancestors' Room the old man lingered before an oil painting of his father.

"My father was descended from a long line. Amazingly, all from the paternal side. So there have always been Loring males to inherit. It is one reason we have dominated this site for nearly five hundred years."

"What about when the Communists ruled?" Rachel asked.

"Even then, my dear. My family learned to adapt. There was no choice. Either change or perish."

"Meanin' you worked for the Communists," McKoy said.

"What else was there to do, Pan McKoy?"

McKoy did not reply and simply returned his attention to the painting of Josef Loring. "Was your father interested in the Amber Room?"

"Very much."

"Did he see the original in Leningrad before the war?"

"Actually, Father saw the room prior to the Russian Revolution. He was a great admirer of amber, as I am sure you already know."

"Why don't we cut the crap, Loring."

Paul cringed at the sudden intensity of McKoy's voice. Was it genuine or more games?

"I got a hole in a mountain a hundred fifty kilometers west of here that cost a million dollars to dig. All I got for the trouble are three trucks and five skeletons. Let me tell you what I think."

Loring sank into one of the leather chairs. "By all means."

McKoy accepted a glass of claret from a steward balancing a tray. "There's a story Dolinski told me, about a train leavin' occupied Russia sometime around May 1, 1945. The crated Amber Room was supposedly on board. Witnesses said the crates were offloaded in Czechoslovakia, near T ynec-nad-Sazavou. From there the crates were supposedly trucked south. One version says they were stored in an underground bunker used by Field Marshal von Schorner, commander of the German army. Another version says they headed west to Germany. A third version says east to Poland. Which one's right?"

"I, too, have heard such stories. But if I recall, that bunker was extensively excavated by the Soviets. Nothing there, so that eliminates one choice. As to the version east to Poland, I doubt it."

"Why's that?" McKoy said, sitting, too.

Paul remained standing, Rachel beside him. It was interesting watching the two men spar. McKoy had handled the partners expertly, and was doing equally well now, apparently intuitive enough to know when to push and when to pull.

"The Poles have not the brains or the resources to harbor such a treasure," Loring said. "Somebody would surely have discovered it by now."

"Sounds like prejudice to me," McKoy said.

"Not at all. Just a fact. Throughout history Poles have never been able to collate themselves into a unified country for long. They are the led, not the leaders."

"So you say west to Germany?"

"I say nothing, Pan McKoy. Only that of the three choices you offered, west seems the most likely."

Rachel sat down. "Mr. Loring--"

"Please, my dear. Call me Ernst."

"Okay . . . Ernst. Grumer was convinced that Knoll and the woman who killed Chapaev were working for members of a club. He called it the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. Knoll and the woman were supposedly Acquisitors. They steal works of art that have already been stolen, members competing with one another on what can be found."

"Sounds intriguing. But I can assure you I am not a member of such an organization. As you can see, my home is filled with art. I am a public collector and openly display my treasures."

"How about amber? Haven't seen much of that," McKoy said.

"I have several beautiful pieces. Would you like to see?"

"Damn right."

Loring led the way out of the Ancestors' Room and down a twisting corridor deeper into the castle. The room they finally entered was a tight square with no windows. Loring flicked a switch embedded in the stone that lighted wooden display cases lining the walls. Paul paraded down the cases, immediately recognizing Vermeyen vessels, Bohemian glass, and Mair goldsmithing. Each piece was three-hundred-plus years old and in mint condition. Two cases were filled entirely with amber. Among the collection was a casket case, chessboard and pieces, a two-tiered chest, snuffbox, shaving basin, soap dish, and lather brush.

"Most are eighteenth century," Loring said. "All from the Tsarskoe Selo workshops. The masters who crafted these beauties worked on the Amber Room panels."

"They are the best I've ever seen," Paul said.

"I am quite proud of this collection. They each cost me a fortune. But, alas, I have no Amber Room to go with them, as much as I would like to."

"Why don't I believe you?" McKoy asked.

"Frankly, Pan McKoy, it matters not whether you believe me. The more important question is how are you to prove otherwise. You come into my home and make wild accusations--threaten me with exposure in the world media--yet have nothing to substantiate your allegations except a manufactured picture of letters in the sand and the ramblings of a greedy academician."

"I don't recall saying anythin' about Grumer being an academic," McKoy said.

"No, you did not. But I am familiar with the Herr Doktor. He was possessed of a reputation that I would not consider enviable."

Paul noticed the shift in Loring's tone. No longer congenial and conciliatory. Now the words came slow and deliberate, the meaning clear. The man's patience was apparently running thin.

McKoy seemed unimpressed. "I'd think, Pan Loring, a man of your experience and breedin' could handle a rough-by-the-edges sort like me."

Loring smiled. "I do find your frankness refreshing. It is not often a man speaks to me as you have."

"Given any more thought to my offer from this afternoon?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Would a million dollars U.S. solve your investment problem?"

"Three million would be better."

"Then I assume you will settle for two without the need for haggling?"

"I will."

Loring chuckled. "Pan McKoy, you are a man after my own heart."

FIFTY-FIVE


Friday, May 23, 2:15 a.m.

Paul awakened. He'd had trouble sleeping, ever since he and Rachel turned in a little before midnight. Rachel was sound asleep beside him in the sleigh bed, not snoring, but breathing heavily like she used to. He thought again about Loring and McKoy. The old man had willingly coughed up two million dollars. Maybe McKoy was right. Loring was hiding something two million dollars was a bargain to protect. But what? The Amber Room? That prospect was a bit far-fetched. He imagined Nazis ripping the amber panels off the palace walls, then trucking them across the Soviet Union, only to dismantle them again and truck them into Germany four years later. What kind of shape would they even be in? Would they be worth anything other than as raw material to be fashioned into other works of art? What had he read in Borya's articles? The panels comprised a hundred thousand pieces of amber. Certainly that was worth something on the open market. Maybe that was it. Loring found the amber and sold it, garnering enough that two million dollars was a bargain to silence.

He rose from the bed and crept toward his shirt and pants draped over a chair. He slipped them on but passed on his shoes--bare feet would make less noise. Sleep was not coming easily, and he'd very much like to investigate the ground-floor display rooms again. The array of art earlier had been nearly overpowering, difficult to take in. He hoped Loring wouldn't mind a little private viewing.

He stole a glance at Rachel. She was curled under the down comforter, her naked body covered only by one of his twill shirts. She'd made love to him two hours ago for the first time in nearly four years. He could still feel the intensity between them, his body drained from a release of emotions he thought never again possible. Could they make things right? God knows he wanted to. The past couple weeks had certainly been bittersweet. Her father was gone, but perhaps the Cutler family could be restored. He hoped he wasn't simply something with which to fill a void. Rachel's words earlier about him being all the family she had left still rang in his ears. He wondered why he was so suspicious. Perhaps it was the kick in the gut he'd experienced three years ago--caution shielding his heart from another crushing break.

He inched the door open and quietly slipped into the hall. Incandescent wall sconces burned softly. Not a sound drifted in the air. He crossed to a thick stone railing and glanced down at a foyer four stories below, the marbled space illuminated by a series of table lamps. A massive, unlit crystal chandelier hung down to the third-floor level.

He followed a carpet runner down a right-angled stone staircase to the ground floor. Barefoot and silent he moved deeper into the castle, negotiating wide corridors past the dining hall toward a series of spacious rooms where art was displayed. None of the doors to any room was shut.

He stepped into the Witches' Room, which, as Loring explained earlier, was where a local witches' court was once held. He approached a series of ebony cabinets and switched on tiny halogen lights. Roman Age artifacts lined the shelves. Statuettes, standards, plates, vessels, lamps, bells, tools. A few exquisitely carved goddesses, as well. He recognized Victoria, the Roman symbol for victory, a crown and palm leaf in her outstretched hands beckoning a choice.

A sound suddenly came from the hall. Not much. Like a scuff on carpet. But in the silence it rang loud.

His head whipped left to the open doorway and he froze, barely breathing. Was it a footstep or just a centuries-old building settling down for the night? He reached up and gently flicked off the cabinet lights. The cases went dark. He crept to a sofa and crouched down behind.

Another sound slipped past him. A footstep. Definitely. Somebody was in the hall. He shrank farther behind the couch and waited, hoping whoever it was moved on. Perhaps it was simply one of the staff making required rounds.

A shadow spread across the lit doorway. He peered over the sofa.

Wayland McKoy walked past.

He should have known.

He tiptoed to the doorway. McKoy was a few feet away, headed in the direction of a room at the far end. Earlier, Loring had merely pointed out the darkened space, calling it the Romanesque Room, but had not offered a tour.

"Couldn't sleep?" he whispered.

McKoy reeled back with a start and whirled around. "Goddammit, Cutler," he mouthed. "You scared the fuck out of me." The big man wore a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater.

He pointed to McKoy's bare feet. "We're starting to think alike. That's scary."

"A little redneck wouldn't hurt you a bit, city lawyer."

They stepped into the shadow of the Witches' Room and spoke in hushed whispers.

"You curious, too?" Paul asked.

"Damn right. Two fuckin' million. Loring jumped on that like flies on shit."

"Wonder what he knows?"

"I don't know. But it's somethin'. Trouble is, this Bohemian Louvre is so full of crap, we may never find out."

"We could get lost in this maze."

Suddenly, something clattered down the hall. Like metal to stone. He and McKoy leaned their heads out and glanced left. A dim yellow rectangle of light spilled from the Romanesque Room at the far end.

"I vote we go see," McKoy said.

"Why not? We've come this far."

McKoy led the way down the carpet runner. At the open door of the Romanesque Room they both froze.

"Oh, shit," Paul said.

Knoll had watched through the judas hole as Paul Cutler donned his clothes and crept out. Rachel Cutler had never heard her ex-husband leave and was still asleep under the covers. He'd been waiting for hours before making his move, allowing ample time for everyone to retire for the night. He planned to start with the Cutlers, move to McKoy, then Loring and Danzer, particularly enjoying the last two--savoring the moment of their deaths--exacting compensation for the murders of Fellner and Monika. But Paul Cutler's unexpected leaving had raised a problem. From what Rachel described, her ex-husband wasn't the adventurous type. Yet here he was, venturing off barefoot in the middle of the night. Certainly not heading for the kitchen and a midnight snack. He was most likely snooping. He'd have to tend to him later.

After Rachel.

He crept down the passage, following a trail of bare bulbs. He found the first exit and tripped the spring-loaded switch. A slab of stone swung open and he stepped into one of the empty fourth-floor bedrooms. He crossed to the hall door and hustled back to the room where Rachel Cutler slept.

He entered and locked the door behind him.

Approaching the Renaissance fireplace, he located the switch disguised as a piece of gilded molding. He'd not entered from the secret passages for fear of making too much noise, but he might need to make a hasty exit. He tripped the switch and left the concealed door half open.

He inched over to the bed.

Rachel Cutler still slept peacefully.

He twisted his right arm and waited for the stiletto to slither down into his palm.

"It's a friggin' secret door," McKoy said.

Paul had never seen one before. Old movies and novels proclaimed their existence, but right before his eyes, thirty feet away, a section of stone wall was swung open on a center pivot. One of the wooden display cases was firmly affixed to it, three feet on either side allowing entrance into a lit room beyond.

McKoy stepped forward.

Paul grabbed him. "You crazy?"

"Do the math, Cutler. We're supposed to go."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean our host didn't leave this open by accident. Let's not disappoint him."

Paul believed going any farther was foolish. He'd pushed things coming downstairs to start with, but now he wasn't sure about following the situation to its conclusion. Maybe he should just go back upstairs to Rachel. But his curiosity told him to go on.

So he followed McKoy.

In the room beyond, more lighted cases lined the walls and center. Paul strolled through the maze in awe. Antico statues and busts. Egyptian and Near East carvings. Mayan etchings. Antique jewelry. A couple of paintings caught his eye. A seventeenth-century Rembrandt he knew was stolen from a German museum thirty years ago and a Bellini taken from Italy about the same time. Both were among the world's most sought-after art treasures. He recalled a seminar at the High Museum on the topic.

"McKoy, this stuff is all stolen."

"How do you know?"

He stopped in front of one chest-high case that displayed a blackened skull resting on a glass pedestal. "This is Peking Man. Nobody has seen it since World War Two. And those two paintings over there are definitely stolen. Shit. What Grumer said was right. Loring is part of that club."

"Calm down, Cutler. We don't know that. This guy may just have a little private stash he keeps to himself. Let's not go off half-cocked."

He stared ahead at a set of open, white-enameled double doors. He noticed the whiskey-colored mosaic walls beyond. He stepped forward. McKoy followed. In the doorway they both went motionless.

"Oh, fuck," McKoy whispered.

Paul gazed at the Amber Room. "You got that right."

The visual spectacle was broken by two people who entered through another set of open double doors to the right. One was Loring. The other, the blond woman from Stod. Suzanne. Both held pistols.

"I see you accepted my invitation," Loring said.

McKoy stiffened. "Didn't want to disappoint you."

Loring motioned with the gun. "What do you think of my treasure?"

McKoy stepped farther inside. The woman's grip on her gun tightened, barrel jutted forward. "Stay cool, little lady. Just goin' to admire the handiwork." McKoy approached one of the amber walls.

Paul turned to the woman Knoll had called Suzanne. "You found Chapaev through me, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Cutler. The information was most helpful."

"You killed that old man for this?"

"No, Pan Cutler," Loring said. "She killed for me."

Loring and the woman stayed to the far side of the thirty-foot-square room. Double doors opened out of three walls, windows lined the fourth, but Paul assumed they were fake. This chamber was clearly an inside one. McKoy continued to admire the amber, massaging its smoothness. If not for the seriousness of their predicament, Paul would have been in awe, as well. But not too many probate lawyers found themselves in a Czech castle with two semiautomatic handguns pointed at them. Definitely not a course on this in law school.

"Tend to it," Loring softly said to Suzanne.

The woman left. Loring stayed across the room and kept his gun trained. McKoy moved close to Paul.

"We will wait here, gentlemen, until Suzanne fetches the other Cutler."

McKoy stepped close.

"What the shit we do now?" Paul whispered.

"Hell if I know."

Knoll slowly peeled back the comforter and crawled onto the bed. He nestled close to Rachel and gently massaged her breasts. She responded to his touch, sighing gently, still half asleep. He let his hand roam down the length of her body and discovered she was naked beneath the shirt. She slid over and cuddled close.

"Paul," she whispered.

He wrapped his hand around her throat, rolled her over onto her back, and then slipped on top. Rachel's eyes went wide with fear. He brought the stiletto to her throat, gently probing the scab from last night's encounter with the tip. "You should have taken my advice."

"Where's Paul?" she managed to mouth.

"I have him."

She started to struggle. He pressed the blade flat against her throat. "Sit still, Frau Cutler, or I will twist the edge to your skin. Do you understand?"

She stopped moving.

He motioned with his head toward the open panel, relaxing his grip slightly to allow a look. "He's in there." He retightened the lock on her throat and moved the knife down her shirt, flicking off each button. Then he parted the folds. Her bare chest heaved. He lightly traced the outline of one nipple with the knifepoint. "I watched earlier from behind the wall. Your lovemaking is intense."

She spat on him.

He backhanded her face. "Insolent bitch. Your father did the same thing and you saw what happened to him."

He slugged her in the stomach and heard the breath leave her. He delivered another blow to her face, this time with his fist. His hand returned to her throat. Her eyes rolled in a daze. He pinched her cheeks and shook her head from side to side.

"You love him? Why risk his life? Pretend you are a whore, the price of my pleasure . . . a life. It will not be unpleasant."

"Where . . . is . . . Paul?"

He shook his head. "Such stubbornness. Channel all that anger into passion and your Paul will see morning."

His groin throbbed, ready for action. He returned the knife to her chin and pressed.

"Okay," she finally said.

He hesitated. "I am withdrawing the knife. But one millimeter of movement and I will kill you. Then him."

He slowly released his hand and the knife. He unbuckled his belt and was about to wiggle out of his pants when Rachel screamed.

"How'd you get the panels, Loring?" McKoy asked.

"A gift from heaven."

McKoy chuckled. Paul was impressed with how cool the big man was staying. Glad somebody was calm. He was scared to death.

"I assume you plan to use that gun at some point. So humor a condemned man and answer a few questions."

"You were right earlier," Loring said. "Trucks left Konigsberg in 1945 with the panels. They were eventually loaded onto a train. That train stopped in Czechoslovakia. My father tried then to secure the panels, but couldn't. Field Marshal von Schorner was loyal to Hitler and could not be bought. Von Schorner ordered the crates trucked west to Germany. They were to go to Bavaria, but only made it as far as Stod."

"My cavern?"

"Correct. Father found the panels seven years after the war."

"And shot the help?"

"A necessary business decision."

"Rafal Dolinski another necessary business decision?"

"Your reporter friend did contact me and provided a copy of his narrative. Too informative for his own good."

"What about Karol Borya and Chapaev?" Paul asked.

"Many have sought what you see before you, Pan Cutler. Would you not agree it is a treasure worth dying for?"

"My parents included?" Paul asked.

"We became aware of your father's inquiries across Europe, but finding that Italian was a bit too close. That was our first and only breach of secrecy. Suzanne dealt with both the Italian and your parents. Unfortunate, but another necessary business decision."

He lunged toward the old man. The gun jutted forward and took aim. McKoy grabbed him by the shoulder. "Calm down, Rocket Man. Gettin' yourself shot isn't going to solve a thing."

He struggled to get free. "Wringing his goddamned neck would." Anger seethed through him. He never thought himself capable of such rage. He wanted to kill Loring, regardless of the consequences, and enjoy every second of the bastard's torment. McKoy forced him to the other side of the room. Loring inched to the opposite amber wall. McKoy's back was to Loring when the big man whispered, "Stay cool. Follow my lead."

Suzanne switched on an overhead chandelier and flooded the foyer and staircase with light. There was no danger of the staff interfering with the night's activities, Loring had specifically instructed that no one reenter the main wing after midnight. She'd already thought about body disposal, deciding to bury all three in the woods beyond the castle before morning. She slowly climbed the stairs and reached the fourth-floor landing, gun in hand. A scream suddenly pierced the silence from the direction of the Wedding Chamber. She raced down the hall, past the open banister, to the oak door.

She tried the handle. Locked.

Another scream came from inside.

She fired two shots at the ancient latch. The wood splintered. She kicked the door. Once. Twice. Another shot. A third kick and the door flung inward. In the semidarkened chamber she saw Christian Knoll on the bed, Rachel Cutler struggling beneath him.

Knoll saw her, then slugged Rachel hard in the face. He then reached for something on the bed. She saw the stiletto come up in his hand. She aimed and fired, but Knoll rolled off the far side of the bed and her bullet missed. She noticed the open panel near the fireplace. The bastard was using the back passages. She dived to the floor, shielding herself behind a chair, knowing what was coming.

The stiletto zoomed across the darkness and ripped into the upholstery, mere inches away. She fired two more shots in Knoll's direction. Four muffled shots came back, obliterating the back of the chair. Knoll was armed. This was too close. She sent another shot at Knoll, then crawled to the open doorway and rolled out into the hall.

Two more shots from Knoll ricocheted off the doorjamb.

Outside, she stood and started running.

"I have to get to Rachel," Paul whispered, still seething.

McKoy's back remained to Loring. "Get out of here when I make a move."

"He has a gun."

"I'm bettin' the bastard won't shoot in here. He's not goin' to risk a hole in the amber."

"Don't count on it--"

Before he could question further what McKoy intended, the big man turned to Loring. "I guess my two million is gone, huh?"

"Unfortunately. But bold of you to try."

"Comes from my mother's side. She worked the cucumber fields in eastern North Carolina. Didn't take shit off nobody."

"How charming."

McKoy inched closer. "What makes you think people don't know we're here?"

Loring shrugged. "A risk I am prepared to take."

"My people know where I am."

Loring smiled. "I doubt that, Pan McKoy."

"How about a deal?"

"Not interested."

McKoy suddenly lunged at Loring, crossing the ten feet that separated them as fast as his beefy frame allowed. As the old man fired, McKoy winced, then screamed, "Go, Cutler!"

Paul darted for the double doors leading out of the Amber Room, glancing back momentarily to see McKoy crumble to the parquet and Loring readjust his aim. He leaped from the room, rolled across the stone floor, then stood and raced through the darkened gallery, out the opening into the Romanesque Room.

He expected Loring to be following, more shots on the way, but the old man certainly couldn't move fast.

McKoy had actually allowed himself to be shot so he could get away. He never knew people really did that. That was something that only happened in movies. Yet the last thing he saw before fleeing the room was the big man lying on the floor.

He flushed that thought from his mind and concentrated on Rachel as he ran down the corridor for the stairway.

Knoll heard Suzanne scamper out into the hall. He crossed the room and retrieved the knife. He marched to the open door and risked a glance. Danzer was bolting to the stairway twenty meters away. He anchored his feet and sent the perfectly balanced stiletto flying her way, piercing Danzer's left thigh, the sharp blade sucking into her flesh down to the handle.

She cried out and folded to the carpet runner in agony.

"Not this time, Suzanne," he calmly said.

He walked to her.

She was gripping the back of her thigh, blood oozing from the embedded blade. She tried to turn and level her gun, but he instantly kicked the CZ-75B from her grasp.

The gun clattered away.

He brought his shoe down across her neck and pinned her to the floor. He pointed his own weapon.

"Enough fun and games," he said.

Danzer reached back and tried to wrap her palm around the stiletto's handle, but he slammed the sole of his shoe into her face.

He then fired two shots into Danzer's head and she stopped moving.

"For Monika," he whispered.

He jerked the knife from her thigh and swiped the blade clean on her clothes. He found Danzer's gun and stepped back into the bedchamber, determined to finish what he'd started.

FIFTY-SIX

McKoy tried to rise and focus but couldn't. The amber room spun around him. His legs were limp, his head woozy. Blood poured from a bullet wound to his shoulder. He was rapidly losing consciousness. Never had he imagined dying like this, surrounded by a treasure worth millions, powerless to do anything.

He'd been wrong about Loring. There'd been no risk to the amber. The bullet was simply planted in flesh. He hoped Paul Cutler had managed to escape. He started to pull himself up. Footsteps approached from the outer gallery, coming toward him. He fell back to the parquet and lay prone. He eased open his left eye and caught the blurred image of Ernst Loring reentering the Amber Room, the gun still in hand. He lay perfectly still, trying to maximize what little strength remained.

He took a deep breath and waited for Loring to draw close. The old man, with his shoe, cautiously nudged McKoy's left leg, apparently testing to see if death had taken hold. He held his breath and managed to keep his body rigid. His head started spinning from the lack of oxygen combined with the blood loss.

He needed the bastard closer.

Loring took two steps forward.

He suddenly clipped the old man's legs out from under him. Pain racked his right shoulder and chest. Blood spurted from his wound. But he tried to hang on long enough to finish.

Loring slammed to the floor, the impact jarring his grip on the gun. McKoy's right hand locked around the old man's neck. The image of Loring's shocked expression blinked in and out. He needed to hurry.

"Say hello to the devil for me," he whispered.

With his last bit of strength, he strangled Ernst Loring to death.

Then he surrendered to the darkness.

Paul negotiated the maze of ground-floor corridors and bolted for the staircase leading up to the fourth floor. Just before entering the brightly lit foyer, two shots popped from above.

He stopped.

This was foolish. The woman was armed. He wasn't. But who was she firing at? Rachel? McKoy had taken a bullet so he could get away. It now looked like it was his turn.

He loped up the stairs, two at a time.

Knoll dropped his pants. Killing Danzer had been satisfying foreplay. Rachel lay sprawled on the bed, still dazed from his fist. He tossed the gun on the floor and palmed the stiletto. He approached the bed, gently parted her legs, and ran his tongue up the length of her thigh. She did not resist. This was going to be nice. Rachel, apparently still groggy, lightly moaned and responded to his touch. He slipped the stiletto back into the sheath under his right sleeve. She was dazed and docile. There would be no need for the knife. He cupped her bare butt with his hands and returned his tongue to her crotch.

"Oh, Paul," she whispered.

"I told you it would not be unpleasant," he mouthed.

He raised up and prepared to mount her.

Paul turned at the fourth-floor landing and dashed up the last flight of stairs. He was winded, his legs ached, but Rachel was up there and needed him. At the top he saw Suzanne's body, her face obliterated by two bullet holes. The sight was sickening, but he thought of Chapaev and his parents and felt nothing but satisfaction. Then a thought electrified his brain.

Who the hell shot her?

Rachel?

Moaning resonated from down the hall.

Then his name.

He inched his way to the bedchamber. The door was flung back, its top hinge splintered away. He gazed into the semidarkness. His eyes adjusted. A man was on the bed, and Rachel was beneath him.

Christian Knoll.

Paul went berserk and rushed the length of the room, catapulting himself onto Knoll. Momentum rolled them off the bed and to the floor. He landed on his right shoulder, the same one injured last night in Stod. Pain seared through his right arm. He raised a fist and brought it down. Knoll was bigger and more experienced, but he was mad as hell. He swung his fist again and Knoll's nose gave way. Knoll howled, but he pivoted and used his legs to send Paul flying up and over him. Knoll curled himself forward and rolled out of the way, then pounced, ramming a fist hard into Paul's chest. He gagged on his own saliva and tried to catch a breath.

Knoll stood and yanked him from the floor. A fist slammed into his jaw, sending him reeling into the center of the room. He was dazed, trying hard to focus on the spinning furniture and the tall man approaching. Forty-one years old, and this was his first fistfight. Odd, he thought, the sensation of being slugged. Suddenly, the image of Knoll's naked ass on top of Rachel flashed through his mind. He caught hold of himself, grabbed a breath, and lunged, met only by another fist to the stomach.

Damn. He was losing the fight.

Knoll caught him by the hair.

"You interrupted my pleasure, and I do not like being interrupted. Did you not notice Fraulein Danzer on the way in? She interrupted also."

"Fuck you, Knoll."

"So defiant. And brave. But weak."

Knoll released his grip and slugged him. Blood gushed from his nose. The momentum of the blow sent Paul tumbling through the open doorway, out into the hall. He was having trouble seeing out of his right eye.

He couldn't take much more.

Rachel was vaguely aware that something was happening, but it was all so confusing. One moment it seemed as if Paul were making love to her, and the next she heard fighting and bodies being flung across the room. Then a voice.

She raised up.

Paul's face came into view, then another.

Knoll.

Paul was clothed, but Knoll was naked from the waist down. She tried to assimilate the information, making sense of what at first seemed impossible.

She heard Knoll's voice.

"You interrupted my pleasure, and I do not like being interrupted. Did you not notice Fraulein Danzer on the way in? She interrupted also."

"Fuck you, Knoll."

"So defiant. And brave. But weak."

Then Knoll slugged Paul in the face. Blood splattered and Paul rolled out into the hall. Knoll followed. She tried to stand from the bed, but collapsed to the floor. She slowly pulled herself across the parquet toward the doorway. Along the way she crossed a pair of pants, some shoes, and something hard.

She reached down. There were two guns. She ignored both and kept crawling. At the doorway she pulled herself up to her feet.

Knoll was moving toward Paul.

Paul realized this was the end. He could hardly breathe from the blows to his chest, his lungs were constricted, most likely several ribs were broken. His face ached beyond belief and he was having trouble seeing. Knoll was merely toying with him. He was no match for this professional. He staggered to his feet, using the stone banister for support, not unlike the banister from the night before at the abbey high above Stod. He gazed down four stories and felt like vomiting. The glow from the bright crystal chandelier burned his eyes, and he squinted. His body was suddenly yanked back and twirled around. Knoll's smiling face gleamed at him.

"Had enough, Cutler?"

All he could think to do was spit in Knoll's face. The German jumped back and then lunged at him, ramming a fist into his stomach. Spit and blood coughed up as he gasped for air. Knoll brought another blow down across the nape of his neck, slamming him to the floor. Knoll reached down and pulled him to his feet. His legs were rubber. He propped him against the railing, then stepped back and twitched his right arm.

A knife appeared.

Rachel watched through fogged eyes as Knoll battered Paul. She wanted to help but barely had the strength to stand. Her face ached, the swelling on her right cheek beginning to affect her vision. Her head pounded. Everything was blurred and spinning. Her stomach tossed like on a boat on a stormy sea.

Paul's body crumbled to the floor. Knoll reached down and yanked him to his feet. She suddenly thought of the two guns and stumbled back to the center of the bedchamber. She groped the floor until she found one of the pistols, then staggered back to the doorway.

Knoll had stepped away from Paul, his back to her. A knife appeared in the German's hand and she knew there'd be only a second to react. Knoll moved toward Paul, the blade rising. She pointed the gun and, for the first time in her life, pulled a trigger. The bullet left the barrel, not with a retort, but with the muffled pop like when balloons burst at one of the kids' birthday parties.

The bullet plowed into Knoll's back.

He stumbled and turned, then moved toward her with the knife.

She fired again. The gun bucked in her hand, but she held tight.

Then again.

And again.

Bullets ripped through Knoll's chest. She thought of what must have happened in the bed and lowered her aim, firing three more shots at his exposed crotch. Knoll screamed, but somehow kept standing. He stared down at blood pouring from his wounds. He staggered toward the banister. She was about to fire again when Paul suddenly lunged forward, shoving the half-naked German over the top and out into the open air of the four-story foyer. She fell toward the railing and glanced over just as Knoll's body found the chandelier and ripped the massive crystal fixture from the ceiling. Blue sparks exploded, Knoll and glass free-falling to the marble below, a thud from the body accompanying the shattering of glass, the crystal flung about and then tinkling to the floor like the applause that lingered after a symphony's climax.

Then, silence. Not a sound.

Below, Knoll did not move.

She looked at Paul. "You okay?"

He said nothing, but wrapped his arm around her. She reached over and gently caressed his face. "Does it hurt as bad as it looks?" she asked.

"Damn right."

"Where's McKoy?"

Paul heaved a deep breath. "Took a bullet . . . so I could get to you. Last I saw he was . . . bleeding all over the Amber Room."

"The Amber Room?"

"Long story. Not now."

"I guess I'm going to have to take back all the nasty things I said about that big fool."

"I guess you are," a voice suddenly said from below.

She glanced over the rail. McKoy stumbled into the dim foyer, holding his bloodied left shoulder.

"Who's this?" he asked, pointing to the body.

"The bastard who killed my father," Rachel called down.

"Seems that score's settled. Where's the woman?"

"Dead," Paul said.

"Good fuckin' riddance."

"Where's Loring?" Paul asked.

"I strangled the motherfucker."

Paul winced from the pain. "Good fuckin' riddance. You okay?"

"Nothin' a good surgeon can't fix."

Paul managed a weak smile. He looked at Rachel. "I think I'm beginning to like that guy."

She smiled back, the first in a while. "Me, too."

EPILOGUE

St. Petersburg, Russia
September 2

Paul and Rachel stood at the front of a side chapel. Italian marble surrounded them in elegant tones of sienese yellow with Russian malachite intermixed. Slanting rays from the morning sun cast a towering iconostasis beyond the priest in a glinting hue of sparkling gold.

Brent stood to the left of his father, Marla beside her mother. The patriarch pronounced the marriage vows in a solemn voice, the occasion enhanced by a chanting choir. St. Isaac's Cathedral was empty except for the wedding party and Wayland McKoy. Paul's eyes were drawn to a stained-glass window centered in a wall of icons. Christ standing tall after the Resurrection. A new beginning. How appropriate, he thought.

The priest finished the vows and bowed his head as the service ended.

He gently kissed Rachel and whispered, "I love you."

"And I you," she said.

"Ah, go ahead, Cutler, give her a good lip lock," McKoy said.

He smiled, then took the advice, kissing Rachel passionately.

"Daddy," Marla said, signaling enough.

"Leave 'em alone," Brent said.

McKoy stepped forward. "Smart kid. Which one of you he take after?"

Paul smiled. The big man looked strange in a suit and tie. The wound to McKoy's shoulder had apparently healed. He and Rachel had also recovered, the past three months something of a blinding whirlwind.

Within an hour of Knoll's death, Rachel had telephoned Fritz Pannik. It was the German inspector who arranged for the Czech police to immediately intervene, and Pannik himself arrived at Castle Loukov, with Europol, at daybreak. The Russian ambassador in Prague was summoned by midmorning, and officials from the Catherine Palace and Hermitage flew in the next afternoon. A team from Tsarskoe Selo arrived the following morning, and the Russians wasted no time dismantling the amber panels and transporting them back to St. Petersburg, the Czech government offering no resistance after learning the details of Ernst Loring's sordid activities.

Europol investigators quickly established a link to Franz Fellner. Documents at both Castle Loukov and Burg Herz confirmed the activities of the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. With no heirs left to assume control of the Fellner estate, the German government intervened. Fellner's private collection was eventually located, and it took only a few more days for investigators to learn the identity of the remaining club members. Their estates were raided under guidance from Europol's art theft division.

The cache was enormous.

Sculptures, carvings, jewelry, drawings, and paintings, particularly old masters thought lost forever. Billions of dollars in stolen treasure were retrieved virtually overnight. But since Acquisitors looted only what had already been stolen, many claims of ownership were muddy at best, nonexistent at worst. The number of both governmental and private claims filed in courts scattered across Europe rose quickly into the thousands. So many that eventually a political solution was fashioned by the EC Parliament utilizing the World Court as final arbitrator. One journalist covering the spectacle observed that it would probably take decades before all the legal haggling was completed, "lawyers the only real winners in the end."

Interestingly, the Loring family's duplication of the Amber Room was so precise that the reconstructed panels fit perfectly back into the lacunae at the Catherine Palace. The initial thought was to display the recovered amber elsewhere and allow the newly restored room to remain. But Russian purists strongly argued that the amber should be returned to its rightful home--the home Peter the Great would have intended--though in actuality Peter cared little for the panels, his daughter, Empress Elizabeth, being the one who actually commissioned the Russian version of the room. So within ninety days of its discovery, the original Amber Room panels once again adorned the first floor of the Catherine Palace.

The Russian government was so grateful that Paul, Rachel, the children, and McKoy were invited to the official unveiling and flown over at government expense. While there, Paul and Rachel decided to remarry in the Orthodox church. There'd been a little initial resistance, given they were divorced. But once the circumstances had been explained, and the fact that they were remarrying each other made clear, the Church agreed. It had been a lovely ceremony. One he would remember for the rest of his life.

Paul thanked the priest and stepped from the altar.

"That was nice," McKoy said. "A good way to end all this shi--I mean, crap."

Rachel smiled. "Children cramp your style?"

"Just my vocabulary."

They started walking toward the front of the cathedral.

"The Cutler family off to Minsk?" McKoy asked.

Paul nodded. "One last thing to do, then home."

Paul knew McKoy had come for the publicity, the Russian government grateful for the return of one of its most prized treasures. The big man had smiled and backslapped his way though the unveiling yesterday, enjoying the press attention. He'd even done the Larry King show live last evening by satellite, fielding questions from around the world. National Geographic was talking to him about a one-hour special on the Amber Room with a worldwide distribution, the money they'd mentioned enough to satisfy his investors and resolve any issue of litigation from the Stod dig.

They stopped at the main doors.

"You two take care of yourself," McKoy said. He motioned to the children. "And them."

Rachel kissed him on the cheek. "Did I ever thank you for what you did?"

"You'd have done the same for me."

"Probably not."

McKoy smiled. "Any time, Your Honor."

Paul shook McKoy's hand. "Keep in touch, okay?"

"Oh, I'll probably need your services again before long."

"Not another dig?" Paul said.

McKoy shrugged. "Who knows? Still lots of shi--stuff--out there to find."

The train left St. Petersburg two hours later, the journey south to Belarus a five-hour ride through dense forests and sloping fields of blue flax. Autumn had arrived, and the leaves had surrendered to the chill in bursts of red, orange, and yellow.

Russian officials had intervened with Belarussian authorities to make everything possible. Karol and Maya Borya's caskets had arrived the day before, flown over by special arrangement. Rachel knew that her father wanted to be buried back in his homeland, but she wanted her parents together. Now they would be, in Belarussian soil, forever.

The caskets were waiting at the Minsk train station. They were then trucked to a lovely cemetery forty kilometers west of the capital, as near as possible to where Karol and Maya Borya had been born. The Cutler family followed the flatbed in a rental car, a United States envoy with them to make sure everything went smoothly.

The patriarch of Belarus himself presided at the private reburial, Rachel, Paul, Marla, and Brent standing together as solemn words were said. A light breeze eased across brown grass as the coffins were lowered into the ground.

"Say good-bye to your papa and nana," Rachel told the children.

She handed each a sliver of blue flax. The children stepped to the open graves and tossed down the buds. Paul came close and held her. Her eyes teared. She noticed that Paul's were watery, too. They'd never spoken about what happened that night in Castle Loukov. Thankfully, Knoll had never finished what he started. Paul risked his life to stop him. She loved her husband. The priest this morning cautioned them both that marriage was for life, something to be taken seriously, especially with children involved. And he was right. Of that she was sure.

She approached the graves. She'd said good-bye to her mother nearly a quarter century ago.

"Bye, Daddy."

Paul stood behind her. "Good-bye, Karol. Rest in peace."

They stood for a little while in silence, then thanked the patriarch and started for the car. A hawk soared overhead in the clear afternoon. A breeze rolled past them, neutralizing the sun. The children trotted ahead toward the gate.

"Back to work, huh?" she said to Paul.

"Time to get reacquainted with real life."

She'd won reelection in July, though she'd done almost no campaigning, the aftermath and attention from the recovery of the Amber Room springboarding a victory over two opponents. Marcus Nettles had been crushed, but she'd made a point to visit the cantankerous lawyer and make peace, part of her new attitude of reconciliation.

"You think I ought to stay on the bench?" she asked.

"That's your call, not mine."

"I was thinking maybe it's not such a good idea. It takes too much of my attention."

"You have to do what makes you happy," Paul said.

"I used to think being a judge made me happy. But I'm not so sure anymore."

"I know a firm that would love to have an ex-superior court judge in its litigation department."

"And that wouldn't be Pridgen and Woodworth, would it?"

"Maybe. I have some pull there, you know."

She wrapped her arm around his waist as they continued to walk. It felt good to be near him. For a few moments they strolled in silence and she savored her contentment. She thought about her future, the children, and Paul. Practicing law again might be just the thing for them all. Pridgen & Woodworth would be an excellent place to work. She looked over at Paul and heard again what he'd just said.

"I have some pull there, you know."

So she hugged him hard and, for once, didn't argue.

WRITER'S NOTE

In researching this novel I traveled throughout Germany, to Austria and Mauthausen concentration camp, then finally to Moscow and St. Petersburg where I spent several days at the Catherine Palace in Tsarskoe Selo. Of course, the primary goal of a novel is to entertain, but I also wanted to accurately inform. The subject of the Amber Room is relatively unexplored in this country, though the Internet has recently started to fill that void. In Europe, the artifact holds an endless fascination. Since I do not speak German or Russian, I was forced to rely on English-version accounts of what may or may not have happened. Unfortunately, a careful study of those reports reveals conflicts in the facts. The consistent points are presented within the course of the narrative. The inconsistent details were either disregarded or modified to suit my fictional needs.

A few specific items: Prisoners at Mauthausen were tortured in the manner depicted. However, Hermann Goring never appeared there. Goring and Hitler's personal competition for looted art is well documented, as is Goring's obsession with the Amber Room, though there is no evidence he ever attempted to actually possess it. The Soviet commission for which Karol Borya and Danya Chapaev supposedly worked was real and actively sought looted Russian art for years after the war, the Amber Room at the top of its wanted list. Some say there is, in fact, a curse of the Amber Room, as several have died (as detailed in chapter 41) in the search--whether by coincidence or conspiracy is unknown. The Harz Mountains were extensively used by the Nazis to hide plunder, and the information described in chapter 42 is accurate, including the tombs found. The town of Stod is fictional, but the location, along with the abbey that overlooks it, is based on Melk in Austria, a truly impressive place. All the stolen art detailed at various points in the story is real and remains among the missing. Finally, the speculation, history, and contradictions about what may have happened to the Amber Room noted in chapters 13, 14, 28, 41, 44, and 48, including a possible Czech connection, are based on actual reports, though my resolution of the mystery is fictional.

The Amber Room's disappearance in 1944 was a tremendous loss. At present, the room is being restored at the Catherine Palace by modern-day artisans who are laboring to re-create, panel by panel, magnificent walls crafted entirely of amber. I was fortunate to spend a few hours with the chief restorer, who showed me the difficulty of the endeavor. Luckily, the Soviets photographed the room in the late 1930s, planning on a restoration in the 1940s--but of course, war interfered. Those black-and-white images now act as a map for the re-creation of what was first fashioned more than 250 years ago.

The chief restorer also provided me with his insight into what may have happened to the original panels. He believed, as many others do (and as postulated in chapter 51), that the amber was either totally destroyed in the war or, like gold and other precious metals and jewels, the amber itself commanded the greatest market worth. It was simply found and sold off piece by piece, the sum of its parts far greater in value than the whole. Like gold, amber can be reshaped, leaving no trace of its former configuration, so it is possible that jewelry and other amber objects sold throughout the world today may contain amber from that original room.

But, who knows?

As Robert Browning was quoted saying in the narrative: Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

How true.

And how sad.

A Ballantine Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group


Copyright (c) 2003 by Steve Berry


All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.


Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.


www.ballantinebooks.com


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Berry, Steve, 1955-

The amber room / Steve Berry.

p. cm.

e-ISBN 0-345-46971-2

1. Amber art objects--Fiction. 2. Art treasures in war--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.E764A83 2003

813'.6--dc21 2003051846


v1.0

eBook Info


Title:

The Amber Room

Creator:

Steve Berry

Format:

OEB

Identifier:

Berr_0345469712

Language:

en

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The Amber Room

By the same authors

The Stone of Heaven

THE AMBER ROOM

The Fate of the World's Greatest

Lost Treasure

Catherine Scott-Clark

&

Adrian Levy

Copyright © 2004 by Catherine Scott-Clark and Adrian Levy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

First published in the United States of America in 2004 by

Walker Publishing Company, Inc.; published simultaneously in Great Britain by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from

this book, write to Permissions, Walker & Company,

104 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

available upon request

eISBN: 978-0-802-71809-9

Visit Walker & Company's Web site at www.walkerbooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

In memory of Muriel Claudia Worsdell

and

Gerald Anthony Scott-Clark

'There are different truths... foolish truths and wise truth, and your truth is foolish. There is also justice...'

Irina Antonova, director of the Pushkin Museum, Moscow1

'Some of the splendour of the world
Has melted away through war and time;
He who protects and conserves
Has won the most beautiful fortune.'
J.W.Goethe, 1826

Contents

List of Maps and Illustrations

Acknowledgements

Note on Transliteration

Dramatis Personae

Maps

Introduction

The Amber Room

Notes

Bibliography

List of Maps and Illustrations

MAPS

Konigsberg Castle, pre-April 1945

Kaliningrad, c.2004

East Prussia, c.194 5

Germany, c.2004

St Petersburg and environs, c.2004

USSR, post-194 7

ILLUSTRATIONS

The original design for the Amber Room, 1701

The Catherine Palace (Vera Lemus, Aurora Publishers, St Petersburg, Russian Federation)

Alexander Kedrinsky with colleagues from Leningrad's palaces after winning the Lenin Prize in 1986 (Vica Plauda archive, St Petersburg, Russian Federation)

Anatoly Kuchumov with Anna Mikhailovna, his wife, and others shortly before the Second World War (Vica Plauda archive)

Curators pack up Leningrad's palaces after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941

Tsar Peter I (State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg, Russian Federation)

The amber workshop at the Catherine Palace Vladimir Telemakov (Catherine Scott-Clark)

Vica Plauda, granddaughter of Anatoly Kuchumov, holding the only surviving colour plate of the original Amber Room (Catherine Scott-Clark)

The Amber Room

Soviet troops re-entering the Catherine Palace, 1944

The ruined Catherine Palace after Nazi occupation

Olaus Magnus's sixteenth-century map of the Samland Peninsula

Seventeenth-century amber fishermen

Pre-war photograph of Konigsberg Castle (Konigsberg City Museum, Duisburg, Germany)

Professor Alexander Brusov of the State Historical Museum, Moscow, and his diary (Avenir Ovsianov archive, Kaliningrad, Russian Federation)

Soviet tanks on the streets of Konigsberg during the final attack, April 1945 (Gunter Wermusch archive, Berlin, Germany)

The surrender of General Otto Lasch, 10 April 1945 (Kaliningrad City Museum, Kaliningrad, Russian Federation)

Amateur painting of the post-war remains of Konigsberg Castle (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Alfred Rohde (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Anatoly Kuchumov and colleagues from the Leningrad palaces during the 1950s (Albina Vasiliava archive, Pavlovsk, St Petersburg, Russian Federation)

The St Petersburg Literature Archive reading room (Catherine Scott-Clark)

Prince Alex Dohna-Schlobitten (MPR Productions, Munich, Germany)

Entrance to the Knight's Hall of Konigsberg Castle (Konigsberg City Museum)

Blutgericht, the Nazi restaurant located in the former torture chambers of Konigsberg Castle (Konigsberg City Museum)

Caricature of Anatoly Kuchumov at his desk researching the fate of missing Leningrad palace treasures (Tsentralny Gosurdarstvenny Archiv Literatury i Iskusstva, St Petersburg, Russian Federation - TGALI)

Caricature of Anatoly Kuchumov with a wheelbarrow of books (TGALI)

Anatoly Kuchumov and colleagues at Pavlovsk Palace (Albina Vasiliava archive)

Victorious Soviet troops pose in front of the Berlin Reichstag, 1945 (Kaliningrad City Museum) 146 Gerhard Strauss (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Doodle of Anatoly Kuchumov searching for the Amber Room with a magnifying glass, 1949 (TGALI)

Doodle sent to Anatoly Kuchumov, depicting clues as to the postwar location of the Amber Room, 1949 (TGALI)

Friedrich Henkensiefken (MPR Productions) 165 Intelligence files of the Stasi, the East German secret police, bundled up ready for shredding, January 1990 (Die Bundesbeauftragte fiir die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdientes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik, Berlin, Germany - BStU)

Surrender of Konigsberg, April 1945 (Giinter Wermusch archive)

Bernsteinzimmer Report, by Paul Enke, 1986 (British Library, London)

Paul Enke, c.1960 (BStU)

The Stasi files (BStU)

Dr Ernst-Otto Count zu Solms Laubach (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Giinter Wermusch (Giinter Wermusch archive)

News footage of the trial of Erich Koch in Warsaw, 1959 (MPR Productions)

Art works stolen by the Nazis, hidden in German mines and found by American troops in April 1945 (Kali und Salz GmbH, Erlebnis Bergwerk Merkers, Thuringin, Germany)

George Stein (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Viktor Chebrikov, KGB chairman, with Erich Mielke, East Germany's Stasi chief, at Stasi headquarters, East Berlin, 1987 (BStU)

Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein reporting at the 1936 Munich Olympics (Falz-Fein archive, Liechtenstein)

Julian Semyonov (Falz-Fein archive, Liechtenstein)

Marion Donhoff (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Police photograph of the body of George Stein, 20 August 1987 (MPR Productions)

Pre-war Konigsberg (Konigsberg City Museum)

The 'Monster' (Catherine Scott-Clark)

The amber coastline of the Samland Peninsula (Catherine Scott-Clark)

Avenir Ovsianov, digging for the Amber Room in Kaliningrad Province, 1970s (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Kaliningrad Geological Archaeological Expedition team photograph (Avenir Ovsianov archive)

Anatoly Kuchumov reading in the mauve boudoir of Empress Alexandra, Alexander Palace, Pushkin, 1940 (Vica Plauda archive)

Dr Ivan Sautov, director of the Catherine Palace, signing the deal with German energy provider Ruhrgas AG executives to sponsor the reconstruction of the Amber Room. From left to right: Dr Ivan Sautov; Vladimir Yegorov, former Minister for Cultural Affairs of the Russian Federation; Mr Friedrich Spaeth, former Chairman of the Ruhrgas AG Executive Board and Dr H. C. Achim Middelschulte, Member of the Ruhrgas AG Executive Board.

Damaged Monighetti staircase, Catherine Palace, 1945

Insect in amber

Last surviving pieces of the Amber Room (Giinter Wermusch archive)

Acknowledgements

In the face of recalcitrant institutions, long journeys, sub-zero temperatures and many other excuses, a dedicated group of Russian curators, Red Army veterans, academics, friends and family kept us sane and helped us complete this book.

Galya and Kolya, Vova and Tanya in St Petersburg made a great contribution to our Russian work. They will not agree, or even like everything we have written, but despite this we hope we can still eat pickled mushrooms together. Vladimir Telemakov was endlessly generous with his writings, which have yet to find a publisher, and has a remarkable memory and passion for Russian culture. A friend in the Hermitage found us somewhere to stay and we apologize for being terrified by her apartment.

A close circle of curators in St Petersburg and Tsarskoye Selo, including Valeria Bilanina, Albina Vasiliava and Albina Alya, spent hours recounting anecdotes as well as searching out journals, books and addresses. Nadezda Voronova shared her family photos with us and told stories about her father, M. G. Voronov, and his close colleague Anatoly Kuchumov. Vica Plauda had wonderful memories of growing up with Kuchumov, her grandfather. Alexander Kedrinsky kept us rapt for several days, and although he will find it hard to agree with our conclusions, he may recognize the truth in them. Alex Guzanov tried hard to help us at Pavlovsk.

Valera Katsuba explained the subtext to our ongoing correspondence with the St Petersburg authorities, while Yura danced and baked fish. Catherine Phillips, a great Russian scholar, was always at the end of a phone with suggestions (and could sing all the male roles in Eugene Onegin). Dr Ivan Sautov, director of the Catherine Palace, prevented us using his archive but his refusal led to our finding a wealth of new material elsewhere. Stuart M. Gibson was endlessly optimistic and lent us his name on several occasions.

Avenir Ovsianov in Kaliningrad has spent three decades looking for lost treasure and has found many things, although not the Amber Room. He shared many of his files and memories with us. We have not met, but Konstantin Akinsha and Gregory Koslov are informative on the history of the trophy brigades, having opened up the subject. Susanne Massie, likewise, was a pioneer, as one of the first American writers to work inside the Soviet Union. She produced a poignant account of the life of the Leningrad palaces.

In Germany, Professor Wolfgang Eichwede invited us for coffee that became a dinner and eventually ended in breakfast. A great diplomat with a profound love for his field, Eichwede was a sound guide to Russian-German negotiations. Giinter Wermusch was always good company and even though we will never agree with each other it will always be a pleasure to listen to his well-argued theories. A friend in the German Foreign Office probably shouldn't be named but was an adviser and sporadic translator. Gerhard Ehlert works harder than anyone we know and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Stasi.

Rainer Schubert tells his story with passion and provided us with a vivid insight into prison life in the GDR. Friends on the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung provided background on the Stasi and party archives. Klaus Goldmann explained the backdrop to the 'Trojan Gold' debacle. Maurice Philip Remy in Munich was great company and has broken much new ground on many projects (including the Amber Room) that remain sensitive areas for most Germans. George Laue in Munich has written some interesting catalogues about amber. Helmut Seling in Munich was the first German to be allowed into the Kremlin's secret stores after the war. Tete Bottger tried very hard to offend but his heart was just not in it. Robert Stein agreed to meet us and then wished he hadn't, but we wish him luck. Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein was wonderful company and exactly what he appears to be, which is a rarity in any age. Stephan Strauss was extremely generous in agreeing to meet, although we may never agree about the role played by his father, Gerhard Strauss.

In Britain we owe thanks to Freddy and Kitty Liebreich. Freddy translated hundreds of pages of Stasi-talk and then translated hundreds more and came out of it no madder than when he began. Kitty tracked down maps and donated them to our research. Pamela Scott-Clark steered us through the history of amber. Dorothy Levy was always prepared to listen. In particular we owe thanks to our publisher, Toby Mundy at Atlantic Books, who believed in the project from the start. His skilful, blunt and energetic readings of all of the drafts of our manuscript have shaped it beyond recognition. Clara Farmer at Atlantic has also helped greatly. In the US, George Gibson, publisher at Walker & Company, has been a calming influence on the project and provided a depth of ideas that has added greatly to the finished manuscript.

Catherine Scott-Clark and Adrian Levy,

Chiang Mai, Thailand,

January 2004

Note on Transliteration.

Russian names are spelled in this book according to the standard Library of Congess system of transliteration, but common English spellings of well-known Russian names and placenames (for example, Tolstoy, Tsarskoye Selo) have been retained. To aid pronunciation, some Russian names (Grigorii and Vasilii, for example) have been changed (to Gregory and Vasily).

Dramatis Personae

Larissa Bardovskaya Head curator at the Catherine Palace in the St Petersburg suburb of Tsarskoye Selo, Bardovskaya was responsible for writing the official account of the mystery of the Amber Room for a summary catalogue published by the Russian Ministry of Culture in 1999.

Professor Alexander Brusov Professor of archaeology at the State Historical Museum in Moscow and brother of Valery, a famous Soviet modernist writer. Brusov led the first search for the Amber Room in May 1945 and reported that it had been destroyed.

Empress Catherine II of Russia German-born princess who seized control of the Russian throne in 1762. Catherine the Great restyled the Catherine Palace and vastly augmented the Amber Room. Visitors would describe it as the 'Eighth Wonder of the World'.

Professor Wolfgang Eichwede Director of the Research Centre for Eastern Europe at Bremen University. Wolfgang Eichwede mediates between Germany and Russia over the return of war artefacts stolen during the Second World War.

Empress Elizabeth Daughter of Peter I. Elizabeth became Empress of Russia in 1741 and within two years began supervising the construction of her father's Amber Room. In 1755 it was moved from St Petersburg to the Catherine Palace.

Paul Enke Stasi agent who used the code-name of Paul Kohler. Enke was a researcher at the GDR's State Archives Administration in Potsdam and began the Stasi's inquiry into the fate of the Amber Room. In 1986 he published Bernsteinzimmer Report, the most popular and influential book on the search.

Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein White Russian exile living in Liechtenstein. Von Falz-Fein bankrolled the search for the Amber Room in West Germany and returned looted art to Russia and the Ukraine, from where his family originated. Von Falz-Fein's 'Amber Room club' included Julian Semyonov, George Stein and Georges Simenon, the creator of Inspector Maigret, among its members.

Frederick I Crowned 'King in Prussia' in Konigsberg in 1701. Frederick realized the Hohenzollerns' aspirations of transforming Prussia into a monarchy and funded the creation of the Amber Room.

Frederick William I The Soldier King. Frederick William I was the son of Frederick I and ascended the throne in 1713. Uninterested in the Amber Room, which he considered too costly, he gave it to Tsar Peter I as part of a diplomatic treaty in 1716.

Uwe Geissler Stasi informer working inside the 'Kripo', the East German criminal police. Geissler was used by the Stasi to cross-examine potential eyewitnesses during the GDR's Amber Room inquiry. He investigated the top-secret source 'Rudi Ringel'.

Otto Grotewohl President of East Germany from 1949 to 1964. Grotewohl cemented ties with the Soviet Union at a time of great unrest in the Eastern bloc. He received from the Soviet Union millions of German cultural treasures looted by the Red Army during the Second World War.

Alexander Kedrinsky One of the Soviet Union's most famous architects and restorers, Kedrinsky led the project to rebuild the Amber Room in the Catherine Palace, which was unveiled on 31 May 2003.

Erich Koch The Reich's Commissar of the Ukraine and Gauleiter of East Prussia. Koch evacuated his private collection of looted art to Weimar in 1945. Later (while being held in prison in Poland) he hinted at having played a part in saving and concealing the Amber Room.

Anatoly Kuchumov One of the Soviet Union's most famous curators. Kuchumov headed the investigation in 1946 that established that the Amber Room had survived the war, having been concealed in an unknown hiding place by the Nazis. His 1989 book The Amber Room would become the second most famous publication on the subject.

Erich Mielke Minister for State Security. The head of the Stasi from 1957 to 1990, Mielke became obsessed with finding the Amber Room. He pumped millions in hard currency into 'Operation Puschkin', a special task force that excavated in the GDR throughout the 1980s.

Martin Mutschmann Gauleiter of Saxony, to where the Amber Room was apparently evacuated in the last months of the war. Mutschmann vanished in May 1945. It was claimed that he was abducted by the Red Army and taken back to the Soviet Union.

Our Friend the Professor Pseudonym of a Soviet academic who still lives and works in St Petersburg, without whose contacts we would never have found the Kuchumov archive or met many of the curator's contemporaries.

Avenir Ovsianov Former Red Army colonel who worked for the secret Soviet Kaliningrad Geological-Archaeological Expedition (KGA), which searched for the Amber Room during the 1970s. After the disintegration of the Soviet Union so many treasure hunters applied for permission to dig in Kaliningrad that the province formed the Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics. Ovsianov became its director.

Tsar Peter I Having become mesmerized by the Baltic amber trade while touring incognito in 1696, Peter the Great of Russia waited another twenty years before receiving the Amber Room as a gift. His craftsmen were unable to assemble it in St Petersburg.

(Rudi Ringely The code-name for a top-secret Stasi and KGB informer, 'Rudi Ringel' claimed that his father was an S S Sturmbannfiihrer and evacuated the Amber Room from Konigsberg Castle to a location known only by the call-sign BSCH, on the advice of Gauleiter Erich Koch.

Alfred Rohde Writer, curator, amber specialist and director of the Konigsberg Castle Museum. Rohde took charge of the Amber Room in the winter of 1941 and was responsible for it until it vanished in April 1945. Rohde vanished too, some months later, along with his wife.

Alfred Rosenberg Hitler's ideologue and the Minister for the Occupied Eastern Territories, whose organization, the Einsatzstab Reichleiter Rosenberg, was involved in the transport of the Amber Room to Konigsberg. It was also accused of evacuating the room out of the city in 1945.

Professor Dr Ivan Sautov A major figure in the St Petersburg cultural establishment and director of the Catherine Palace. Sautov oversaw the rebuilding of the Amber Room and presided over its opening on 31 May 2003.

Andreas Schliiter Sculptor to the Prussian court. Schliiter came up with the idea of a room panelled with amber in 1701. He lost his job before the project could be completed in Berlin.

Julian Semyonov Soviet writer whose creation was a spy named Maxim Stirlitz, the Eastern bloc's 'James Bond', who could speak almost every European language 'with the exception of Irish and Albanian'.

Semyonov spent two decades searching for the Amber Room and denying that he had any connections with the KGB.

Hans Seufert Oberst in the Stasi, Seufert was a career agent who supervised Erich Mielke's Amber Room investigation, 'Operation Puschkin'. Seufert was also agent Paul Enke's senior officer.

George Stein Strawberry farmer from the village of Stelle outside Hamburg and Germany's most famous amateur treasure hunter. Of East Prussian descent, he spent a quarter of century hunting for the Amber Room, only to die bloodily, having apparently uncovered evidence that it had been secretly shipped to America.

Jelena Storozhenko Head of the secret Soviet investigation into the fate of the Amber Room in 1970s and 1980s. Storozhenko led a team that worked under the cover of the Kaliningrad Geological-Archaeological Expedition (KGA), sometimes codenamed 'the Choral Society'. Storozhenko retired in 1984, disaffected after her operation was shut down.

Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss Influential art historian and professor at Humboldt University in East Berlin. Strauss was closely connected to the Soviet and East German state investigations into the Amber Room.

Vladimir Telemakov Journalist for a car workers' daily in Leningrad, Telemakov spent decades researching a biography of Anatoly Kuchumov that has yet to find a publisher.

Stanislav Tronchinsky A Pole by birth, Tronchinsaky worked as a senior cultural bureaucrat in Leningrad and also held a high-ranking position within the Leningrad Communist Party. He assisted Anatoly Kuchumov in his hunt for the Amber Room during the critical mission of 1946.

Paul Wandel GDR Minister for Education during the 1950s. Wandel was the person to whom Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss reported and was the inspiration behind the early searches in East Germany for the Amber Room.

Giinter Wermusch Editor at the former East German publishing house, Die Wirtshaft. Wermusch worked on Bernsteinzimmer Report, Paul Enke's influential book on the Amber Room.

Gottfried Wolfram Master craftsman to the Danish court. Wolfram, an ivory cutter by trade, travelled to Berlin in 1701 to work with Andreas Schliiter on the original Amber Room, only to see the project collapse twelve years later.

Field Marshal Georgy Zhukov Leader of the Red Army offensive against the Third Reich, as well as a key player in the battle for Berlin, Zhukov's subsequent military and political career in the Soviet Union was ended in 1946 by allegations of looting during the Second World War.

1. Konigsberg Castle, pre-April 1945

2. Kaliningrad, c.2004 (Historic names are shown in brackets.)

3. East Prussia, c.1945

4. Germany, c.2004

5. St Petersburg and environs, c.2004

6. USSR, post-1947

THE AMBER ROOM

Introduction

An urgent order arrived just after midday on 22 June 1941: pack up Leningrad. The Nazis had invaded the Soviet Union at 4 that morning without a declaration of war. So rapid was the advance that the Kremlin calculated Leningrad's southern gateway of Moskovsky Prospekt would be overrun within weeks.

But 22 June was a radiant Sunday, the first in what had been a lousy year. Weekend revellers strolled along the banks of the River Neva, popping bottles of sweet Soviet champagne, or headed out to the suburban estates of the former tsars, their hampers filled with herrings and pickled mushrooms. The scale of the crisis only filtered through the city by 6 p.m. Grinding across the Soviet Union was the greatest invasion force in history: 4 million German soldiers, 207 Wehrmacht divisions, 3,300 tanks.

Evacuate Leningrad's treasures. The order came from LenGorlsPolKom (the city's executive committee). Everyone was listening now. Collections from the city's palaces and museums had to be saved. But there were 2.5 million exhibits in the State Hermitage, and hundreds of thousands more in the Alexander, Catherine and Pavlovsk Palaces as well as the collections housed at Peterhof, Oranienbaum and Gatchina.

A curator at the Catherine Palace in the town of Pushkin scribbled in his diary: '22 June. Flown through the halls this evening, packing what we can.'

But there was too much work: '24 June. Comrades having nosebleeds from leaning over the packing crates. Run out of boxes and paper... Had to use the tsarinas' dress trunks and their clothes to wrap up our treasures.'1

And what should they do with the city's most unique treasure, an artefact that was often said to encompass old Russia's imperial might? At the centre of a chain of linked halls on the first floor of the Catherine Palace, where salon opened into salon, stood a gorgeous chamber made of amber, a substance that, at the time of its construction, was twelve times more valuable than gold.

The idea of panelling a room entirely in amber had first been mooted at the Prussian court in 170L. The resulting radical and complex construction came to symbolize the Age of Reason in which it was conceived. Tons of resin, the Gold of the North, had been fished in nuggets from the Baltic Sea, then heated, shaped and coloured before being slotted together on huge backing boards like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. When, sixty years later, the panels of the Amber Room were gifted to Russia, they were heralded by visitors to the court in St Petersburg as the 'Eighth Wonder of the World'. 'We have now reached one of the most remarkable rarities - I want to tell you about the Amber Room,' wrote a French novelist. 'Only in The Thousand and One Nights and in magic fairy tales, where the architecture of palaces is trusted to magicians, spirits and genies, can one read about rooms made of diamonds, rubies, jacinth and other jewels.'2

Even after the Revolution, when the estates of the tsars were transformed into Soviet museums, the Amber Room remained Leningrad's most popular exhibit.3 But by the summer of 1941, the installation of central heating had made the amber brittle and the Catherine Palace staff feared dismantling it. When, eight days after Germany invaded, the first Soviet train loaded with exhibits steamed out of Leningrad and east towards Siberia, the Amber Room was not on board.

The curators left behind had no more time to think about it. They were enlisted to bolster the town's defences. One wrote in her diary: 'We carry out the work of guards, office workers, cleaners. All walls are bare.' Apart from the walls of the Amber Room.

By the end of August, the Nazis had taken Mga, a railway terminal 10 miles south of Leningrad, isolating two million citizens who would not see the outside world for almost 900 days. It was now too late to evacuate anything else. By 1 September a Nazi perimeter bristling with munitions had fenced the city in. The British monitored the advance: '9 September. XVI Panzer Korps is moving to Leningrad.'

On 13 September the town of Pushkin came under fire. 'Koluft Panzer Group Four now in Detskoye Selo [Pushkin].' The following day, the attack came from above. 'Fliegerkorps have landed. Attack on Pushkin has been carried out. All bombs have landed in the target area.'

Inside the Catherine Palace, a handful of curators continued to work, attempting to safeguard what they could, scattering sand on the floors to protect the precious inlaid wood, packing all but the most cumbersome pieces of furniture into storerooms. But there was still one thing that no one had properly secured.

Couriers carried reports from Pushkin back to the city authorities in Leningrad. The last came on 17 September at 5 a.m.: 'The park and north of the town are battling hard. Everyone is moving to the west. We have even taken the typewriters. We will leave nothing for them.'

Apart from the Amber Room, which was hidden in the dark beneath another, plainer room constructed out of muslin and cotton. Rather than evacuate it, Catherine Palace staff had decided to conceal the delicate treasure in situ. The irreplaceable amber walls had been covered over with layers of cloth and padding. If the Nazis managed to force their way into the Catherine Palace, it was hoped they would be deceived into thinking that here was just another ordinary, empty room.

Within hours the palace was overrun. One German officer described how almost immediately crude signs were nailed to the gilded doors, listing them 'reserved for the Lst Company etc., etc. ...'4 Everywhere there were 'sleeping [German] soldiers with their muddy boots resting on the precious settees and chairs'. The Nazi advance had been exhaustingly rapid. Then a cheer went up and the German officer raced to see what his men had discovered. On the first floor, in a room in the middle of a long corridor, 'two privates in curiosity toiled in tearing protective... covers off [the walls]. They revealed wonderfully shining amber carvings, the frames of a mosaic picture.'

When Soviet curators returned to the Catherine Palace in March 1944 they entered through the buckled iron gates and across a courtyard strewn with barbed wire and Nazi graves. Up to the first-floor suite of rooms they climbed - not by the marble stairs, as they had been blown to smithereens - and discovered that where they had concealed the 'Eighth Wonder of the World' there was now just a void. The Amber Room had vanished. All the Nazis had left behind were bare boards and a tangled mystery.

In the Autumn of 2001 we pieced together this much of the story about the Amber Room using a handful of published sources and the declassified Enigma files at the Public Records Office in London, in which are recorded some of the 2,000 signals intercepted every day by the Ultra project that eavesdropped on German communications throughout the Second World War.5

Our curiosity about the fate of the Amber Room, then a subject of which we knew very little, had been roused by a stream of press releases and news stories coming out of Russia and Germany. In 1999, a German company had stepped in to help the Russians construct a replica of the original Amber Room with a gift of 3.5 million dollars. Now, one and a half years later, the project was almost complete and the stage was set for a grand unveiling.

The St Petersburg and Moscow authorities gushed about their new Amber Room, describing it as a memorial to everything the Soviet Union had lost in the Second World War. Publicity from the German sponsors extolled the rebuilding project as a symbol of the new Europe, without a Wall or Iron Curtain. The Kremlin announced it would invite forty heads of state and government to the opening, which was set to coincide with the three-hundredth anniversary of the founding of St Petersburg on 31 May 2003. The event was to be televised live from a specially constructed press centre that could house L,OOO journalists. The budget for the celebrations would run into billions of roubles. So much was being invested in the new Amber Room and yet no one seemed able to resolve the fate of the original masterpiece. It was now said to be worth more than 250 million dollars, a figure that made it the most valuable missing work of art in the world.

There are, we discovered, many different types of treasure hunters. Key 'Amber Room' into an Internet search engine or any online newspaper library and see over 800,000 entries pop up.

A group of salvage experts have for years been scouring the catacombs that run beneath the German city of Weimar in the belief that the Amber Room was secretly transferred to the Baltic city of Konigsberg and then on to Weimar by Nazi agents acting for the Gauleiter of East Prussia.

Divers regularly explore the rusting wreck of the Wilhelm Gustloff a German liner torpedoed on 31 January 1945 as it sailed from the Baltic port of Gotenhafen, north-west of Danzig. The liner was evacuating LO,582 wounded Germans away from Konigsberg and the advancing Soviet front. It was also said to be carrying the Amber Room.

Mining experts regularly congregate in western Saxony and Thuringia where the countryside is honeycombed with deep ore and potash pits in the belief that as the Nazis had used mines and caves to hide important art works, the Amber Room too had been secreted in the subterranean tunnels.

These different theories and their backers, a league of treasure hunters from Europe, the United States and Russia, have spawned thousands of potential leads and a dizzying world of conspiracy. As we write this, there are more than a dozen German digs under way, each underpinned by a different theory.

However, in Russia there is an information black hole. Almost every official directly connected to the original Amber Room is dead or missing. Political and economic conditions have led to their files, diaries and memorabilia being broken up, stolen, concealed and classified. Even after glasnost and perestroika, the most important Russian archives that might contain material on the official searches for the Amber Room are arcane. The museum authorities in Moscow and St Petersburg are awkward and often inhospitable (especially to those who come without offers of international funding or research exchanges).

We had no previous experience of working in Russia or the former Eastern bloc, but had for more than a decade earned a reputation for chasing difficult stories, researching out in the field and inside archives in America, Britain, China and India, for British newspapers and broadcasters. Russia seemed like the best place to start. It was vast, obstreperous and secretive. It was also therefore likely to be the place that had retained the most secrets, even if they were difficult to extract.

In December 2001 we flew to St Petersburg and made slow progress through official channels. However, friends from the former Leningrad University, experts at living creatively, suggested another, more lateral strategy. They helped us piece together a network of subordinate characters, Red Army veterans, old comrades, serving and retired museum curators. 0 ne knew another. An introduction led to a dinner invitation. Slowly - so slowly at times that we felt as if we were going nowhere at all - we reached back in time and unearthed the stories of those directly involved in the Amber Room mystery.

In dachas and apartments, on park benches and in faceless offices, memories came alive, loosened by vodka, sweet black tea and white beer. For every official file, diary or briefing paper said by archives and libraries to be missing or inaccessible, we found draft or duplicate documents stashed away in living rooms and in hallways. For every government album that had been emptied or was lost, we discovered framed photos above mantelpieces and in bedroom drawers.

Six decades of secret and often frantic searching for the Amber Room came alive, as did the extraordinary efforts of those who struggled to suppress the truth about its fate. Our first faltering weeks in Russia grew into a two-year investigation and finally, having travelled thousands of miles from St Petersburg to Moscow, London to Washington, and from Holland, through Germany to Liechtenstein and Austria, following a paper trail that took us into the parallel worlds of the KGB and the East German Stasi, we arrived in the beat-up Russian enclave of Kaliningrad and at the heart of an extraordinary cover-up.

It was here, in a dying city on the Baltic, as the winter began to thaw, that the final pieces of the Amber Room mystery came together and we were forced to confront the truth about a story that would challenge the way we perceive the Soviet Union and its place in the Cold War.

1

I am a complicated man,' he says through teeth that gleam like May Day medals. A little finger prods at the bridgework, poking the Soviet dental engineering back into shape. I committed fifty years to the Great Task - the reason why you are here. Correct?'

The old man's rolling Russian Rs clatter like falling pencils, reminding us that we have not yet explained why we are here, where we should not be, in the staff quarters of a palace museum on the outskirts of St Petersburg. We have barely recovered from getting in: squeezing between the guarded great gates crowned by double-headed eagles, tapping in a key code at an inconspicuous door, talking our way past a babushka huddled against the December freeze in five coats who, in her fur-lined hood, swayed like a cobra. Once inside we clanked up four flights of cast-iron stairs, past gargoyles with broken noses - casualties of war that have waited more than sixty years for restoration - until we found the old man sitting in silence in his vast studio, sporting a fine, red jersey. On the wall behind him hangs an intricate blueprint, a curious bird's-eye view, labelled: 'Imperial Prussian Study'.

Straight away he begins, a series of disconnected thoughts springing from thin, dry lips: I could have retired, like some I could name. But a man like me, whose work is of national importance, can never really retire. Then I had my second heart attack.' He accentuates the words as if reading from a public copy of the Leningradskaya Pravda, which the state once pasted to the notice-boards beside Ulitsa Nekrasova, where, we have been told, he used to sip bitter coffee in a Georgian cafe called Tblisi.

The old man ruffles a small hand over his white hair. I am a patriot. And yet here I am considering talking to you. Pah.' He grinds a filtertipped cigarette into a viscous beaker of coffee and glowers out of the window at the blizzard that tears across the parkland of the tsars. His baggy face is a map of broken capillaries.

The original design for the Amber Room, 1701

The Catherine Palace estate. Here, Peter the Great, who battled Sweden in 1702 to capture the region, built a simple manor that he presented to his fiancee, Catherine, to mark their engagement in 1708. Fifteen miles further north, his new model European capital of St Petersburg was also rising out of the mosquito-ridden delta of the River Neva. Today every statue in the frozen garden, planted more than 220 years ago, wears a jacket of wood and wire as protection against the gales that roar down from the Gulf of Finland.

Empress Elizabeth, Peter's daughter, inherited the manor in 1752, ordering her Italian architect, Bartolomeo Rastrelli, to transform it into a Baroque imperial summer residence. A 'wide, light-blue ribbon, a palace with snow-white columns', rose above the birch, maple and cherries.1 The exterior of the Catherine Palace was gilded with 220 pounds of gold and its interior was a jewelled chain of linked halls, salon opening into salon, white, then crimson, green and then amber, to create the golden enfilades.

Soon other palaces sprang up around it and the suburb became known as Tsarskoye Selo, the Tsar's Village. In the 1770S, the new Empress, Catherine the Great, ordered her Scottish architect, Charles Cameron, to remodel the Catherine Palace in a Classical style. It was here that she entertained her legion of lovers, the last being twenty-five-year-old Count Platon Zubov, whose name still graces the ground floor of the southern wing.

The adjacent hall, which we can see through the old comrade's window, became the Imperial Lyceum, a school that would in 1811 enrol the twelve-year-old Alexander Pushkin, who later immortalized the town: 'Whatever partings destiny may bring, whatever fortunes fate may have in hand, we're still the same; the world an alien thing, and Tsarskoye Selo our Fatherland.'2

The Catherine Palace

From the rooms of the Alexander Palace, behind us, Tsar Nicholas II unsuccessfully petitioned 'Cousin Bertie' in England for help before being taken to Ekaterinburg where his bloodline ended in a dank cellar. Below us, in the Great Courtyard, the Cossacks of Alexander Kerensky surrendered to the Russian people in October 1917 bringing down the Russian Provisional Government and handing power to Lenin and the Bolsheviks. At the first opportunity, the great-coated heroes of the Revolution flocked in to jockey for a peek at the decadent world of the aristocrats.

And here too, in 1952, arrived the old comrade before us, Alexander Alexandrevich Kedrinsky: one of the Soviet Union's most feted architects; fellow of the hallowed Russian Academy of Arts; winner of the Lenin Prize; his life's work commended by LenGorSoviet (the former city council); his achievements recognized by general secretaries, premiers and presidents - Brezhnev, Gorbachev, Chernomyrdin, Yeltsin and Putin.

But difficult as it has been to reach Kedrinsky (and there have been many meetings in London and St Petersburg since we began researching the Amber Room story in September 2001 and as many letters, faxes and phone calls to emigres and functionaries, distant voices lost in a storm of static), we have an even more delicate task ahead of us: telling Kedrinsky that it is not him we have come all this way to see.

We are searching for another elderly Russian curator who once cared for his country's most loved treasure: Anatoly Kuchumov, the Amber Room's last guardian and one of Comrade Kedrinsky's oldest colleagues. The men had worked together for more than forty years. But Kuchumov's telephone is disconnected and there is no one who remembers him at the state retirement home on the outskirts of Tsarskoye Selo.

Kedrinsky is distracted. 'There is a new order at the court, you know,' he says, rising to shut the door. 'Bardovskaya will cut off my head if I utter one word to you.' Bardovskaya? The name means nothing to us but we do not challenge him. Elderly cadre like Kedrinsky are sticklers for formality and instead we endure a long silence. It is stifling in his cavernous studio. The centralized heating system has yet to experience perestroika. Kedrinsky sharpens his pencil the old-fashioned way - with long assured strokes of a knife. Caviar tins of paint-wash that resemble various shades of snow-melt litter his desk, as do his holy triptych: a disposable lighter, an ashtray and a black and gold packet of Peter I, the city's newest cigarette brand.

Alexander Kedrinsky (far right) with colleagues from Leningrad's palaces after winning the Lenin Prize in 1986

'Blow Bardovskaya,' he suddenly announces. 'We shall proceed. I will tell you about the Great Task when you have learned something of me. My father. He was a real Russian hero - killed in the first war. My mother - she died too, shortly after I was born, in the year of the October Revolution. An extraordinary aunt raised me.'

Comrade Kedrinsky enjoys the value everyone places on his knowledge. The sights he must have seen as the party's restorer, one of only a handful of people allowed into every locked store. And there is no interrupting. No chance to ask about Anatoly Kuchumov, the last guardian of the Amber Room.

'My aunt had studied at the Sorbonne and spoke French. Met Toulouse-Lautrec and Modigliani. Arriving back in our city in 1919, she began teaching at the ballet school - just down the road. A strange time.'

We have already noticed how Russians talk about terror. It crops up obliquely; most times indistinctly and often inaudibly and in the form of omission - what was permitted rather than what was forbidden. Here in St Petersburg, a living museum of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, whose architecture was barely affected by the most momentous and bloodiest events of the twentieth century, long-suffering citizens are happy to dream that they too were untouched by it all.

It is 1919 The height of the Red Terror. A city reduced from 2.3 million to 720,000 by disease, poverty, panic and the Cheka. 'He who seeks to protect poor people will harden his heart against pity and will become cruel' was the motto of the All Russian Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counter Revolution and Sabotage (Cheka), formed in December 1917 in a srnall office minutes away from the city's Winter Palace. Peter the Great's metropolis of canals, town houses and ornamental gardens, conceived as part Amsterdam, part London, part Paris and part Venice, soon appeared damned. A character in Alexei Tolstoy's The Road to Calvary claimed to see the Devil himself riding in a horse-drawn droshky to the city's Vasilevsky Island. 'Ranks, honours, pensions, officers' epaulettes, the thirtieth letter of the alphabet, God, private property, and the right to live as one wished all were being cancelled,' Tolstoy would write.3

And what of Anatoly Kuchumov? Was Kuchumov also raised during the Red Terror?

'Kuchumov was a liar. Took the glory for things he didn't do,' Kedrinsky spits, jabbing his pencil into the blotter on his desk.

We are shocked. This is not what we expected to hear from a close colleague who had supposedly worked in Kuchumov's pocket for so many decades.

Kedrinsky rails: 'Kuchumov spent his childhood trailing through the mud banks of the Volga in bark shoes. At thirteen I was painting portraits of Lenin. And by the time I was seventeen I was filled with a passion for my country. I worked hard and won a place at the Leningrad Institute of Engineering. I could continue to paint and learn to be an architect, acquire the skills I would need for the Great Task.' His words chug like old locomotives, each one capped in small puffs of smoke drawn from cigarettes that he strokes fondly before putting to the flame. I studied under marvellous professors, Eberling and Zedenberg. I loved their classes. But we Russians do not always get to keep what we love.'

And Kuchumov? We are insistent. What of his education?

'Pah. Kuchumov. He had no formal education. His good taste went only as far as the fat cherubs and roses he ordered to be painted on to palace ceilings when they were restored. And yet the staff had to bow and scrape before him. Kuchumov became the tsar of the museum stores.'

We try another tack. What happened in the summer of 1941, we ask, when the Amber Room vanished from this palace?

I was not in Leningrad. I was in the southern Urals. Building mills and military factories,' the old comrade says, looking out of the window at the troikas skimming children over the whitened lawns.

We are beginning to wonder if we have made a mistake in coming to see this man.

But Kedrinsky presses on: I am writing a book about the Great Task. The manuscript is top secret.' These words are whispered. 'How we rebuilt the Motherland, restored our bombed-out palaces. Bardovskaya says I cannot die until I complete it. And the work must be ready for publication in May 2003.'

Bardovskaya. That name again. But before we can ask about her Comrade Kedrinsky produces from his schoolboy desk drawer a sheaf of Soviet-era paper, thin leaves that curl like ferns with the first touch of a warm hand.

'All of my research,' he says. Some pages are typed and others are filled with meticulous and tiny handwritten Cyrillic letters. Outside, the snow is falling in great folds, the windows creaking as ice crystals blind them. Kedrinsky reads: '"22 June, 1941. Summer was coming into its own. The fresh green foliage of the old parks, gardens and squares perfumed the air. From early morning orchestras were playing, bold and happy songs, full of energy and joy. Through the streets streamed a variegated crowd."'

But Kedrinsky said he wasn't in Leningrad in June 1941. Whose recollections are these, we ask?

He pauses and looks up over the thick black frames of his glasses. 'Your friend Anatoly Kuchumov's. His memories. He was here in that summer of 1941.' Where did Kedrinsky get Kuchumov's diary from, we ask?

'Pah. No matter,' he snaps. I must have access to everything for my book about the Great Task.' Kedrinsky pulls out dozens of papers: official Soviet reports, his own recollections and extracts from his colleagues' personal papers, material embossed with the stamp of the Catherine Palace archive. The pages in his hand are part memoir and part reference material.

Kedrinsky goes back to Kuchumov's diary entry for 22 June 1941:

In one flow the holiday crowd moved towards the palaces. There, old men rested on the lawn while young people danced to the music of the bayan. Others played volleyball and, in a constant stream, crowds flocked into the museum to see the work of those artists of genius - Rastrelli, Cameron. One group after another flowing as if on a conveyor belt through the golden enfilades.'

How passionate Kuchumov seemed about his Russia. His words don't sound like those of an uneducated man. He seems a very different character from the one presented by the dogmatic old comrade sitting before us.

Kedrinsky continues:

'Everything was as it had always been, then Klava, the supervisor, rushed into my study with the breathless news that Comrade Molotov [Vyacheslav Molotov, Stalin's Commissar of Foreign Affairs] was to go on air with an emergency announcement. I ran through the rooms to the palace colonnade, where there was a loudspeaker.

'A large crowd was already gathering, listening to Molotov's gruff voice, full of emotion, uttering simple, terrible words: "Men and women, citizens of the Soviet Union, the Soviet government and its head, Comrade Stalin, have instructed me to make the following announcement. At 4 a.m., without any declaration of war and without any claims being made on the Soviet Union, German troops attacked our country..."'

Zhitomir, Kaunas, Sevastopol and even Kiev, Mother of Rus, had been bombed in flagrant contravention of the German-Soviet non-aggression pact signed by Molotov and Hitler's Foreign Minister Joachim Ribbentrop on 23 August 1939. Now it fell to Molotov to rouse the Soviet people: '"The government calls upon you, men and women, citizens of the Soviet Union, to rally even more closely around the glorious Bolshevik Party, around the Soviet government and our leader, Comrade Stalin. Our cause is just. The enemy will be crushed. Victory will be ours."'

In his diary, Kuchumov recalled how he stood motionless: '"War. New trials. New disasters. The whole happy new life of summer vanished and in its place there was only trouble and the premonition of terrible grief."'

Kedrinsky straightens the research papers on his desk and turns to us: 'Kuchumov didn't have long to ponder the war, as within hours he had been ordered before Comrade Vladimir Ivanovich Ladukhin, the Director of the Catherine and Pavlovsk palaces, a party man. Instructions had come from Moscow. Everything of value in the city was to be evacuated: heavy machinery, factory equipment and the treasure of the tsars.'

It was a daunting task. The State Hermitage had millions of exhibits and there were thousands more in the palaces ringing Leningrad: Catherine, Alexander, Pavlovsk, Peterhof, Oranienbaum and Gatchina.

'There was not much time,' Kedrinsky says. 'Comrade Ladukhin assured Kuchumov that there was a plan and that he'd be all right if he stuck to it by the letter.' He sighs. 'Such a mistake. Kuchumov was just twenty-nine. The son of a carpenter, brought up in a log izba.'

Only nine years before, Kuchumov had been a peasant without qualifications or money. Somehow he had won a post as junior inventory clerk at the Leningrad palaces and, in less than a decade, risen to being chief curator of the Alexander Palace. He had been in the job for only two years when Ladukhin singled him out, instructing him to coordinate evacuating all the palaces of Tsarskoye Selo.

Why was such an important order from Moscow entrusted to a young and inexperienced curator, we ask?

Kedrinsky frowns. He hands us a photograph of a group of four people standing outside the Catherine Palace. 'Kuchumov, taken just before the war,' he says, pointing to the man on the right.

The young curator fits snugly into his double-breasted jacket, the broad white lapels of a weekend shirt spread carefully over it, hands clasped behind his back. A pair of circular rimmed glasses adorns his mousy, feminine features and an unruly forelock falls forward. A fountain pen is clipped in his breast pocket, signalling his recently acquired status as an intellectual. In the midst of the group is a woman. Who is she?

Anatoly Kuchumov (right) with Anna Mikhailovna, his wife, and others shortly before the Second World War

'The blue-eyed Anna Mikhailovna,' Kedrinsky says, wrinkling up his nose. He tells us that Anatoly Kuchumov and Anna Mikhailovna met at Leningrad Art Institute, where he attended night classes. She followed him to the Tsarskoye Selo to become a curator there, before they married in 1935.

'May I read on?' Kedrinsky asks sarcastically. 'According to Kuchumov's diary, on 22 June 1941 Comrade Ladukhin handed him an envelope.'Across the front was typed: 'Acts and instructions, only to be opened if war is proclaimed'. The sealed envelope had been kept in a safe by the city's security chief and the evacuation plan it contained was similar to one devised over a century before. In 1812 Russian curators had packed up and shipped out thousands of exhibits from the museums of St Petersburg and Moscow to remote storage depots in the east as Napoleon headed for the Russian border with specially trained 'trophy brigades', whose job it was to hunt down suitable art works for Paris.

Kedrinsky says 'But according to Kuchumov's diary, the list had been; drawn up in 1936 by two curators who had included only 2,076 treasures out of a possible 110,000 items from the Alexander Palace, the Catherine Palace and Pavlovsk. If Kuchumov were to follow these orders, then only 259 pieces would be saved from the Catherine Palace and only seven from his own museum. According to the papers before him, he was not to bother with the French furniture created by the famed Jacob brothers, the extraordinary clock collection, the tsar's famous arsenal of weapons. There was no mention of works by Fedot Shubin, the Russian sculptor, no examples of prized Chinese lacquerware, no paintings by Serov, Roerich or Markovsky, some of Russia's greatest artists. Incredibly, there was also no Amber Room. Instead, included were a plaster death mask of Voltaire, undated, unsigned paintings and an export-quality copy of an eighteenth-century Japanese dish.4

'No Amber Room! Kuchumov made some discreet inquiries and was relieved to learn that the 1936 lists had been judged to be inadequate as far back as 1939. New lists had been drawn up. But where were they? Kuchumov discovered that they had been lost by the Leningrad security chief himself. Who would dare challenge him?' Kuchumov would have to improvise. He would seek help from the senior staff, familiar with the collections. 'But by June 1941, many of the steadying hands, those with the old expertise, had vanished,' Kedrinsky says.

The assassination of Sergei Kirov, head of the Leningrad Communist Party, in December 1934 had been used by Stalin as an excuse to purge the Leninist old guard. Show trials, mass executions, the exile of millions, the peeling back of layers of the party, followed. And down swooped the Black Crows, agents acting for Nikolai Yezhov, Russia's new General Commissar of State Security, a limping, diminutive figure who had become the head of the NKVD, the successor to the Cheka, and created a whole new genre of violence that would come to be known as Yezhovshchina.The people of Leningrad called him Karlik, the Dwarf. Paranoia leached into every tenement as heavy boots clumped up limestone stairwells in pursuit of careless words; neighbours were betrayed over the washing line, sisters and brothers collided over a rash phrase. Sometimes a failure to confess, even if it were a lie, would still bring Karlik down on your own head. After the secret police executed her husband, Anna Akhmatova, the city's favourite poet, wrote:

In the west the earthly sun is still shining,
And the roofs of the cities gleam in its rays,
But here the white one already chalks crosses on the houses,
And summons the crows, and the crows come flying.5

Many of those who worked in Leningrad's cultural institutions were descended from the nobility (as they were the only ones who had had access to further education and travel) and they also came under scrutiny. The Black Crows flew through Leningrad's museums, whisking away so many curators that the NKVD holding centre spilled out into the corridors. 'It was very, very full and people were sleeping on the mattresses on the floor. I couldn't guess what I had been arrested for,' wrote curator Boris Piotrovksy, a future director of the Hermitage. I had to occupy a place under someone's bed.'6 Piotrovsky was released but twelve others were shot: Orientalists (possible double agents and/or Armenian nationalists), coin collectors (a Germanic passion), armament historians (obviously capable of rallying a mob) and anyone who had ever published abroad (disloyal/spy/saboteur).7

It was in the wake of Karlik's purges that relatively inexperienced curators like Kuchumov, young men from the working and peasant classes, rose quickly. But who from the old school was left to assist the country boy in June 1941?

Kedrinsky rustles in his desk. 'My manuscript,' he declares, slapping down a pile of papers. He reaches for a cigarette and pushes his fishbowl glasses back up the greasy bridge of his nose. '"All of the palace workers had been dismissed on 22 June apart from the most trusted, and that evening, after the crowds had departed, Kuchumov went with his team to the reserve halls of the Catherine Palace,"' Kedrinsky reads aloud. '"As he had been instructed, Kuchumov ripped the seals from the doors, placed there by the Commissariat of Internal Affairs. Inside he found piles of boxes and wadding, waterproof canvas and sawdust, with which to begin to pack the palace treasures."'

However, none of the boxes fitted the exhibits they were supposed to house and too few of them had been set aside. Just like the lists drawn up in 1936, this task had also been poorly carried out.

Kedrinsky sets aside his manuscript and shows us a party report written in 1941. 'It is necessary to make hundreds of new boxes,' an unnamed official stated. 'There is insufficient wadding. No packing materials. And the storeroom chosen for the sealed crates is flooded and too narrow.' And time spent remaking boxes and worrying over packing material would lead to rash decisions later.8

Kedrinsky begins to read another extract from Kuchumov's diary:

'June 22. Flown through the halls this evening, packing what we can.

'June 23. After we packed what was on the 1936 list I asked the director if we could pack more. "Do what you can," Comrade Ladukhin told me. And so we have done what we can. We never stop. We do not stop even at dawn. Few electric lights are needed; it is light all night. We will carry on working.

'June 24. Not stopped for forty-eight hours. Comrades having nosebleeds from leaning over the packing crates. Run out of boxes and paper. Cutting grass and using the fresh hay. Had to use the tsarinas' dress trunks and their clothes to wrap up our treasures.'

Curators pack up Leningrad's palaces after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941

Kedrinsky hands us a summary report submitted by Kuchumov to the NKVD:

'Vice-director (science), the directors of the palaces, and three museum workers, including a wallpaper hanger and two carpenters, have supervised the first stage of the evacuation. Miniatures, Gobelins, Sevres, Meissen, gold and silver, paintings and books, ivory. Passports have been made for every crate - inventories written up by palace scholars. To date more than 900 items are now in fifty-two boxes, each one sealed with black canvas.'

All were secretly taken to the Armoury, where each box was logged in by a member of the People's Commissar of Internal Acts. The entrance was sealed and a sentry posted.9

Kedrinsky lights another cigarette, lingering over the smoke. 'Listen to this, from Kuchumov's diary: "What should we do with Amber Room? What can we do? I sent for Comrade V. A. Alspector, the specialist from the palace restoration department, and gave him instructions to prepare the Amber Room for evacuation."' Kedrinsky savours the moment before reading on. '"Amber panels are to be tightly fastened with cigarette papers on a special glue solution."'

Since the eighteenth century the amber panels had been attached on to wooden backing boards and now would have to be pasted over with cigarette rolling papers to prevent the brittle resin from splintering when Kuchumov attempted to prise the amber free from the boards.

Kedrinsky hesitates and then continues: '"A trial moving of one of the panels has resulted in disaster. The amber facing has come off the mount and shattered completely. We cannot move the Amber Room. We dare not move it. What are we to do?"'

The old comrade rises from his desk, rifling through pages: 'References, references, archival references, all recorded by Anatoly Mikhailovich Kuchumov. That's all that's left - nothing more, nothing less - in this report.'

The Prussian sculptor Andreas Schliiter waited almost a lifetime to achieve greatness.10 He underwent years of training with some of the most distinguished master craftsmen of his time. Guild records show that he was apprenticed in Warsaw and in Danzig (now Gdansk) to amber and ivory cutters. But it was not until 1694, when he was over fifty years old, that Schliiter received a summons from the Hohenzollerns in Berlin to work at the court of Prussian Elector Frederick III.11

Schliiter's first creations were accomplished, formal pieces: a bronze of the Elector himself and a statue of the Elector's late father, Frederick William, sitting astride his horse. Frederick William had overhauled Prussia's financial systems, uniting fractious ducal states as part of his campaign to transform Prussia into a fully fledged kingdom. His son was now attempting to finish the job and to be recognized by European powers as a monarch in his own right.

Then in 1695 Andreas Schliiter had some luck. Arnold Nering, the Elector's Superintendent of Building, died unexpectedly and the sculptor was asked to participate in Frederick Ill's plans to transform Berlin into a city of parks and palaces more suited to a king. Schliiter began sculpting the exterior of the Zeughaus (Arsenal) and the Royal Palace.

The Elector's second wife, Sophie Charlotte (the great-grandaughter of James I of England), admired Schliiter's designs. Sophie Charlotte's marriage, arranged when she was sixteen, was largely a political affair and she withdrew from the bombastic Prussian court, investing her passion in dance and literature. Chamber music filled her time. 'It is a loyal friend,' she wrote to Agostino Steffani, director of the Hanover Opera. 'It does not let you down or deceive you; it is not a traitor and it is never cruel. No, it gives you all the charms and delights of heaven, whereas friends are indifferent or deceitful and loved ones ungrateful.'12

Sophie Charlotte wanted Berlin to ring with music and its drawing rooms to be nourished by intelligent conversation. Her palaces were to be intimate, divided into small but elaborate salons decorated with muted bronze and burnished gold. It was Charlottenburg, a maison de plaisance and the Prussian equivalent of Tsarskoye Selo, that was to be the expression of these ideas. In 1696 Sophie Charlotte asked Schliiter to begin working on the interior designs of the building.

However, in 1699 Johan Friedrich d'Eosander, a brilliant Swedish architect and Sophie Charlotte's favourite, returned to Berlin from study leave and took over the Charlottenburg project. Schliiter was so rankled at being usurped by a man twenty-five years his junior that he abandoned Charlottenburg and reverted to the Royal Palace renovations. He was determined to create something eye-catching, lavish and innovative - rooms embellished with luxurious and novel materials: rare minerals, wood and fabrics. However, the idea for the Royal Palace's most radical feature, the one that he hoped would outshine the work of Sophie Charlotte's favourite, would come to him only by accident.

Searching the cellar stores of the Royal Palace for raw materials, Schliiter found dozens of chests packed with nuggets of golden resin that he recognized from his days in Poland. It was East Prussian amber, scooped from the Baltic Sea, a substance whose trade was controlled by the Hohenzollerns. More than 40 million years ago this region had been part of Fennoscandia, a vast forest that stretched from the Norwegian coast to the Caspian Sea. For centuries this humid, coniferous jungle, teeming with reptile and insect life, exuded hundreds of millions of droplets of resin on to the heavy clay floor, trapping countless frozen moments: a fly touching down on to a branch, the brush of a lizard's skin against it. Then the landmasses separated, ice sheets froze and thawed, flooding the Baltic, creating seas and inland lagoons, fossilizing and scattering the Gold of the North, throwing it towards the spits of land that would later be home to the cities of Danzig, Konigsberg and Memel.13

Because of the primitive methods used to collect amber - it was fished from the Baltic Sea by men wielding giant nets - it was exorbitantly expensive and used almost exclusively to create small decorative or devotional objects like altar sets, cabinets and rosaries. However, in this cellar lay more amber than Schliiter had ever seen before.

Schliiter would have appreciated that Baltic amber had a particular resonance for Prussian aristocrats. In 168E the Great Elector Frederick William had used amber to forge diplomatic ties with Russia, sending Fedor III in Moscow a throne made from the resin that was proclaimed by the tsar to be 'the greatest curiosity in the world'. When reports reached Prussia the following year that Fedor was sick, Frederick William sent more amber to nine-year-old Grand Duke Peter, who spies told him was to be the tsar's successor. An amber mirror was dispatched, accompanied by a deal: access to strategic, unfrozen Baltic ports in exchange for Russia's support for Prussia's claim to a crown.14

In the cellar, Andreas Schliiter must have conceived his idea. There was enough amber here to panel an entire chamber. His plan crystallized on 18 January 1701, when Frederick was at last crowned 'King in Prussia' at Konigsberg Castle, with Queen Sophie Charlotte at his side, resplendent in amber jewellery. The monarch had consciously chosen the historic capital of his forefathers on the Baltic coast and crown jewels fished from the Baltic Sea. Schliiter immediately sent to Copenhagen for a carver.

Gottfried Wolfram, master craftsman to the Danish court, was an expert in fashioning ornate miniatures from ivory and was captivated by Schliiter's audacious idea. The workshops in Copenhagen were capable of producing only thirty amber pieces a year and all of them were small icons or jewellery.15 To manufacture an entire chamber would require hundreds of thousands of slivers that would, somehow, have to be laced together like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. New thinking was required. Gottfried Wolfram arrived in Berlin in April 1701 with a reference from King Frederick IV of Denmark.16 He would need to work quickly. Eosander's influence was growing. Sophie Charlotte wrote to her mother about the young architect on 3 May 1702, describing him as 'the oracle as regards all... building affairs'.17

Wolfram painstakingly fashioned palm-sized leaves of amber, gently heating them to a temperature of between 140°C and 200°C, using a new technique developed by Christian Porschin of the Konigsberg Guild, who was experimenting with manufacturing amber sunglasses.18 Any hotter and the amber would catch light and burn. The moulded pieces, dipped into heated water infused with honey, linseed and cognac, to give a subtle tincture to the resin, were set to harden on cooling racks before being polished and slotted into place on a paper scheme. Wolfram joined the pieces with gum refined from the acacia tree, the finished panels resembling stained-glass windows. Backed by feather-thin gold or silver leaves and wooden boards, these amber walls (comprising a dozen large panels twelve feet high, ten panels just over three feet high and twenty-four sections of amber skirting board) would come alive in candlelight.19

Construction went well, but soon the inspiration behind it fell sick. Sophie Charlotte contracted pneumonia during a journey to Hanover for the carnival of January 1705. 'Don't grieve for me, for I am about to satisfy my curiosity about things that even Leibniz was never able to explain - space, the infinite, being and nothingness - and for my husband, the King, I am about to provide a funeral-spectacle that will give him a new opportunity to display his pomposity and splendour!' she wrote, before succumbing to her condition on 1 February, aged thirty-seven.20

In 1707 Schliiter's career also suddenly expired when another piece of ambitious engineering, a 325-foot tower he had designed for the Berlin Mint, collapsed. An investigation concluded that he had mistakenly built the tower on a sandbank. The sixty-three-year-old was exiled from court. He made his way to Russia, where he would assist in the building of the new St Petersburg - on a marsh.21 In Berlin, court favourite Eosander took over the amber chamber project and dismissed master carver Gottfried Wolfram, accusing him of overcharging and lingering unnecessarily. In his place Ernst Schacht and Gottfried Turau, carvers from Danzig (the latter a master trained at the ancient Danzig Guild), were hired.

When Wolfram demanded compensation and refused to hand over the amber pieces, Eosander broke into his workshop and seized the partially completed frames, panels and lozenges. Wolfram hired a lawyer and sued Eosander, who in turn had him jailed.

When Wolfram was finally released he was exiled. His last and most passionate appeal to King Frederick I coincided with the death of the monarch on 25 February 1713. Frederick William I, who succeeded his father, had no time for the budget-draining frivolities of the salon or the prohibitively expensive amber chamber. The Soldier King was more interested in creating a military super-state than a folly that came attached to an irritating legal battle. Eosander was sacked, as were amber masters Schacht and Turau, who had been unable to solve Wolfram's cryptic amber puzzle that still lay in pieces, consigned to the cellars of the Zeughaus.22

Anatoly Kuchumov, the Soviet guardian of the Amber Room, had worked hard to compile this piece of German history. His notes, shown to us by Kedrinsky, reveal that five scholars assisted him through 1940 and 194 L (continuing their work even during the period of the Leningrad palace evacuations): an academic from the Union of Scientific Research and Restoration, one from the Hermitage, two from the Central State Historical Archive, including the head of the reading hall, and a Soviet student stationed abroad who scoured Germany for material to send home.23

Reading these notes, compiled in 1942, it is clear that Kuchumov was attempting to understand the mechanics used by Wolfram in constructing his amber panels. Kuchumov's references identified a cluster of files that recorded how, in 1716, Tsar Peter I set off for France via Germany, where he held an unscheduled meeting with Frederick William I, during which they discussed the Amber Room. Tsar Peter's court diary stated: 'In Habelberg their majesties saw each other and were together from 13 to 17 November, where they assured each other of their friendship and had some discussions for the use of both majesties.'24 Etiquette dictated an exchange of gifts and yet both monarchs were unprepared. Thrifty King Frederick William's first consideration was cost, a fact confirmed by a Russian spy working in his court:

The King has assigned 6,000 talers for the meeting. But the financial ministry has been told that they should use this money so that the King can satisfy the expenditure of travelling from Wesel to Memel [today Klaipeda in Lithuania]. He ordered that the Tsar should be especially well looked after in Berlin but stated that he would not give a pfennig more for this occasion. 'You must tell all the world around I have paid 30-40,000 talers for meeting Peter the Great,' he added.25

King Frederick William decided to present the tsar with two of his father's lavish commissions that were of no interest to him. One was a once-famous yacht Liburnika, and the Russian court diary showed that the tsar was delighted with it, unaware that it was in such a parlous state that his crew would nearly drown when sailing it from Hamburg. The Liburnika eventually limped into Copenhagen, where it was repaired, only to be refitted for a second time when it at last arrived in St Petersburg in 1718. (According to the court records, it was renamed the Corona and did not leave the Neva embankment until it was towed to the naval junkyard in 1741.26 )

The second money-saving idea was the Amber Room. King Frederick William had been told of Tsar Peter's love for amber. In 1696, one year after Peter I had come to the Russian throne, the twenty-four-year-old had embarked on a secret tour of Europe. Assuming the alias of 'Sergeant Petr Mikhailov', he had travelled the Swedish Baltic, Poland and Prussia. In Konigsberg, in East Prussia, 'Sergeant Petr Mikhailov' had been mesmerized by amber, assailed by the city's quacks, who touted it as a cure for everything from rheumatism, lung disease and toothache, to throat infections and the evil eye. 'Sergeant Petr Mikhailov' had even bought a copy of P. J. Hartmann's Succini Prussia, the authoritative amber treatise of the day.

Anatoly Kuchumov also rooted out an article written in 1877 by the head of the Moscow Archive of Foreign Affairs that confirmed how the unfinished amber chamber was dispatched to Peter the Great in 1716. A team of amber masters were hired by King Frederick William I to pack Wolfram's puzzle into eighteen crates that were each covered with flannel.27 They were then wrapped in straw and waxed waterproof cotton before being loaded on to eight carts that were to be maintained by an engineer and guarded by a watchman. The Russians appointed Count Alexander Golovkin, a close friend of the tsar, to oversee the operation.

The amber cargo set off for St Petersburg via Konigsberg, the capital of East Prussia. Such was the poor condition of the road that the carts had to be rebuilt. Leather was stitched around the crates as rain had destroyed the waxed cotton. The amber caravan's next destination was Memel. It arrived six weeks later, the convoy having travelled at a snail's pace to ensure that no further damage was caused by potholes. When the gift eventually reached St Petersburg the entire operation would have cost the miserly Prussian king only 205 talers.

When Kuchumov studied a file called 'Letters of the Russian Tsars', which was compiled in 1861 and lodged in the Hermitage library, he found several from Tsar Peter I to his wife. 'Dear Catherine, friend of my heart, hello to you,' Peter wrote from Habelberg on 17 November 1716. 'Concerning my visit: I want to tell you that it was useful. We will leave from here today and with God's help we will see you soon.' There was a postscript: 'The King gave me a rather big present in Potsdam, a yacht which is well decorated and the Amber Room, which I have dreamed of for a long time.'28

The tsar had nothing to give in return so he presented the Prussian kitchen with thirty-six ducats and gave a sable to the King's commandant. Later, a letter sent to the Prussian King from Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, revealed that Peter eventually thought of an appropriate gift:

The man who will give you the document, valet Tolstoy, will have the honour to present Your Majesty [with] fifty-fivegiants, that is how many I could find in my land up till now. I also want to give Your Majesty a barge built in St Petersburg and a lathe. Without doubt Your Majesty will be glad to have these small presents. PS We also send Your Majesty a goblet made by ourselves.'29

Kuchumov found the Soldier King's reply, sent in October 1718. Thanking his 'kindest brother and friend', Frederick William I wrote: I want to say that I have got the giants and also a goblet made by your own hands and also the barge built in St P. and the lathe which Your Majesty gave me as a present. It was a wonderful gift to me.'30

It took a considerable time to locate and dispatch to Prussia enough 'giant' Russian soldiers to adequately reward the Prussians for the gift of the Amber Room. In June 1720 Count Golovkin, now the Russian ambassador at the Prussian court, wrote to his tsar: 'Captain Chernishov came here with ten giant soldiers and passed on your orders, after which these soldiers were given as a present to his Majesty of Prussia.'31 Then, in 1724, yet more giants were sent, twenty-four of them, including one named in the records as Captain Bandemir.

The crates containing the panels of the Amber Room were delivered to Peter's Summer Palace on the Neva in mid-r 717 and received there by Governor General Alexander Menshikov. From the historical references sought by Kuchumov it is clear that he was pursuing a particular line of thought: whether Peter's court achieved what the Prussians could not. Kuchumov was attempting to discover how the Amber Room fitted together, information he was desperate to acquire in the summer of 1941 so that he could dismantle it before the Wehrmacht arrived.

Kuchumov would have been disappointed when he read what Governor General Alexander Menshikov wrote in his diary on 2 July 1717: 'Had a dinner for two hours and after dinner stayed in the rooms for an hour to look through the amber boxes that had arrived from Prussia.'32 However, what the governor found appalled him. He records in his diary that pieces were broken. Many were missing. Others crumbled in his hands. Three days later he wrote to Peter, then in Paris, and put a brave face on the disaster.

I have looked through this Amber Room which was sent for Your Majesty by the King of Prussia and placed it in the same crates in the big hall where the guests gathered and almost all the panels were in good order. Some small pieces fell out but some of them could be repaired with glue and even if some of them could not be, you could insert new pieces. I can honestly say it's the most magnificent thing I have ever seen.33

Did any assembly instructions accompany the room? Kuchumov searched in the Central State Document Archive and found a section called the 'Cabinet of Peter the Great' and within it 'The inventory of the Amber Room presented by His Majesty of Prussia to His Majesty of Russia'. But the document, dated Berlin, 13 January 1717, contained no advice on how to construct the Amber Room.34 Peter had intended the Amber Room to become his Kunstkammer, a walk-in cabinet of curiosities, an idea he had borrowed from Versailles. But there was no one in Russia who was capable of reassembling Wolfram's puzzle and Peter the Great's dream was stored in pieces at his Summer Palace until his death in 1725.35

Kedrinsky wipes a winter sweat from his forehead. 'By 24 June 1941 everyone was glued to the radio. Scouring the Leningradskaya Pravda. Reading and rereading Izvestiya. Even the smallest piece of information was better than nothing. But there was no comfort for poor old Leningrad.' As the Russians liked to say, there was no 'truth' in the News and no 'news' in the Truth.36

But then came some direction from the city authorities. Quoting Trotsky's instructions during the Civil War, citizens were ordered to begin transforming Leningrad into 'an enigma, a threat or a mortal danger'.

Kedrinsky recalls: 'Posters appealed for help to save the Motherland and work details were issued. Everyone fell in, we all began digging and building. Out in the countryside, even as the fascists neared, women and men built tank traps and trenches with their bare hands. For fifteen hours at a time. Barrage balloons blocked out the sun.'

Netting obscured monuments and statues. Catherine the Great's bronze horseman beside the River Neva became a pyramid of sandbags. Mountaineers scaled the golden pinnacle of the Peter Paul Cathedral on the opposite bank to throw camouflage over it. 'Instead of defending my diploma, I defended the city,' Kedrinsky says darkly. He was ordered to the far end of Moskovsky Prospekt with a transport of 'steel hedgehogs' that the Red Army hoped would slow the Nazi tank advance. 'On every roof we built anti-aircraft emplacements.'

And beyond, towards the palaces of Tsarskoye Selo and Pavlovsk, was a strangled strip of deserted dachas and allotments overlooking the city. They had been abandoned by everyone apart from Kuchumov and his hand-picked team, who were still packing the treasures of the tsars. They would be the first to feel the full force of the Nazi invasion whenever it came.

But what of the Amber Room, we ask?

Kedrinsky looks irritated to have been snapped back from his past. But he cannot leave the question unanswered. He is, after all, the oracle of the Catherine Palace. And so he slyly slides papers out from under his blotter. 'You must understand that this is material entrusted to me for my book, my history of the Great Task. These are the last words written by Kuchumov before we fought for our lives.'

He begins to read from Kuchumov's diary: '"An order came from LenGorlsPolKom. About the Amber Room. Instructions are to execute measures to conceal this unique treasure in its place rather than risk damage."'

Kuchumov's recommendation to abandon the evacuation of the Amber Room had been sanctioned. He was to hide it where it was, constructing another room on top of it. '"Wadding was delivered from the sewing factory along with sheets of gauze."' The amber panels were carefully covered in muslin cloth and then a layer of vatzim [cotton padding]. The entire room was then redecorated with hessian strips. Its inlaid parquet floor made from rare, coloured woods was strewn with sand. Water was placed inside every vase too large to be evacuated so that they might absorb a blast. The windows were criss-crossed with tape and then boarded up from the inside. The wall-mounted bronze candelabras were removed and placed in boxes, as were four Florentine stone mosaics that depicted the senses and were hooked on to the amber panels. Twelve chairs, three card tables, two chests of drawers, a spittoon and an icon were also left behind.

Kedrinsky looks up from the pages: 'Kuchumov could do no more and anyhow new orders came for him.' He continues reading from the diary.

Comrade Ladukhin told Kuchumov that he was no longer needed at the palaces. The young curator's thoughts must have turned immediately to the front, where tens of thousands of under-prepared young soldiers were marching almost unarmed towards the long guns of General Wilhelm von Leeb's highly trained Army Group North. But Anna Mikhailovna, Kuchumov's wife, was also ordered to pack her bags. Kuchumov records what happened next in his diary: '"Anatoly Mikhailovich, I am afraid that you are to leave Leningrad," Comrade Ladukhin told me. "You will accompany Leningrad's children, the first shipment of evacuees. You and your wife are to take the treasures with you to their hiding place."'

Kedrinsky pauses: 'They left that evening - 30 June 1941.'

According to his diary, Kuchumov made one last, frantic round of the palace, rushing through the empty halls and rooms, snipping and cutting strips of fabric as he went from the curtains and seat covers, from tablecloths and bedlinen - swatches that nestled in his jacket pocket, preserving in his mind the decorative scheme of the palace to which he was determined to return. And among the things he carried with him were twenty-eight fragments and shards that had dropped off the walls of a priceless, intriguing, infuriating Amber Room that now had the appearance of another, stuffed and packed, wallpapered and pasted.

Kedrinsky reads on:

'Commissar Ivanov was waiting for me at the station. We shook hands. I then stepped inside the goods carnage and bound the door shut with wire for our safety, lying down on the boxes, awaiting our departure.

'The strong shunt of the locomotive woke me. It was now dawn. 5 a.m. The sunlight dazzled. The morning was fine. I took my leave of my city and from the train it looked like an enormous green island in the middle of a plain. Golden domes of the palaces shining above it. When will we ever come home and what will be our future and what of those we leave behind?'

Locked into seventeen train carriages, 402 crates were bound for the Soviet interior alongside Anatoly Kuchumov and Anna Mikhailovna.

'And I remained behind,' Kedrinsky says. I climbed up on to a rooftop with my sniper's rifle. I was not allowed to flee Leningrad. Sitting in a steel bucket, I gripped the rim. Waiting. Waiting. Comrade Molotov ordered that the city improvise our defence of the Motherland and we followed his instructions. To. The. Letter. Filling bottles with petrol and a dry rag. Fire-bomb the Hitlerites. Waiting to bury them in our Soviet soil. And then, when my duty was served out on the rooftops, I was called to the front.

'Inside a bunker I went. Full to the brim with fear. Can you imagine, as the slaughter began, what the orders from Moscow were for me? "Paint," the generals said. I was ordered to be Artist to the Red Army. Comrade Stalin wanted posters for field hospitals and canteens of General Suvorov, the victor at Kinburn in 1787, leader of men across the Alps, to boost the morale of the men at the front. He also wanted paintings of Alexander Nevsky, our canonized Prince of Novgorod, who had halted the first great German invasion, 700 years ago. I painted Russian heroes and made a little history for our exhausted boys on the battle lines.'

The slamming of a door brings the old man out of his trance. Walking towards us is a wiry figure in a felt jacket whose mouth twitches suspiciously beneath a rusty ginger beard. He mutters into the old comrade's ear. Kedrinsky immediately stands up, swaps the woolly slippers he is wearing for outdoor shoes and throws on a great coat. 'My son says I have told you more than enough and I will get into trouble with Bardovskaya.'

What of the Great Task? We have come so far and surely we can go a little further, we say. What of Kuchumov? At least take us to Anatoly Kuchumov, the guardian of the Amber Room.

'That, my friends, is beyond even my considerable powers,' Kedrinsky says, as his son holds open the door. 'Kuchumov is dead.'

Kedrinsky rattles his desk drawer to check that it is locked. The man who rebuilt Leningrad stubs out a Peter I and shuffles off with his suspicious son. We follow a few paces behind, stepping out into the squall that has thrown a great billowing dustsheet over a frozen Tsarskoye Selo, obscuring all of our exits.

2

We have been in Russia for six weeks but our bell never rings. We live like rats in an Empire-style mansion block at the eastern end of St Petersburg's Nevsky Prospekt. The building's cast-iron front door is fastened with a combination lock: 279. Its tumblers grind like teeth and the door opens on to a gloomy stairwell. The hall light bulbs have been stolen but we can feel with our feet a sticky patch on the granite porch slab. A struck match reveals spots of blood carelessly left by the man on the fourth floor, a shipyard foreman who lost his job earlier this year and now comes out only at night to club stray animals on the landing.

Every day we climb three darkened flights of limestone stairs, reaching a steel shutter, which is the first door to our apartment. Behind it is another padded, wooden inner door. The gap between the two is just large enough for someone to be immured. There is nothing physically restraining us but we feel trapped in our flat around the corner from where the drunks fighting outside Hotel Oktobrsakaya are so blinded by vodka they can hardly see the old sign above them: Leningrad Hero City.

Occasionally the telephone rings. The socket is at the far end of the hall and we sprint to it, only for the caller to hang up. Outside in the city the libraries are closed. It is the end of January 2002 and the temperatures of minus 35°C have ruptured the pipes. No one seems to know what happened to Anatoly Kuchumov's private papers or (if there are any) the files on the Amber Room. The state, central, history, party and literature archives deny possessing anything connected to either and anyhow will not let us into the building until our applications have been cleared in an opaque process that has no real beginning and possibly no end. The city's chief archivists are said to be at their dachas beside Lake Ladoga, to the east, where housekeepers cheerfully tell us, 'No one's home.' And the director of the Catherine Palace has been trying to find a slot for us in his appointment diary for more than a month. So we sit and wait, trying to suppress the feeling that we are trapped like herrings in a Russian barrel, going over our notes from Kedrinsky, deciding on a strategy to break the deadlock, reading and rereading the history of Leningrad, hoping that we will not wake up on one of these cold mornings to find ourselves accused of a crime we did not commit.

There are at least nine Sovetskayas in an urban grid and we are renting in the seventh. Private ambulances touting for business in the new frantic free-for-all lurk on our street corner. Dozens of downpipes from the guttering high above randomly disgorge tubes of ice, the frozen projectiles hurtling towards the legs of unsuspecting pedestrians with such velocity that they can shatter bones. The road is buckled after decades of freeze and thaw and quickly becomes bogged down in a slick of brown snow, the detritus left by incontinent pit bull terriers dressed by their owners in canine combat jackets. And every afternoon on Sovetskaya 7, even when the cold becomes acidic, small boys scrub the salt off the new Mercedes parked along the kerb, polishing cars bought with murky wealth until their raw faces shine in the bodywork.

St Petersburg's residents have a favourite saying: 'Everything is forbidden but all things are possible.' It is an epigram loved by the flat-headed goons who waggle their guns outside the Golden Dolls erotic cabaret. And by the women with all-year-round Black Sea suntans who gorge on the new Japanese buffet at the exorbitant Tinkoff restaurant (a chopstick held in each hand with which to impale the sushi). For the people of Alexei Tolstoy's damned city, the motto describes a Russian confidence trick, the illusion of a transfer of power where one terrifying elite bows out to reformers who prove to be equally vindictive and greedy, people who will do anything for you only if you can name their price.

We call a friend of a friend, a retired professor from what was Leningrad University. She is said to be something of an expert at identifying potential sources. The archive of a patriot, particularly someone of Anatoly Kuchumov's standing, and a mystery of the calibre of the Amber Room are commodities of immeasurable value. A Soviet hero or legend doesn't die as much as evanesce - partly classified and mostly stolen. Therefore, even before Kuchumov was in the ground, many of those he considered his peers had, no doubt, begun salting away his papers, mementoes of his life and work, in the hope that at some time they could be cashed in.

Information is hard currency in post-Soviet Russia, a trend bolstered by Russian academics who are able for the first time to comb through the past and Western academics who pay handsomely for exclusive access to history that they crate up and export.

The professor suggests we meet at Kolobok (The Ginger-Bread Man), a canteen near Sovetskaya 7, where every lunchtime staff pinned into red pinafores serve up thousands of uniform platters of mutton khatlyeta and shuba, small cubes of salty fish dressed in a coat of beetroot and dill.

Is there such a thing as a Russian Who's Who, we ask the professor as she munches and we calculate how to reach Kuchumov's contemporaries? 'Very funny,' she says. 'Whose business was it to know who's who? We learned to suppress our curiosity.'

How should we proceed, we ask?

'Do nothing,' she says. This weekend our friend will visit her dacha outside St Petersburg, populated by artists and museum curators. She will poke around. See what turns up.

Do nothing. We walk back to our apartment that straddles the new and old worlds. One half (kitchen and bathroom) has been renovated with pearlescent wallpaper, heated floors and mirror tiles, while the other (bedroom, dining room and living room) is gnarled boards and greasy plaster. A long-forgotten dog leash hangs by the door. A tuneless upright piano with its Empire candelabras stands in the living room. Photographs of another family: children, a picnic, a tryst beside a lake. A cabinet of crystal - belonging to whom? - tinkles as the icy wind in the courtyard plucks at the windows. These are the remnants of people we don't know and yet they live among us, former residents of Sovetskaya 7, spectres that we often sense but never meet, like everything else in our Russian life: Anatoly Kuchumov and his most important charge, the missing Amber Room.

The phone rings and we rush to it. We have placed it halfway down the hall, stretched to the very end of its cable. This time we manage to whip off the handset. The caller hangs up.

Lying fitfully in someone else's bed, we wonder if it was the director's office at the Catherine Palace. We will check with them in the morning.

First light on a winter's day, worn and dreary like hospital laundry. Our fax machine creaks into life: 'Appointment confirmed with Dr Ivan Petrovich Sautov, Director, Catherine Palace, LO a. m. 2 February 2002.' Tomorrow.

We are delighted and nervous. There are so many stories about Dr Sautov's flamboyance in this city that it is just conceivable he started some of them himself. One of his former colleagues, forced out of the Catherine Palace, likes to call him the Tsar. It is said that on his fiftieth birthday he lined the long road to Tsarskoye Selo with pageboys bearing cups of vodka. His colleagues may have been flabbergasted but surely they would also have been awed, which we presume would have been the effect that Sautov wanted to achieve.1

Attached to our invitation to meet the Director are his credentials: Ivan Petrovich, fifty-five, born into a military family in Tallinn, Estonia, graduate of the prestigious Leningrad Institute of Engineering, where Alexander Kedrinsky's studies were brought to an abrupt halt. For thirteen years Sautov served as head of the State Inspection of Landmark Preservation. In 1987 he was promoted after being unanimously proposed to the post of director of Catherine Palace, at the Tsarskoye Selo. The word 'unanimously' is underlined. He took up his position while Kuchumov was still a senior consultant there, which means that he should know what happened to the great curator's personal papers.

It is an impressive CV: Winner of a gold National Achievement medal in 1984; awarded the Order of Friendship by President Yeltsin in 1997; presented with the Russian State Federation Award and the Order of St Daniel. 'Dr Sautov's innovative work and everyday heroism is [sic] devoted to the eternal purpose of preserving Russia's culture for future generations,' the CV concludes. What do we have to offer the Tsar?2

We are not good at doing nothing. We need to think and to plan and after all to celebrate away from the gloom of Sovetskaya 7, out in the satin light of the wintering Gulf of Finland. We take the Nevsko-Vasileostrovskaya Metro, the green line, and thirty minutes later emerge at Primorskaya, where apartments pile on top of one another. Navy veterans in ragged blue-and-white-striped sweaters dive into the gutters as if they are swallows at dusk trapping flies. Couples roll in and out of each other's arms, waltzing in Primorskaya's frozen fug of alcohol. Beyond, we can finally smell the wide-open Baltic blasted by gulf winds that are as sharp as cut glass.

As the last daylight slips away, an umbilicus of lights reaches around the sandy coast inside hundreds of plastic marquees and faux-wood izbas. Outside, the shallows begin to freeze. Some girls beckon us over. 'Come on, drink, our friend is pregnant.' Plastic cups are pressed into our hands at this improvised baby shower, all of us toasting in Baltika beer the good fortune that has brought strangers together to get drunk by the sea. We are pulled into an izba where a boy plays the squeeze-box and we all sing along to songs that we have never heard before. 'Dance, Andre, dance,' the darker-haired girl cries, spinning faster and faster.

The beer is replaced with Russki Standard vodka so we can seriously celebrate the conception of a child whose parents we have yet to meet. One measure of vodka, the Russians believe, is medicinal. The second is sweet but slightly vulgar, passing the time before the decisive third shot, the no-going-back slug that unlocks lust and buries sobriety in a deep trench. And soon enough we can taste nothing but the air that we are gulping and all we can see is the cabin door opening and all we can smell is the Baltic and all we can feel is the gritty Russian sand.

The Catherine Palace is muffled by snow as our marshrutki pulls up. We jump down from the shared minibus-taxi and into the soft, white powder, away from our brooding fellow passengers, who have been staring at our drawn faces as if we are the dead. The metro trip to the marshrutki stop at the end of Moskovsky Prospekt was equally appalling, pickled in a gaseous train carriage of early-morning boozers, the whole journey spent crushed against an advertisement for Molotov Cocktails ('a revolutionary new bottled drink') while four pickpockets from Mongolia clumsily fumbled at our bags.

We cannot face Dr Sautov yet and so at the public entrance to the Catherine Palace, we pay our roubles, slip tapochkis - cobalt-blue plastic-bag slippers - over our snow-damp shoes and follow the crowds up the Monighetti staircase, past Brodzsky's marble Sleeping Cupid and through the gilded doors, salon opening on to salon until we reach what resembles a half-finished stage set, one side alight with candelabras, gilded cherubs and a mosaic of amber lozenges and the other, bare plyboard, stepladders and plastic sheeting. Packs of tour groups file through, gasping - French, German and Russian: 'La chambre d'ambre\ 'Bernsteinzimmef and 'Yantarny komnata\ Dr Sautov's craftsmen are constructing a replica of the Amber Room and even though it is difficult to see Andreas Schliiter's vision in this building site yet, it enthrals in any language.

We feel better and head for the staff department. Outside Dr Sautov's office a group of naval officers is bidding him farewell with bear hugs and cheek kisses, the brims of their hats rising like sails. Ushered into the Director's office, we stand to attention before an expanse of polished wood. Dr Sautov can see that we can see the line of photographs of him taken with Presidents Putin and Clinton and Queen Elizabeth II.

The Director wears a glossy Italian suit. His fountain pen, with which he now tap-tap-taps on his desk, has an amber clasp. Behind his huge face, with its well-tended salt-and-pepper moustache, is a drawing, the same plan for an imperial Prussian study that we saw in Kedrinsky's office and that we now know is Andreas Schliiter's eighteenth-century blueprint for the original amber chamber. A smiling woman in her sixties sits at the other end of the office with a pansticked face framed by a 'Zsa Zsa' of platinum hair.

'Welcome to the Catherine Palace,' Dr Sautov intones. 'May I introduce Larissa Bardovskaya, our head curator?'

Bardovskaya. The woman whom Kedrinsky mentioned. Someone he evidently feared. How much do Bardovskaya and the Director know about our unauthorized meeting with Kedrinsky? The Director tap-tap- taps with his amber-clasped pen on the desk again, calling the room to order.

We launch our introductory speech - a rickety vessel that takes on a little water: no one is better placed to help us learn about Anatoly Kuchumov and the Amber Room than Dr Sautov, the book we intend to write will be a wonderful platform for his museum. Sautov interrupts with a speech of his own. 'Understanding amber is the key to everything,' he says. Tap-tap-tap with that pen on his pate. His fuggish study is beginning to send us to sleep. 'The prehistoric residue carries a small static charge and that is why in Russia we use amber for therapies. Every year I go to Svetlogorsk and take off all my clothes to roll in Baltic amber.'

We stifle an urge to laugh at the thought of his fleshy body rolling around in granulated amber and distract ourselves by thinking of dour Svetlogorsk. During Soviet times party officials built palatial dachas here, a seaside town on the Samland Peninsula, at the source of the Gold of the North. They would arrive by the shores of the Baltic in fleets of blacked-out Zil sedans to imbibe tea while their mistresses rubbed them down with amber resin.

Dr Sautov nods at Bardovskaya and then says to her, 'What is it that they want from me?' We notice for the first time his huge hands, like baseball mitts, clasped upon his desk. 'What experience do they have? What is their specialism?' He turns to us. 'Have you ever worked with museum staff before? Do you understand the nature of archives?'

All of these are apposite questions although the tone of the meeting is noticeably chilly. We perform a brief resume. Reasonable people. Can take instruction. Will cooperate.

Tap-tappity-tap with the amber-clasped pen. I don't think we understand each other,' Dr Sautov says, sipping his tea.

Poached in vodka on the Gulf of Finland, parched in this humid study, we too would love a glass of tea, but we press on with our dry lips cracking, explaining about this book.

The Director bangs his fists on the table in irritation and Bardovskaya intervenes: 'What information do you require?'

Has the vodka made us foolish? We don't know what we want until we know what he has.

Bardovskaya leans towards us: 'What does the Catherine Palace get?'

Sautov booms, 'Ours is not a charitable enterprise. Why should you make money from what we know? Precious knowledge. Expensive knowledge., There will have to be a contract.'

Bardovskaya has been doodling a clutch of 2s on her notepad and now interrupts: 'The second day of the second month in the second year of a new millennium is a very unlucky day for making deals.'

The Director ignores her. 'A binding legal document. I am used to dealing with things in a professional manner.'

Bardovskaya draws closer. 'Everyone has to sign a contract. Steven Spielberg signed and paid half a million to hire the mirrored ballroom. True. Elton John threw a party and he signed for 250,000 dollars. It doesn't have to be money.' She smiles. 'A film crew from Hollywood provided the staff department with air conditioning units. One publisher donated L,OOO free copies of its book. The whole world deals with us. Anyone with information comes here, to Dr Sautov, and so we know better than anyone the cost of trying to find the Amber Room,' Bardovskaya says, pulling a buff envelope out of her handbag.

She flourishes pages on which are collages of black-bordered memorial cards, photographs, identity cards, all of them with RIP scrawled across. And on one page are grainy photographs of crime scenes, houses recently ripped apart by gas explosions, car crashes, a body lying under fallen beech leaves.

Are these incidents related to the search for the Amber Room, we ask?

'It is confidential material,' she snaps, putting the papers back into her handbag. 'It was posted to us from Berlin after we held an exhibition there: Mythos Bernsteinzimmer, and is not for publication.'

Director Sautov leans over his desk and whispers, I will get forty heads of state here, in May 2003.' He flexes his huge hands and we nod even though we have no idea what he is talking about. 'And I will lead them into my newly restored Amber Room. Have you seen it? It's your last chance.' He stands up to walk an idea around the humid office. 'I intend to cover up the half-built reconstruction until it is ready. Yes, cover it up in, let us say, in a couple of days' time.' Bardovskaya nods vigorously. 'And then in May 2003, on the three-hundredth anniversary of the founding of our great city, I will throw back the curtains and show the world the miracle we have re-created. Can you see it?' We are afraid we can, and it doesn't bode well for our book. 'We have a master architect who has studied the old ways, a veteran who has learned how the original chamber was pieced together. But of course you know that as you have talked to Alexander Kedrinsky already.' So they know about our meeting.

Sautov continues: 'Alexander Kedrinsky is writing a special catalogue about our tragic loss and the Great Task. How we have put the pieces back together again. And obviously you are writing just another book and it should not, cannot, compete with ours.' The Director is now standing at his desk and someone has opened the office door from the outside.

But just as we fear that Sautov has decided against helping us, the Director changes his tone. 'Fax me today with what you want and Bardovskaya will calculate what what you want is worth.'

But we still do not know what your archive possesses, we say.

Bardovskaya grins. 'Make a deal,' she squawks. 'We'll work out a contract. Everybody has to pay. Isn't that so? Only nothing comes from nothing. An old English proverb, I believe.'

The Director has his 'farewell' smile fixed in place. 'Fax me,' he says. 'A member of staff will have to be appointed to supervise your work.' And the closing door muffles these last words as all the while we have been seamlessly manoeuvred backwards into the antechamber.

A whistle-stop tour has been arranged for us of the Director's amber workshop and we are pointed at an unmarked iron door, only ten paces through the snow from his office. Inside is a furnace of activity, with fifty-two workmen, former miners, stonecutters and welders, feverishly drilling, sanding and buffing, filling the air with a sweet-tasting powder. 'Dobry.' A podgy hand wiped on an overall is proffered. Boris Igdalov, head of the amber workshop, introduces himself and from the tone of his voice it is evident that we are not the first foreigners to be handed on to him.

Wearily Igdalov begins his routine. 'Reconstructing the Amber Room is a lifetime's work.' He mops his brow with a rag. 'Almost twenty years and it's still not finished.' He guides us through the workshop. 'We boil the amber in different oils.' Pots bubble and flasks steam. 'The amber can be subtly infused with herbs, grasses and even cherry stones. But,' he says, pulling us into another room, 'all of them are trade secrets.'

The amber workshop at the Catherine Palace

He stops beside a man slotting slivers of amber into a tray, who looks up and laughs when he sees that yet more guests have been foisted on to his patient boss. I was a military shipyard foreman before glasnost,' the craftsman chimes, having been coached on foreigners' expectations. 'From party man to artisan.'

Boris Igdalov marches on and we enter the raw amber store, which is filled with muddy-looking pebbles and barley-sugar hunks. 'All of it comes from Kaliningrad.' The reconstruction will absorb six tons of Baltic amber. 'Most of it was confiscated from foreign traders. We can't afford to buy it. In 1997 Viktor Chernomyrdin [then Russia's Prime Minister] gave us several tons and more recently the customs authority in Kaliningrad gave us more, taken from a Japanese businessman.' Igdalov marches to his office and continues the lecture on the move. 'Still not enough.'

We are now in a draughty hallway.

'In 1999 we ground to a halt and if it had not been for a German company, Ruhrgas AG, who agreed to sponsor us, then our new Amber Room would never be finished,' he says, once again offering us his hand after wiping it on his overalls. We have arrived back at the heavy iron door and are once again out in the snow.

Although barely perceptible, there is a small chink opening at the Catherine Palace. That evening, we fax a comprehensive list detailing the research we are eager to begin. We have hazarded a guess at what might be in the Catherine Palace archive.

Later, Our Friend the Professor calls, but she is strangely quiet as we regale her with stories of how we charmed Dr Sautov into considering our requests.

I too am happy,' she says finally, in a clipped voice. Her weekend at the dacha has flushed out one of Kuchumov's contemporaries who knew him intimately but did not achieve his greatness. We have to come now, she says. He is an old man.

Ozerki - the penultimate stop on the Moskovsko-Petrogradskaya line, on the wafer-thin edge of the city. By the time we emerge from the metro, darkness has once again rolled over St Petersburg. There is fresh snow on the ground and it bathes the suburb in a cool blue light. We soon find the apartment, a concrete block from the 1970S containing small hutches that tenants have humanized with varnished spruce front doors. Up eight flights, we press a bell that tolls 'The Volga Boatmen'. The door opens just enough for a pair of glacial eyes to peep out. A face then creases into a broad smile. 'Welcome, welcome. Please.' He points inside to a large reed mat upon which stand his grey felt snow boots and several pairs of slippers. I am Vladimir Telemakov.' A petrol-blue tie, a navy V-neck, beneath a crumpled nylon suit jacket. He has dressed for the occasion. We wish we had too.

There is sweet tea and black bread. A large folder sits on his desk. There are herrings and pickled mushrooms. He picked them in the summer from the pine forests beside Lake Ladoga. He places his hands around the pastel-green file. There is small thimble of sweet Georgian wine that he has been saving for many, many months. 'You know, I am a journalist too,' he says, strumming the elastic that binds his papers together. We tell him that we know absolutely nothing.

Telemakov is lean. Everything about him is spare. His clothing and his sentences. His complexion suggests moderation. He tells us he graduated in journalism from the elite Leningrad University as a star student at the age of twenty-two. The state sent their prodigy to Sakhalin Island. Where's that, we ask? I too had no idea.' He pulls out a map and draws his finger as far to the east as it can go across a great pink atlas of the Soviet Union until we are almost in Sapporo, Japan. Sakhalin was the wild new frontier, a former tsarist penal colony where Anton Chekhov came to research a book on the life of a convict, a distant land between the Tatar Strait and the Sea of Okhotsk that took ten days to reach by ship, bus and plane. 'For three years I reported in Sakhalin City. Not much news.' It was, though, an evocative location for those who wished to affirm the sheer breadth of their Motherland.

Vladimir Telemakov

'And then finally I got a telegram.' Telemakov was recalled to Leningrad. He hoped for a national bureau posting, maybe Pravda or Izvestiya. T was posted to a workers' newspaper published by a factory that made car parts. There I stayed for thirty-three years. It could have been worse. As the Poles are fond of saying, when I sank to the very bottom, someone knocked from below.'

Telemakov worked diligently, but on Sundays he satisfied his real passion by catching a train from Vitebsk Station to the palaces of Pavlovsk and Pushkin, as Tsarskoye Selo was renamed in 1937. 'One day I caught sight of a man in the carriage. Slightly stout. Round glasses. His jacket frayed. A fountain pen in his breast pocket. He was reading and so I introduced myself. Told him I wanted to write about art. Everyone knew Anatoly Kuchumov. I was afraid that such an important man would not talk to me. But I told him I wanted better things than the car plant and he said I could join him on his journeys . If I could find the time. We would talk about art and the Great Patriotic War.'

Each Sunday, the journalist for the car workers' daily stole a few hours, hopping on the train to Pushkin at dawn, talking to Kuchumov about the Leningrad palaces. 'And cautiously, Kuchumov began to open up. Eventually, after many months, he talked to me about important things. He was flattered by my interest in him, I think. He started to relax and even lent me documents to study. Some were official reports. Others were letters sent to him during the war. Over eight years he acted as a referee, recommending me to others, museum workers, and I made notes from their diaries and their correspondence too. I made copies of everything. I was meticulous. Kuchumov knew what I was doing. He rather liked the idea of having a biographer... And of course I could be trusted. I was one of them.'

One of them? Before we can ask what he means, Telemakov reaches into the green file before him and produces a thick bundle of paper. 'I wanted to publish this as a book, a tribute to Anatoly Mikhailovich. But for three decades I have been unable to.' He opens the folder hesitantly. 'Some of it is in English,' he says. 'The kind of English spoken by spies. The only people who could speak your language were the KGB. Its office at the car factory was curious about my endeavours concerning one of the city's most famous curators. So I took the manuscript to them.' He pushes the papers back into the file.

Can we see it?

Telemakov rises shakily from his seat and begins to pack up. 'It's my work. I want to publish it.' He sees the look of disappointment on our faces. 'But then again you are fellow journalists. Maybe. Can you help me? If you can, I will help you. Take these papers. Go. But come round again when you have got to the end. Please come. And help me.'

We take Telemakov's pages and head for Sovetskaya 7. Doing as the Russians do, we shunt everyone out the way in the scrum that greets the opening metro door, and dash for a space on the turquoise plastic benches. Up the escalator at Ploshchad Vosstania, plucking the elastic binding. Down Grechesky Prospekt and towards the Baltic hot bread shop in the right-angled speed-skating posture that all citizens assume to avoid being upended on the iced pavement.

At last we are at our pine breakfast table, reading. The manuscript begins with a dedication to Telemakov written by Professor Boris Piotrovsky, the director of St Petersburg's State Hermitage museum and today the most powerful cultural figure in Russia. I am sure that anyone taking this manuscript in their hands will read from the beginning to the end with great interest... [Telemakov] uses archives, literature and Kuchumov's own words and truthful diary records to tell a brilliant story about the self-sacrifice of our museum workers who risked their lives to save our treasures.'3

We turn a page and before us is an extract from the great curator's diary that picks up where Alexander Kedrinsky left off: 30 June 1941 - Anatoly Kuchumov is on the treasure train from Leningrad.

We have come to a halt. Hours of waiting in the snow. Exposed to attack from above and each side. But nothing can be done until the Red Army has cleared the track.

I ran along the track and saw two women in another carriage washing each other's faces with snow. Then I saw a big bronze bust of Marie Antoinette. The haughty face of this Queen seemed out of place here. I glanced inside the carriage and there were dozens of paintings, none of them were even covered, thrown on to the benches. I was furious at the lack of care.

But Kuchumov learned that the women were curators who had fled from Smolensk, where they had been given even less time than he had to evacuate their city's museums. He wrote: 'They told me that the bombing of Smolensk was devastating. The fascists just descended. Some were disguised as Soviet militiamen and Red Army soldiers. The trucks carrying these museum treasures had departed the ruins of the Smolensk as the Nazis poured into the streets. What is happening back in Leningrad?'

Kuchumov was fearful not only for his own comrades but also for the Amber Room that he had left behind. I thought of the Catherine Palace and those things I failed to pack and then I imagined vividly the tragedy of many Soviet towns, falling victim to the Nazis,' he wrote.

It still seemed surreal to Kuchumov as he had not yet seen any evidence of war. Passing through the heart of the Motherland, the curator watched Vladimir-on-the-Klyazma slip by, founded by the Grand Prince of Kiev, twice sacked by the Mongols although its citizens, famously, were never crushed. According to Kuchumov's diary, its golden domes were untouched: 'It smelled like something native. Something very Russian. Eight hundred years of our great history rushed involuntarily into my head.'

Then, on 5 July 1941, Kuchumov's train pulled up in the forested plains of the Volga basin, 550 miles south-east of St Petersburg, and there it was ordered to wait. Over three weeks later, Kuchumov at last gleaned some news from back home when a letter arrived by courier: '1 August, from Elena Nikolaievna Beliaeva, curator and party organizer, Leningrad, to Comrade Kuchumov.' Telemakov had copied this letter to the great curator. Airdrops and couriered mail would continue to reach pockets of Russia throughout the war and Kuchumov was the kind of man who threw nothing away. Beliaeva wrote: 'Everyone is now on trench duty. No families are left in the park. We are leaving treats behind for the fascists. Everybody is trying to be of good cheer.'

Within two weeks of writing this, the people of Leningrad would have dug 16,000 miles of trenches and 340 anti-tank ditches.

24 August, from Elena Nikolaievna Beliaeva, curator and party organizer, Leningrad, to Comrade Kuchumov. We are still evacuating Pushkin town [Tsarskoye Selo] and the palaces. Thousands of objects have now been saved. Now all walls are bare in the palaces. Yesterday in the Alexander Palace, I removed the last picture - The Kazaki of Nicholas I by Kruger [sic], which is rolled up. The situation is very hard for us. We carry out the work of guards, office workers, cleaners but nothing works.

Three days after this letter was written a night-time curfew was imposed as Leningrad became saturated by paranoia. Men with unkempt beards or unusual clothes were shot on sight or thrown into jail. Plots by saboteurs were randomly unearthed and spies were found everywhere. Fear strengthened the grip of the NKVD. And as Leningrad braced itself, Kuchumov's train was finally allowed to move on, edging another LOO miles east to Gorky. The curator found a radio and tuned into the news.

On I September, Hitler issued orders that Leningrad and its palaces be pounded. German bombers and artillery manoeuvred into place. Seven days later, parts of the city were engulfed in flames as the Luftwaffe levelled the Badaev food warehouse with napalm and phosphorus, incinerating all supplies in an inferno that burnt for three days, fuelled by reservoirs of fat and sugar. Huge grey plumes rose high above the Gulf of Finland, filling every nose in Leningrad with the smell of toffee apples, while heads and hearts faced up to imminent starvation. No rail, air or road links. The last reserves gone. A Nazi perimeter bristling with munitions fenced in Leningrad.

In the Enigma files in London, scattered among the 2,000 signals intercepted every day by the Bletchley Park decoding station, where the British eavesdropped on German communications, are fragments of intelligence describing the encircling of Kuchumov's city: '9 September. Most Secret. XVI Panzer Korps, tank division, is moving to Leningrad.. .'4

The following day the Germans began to move on Pushkin and its palaces:

10 September, 03.28 hours, railway line to Krasnoye Selo (K.S.) has been cut. On road between K.S. and Detskoye Selo [an old name for Pushkin] are fifteen [Soviet] horse-drawn vehicles.

04.56 hours: motorized column moving on Detskoye Selo. Enemy column is motorized and horse-drawn, all in about 150 vehicles.5

The Nazi communiques make no mention of the load being carried by the Soviets but what the Germans had spotted was the ongoing evacuation of treasures from Leningrad's suburban palaces.

On 13 September the attack began. 'Most Secret: Koluft Panzer Group Four now in Detskoye Selo, reports Hauptmann Falk.' The following day, the Nazis came from above. 'Fliegerkorps have landed. Attack on Pushkin has been carried out. All bombs have landed in the target area.'

Inside the Catherine Palace a handful of curators who had chosen to remain continued to evacuate treasures. One of them, Comrade Sophia Popova, reported: 'i6 September, 20.00 hours, the situation has become treacherous.' Popova's bulletins from the front line would be combined into a longer report submitted to the Leningrad authorities in November 1941. Four decades later journalist Vladimir Telemakov would find it.6

Popova wrote:

Enemy is coming closer to Pushkin from the Strelna side [south-west of St Petersburg] and has begun shooting with machine guns at the cottage in the direction of the garage where Nicholas II kept his cars. It is almost impossible to move right now. Park and town are under hard artillery fire and bombing every night. We are surely going deaf. But what is deafness compared to death!

Still the museum workers crept out, throwing camouflage netting around the palaces. Late on the night of 16 September, Comrade Popova wrote: 'Firemen and military have set up posts.' Families were evacuated to shelters. 'We are told to keep in touch with commanders from regular units for when it will be time to abandon the palaces.' A German regiment broke through and moved towards the Alexander Palace, only a block away from the Catherine Palace's golden enfilades. 'We are watching the fascists. The Red Army is on Anrov Street,' Comrade Popova wrote.

A directive arrived from the chairman of IsPolKom, (the executive committee of the Leningrad Soviet): 'Comrade Pavlov [Dmitry Pavlov, Leningrad's Chief of Food Supply] has ordered work to stop in all factories ready for the evacuation of our palaces. All documents must be burned.'

On 17 September a fire-fight illuminated a grey dawn over Pushkin. '5 a.m.: the park and north of the town are battling hard. Everyone is moving to the west,' Comrade Popova wrote. Staff tried to hide in Oranienbaum, the former estate of Alexander Menshikov. 'We have even taken the typewriters. We will leave nothing for them.' Pushkin was overrun.

Stuck in his freezing cellar in Gorky, Kuchumov could only wonder at the fate of his friends and of the palaces.7 He would not have known that on a hill overlooking Leningrad, General Wilhelm von Leeb, the commander of Army Group North, was dug in and advised Hitler on 21 September that this position in the suburb of Pushkin was to be the forward station for the final assault on the city. There was to be no infantry invasion, just remote obliteration. Relaying instructions from the Fiihrer on 21 September, the chief of naval staff described Kuchumov's city as one of 'no further interest after Soviet Russia is destroyed'.8

All the while Leningrad radio played rousing messages. From her bomb shelter, the poet Anna Akhmatova recited inspirational verses, exhorting the women trapped alongside her to be brave.9

The war also edged towards the Volga basin. The chairman of Gorky IsPolKom ordered Kuchumov and the palace collections deeper into the Russian interior, towards the place that the Tatars call their Sleeping Land. The treasure train steamed from the west into the east, leaving Europe for Siberia and the frozen tundra of Tomsk. Four weeks later it arrived at the confluence of the Tom and Ob rivers. But it would still go 190 miles further into the blinding whiteness of the snow-fields. Leningrad to Gorky, Gorky to Tomsk, Tomsk to no one knew where, five months on the tracks, L,6ookm traversed, until Kuchumov arrived in Novosibirsk, a 'town covered in hoar frost, minus 55°C on the thermometer', at the end of November 1941.10 To the east lay the ferocious republic of Sakha, the old Cossack outpost of Yakutsk. And still further east were all that was left of the 10-40 million disappeared, who had been exiled by Stalin to the gulags of Magadan and Komsomolsk, the City of Youth.

In Novosibirsk the treasure train was finally unloaded, its precious cargo checked and aired. The theatre was chosen as a temporary store. Kuchumov wrote in his diary on 20 December 1941: 'This brightly lit town, with its white puffs of smoke, its wooden houses and churches, was delighted to receive us. We lay on tapestries in our makeshift quarters and clutched our bread ration cards.'

Back in Leningrad, Food Supply Chief Pavlov estimated that 6,000 people a day were dying from starvation. Those who were still alive were freezing to death, shredding their books and furniture for kindling. 'We've never been as remote from one another as now,' wrote the Soviet chemist Elena Kochina of her husband in her siege memoirs. 'There is no way we can help one another. We realize now that a person must be able to struggle alone with life and death.'11

Citizens crept out through the German lines at Pushkin, hunger overcoming their fear, to forage for root vegetables in abandoned allotments and dachas. Pavlov's team experimented with melting lipstick, smearing its fat on the hard bread ration. Leather machine belts were stewed to extract gelatine. The Badaev food factory crater was still being crawled over by a team of scientists, engaging desperately in alchemical experiments to transform the ruins into something edible.

In Novosibirsk, there was food but little else. 'We sit in the cellars watching our priceless charges. Sometimes we even hold small exhibitions. But there is nothing that can lift our mood, the frustration of not knowing what is happening to the things we were forced to leave behind,' Kuchumov wrote.

The Amber Room weighed heavily on his mind as he shivered in Maxim Gorky's 'land of chains and ice', surrounded by evacuated treasures from the Leningrad.12 Time stood still and, in order to fill the hours of not knowing what had happened to the Amber Room, Kuchumov began to write a book about its history.

On 29 January 1743 Empress Elizabeth, who had ascended to the Russian throne one year before, issued a decree: 'Take this Amber Room to decorate the chambers under your command and you can use the Italian Martelli...'13

We found a copy of this decree in the Hermitage library, following footnotes made by Kuchumov while stranded in Siberia. The journalist Telemakov transcribed all of them for us.

What Kuchumov had discovered was that one of Elizabeth's first acts as Empress was to take the Amber Room from its store in Peter the Great's Summer Palace and move it to her new Winter Palace on the River Neva. Her father had died without ever seeing it assembled and she was determined to complete the task. Her favourite sculptor, Alexander Martelli, was placed in charge.

Using Kuchumov's microscopic footnotes we located Martelli's contract (signed by the sculptor), dated 11 February 1743: 'You promise to fix the [Amber] Room, sort all the pieces you have and find out what is missing and for them make replacement parts and erect the Room.' Martelli would be paid 600 roubles to do what Peter the Great's craftsmen could not.14

All Empress Elizabeth had to decide was where her Amber Room should go. Initially, she ordered that it be installed in a small room in the new Winter Palace, only to change her mind and have it moved to a large hall. But there wasn't enough Prussian amber. Martelli decided to fill in the gaps between the amber panels (that had come from Berlin) with fifty-two gilt-edged mirrored pillars. The Russian court made a set but they were the wrong size; orders were sent to Britain but they were never honoured. Only on 16 September 1745 was the enlarged Amber Room completed, using mirrors that came from France.

But Elizabeth was still unhappy and ordered the Amber Room be moved three more times, into ever-larger rooms, forcing Martelli to fill more gaps with mirrors and foil-backed glass. In 1745 the new King of Prussia, Frederick the Great, heard about the travails of the Amber Room and decided to combine diplomacy with a gift. Three ornate mirror frames, also made from amber, had been designed as centrepieces for the walls of the Amber Room, but Empress Elizabeth needed four frames to complete the set. Frederick II ordered his craftsmen in Konigsberg to manufacture this fourth frame for 2,000 talers.15 It was sent to St Petersburg along with a poem, The Allegory of the Victories and Heroic Deeds of the Empress.

But after the four amber mirror frames had been hung, the Empress ordered that the Amber Room be moved again, to outside her bedroom. She then decided that such an innovative and luxurious curio should be used to impress foreign embassies. The roving Amber Room was taken down and reassembled again as a reception hall for ambassadors.16

No one was surprised when it began to fall to pieces. Kuchumov found this report dated 1746: 'Because of the changes in temperature sections [of the Amber Room] have been damaged. One post is warped. It has been repaired by Master Enger. Also rather a lot of pieces of [amber] have detached themselves from the walls and have gone missing.'17 Rather than restore it, in July 1755 the Empress ordered V. Fermor, head of the Chancellery of the Imperial Study, to remove the Amber Room from the Winter Palace altogether and transport it, each panel and frame taken by hand, to the Catherine Palace in Tsarskoye Selo.

Here it was to be reconstructed in an even larger chamber. Bartolomeo Rastrelli, an Italian architect, was ordered to supervise the project and Martelli was once again hired to install the room. But there was no money for more amber. Instead, fake panels, glass backed with golden foil, and gilded mirrors were employed. At the centre of the golden enfilades the Amber Room was erected, between the Portrait Hall and Picture Hall, where it would be maintained by Friedrich Roggenbuch, an amber specialist brought from Prussia.

The Amber Room would not remain in its patchwork state for much longer. When Catherine, an ingenue from Germany, was crowned Empress of All Russia on 22 September 1762 (dressed in what Lord Buckingham described as 4,000 ermine pelts embroidered with thousands of precious stones, her crown smelted from a pound of gold and twenty pounds of silver), she decided that the palaces of the Tsarskoye Selo would be overhauled.18

Catherine II commissioned John Bush, her British horticulturist, to lay out new gardens with busts of Cicero, Demosthenes and Junius Brutus. Beyond them was erected La Pyramide Egyptienne, a necropolis for the royal greyhounds, and UArc Triomphal de Prince Orloff a tribute to one of her many lovers, Gregory Orlov (who had helped bring her to power by overthrowing her husband, Tsar Peter III). 'There is going to be terrible upheaval in the domestic arrangements at Tsarskoye Selo,' Catherine II warned in a letter of 13 April 1778. 'The Empress will have ten rooms and will ransack all the books in her library for designs for their decoration and her imagination will have free reign.'19

Born in Stettin, a German town close to the Baltic coast (now Szczecin in north-western Poland), Catherine II must have appreciated the value of amber. We know from the court order books that one of the ten rooms she selected for renovation was the Amber Room. Over the next four years, the Empress ordered an enormous amount - more than 900 pounds - of prohibitively expensive amber that had to be shipped from the Samland Peninsula in East Prussia. She hired four carvers from the Konigsberg Guild to carry out the work, replacing all of the fake sections that bulked out Elizabeth's room with real amber. Catherine II also commissioned Giuseppe Dzokki, an Italian craftsman, to create four Florentine stone mosaics depicting the senses to hang in the room. 'Sight', 'Taste', 'Hearing' and 'Touch and Smell' were all to be stimulated in a chamber that, when lit by candles, exuded a languorous glow, the colour of autumn and a sunset over Stettin.20

Almost a century later, the crowning glory of the Catherine Palace had become legendary throughout Europe. 'We have now reached one of the most remarkable rarities - I want to tell you about the Amber Room,' the poet Theophile Gautier wrote in his Voyage en Russie in 1866.

Only in The Thousand and One Nights and in magic fairy tales, where the architecture of palaces is trusted to magicians, spirits and genies, one can read about rooms made of diamonds, rubies, jacinth and other jewels Here the expression 'the Amber Room' is not just a poetic hyperbole but exact reality, and it is not, as you could believe, a small boudoir or study. On the contrary, the room is rather large, with... walls wholly adorned with amber mosaic from top to bottom, including a frieze. The eye, which has not adapted to seeing this material applied in such scale, is amazed and is blinded by the wealth and warmth of tints, representing all colours of the spectrum of yellow - from smoky topaz up to a light lemon. The gold of carvings seems dim and false in this neighbourhood, especially when the sun falls on the walls and runs through transparent veins as those sliding on them.21

Working on his book about the Amber Room can have done little to alleviate the isolation that Kuchumov must have felt, entombed in Novosibirsk. Occasional copies of Pravda still reached Siberia, brought by couriers, but his sense of foreboding would have only mounted as he scoured the Soviet newspapers for news. Among Kuchumov's documents transcribed by Telemakov was a newspaper article, saved by the great curator during his Siberian days.

On I7 November 1942 Pravda carried a front-page confession from a Nazi officer, Norman Forster, who had been captured in Mosdok, in the northern Caucasus. Forster, an Obersturmbannfuhrer (lieutenant-colonel) in the Waffen SS, had told his NKVD interrogators an intriguing story, one that in less than two years would be cited at the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg. Forster had bumped into an old schoolfriend while in Berlin in August 1941, a 'Dr Focke', who was a fellow graduate of Berlin's Friedrich Wilhelm University, and was currently working for Ribbentrop, Hitler's Reichsaussenminister (Foreign Minister) as a press officer. Focke offered to get Forster assigned to a new and prestigious job with the 4th Company of a secretive Special Task Battalion.

The Sonderkommando Ribbentrop, as it was known, was headquartered at 6 Herman Goring Strasse in Berlin and staffed by 800 members of the SS. In August 1941 three of its four companies were placed on active service on the Eastern front, attached to troops who were converging on the Soviet Union. According to Pravda, Dr Forster's company was to follow Army Group South, led by Field Marshal von Runstedt. Forster told his Soviet interrogators, 'Prior to leaving, we were instructed that when we arrived on enemy territory in Russia we were to comb thoroughly all scientific establishments, institutions and libraries and all the palaces; search all the archives and to lay our hands on every cultural treasure, sending everything to Germany.'

Forster's troop set out across the Ukraine, but he learned that the 2nd Company of the Sonderkommando Ribbentrop, attached to Army Group North, had headed straight for the palaces of Pushkin. 'There they captured and removed property from the Catherine Palace museum. Chinese silks and carved decor were taken from the walls. The parquet floor was even removed,' Pravda reported Dr Forster as stating.22 It looked as if the 2nd Company of the Sonderkommando Ribbentrop might have also removed the Amber Room.

Telemakov's manuscript peters out at this point and at the bottom he has scrawled, 'Please call me.' But his phone is out of order. An operator says that it has been this way for a year or more. We will have to return to Ozerki. It is too late to make the journey tonight. The phone is ringing. We dash down the hallway and snatch up the handset. For once we are on time. But someone is trying to send us a fax.

Slowly the message unfurls.

Thank you so much for your interest in the Catherine Palace. It was good to meet the other day. All the materials we have are the result of our staff's work that has taken years and years to pick up, crumbs of information, and we intend to publish this material in a book currently being written by our curators, headed by Alexander Kedrinsky, whom you met some days ago. I find it beyond our physical powers to answer your questions or meet the scheme suggested by you. I find it just the same as to write another book. With respect.. ,23

What can we do? It took us five months to secure a meeting with Director Sautov and three weeks for him to reject us. Maybe we should have done nothing after all. We recall that some of the Catherine Palace archive was uploaded in Russian on to the Internet. We log on to the official Catherine Palace website (www.Tzar.ru) and a message pops up where once there were essays and articles. 'Under Construction. Thank you for your interest. Please return later.' The next morning the local television news carries a report that the replica Amber Room being constructed in the Catherine Palace has now been closed to visitors and will not reopen until May 2003. Months after beginning our investigation into the fate of the Amber Room, we have still not seen any original documents. Now we face another 15 months of official obfuscation, until the reconstructed room is unveiled.

We are back out in the cold. We remind ourselves of the city's favourite saying and catch a marshrutki to Pushkin. We will find Alexander Kedrinsky and explain the situation to him. He was more helpful than Sautov. We punch the code into the inconspicuous side door, guarded by the hissing babushka. At least no one has thought to change it. 'Kedrinsky,' we say, brushing past her and up the flights of cast-iron stairs. But the door to the old architect's studio is locked, even though he has told us that he works every day.

We hear a noise from above and gingerly climb the last flight. A tiny door is ajar and we push it open. We are in the first of three low-ceilinged rooms. Every inch of every wall is plastered with black-and-white photographs of the Catherine Palace, some of which show goose-stepping Nazis parading across the Great Courtyard. A young woman emerges, ashen-faced, huddled in sweaters, her neck wrapped in scarves and, around the acrylic swathes, an enormous red cardigan. 'Yes?' she asks abruptly. 'And you are?' We say nothing. She reaches for the phone. She is dialling for the guards. Two of her colleagues, whose socks spill over their calf-length plastic boots, pop their heads up over the partition, pointing and gawping. Foreigners are in the private archive of the Catherine Palace.

Like phosphorus dropped in water, the more we speak the more our English words transform the room into a hubbub of spinning and whirling, gesticulating arms and raised voices. We throw in Alexander Kedrinsky's name. We are friends from London, researching the lives of Catherine Palace curators. The women relax. The handset is replaced. Tidying away the wisps of hair that fly around her button-round face, the woman in the red cardigan asks: 'Who? Anyone in particular?'

Kuchumov, we say. Anatoly Mikhailovich.

She smiles, introducing herself as Vica Plauda, head of the Photographic Section. I am his granddaughter,' she says. I am his only living relative.' Kuchumov's wife had died before him, his brother after him. His children had recently passed away. Finding Kuchumov's granddaughter, here in the Catherine Palace, is a stroke of luck that could happen only somewhere like Russia, where families follow each other through the same institutions. I grew up with my grandfather's stories on the rebuilding of these palaces, and here I am working in them and here you are looking for him.'

We tell her about our meeting with Kedrinsky and our falling out with Director Sautov. She nods, her eyes lifted to the heavens. We tell her that although Kuchumov's friends and colleagues have obtained extracts from his diaries and correspondence, the bulk of her grandfather's papers are proving impossible to locate.

I too have virtually nothing to remind me of him,' Vica Plauda says. 'When he died, in 1993, there were boxes and boxes of material. But I live in a communal apartment, one room only. I loaned the papers to the library at Pavlovsk Palace. He was the director there for years. I haven't seen them since.' We make a note of a name and number in the library at Pavlovsk. I kept only a couple of things, including a painting. It hangs here,' she says, pointing to an oil of roses in a vase, a gift to Kuchumov from Anatoly Treskin, one of the most prolific palace restorers: a bouquet from the artist to his patron.

Vica Plauda is silent, thinking. And then, 'Maybe these will interest you.' She produces some papers. In the soft light of the snow-covered window we can now see her likeness to Kuchumov. 'They are copies of letters to and from my grandfather. I had never seen them until I was sent them from New York last year. I have no idea how they got there. Or who has the top copies.'

Is there anything else? Vica Plauda leaves the room. She returns with a tattered folder and slides out a postcard-sized glass plate that she holds with care between thumb and index finger up to the window. The light transforms the dark rectangle into a golden glowing portal. Here is the heart of the Catherine Palace, lit with 565 candles, their flames glancing off prehistoric air bubbles and fish scales trapped in the viscous resin, illuminating the faces of carved cherubs that balance on cornices and flocks of amber parrots and eagles that fly across antique friezes. In our hands is the only surviving colour record of the 'Eighth Wonder of the World', a photographic colour positive of the original Amber Room, made in 1917 by a Russian officer who fled with it to Paris. Vica says, 'The Catherine Palace had bought it back from his relatives two decades ago and now it must be priceless.' We photograph it.

Vica Plauda, granddaughter of Anatoly Kuchumov, holding the only surviving colour plate of the original Amber Room

The Amber Room

The telephone in the next room rings. Vica comes back shaking her head. 'It's for you,' she says. Dr Sautov's assistant is on the line. He has enjoyed watching our covert operation, dressed in black coats and hats, stalking like ravens across the snow-whitened courtyard, the assistant says sternly. And Director Sautov has charted our progress into the staff quarters. Security has been called. We are advised to wait.

We run. Down the back staircase with the documents Vica has given us, out of the palace and to the bus stop where we throw ourselves to the head of the queue, pushing our way into seats.

That evening, behind our locked doors, we pore over the paperwork.

On 24 January 1944 the museum workers in Novosibirsk, enduring one of the harshest winters in living memory, gathered around the radio to listen to an announcement. The Red Army had launched a counter-attack on the German forces besieging Leningrad and was now approaching Pushkin and Pavlovsk. Three days later, 872 days after the siege began, Leningrad was liberated. It was, according to the recollections of siege survivors, as if an enormous boulder had been lifted from the grass, everything beneath it flattened, sour smelling and anaemic.

'We could not sleep for two days, listening and waiting for every scrap of news,' Kuchumov wrote in one of the letters given to us by his granddaughter.24 He found a 'cherished bottle of wine' and produced some goblets that had belonged to the tsars. 'People drank for the success of the Red Army. They were inspired and agitated, hopeful too. From this day on the packing begins. Everyone has the same objective - to return the treasures.'

In February 1944 Kuchumov boarded a train in Novosibirsk, summoned back home by a telegram from the Leningrad IsPolKom, 'travelling in a lettered train carriage, on a seat as if I was a foreign diplomat'. It was March before he arrived in 'our favourite beautiful Leningrad that still looks the same, but advanced in age, as a man after a wasting disease'. But before he had time to dwell on the terrible scenes of death and destruction that greeted him, the authorities promoted him to Chief of the Department of Museums and Memorials and head of Leningrad's Central Stores. Kuchumov was placed in charge of returning all evacuated treasures to their original palace locations.

Soviet troops re-entering the Catherine Palace, 1944

He immediately asked for permission to visit the Catherine Palace. 'The situation in the suburbs, I hear, is much worse, but I have not seen it for myself yet. The permit to the suburbs is in the process of validation and I will get it in two or three days. I hear that quite a few items have been found in the fields around Gatchina, pieces of furniture from Nicholas I,' Kuchumov wrote.

On 27 April 1944 the permit arrived and, accompanied by photographer Mikhail Velichko, Kuchumov 'took a tram to the outpost of the Four Hands, near the Middle Turnpike, and waited till a passing car bound for Pushkin came'. It was 'impossible to recognize the land, the traces of bitter battles are to be seen everywhere... pillboxes, obstacles, shell-holes, barbed wire and signs for mines are all about. Bodies in the road,' he wrote.

Kuchumov recorded practically every footstep and sent these accounts to his colleagues in Novosibirsk - letters that Vica Plauda now cherishes.

I will describe every unit as I see it with my own eyes,' Kuchumov wrote.

The parkland was 'ten stems without branches', a 'fountain's cup lies on the pitted ground, high burdocks and goosefeet grow on the places of former houses'. Along the way where once there were villages were only 'empty boxes, burnt from inside. Nuovo Suzi gone. Rekholovo demolished.'

Kuchumov glimpsed Pushkin in the distance across 'ditches, trenches, numerous rows of barbed wire, minefields'. There were mountains of abandoned helmets, great pyramids of German gas masks. 'A hurricane has swept over the park.' Along the roadside was a 'garbage heap of palatial doors, frames and even pieces of furniture'. He recognized a broken chair from the Silver Dining Room. What had happened to the Amber Room, the thing he had decided to disguise rather than evacuate?

Kuchumov and Velichko reached the Lyceum. 'Rejoice! The Pushkin statue is undamaged! My dream has come true: I am in Pushkin, I am home.' Then Kuchumov noticed 'five thick ropes hanging from the branches of the old birch before the church'. Here was the gallows used by the Gestapo: 'dreadful pictures were to be seen here... Oh, if only the walls could talk'. Despite his 'pain and fear', the curator made his way to the blue-and-gold-painted gates of the Catherine Palace, determined to complete the task he had set out to accomplish. 'I enter the Great Courtyard through the bright opened gates. I feel pain and fear while looking at the destroyed palace, empty and burnt. The sky is to be seen through the windows. The mighty statues of athletes are broken. Charred beams, broken things lie around.'

Strewn across the Great Courtyard was 'garbage, iron beds, broken furniture, scrap, dung, boxes from mines and shells and unbelievable variety of dirty clothes, a queasy, filthy stench'. Stepping gingerly through the mess, Kuchumov neared his goal, the first-floor rooms of the Catherine Palace, the golden enfilades. And he felt sick with every step.

He climbed up, although not by the Monighetti marble staircase, as that had been destroyed, but by the administration staircase used by staff. I enter the administration quarters and there is no single wooden partition left, everything is broken off, the rooms are empty. On some of the doors we can still see the pre-war doorplates, People's Commissar and Director's Assistant. It seems that the palace is still living like before the war.' But the roof had collapsed and shell-holes pitted the walls. 'A carbonized plafond [ceiling painting] is hanging... like a black mourning banner.'

Kuchumov moved slowly through each chamber, absorbing the scale of destruction. 'Everything from the doors is hacked off with axes. The sculptures are without heads. The bas-reliefs are hardly damaged but the parquet and fireplaces are smashed and broken.' And then, 'climbing over heaps of burnt beams, bricks and iron', Kuchumov held his breath.

The Oval Anteroom was as far as he could get. 'The whole room was covered with soot from when the suite of rooms had burned. This is the last room left in the whole suite. Next we see a terrible site of fire. Naked brick walls covered with soot. Neither floors nor ceilings have survived. Nothing but a huge collapse through all three floors.' Nothing stood where once had been the thing that he had painstakingly concealed with gauze and wadding from the Pushkin sewing factory. The Amber Room had been destroyed.

'Every step kills me,' Kuchumov wrote. 'These beasts made stables of the palace-museum, of our pride. But even the animals couldn't have soiled the rooms worse than the beasts with two legs have done. We have to begin again.'

The ruined Catherine Palace after Nazi occupation

3

At a small apartment in Ozerki, we press the doorbell that tolls 'The Volga Boatmen'. We have come to return Vladimir Telemakov's manuscript and we need his help again. He was not expecting visitors, Telemakov says. But still he wears his smart jacket and trousers. 'Welcome. Welcome. Please come in.' He glances at our bag and smiles at his green document file poking out. 'Did my manuscript help? The diary extracts and letters. All those intricate details. It was difficult for me to gather. The material is extremely rare.'

It is fantastic, we say, a work of great dedication. But we are confused. If Kuchumov found evidence in 1944 that the Amber Room had burned when the Catherine Palace was partially destroyed (whether by German troops in retreat or the Soviet blitzkrieg), why are people still searching for it today?

Telemakov walks off and returns with a blue file. From it he pulls a notebook. I was invited to Kuchumov's old apartment in Pavlovsk only once and when I went there I saw he had volumes of newspaper cuttings stretching back to the Great Patriotic War. They, like everything else, vanished after he died. But I copied down one or two articles.'

Telemakov begins to read:

'Pravda. 15 May 1945. Our Special Correspondent writes: Could we imagine that Konigsberg has fallen, the fortress of central eastern Prussia, the city that the Hitlerites named the springboard to the East? We could not imagine - because the Germans not only lost in Konigsberg a strategically important nerve centre but also the "crucible" of Nazism from where the citizens of the dark world rose. London radio has also confirmed our great Soviet success, saying that Konigsberg is the epicentre of Prussia and it was its capital even when Berlin was a swamp.'1

Telemakov looks up. 'Be patient,' he says. 'There is a second article from Pravda on the same day. "Colonel D. D. Ivanyenko, Third Belorussian Front. 12 May 1945. By telegraph."' It had taken three days for the report to get into print.

In the ruins of Konigsberg Castle, where the museum of Prussia was located, we have found nearly thirty armchairs from the Tsarskoye Selo palaces of Pushkin town. On them are labels written by Tsarskoye Selo officials and over the top are stuck labels written in German Gothic script. We have continued our searches and discovered [picture] frames from the Kiev Museum, a selection of catalogues and books, and a Gift Book consisting of an inventory of purchases and presents received by Hitlerite curators in Konigsberg.

'The two hundredth item in this Nazi Gift Book, recorded, as received on 5 December 1941, is the Amber Room from Tsarskoye Selo, to which the whole page is devoted. In this inventory are listed 140 items [from the room]... and it is written that these items were gifted to the Konigsberg museum by the German authorities.'

Telemakov fixes us in his gaze. 'The Amber Room had survived, you see? While Anatoly Mikhailovich was stuck in Siberia, worrying about its safety in the Catherine Palace, the Nazis dismantled the room and transported it to Konigsberg. The Amber Room arrived in East Prussia less than three months after the siege of Leningrad began. Even when Anatoly Mikhailovich told me this story, thirty-five years later, there were tears in his eyes.'

On 16 May 1945 Anatoly Kuchumov sent three telegrams: one to LenGorlsPolKom, another to Nikolai Belokhov, the director of the Government Directorate of the Preservation of Monuments, and a third to Igor Grabar in Moscow. Grabar was director of the Committee on Architecture of the Council of People's Commissars of the USSR, a Titan of the Soviet art world, winner of the Stalin Prize, a man who had the General Secretary's ear.

'Kuchumov was the obvious person to bring the Amber Room home. He wrote requesting funds and a travel permit. He packed a small bag and said goodbye to Anna Mikhailovna,' Telemakov says. 'A telegram from Moscow arrived. Yes, Comrade Kuchumov was correct, Moscow was running a rescue operation to bring home the Amber Room. And yes, Moscow needed an expert. But someone was already on the way. Professor A. I. Brusov, from Moscow.'

Telemakov shrugs. 'Brusov! Anatoly Mikhailovich was shocked by the decision. Was he being punished? He wondered if the party blamed him for failing to take down the Amber Room while the Nazis seemingly managed it.' Telemakov sighs. I can't tell you more other than I heard that Brusov gave an interview to the Soviet press. Go and find it. I hope my little bits and pieces help you.' And, as the spruce front door closes, 'Please don't forget me. Your promise to help. Do come back.'

The National Library of Russia, set back from a statue of Catherine the Great dominating her circle of advisers and lovers (Suvorov, Orlov, Potemkin), is a sprawling citadel of books. One of the largest libraries in the world, it houses more than 32 million volumes. In Soviet times, the books' spines were turned away from the reader, its catalogue room planted in a maze of corridors, patrolled by the KGB.

The Soviet reader could not be trusted with potentially contagious thoughts, such as Andrei Sakharov's calculations of what would happen if Khrushchev had gone ahead and test-blasted in the Soviet atmosphere a Loo-megaton hydrogen bomb. Such ideas had to be quarantined. All library research was chaperoned, readers standing in line waiting for the patrician 'inquiry apparatchiki', who flicked up and down unseen stacks like beads of an abacus, sorting and sifting. And even though the system had prominent critics, among them Maxim Gorky, who boldly advised Stalin, 'the one-sidedness of our treatment of reality - created by us - exerts an extremely unhealthy influence on our young people', still it prevailed.2

Nowadays anyone can roam the corridors, but in New Russia the profit-driven state barely pays library staff and, flat broke, they are elusive. We eventually find a woman sitting at a rucked baize desk littered with dribbling glue pots and official stamps. To her left is a mechanical crank-driven calendar, embossed 'Leningrad'. Grudgingly, she admits to having been a member of the old 'inquiry apparatchiki'. Now she is responsible for issuing temporary readers' tickets and she sends us down into the basement.

One, two, three corridors along, an old red rug and portraits of Lenin, new busts of Catherine, Peter and Paul, hundreds of people scurrying in different directions, gaunt men with Gogol hair, old women wrapped in girlish polka dots pinging down corridors steeped in naphthalene. Up to a fourth-floor office in a lift, along and down to the third by the stairs, until, after three hours in the building, we find ourselves breathless in a windowless hexagonal basement room filled by silent figures absorbed in their research, hunched against great tiers of drawers that line this catalogue room.

K is for Konigsberg: 'see Kaliningrad'. Between articles on 'Modern Dance for Balls' and 'How to Make Better Work in Cultural Area with People from the North' there is a reference to a Telegraph Agency of the Soviet Union (TASS) story: 'Successful return of Professor Alexander Brusov and Tatyana Beliaeva from Konigsberg, 13 July 1945.'

Brusov. However, a librarian informs us that the article has gone missing. We return to the catalogue room, waiting for the Bs to become free.

B is for Beliaeva and Brusov - nothing listed. But in a decrepit almanac of Soviet museums, we find: 'Brusov, Alexander Ivanovich, Professor of Archaeology, State Historical Museum, Moscow'. And a telephone number.

The man Moscow sent to Konigsberg in search of the Amber Room held a prestigious post in an institution at the heart of the Soviet Union, housed in a red-brick Gothic-style building at the western end of Red Square. We call the State Historical Museum from the library payphone. 'Brusov. Brusov? Nyet, the switchboard operators says, hanging up.

We try Our Friend the Professor. Can she extract some information from the tight-lipped Moscow museum world? She'll see what can be done. 'Everything is forbidden but all things are possible,' the professor choruses. 'Wait by the phone.'

Twenty minutes later, she calls. 'Alexander Brusov is dead. In 1965,' she says. Nothing is ever straightforward in our Russian lives. 'But I gather there are some papers of his. Classified. In the Leninka. The Lenin Library in Moscow. I might be able to get you copies.' The chances of us getting classified files opened are slim. Copies are fine, we say. I have a colleague in the Leninka and she will try and send the papers to you in the National Library of Russia,' the professor says. 'Please be patient. Do nothing.'

We wait, on tenterhooks, like Kuchumov. However, while Anatoly Mikhailovich waited for the return of his Amber Room, he began some new research into Konigsberg. And while we wait for news from the Leninka, we go in search of a book from which, according to Kuchumov's diary, he took notes in May 1945. 'Study P. J. Hartmann,' the curator wrote, as Brusov set off for the Baltic, taking the place Kuchumov believed should have been his. We are not good at doing nothing.

Succini Prussia, physica et civilis historia was published in Frankfurt in 1677 by Philipp Jacob Hartmann, a 'professore medicine extraordinario'. The book's patrons spared no expense in binding the text in caramel-coloured calf hide, in commissioning engravings for the frontispiece and bookends. It was an exposition on the origins of amber and Hartmann concluded that it was 'undoubtedly petrified vegetable juice'. His book became a bestseller, one that generated such interest in the year it was published that the celebrated British physicist Dr Robert Hooke, who would discover the laws of elasticity and energy conservation, led a series of discourses on Hartmann's theories at the Royal Society in London.3

The debate about amber's genesis was still raging at the time Tsar Peter I became entranced by the Gold of the North and bought a copy of Philipp Hartmann's book when he travelled to Konigsberg in 1696. The book's appendix reproduced the earliest eyewitness account of the amber trade in East Prussia, written by Simonis Grunovii, a Dominican monk who arrived in 1519 in an area that was then known as the Samland Peninsula.

Grunovii wrote that he wished to buy a perfect nugget of amber to give his Pope, from whom he hoped to buy salvation. Leo X, the Church's most extravagant patron of the arts, had recently begun one of the most ambitious civil engineering projects in Christendom, the construction of St Peter's Basilica in Rome. It was being financed in a unique way, by the sale of original sin - treasures and cash given in exchange for Papal Indulgences.

To reach Samland, Grunovii would have followed one of three ancient Amber Routes that had linked the Classical world and northern Europe since before the time of Herodotus. Ancient thinkers held in great fear those who lived beyond the 'tired world' that stopped abruptly at the line of the Alps.4 In the north was ultima Thule, the furthest region of the world. Until the early sixteenth century many people still believed the stories of Adam of Bremen, an eleventh-century chronicler who claimed, in his Descriptions of the Islands of the North, that here lived a race of Amazonians who gave birth to male children with the heads of dogs.

Recent archaeological studies have revealed that the three Amber Routes were twenty-foot-wide log roads constructed on beds of branches, fastened together with pegs and topped off with sand and sod. Grunovii would almost certainly have followed the eastern Amber Route. This would have involved boarding a ship in the Gulf of Venice and crossing the Adriatic bound for Trieste, where he would have ridden with traders' caravans heading over the Alps for the Danube. Continuing to the River Oder, Grunovii would have gone north, eventually reaching the eastern Baltic.5

Olaus Magnus, Archbishop of Uppsala, was among the first to illustrate Grunovii's destination in a hide-bound Encyclopaedia of Natural Products published in Rome in 1555. Across one page was a crude map of Samland, a clearly recognizable peninsula reaching out into the Baltic. Along the coastline were dotted ominous-looking watchtowers and beside one was the figure of a man dressed in cap and pantaloons, whose foot rested on a shovel, his finger pointing to a barrel at his feet from which exploded a fountain of light. Beside him was printed the word succinu (succinum, the Latin for 'juice', also meant sap, and then later amber). The Samland Peninsula was the source of the Gold of the North.6

Simonis Grunovii described what he saw: 'When there is a northerly gale all the peasants in the vicinity must come to the beach and run with nets into the sea to fish for the floating amber... but many will drown.7 When the sea roiled and the wind rose in November and December, amber resin was shaken loose from the seabed and could be scooped into nets. The men who fished for it wore leather 'cuirasses with deep pockets' and became 'frozen in icy waters and have to be thawed before they can be taken to their huts or put out again to work and for this reason big fires are kept upon the shore'. Men were roped together to battle the treacherous undertow and carried twenty-foot poles up which they clambered when the highest waves crashed down.

Grunovii wrote that these amber 'fishermen' were slaves, bonded by the Teutonic Knights, a German religious army that seized control of the region and grew rich by monopolizing the amber. 'The High Master of Prussia profits greatly... because he is paid approximately eighty marks for a ton.' It was a monopoly enforced by terror. An edict published by one of the order's judges 'prohibited the free collection of amber by hanging from the nearest tree... his henchmen applying instant justice, these servants having the right to kill anyone committing the deed without interrogation'. And riding to the coast, through Elbing, Pillau, Fischhausen and Gross Dirschkeim, the Dominican monk glimpsed carcasses swinging from the gallows.

Olaus Magnus's sixteenth-century map of the Samland Peninsula, showing the amber fishing grounds and burning barrels beside which fishermen thawed out after wading through the freezing Baltic Sea

Frontispiece depicting amber fishermen from P.]. Hartmann's book, published in 1677

Grunovii was directed to the main city on the Samland Peninsula, from where the Teutonic Knights, who had taken control of the peninsula in 1254, administrated the amber trade. The Knights had purged the land of non-believers and, to commemorate the battle, built in 1255 an enormous castle on the banks of the River Pregel 'whose roots and cellars were thrust as far below the surface of the earth as its pinnacles scaled the heavens'.8 It would become known as Konigsberg Castle and its Knights' Hall, crowned with a tower, rose above a flagged limestone dungeon lit by burning torches where prisoners were suspended from iron trapezes. This was the castle where, 691 years later, Colonel Ivanyenko, of the Third Belorussian front, would find a Nazi Gift Book containing a reference to the arrival of the Amber Room.

Pre-war photograph of Konigsberg Castle

The Dominican Grunovii paid the Knight's Grand Master Albrecht, ten vierdings - equivalent to a small bag of gold pieces - for a 'gleaming amber - a half finger's length'. It took a team of men from the nearby Danzig Guild, working in shifts, six weeks to 'carve from it an image of John the Baptist as a child'. (In 1707 the same guild would send carvers to Berlin to assist architect Eosander in trying to assemble the original amber chamber.)

Grunovii rode home with the icon in his saddlebag, arriving at the Vatican only to find Rome preoccupied with Martin Luther, who attacked, among other things, the practice of Papal Indulgences. Grunovii sought out 'Cardinal John N', the Pope's private secretary, and showed him the amber carving. 'It was surely worth more than 2,000 florins [over fifteen pounds of gold] to Rome,' the Cardinal said, but he had bad news for Grunovii: Leo X was now gravely ill. In December 1521 the Pope died, along with the Dominican's bid for salvation.

The Protestant Reformation rapidly reached across the Baltic and in 1525 the Teutonic Knights' Grand Master Albrecht also converted to Lutheranism, detaching the religious order from Rome. This transformed the region into a ducal state, which it would remain until Frederick I was crowned 'King in Prussia' in Konigsberg Castle on 18 January 170L (a celebration that spurred Andreas Schliiter to begin building the original amber chamber).

We can see that P. J. Hartmann's book would have taught Kuchumov how the Amber Room captured the Nazis' ethos. Its transportation to Konigsberg was far from coincidental and its preservation in the ancient Teutonic castle would have been of paramount importance to German curators.

On the fifth morning in the National Library of Russia a packet from Moscow arrives for us. We are directed to the Bolshoi Reading Hall, where a waddling librarian escorts us to one of hundreds of identical worn wooden desks. We eagerly pull apart the bundle from the Leninka. Inside are photocopied pages and a small photograph of a melancholic figure with ice-white hair and jet-black eyebrows whose dark eye-sockets recede like metro tunnels. His serge suit is crumpled. His tie looks to be strangling him. His features are more Semitic than Slavic. The caption says that this is Professor Alexander Ivanovich Brusov and the picture was taken around the time of his mission to Konigsberg. We wonder why he looks so tired of life.

We leaf through the photocopies. They are extracts from Brusov's desk diary, seven days to a double page.9 We had not been sure what we would be sent from Moscow but this is better than we could have hoped for.

The desk diary began on 25 May 1945. It reveals that only a fortnight after the German surrender, while Europe was still in chaos, SovNarKom (the Council of People's Commissars), the highest authority in the Soviet Union, ordered Professor Alexander Brusov to find and bring back the Amber Room. It must have been of tremendous significance for the Soviet leadership for it to have acted so quickly.

Brusov was to be assisted by Ivan Pozharsky from the Moscow Theatre Library. The expedition leader was Comrade Tatyana Beliaeva of the Lenin Library. According to Leninka records, Comrade Beliaeva was chief of the 'inquiry apparatchiki'. All three were to leave for Konigsberg the next day, 26 May.

Professor Alexander Brusov of the State Historical Museum, Moscow, and his diary

It would take Beliaeva, Brusov and Pozharsky five days to complete the L,ooo-mile journey, squeezed into a military van that looped around the chaos of surrender. Brusov wrote: Tnsterburg, spent the night. Gerdawyen, stayed in a hotel. And Villan...' The professor could not remember what they did in Villan.

'Konigsberg: city in ruins,' Brusov wrote on their arrival on 31 May. 'Conditions very hard, no cooperation from anyone - the army or the people.' The place was still on fire, the stench of decomposing flesh hanging in the air. The Red Army had reduced the medieval city to a pile of rubble fogged by acrid smoke. Surviving citizens wandered past jeering Soviet soldiers. Covered in soot and ash with shredded clothes, the Germans were unable to comprehend the savagery of the assault or the suddenness with which defeat had overcome them.

But despite the top-level orders they were acting upon, Brusov's team was forced to wait by the Soviet Military Administration, which warned them the area was still not secure. It was barely two months since a Soviet artillery bombardment had smashed Konigsberg's last defences. On 2 April 1945 Red Army officers had recalled seeing the buildings 'crumble into piles of stone', leaving thousands buried alive.10 On 6 April, the Soviet's LLth Guards Army and 43rd Army had fought their way into the city, flame-throwers scorching the buildings, rousting residents hiding in cellars, while citizens hung sheets from their windows, desperately signalling surrender. Hundreds attempted a futile breakout on 8 April, only to be spotted by Red Army artillery units that cut them to pieces.

One survivor, General Otto Lasch, the Nazi Kommandant of Konigsberg, would write a book about the last days of the city. In it he described how the castle briefly became a safe haven for German citizens until the Red Army attacked its main gates in the late afternoon of 9 April, forcing its surrender at 9 p.m. As lines of communication between the castle and his bunker on the city's Parade Platz had been severed, Lasch would not learn of the capitulation until 1 a.m. Early on 10 April, General Lasch and his fellow officers emerged on to the broken streets carrying bedrolls and knapsacks.

Within three days Hitler had sentenced Lasch to death, accusing him of cowardice. Konigsberg had meant a great deal to Hitler. More than 50,000 German soldiers had died in three months of intensive fighting and 92,000 prisoners were taken by the Soviets in the campaign for East Prussia. Hitler warned all commanders on the Eastern Front that 'he who gives orders to retreat... is to be shot on the spot'.11 However, by 30 April, Hitler was dead and on 8 May Marshal Zhukov, mastermind of the Soviet assault on Berlin, received the German Chief of Staff's unconditional surrender in the officers' mess of a military engineering college in Berlin-Karlshorst.

Soviet tanks on the streets of Konigsberg during the final attack, April 194s

The surrender of General Otto Lasch (centre), 10 April 194$

And so it was unsurprising that the Red Army still needed time to secure Konigsberg, and while they did Brusov readied his search team, recruiting two translators, Lieutenant Sardovsky and Captain E. A. Chernishov, of the Third Belorussian Front. In his diary Brusov wrote that Chernishov was '[aged] thirty, sympathetic, not a silly man. Studied at the department of foreign languages in Moscow. Musically talented. It is so pleasant and easy to work with him.'

Brusov also looked for the officer whom Pravda claimed had located the Konigsberg Castle Gift Book, Colonel D. D. Ivanyenko. He was still in town but was being chaperoned by Major Krolic, a political commissar, and was not available for debriefing. The Gift Book 'appeared to have vanished', Brusov noted, perplexed.

Brusov tried to interview some of the remaining German citizens. 'No one wants to cooperate with us,' he complained to his diary, having learned that Germans had come forward with information about looted art works to the Soviet Military Administration and that this intelligence was not being passed to him. One man who claimed to have found a Nazi stash, including large crates of amber, had been sent away, only to be found the next day hanged from a tree, his hands tied behind his back. Brusov discovered that two more German informers had died in the same manner, hog-tied and hanged, after promising to reveal the location of German treasure. It was difficult for Brusov to fathom what was going on.

The German civilian population was being squeezed through a security sieve, although now there were only 193,000 people left in a city that was once populated by 2.2 million.12 The city was encircled by nine NKVD regiments sent by Stalin's security chief Lavrenty Beria, who had succeeded Karlik, after the Dwarf had himself become a victim of the purges in 1938. Beria's men were bolstered by 400 operatives from the NKVD's special department (christened SMERSH in 1943, a name chosen by Stalin that was an acronym for 'Kill All Spies'). SMERSH acted as the Soviets' counter-intelligence service, snuffling around Konigsberg for collaborators, fascists, double agents and traitors.

On 2 June, Professor Brusov and Tatyana Beliaeva were permitted to begin searching the ruins, assisted by German recruits. They headed straight for Konigsberg Castle, whose barrelling watchtowers and arrow-slits still dominated the city. According to Brusov: 'It is in complete ruins. Only a few rooms remain untouched - in the north wing. On the top floor we are collecting things, using it as a storeroom.' Large sections of the roof had collapsed on all four wings of the gigantic cloisters that rose above the River Pregel. The sixteenth-century southern wing was smashed to pieces. The west wing, constructed at a similar time, was also largely destroyed. Only the north-western corner, the oldest part of the castle, dating to the thirteenth century, incorporating a ceremonial Knights' Hall, remained relatively unscathed.

Beneath this hall was a complex of deep cellars, lit by chandeliers suspended from iron trapezes. The dank walls were lined with giant kegs of wine and beer and the flagstone floors were covered in planks upon which stood refectory tables and banquettes. Here the Nazis had eaten off red-rimmed china plates embossed with the Prussian eagle and the name of the restaurant, Blutgericht, the Blood Court.

Amateur painting of the post-war remains of Konigsberg Castle

It is hard to imagine the scale of the operation and the conditions under which the Soviet team toiled. The castle site was enormous and perilously fragile, with sixty-foot-high walls threatening to topple and fallen castel-lations so widely scattered that a rope was required to clamber over them. And then there was the dust, choking, all-pervasive, leaching into every crevice and pore, making work inside the ruin intolerable. Brusov and his comrades were starved of resources. He had nothing more advanced with which to excavate than a pair of shovels. There was no paraffin, he had been told by the military. And therefore there was little light by day or night. There was also no sign of the Amber Room.

After a few days conducting random surveys, the professor came across an old German man. He was wandering through the castle rubble, a shambling figure who, with his penny-round spectacles, bore an uncanny likeness to Himmler, Brusov noted.

Somehow this man had bypassed the security cordon Brusov had him arrested and under interrogation the old man admitted to having worked for the Konigsberg Castle Museum. He had come back only to see if the Soviets needed help clearing it. He identified himself as Alfred Rohde. Brusov thought little about him. Rohde cooperated but seemed distracted, repeatedly denying knowledge of Soviet treasures. In his former life he was possibly a figure of consequence, but now every time he pointed to the destruction around him his eyes welled up. Alfred Rohde had been severely traumatized, Brusov reasoned.

Alfred Rohde

It was only when the professor began to interrogate others who had worked in the castle and to study Rohde's demeanour that his view changed. 'Rohde looks like a very old man with a shaking right hand. His clothes are very shabby,' the professor wrote. 'But he is actually very experienced. An art critic. He has several scientific works published.' It is not clear how Brusov pieced the truth together but he eventually discovered that Dr Alfred Rohde was director of the Nazis' Konigsberg Castle Museum.

When Brusov confronted him, Rohde barely reacted. 'Perhaps he is an alcoholic. Doesn't look like a man I can trust. I think he knows more than he tells us and when he talks he often lies,' the professor scribbled in his diary. 'When you look at him when he's not looking at you, his hand stops shaking. He always tells us that the best collections were evacuated but when we ask where to he says he doesn't know.' Professor Brusov had heard rumours of art works being stored at a castle in a nearby Prussian town and put them to Rohde. I suggested that they [the Germans] had sent things to Rautenburg and Rohde exclaimed: "Oh, have you found them?'" The old man was broken, infuriating and also probably concealing something.

As they laboriously cleared masonry from the Albrecht Gate, Brusov became suspicious. 'Digging started for the Amber Room before I arrived,' the professor confided to his diary. 'They started in the south wing of the castle. I noticed the small hall was already excavated.' He was further concerned to discover that the Nazi Gift Book identifying the arrival of the Amber Room had been found by Colonel Ivanyenko on 25 April, almost three weeks before the news reached Moscow. During this significant interval unofficial investigations to find the Amber Room could have been conducted. But by whom?

No time to think. They dug on. Since there was little left of the south wing, the Brusov team began knocking their way through the Queen Louisa Tower to reach the blocked-off north wing and the Knights' Hall. Pre-war photographs show a large vaulted chamber with a sweeping ribbed roof beneath which the Teutonic Knights conducted their ceremonies, watched over by the sombre portraits of their forefathers.

On the morning of 5 June, Brusov broke through into the Knights' Hall and, stumbling over blocks of stone and wooden beams, he and his team found there had been an inferno. The carved thirteenth-century columns were charred, the ancient banners incinerated, the glass was blown and distorted, the flagstone floor cracked by falling masonry. They crawled through the ash on their hands and knees. In one corner Brusov found some chair springs and old German iron locks. In another, recognizable Russian mouldings and frames. That night Brusov returned to his quarters and wrote: 'Found bronze hangings from the Tsarskoye Selo doors... Cornice pieces that could have been in the Amber Room... Iron strips with bolts with the help of which parts of the Amber Room were boxed into crates... We should give up looking for the Amber Room.'

It was a devastating conclusion. Three days into his mission and Brusov had gathered evidence that strongly suggested that the Amber Room had been stored in the Knights' Hall, where it had been destroyed by a devastating fire. Yet we already know that the search for the Amber Room would continue until the present day. This could not possibly be the end of the story.

No one dared return to Moscow or the powerful SovNarKom empty-handed. No one - least of all Stalin - was in the mood for bad news. These were euphoric times with Soviet radio broadcasting on 5 June the sound of celebrations in Red Square as Stalin awarded the Order of Victory to Montgomery and Eisenhower.13

Brusov returned to the ruins of the castle, surely determined to find more evidence before reporting his terrible finding that the Amber Room had been incinerated. He would have to try to find something else to mitigate the bad news, something of high value with which to sweeten his dismal conclusions. He recruited dozens more German volunteers to sort through the rubble in return for food.

The professor's diligence began to pay off almost immediately, with caches of art extracted from air pockets in the rubble. 'We have dug continuously,' he wrote, 'and we have eventually found success: 1,OOO items, Italian paintings, porcelain and many silver items.' But still no sign of the Amber Room. The search was widened to incorporate other areas of the city.

On 1O June, eight days after their dig began, Brusov and his team forced their way into a municipal building on the corner of Lange Reihe and Steindamm Strasse, the city's former high street. Here was evidence of a hasty evacuation. Tens of thousands of loose pieces of amber lay on the floor. Others had been packed into boxes. Besides them an inventory in German suggested that scores more crates also containing amber had already left Konigsberg 'in the care of Karl Andree'.

After an initial flush of excitement, Brusov learned from one of his German workers that Karl Andree was director of the Institute of Palaeontology and Geology at Konigsberg's Albertus-University. Brusov concluded he had found the remnants of an amber collection once famed throughout Europe, consisting of more than 120,000 pieces, the most valuable being 'a life-size reptile carved from the resin'.14 Although Brusov had stumbled over something of immense value, this collection was not connected to the Amber Room.

That evening the professor composed a communique to Moscow that was witnessed by Captain Chernishov and copied to the Soviet commandant in Konigsberg.

We have examined a building on the edge of Lange Reihe 4 where there was a collection of items from the amber and geological museum. It seems that the Germans started packing but something disturbed them. Most of the items are labelled. It is probably a good idea to pack all of these items and transport them to somewhere safer, a protected building. It really is one of the best collections and perhaps could be sent to Moscow. Geological collection, beautifully systematized and very wide.

Brusov was clearly thinking of his museum in Red Square and calculated that packing would take 'eight or ten days with the help of ten workers'.

Brusov ventured further afield in search of anything connected to the Amber Room. He investigated claims of a Nazi stash at Wildenhoff Castle (today Zikova in Poland), the ancestral home of Countess von Schwerin, an East Prussian aristocrat. Dr Rohde claimed it was pointless. When the Soviet team arrived, Wildenhoff was in a dismal state. Eyewitnesses claimed to have seen a retreating SS unit set fire to it. But not everything had been destroyed. 'In three chambers were heaps of remarkable documents, handwritten papers and legal articles from the sixteenth century, all in order with numbers. Because of our small car we could take only a few of these documents and will have to come back with bigger car on 16th,' Brusov wrote. But no Amber Room.

The night before he was due to return to Wildenhoff, Brusov could not sleep. He was in his sixties and suffered from insomnia. Before dawn he went for a walk in the ruins of Konigsberg Castle where he noticed smoke rising from behind a broken wall. Clambering over the rubble to investigate, Brusov found Alfred Rohde, the German curator, crouched over a smouldering bundle. As he had cooperated with the Soviets, Rohde had been given special privileges. He was not locked up at night as other German prisoners were, although he had been ordered to observe a dawn to dusk curfew. 'Today I found some documents,' Brusov wrote, revealing that he had rescued from Rohde's fire thirty charred letters. Rohde claimed he was burning rubbish, but Brusov dismissed the excuse as 'plainly absurd'. Brusov would have to translate the papers that Rohde was so keen to destroy. But Captain Chernishov warned that he had little time as he was also attached to the NKVD, which was still processing German citizens.

Brusov returned to the castle site now even more wary of Alfred Rohde, although the Soviet mission was determined to make progress. '21 June - all day we were searching and we found Italian and Flemish paintings,' Brusov wrote, noting that among the canvases were works by Andrea del Verrocchio and Brueghel the Younger.

And then, with only a few days before the Brusov/Beliaeva mission was due to return to Moscow, Chernishov appeared with a rough translation of a selection of the documents partly burned by Rohde. According to Brusov's diary, one of them was a draft letter to Berlin written on 2 September 1944, confirming that the Amber Room had been packed into crates, having narrowly escaped an Allied air raid on the night of 27-28 August 1944. Rohde's office in the castle had been flattened and he noted that he was now working from his home in Bickstrasse. Among the other charred fragments were travel permits issued to Rohde, including one for a five-day trip to oversee the evacuation of Countess Keyserlingk's 'furniture, weapons, marble sculpture and LOO paintings' from Rautenburg to Konigsberg Castle. There was also correspondence between Rohde and other East Prussian aristocrats, among them Prince Alex Dohna-Schlobitten of Elbing and Countess von Schwerin. There was a passing reference to Soviet pictures from Kiev. Another missive mentioned paintings taken from Soviet museums in Minsk.

Chernishov was puzzled by one document in particular. In it Rohde wrote to Berlin that he had lost the key to an underground palace storage facility called the Hofbunker. Rohde had never mentioned a Hofbunker before. Brusov immediately summoned the German curator. Had the remains he had found in the ruins of the Knights' Hall been placed there as a decoy? Was the Amber Room in fact concealed in this secret Hofbunker?

Rohde was nonchalant. 'He said the Hofbunker was on Steindamm Strasse and that he would lead us there. He said he had now found the key,' Brusov wrote in his diary. The professor and Rohde walked there in the last week of June, accompanied by a young Red Army lieutenant, Ilya Tsirlin, who had been asked to come along as a witness. Near to the corner of the crossing with Rosen Strasse, they found a cellar, four storeys deep, on the left side of the street and a long staircase that led down 'until we found ourselves in a very well-equipped bomb shelter'. This was no ordinary air-raid bunker. Brusov wrote: 'Here were rooms for sleeping and things thrown over the floor. There were paintings and sculptures. We chose two or three of the better things and then left.' Although there was nothing to indicate that the Amber Room had ever been stored here, Brusov still could not give up hope that it was hidden elsewhere.

As Rohde had lied about this Hofbunker, Brusov decided to interrogate him formally. He forced the German curator to sign a confession: 'Destiny of Museum Treasures for Which I was Responsible'. We have it before us.

The German curator's story changed. Rohde admitted that Alfred Rosenberg, Hitler's ideologue and the head of the Einsatzstab Reichleiter Rosenberg (ERR), an art-looting organization, had used Konigsberg as a store for plundered art works. In autumn 1941 Rohde had been sent works stolen from the Minsk Museum, 'eighteenth-century paintings from the historical dept, items from the heritage of the tsar's department, including furniture'. All of them 'became the target of Anglo-American aviation attacks in August 1944 and were destroyed' in the eastern wing of Konigsberg Castle. In the summer of 1943 Rohde received 'the properties of the museum of Kharkiv, Western and Russian paintings as well as icons'. These had been sent to Wildenhoff, only to be transferred back to Konigsberg in January 1945, when the Red Army loomed. Treasures from Kiev arrived in December 1943, 'packed in ninety-eight boxes and sent to Wildenhoff Castle. There were about 800 icons - the most significant collection of icons in the world.' All had now vanished.

But what about the Amber Room? Rohde finally addressed the central issue. 'Yes,' he admitted, he had personally 'received the Amber Room from the Tsarskoye Selo' in November 194 L, 'which I placed in Konigsberg Castle in a suitable hall'. So the Gift Book (now missing) had been a true and accurate record of all things received at the castle. But, Rohde added, 'four weeks before the Allied air attack' the room had been 'transferred to a safer place to make sure it would not be damaged'. Some time later, Rohde ordered the room be returned to the castle and he 'packed it in boxes and placed it in the north wing of the castle and there [the crates] were preserved until 5 April 1945', along with pieces of furniture belonging to Countess Keyserlingk. The Red Army had by then encircled the city. All plans to evacuate the Amber Room were abandoned, frustrated by time, Soviet bombers and troop movements.

Although Brusov did not reveal it to Rohde, this statement tallied almost exactly with what he had discovered in the Knights' Hall: chair springs and iron locks of German design (the Keyserlingk collection); bronze Russian door hinges and cornice pieces (the Amber Room). The fact that Brusov had also found iron strips of the kind the Germans used to strengthen wooden crates bolstered Rohde's story.

The Soviet team had run out of luck and time. Thankfully, it had not only discovered the depressing truth about the Amber Room but also recovered more than sixty crates of treasures. On the journey back to Moscow, Alexander Brusov prepared his report for SovNarKom.

When TASS called, Brusov must have thought everything was well. The state news agency could not possibly have known about his secret mission, unless SovNarKom had informed them of it. So Brusov gave an erudite interview about his discoveries in Konigsberg in the belief that this was what was expected. The Amber Room had been stolen by the Nazis and transferred to Konigsberg, where it had been put on display in the castle. It had been taken down and packed into crates shortly before the British bombing raids of 1944 that had levelled much of the city. Dr Alfred Rohde, the director of the Konigsberg Castle Museum, had confessed that these crates were in Konigsberg Castle until 5 April 194 5. An eyewitness had corroborated this story, telling how, the day before, Rohde received a severe reprimand from Erich Koch, the Gauleiter of East Prussia, for having failed to evacuate the Amber Room. Soviet troops smashed the fascist defences two days later, making it impossible for the boxes containing the Amber Room to be moved without being spotted. So they remained in the north wing of the castle and there, in the hours after the German surrender, between 9 and 11 April, they had been destroyed in a terrible fire that gutted the Knights' Hall.

Great discoveries had been made by Soviet investigators in Konigsberg, including thousands of Soviet treasures looted by the Nazis, but sadly Brusov had also discovered the hinges and mouldings from the Amber Room. No one knew who was responsible for its destruction. The Nazis, savage and barbaric, under siege? The victorious Red Army, which broke their will and fired the Knights' Hall? This was a war in which both sides had fought bestially, doggedly and unremittingly for a city that appeared as if it was at the heart of the Third Reich, the professor told the man from TASS.

Brusov's TASS interview, published on 13 July 1945, was picked up by the British Ministry of Economic Warfare's Broadcast Unit at Heddon House, who translated it on 27 July:

Confidential. Soviet scientists are carrying out excavations at Konigsberg Castle, in order to return the cultural treasures concealed there looted from USSR. In an interview with TASS, A. I. Brusov said that under rubble just over three feet deep they found an inventory of amber from Tsarskoye Selo... The amber panels themselves have not yet been discovered, although treasures from Kiev, Minsk and Kharkiv have been revealed .15

But the Allies would overhear nothing more on the subject. Soviet newspapers didn't follow it up. Tatyana Beliaeva made no public comments on her mission's finding. Within days Brusov had withdrawn into the cloisters of Moscow's museum world, only ever making one more public comment about his mission to Konigsberg - but that would not be for another fourteen years. In the meantime his report was overturned and his diary was impounded by the NKVD and exiled to the Leninka. After all, there was no safer place for state secrets than a Soviet public library.

4

We slip-slide through the melting snow along the darkening Dvortsovaya Embankment that runs beside St Petersburg's River Neva. 'Our twentieth century was so ugly,' Our Friend the Professor from Leningrad University had repeatedly complained, as we forced her to revisit the Soviet Union so that we could investigate the Amber Room mystery. 'We had to live through the Stalin times and we now choose to forget them. Instead we study Russia's nineteenth century, an epoch of innovation and elegance, the time of our Grand Duke Vladimir. You must see this side of our history too. I promise it won't be a waste of your time.'

She has been helping us for many weeks and so we are here for her tonight, outside No. 26, a Florentine-style palazzo built by Grand Duke Vladimir for 1 million roubles. He constructed it in 1865 on a site facing the Peter Paul Cathedral that was originally owned by the rear-admiral of Peter the Great's rowing fleet. The professor presents us with a book she has written about this palace. Later we will meet her publisher, she says.

Grand Duke Vladimir, third son of Tsar Alexander II, was Commander of the City Guard and President of the Academy of Arts, the professor says, as she climbs the Italian marble staircase writhing with mermaids and cherubs, its handrail upholstered in purple velvet. 'Our great operatic bass Shaliapin and even Rachmaninov came here to dine,' she says, pulling open the door into a hall of oak panelling painted with Russian fairy tales. Leading us through the state rooms towards the boudoir of Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, she throws back another door to reveal a Moorish antechamber with an inlaid cupola.

The professor guides us along a corridor. 'The Grand Duke's exiled son proclaimed himself Russian Emperor Cyril I in August 1924, having convinced himself that the stories of the execution of the Romanovs in Ekaterinburg were true,' she says. 'This vacated palace was handed over to Soviet researchers and thinkers on the request of Maxim Gorky, becoming our House of Scientists.'

There is no time to linger. We are here to attend a meeting of the Club of Scholars of the Russian Academy of Science in honour of a curator from Pavlovsk Palace who died last year. Although we dare not say this to the professor, we hope it won't take too long. 'The people you will meet tonight live, like me, for Russian history. Come,' she says, opening a plain door to what must have been the staff quarters.

Men and women, young and old, in pressed suits with frayed cuffs, their skin translucent, are crammed beside a grand piano that is not needed tonight but fits nowhere else. The room is filled with locksmiths, clock-smiths, painters and hangers, sculptors and carvers, gilders and seamstresses, specialists in Meissen, miniatures and Sevres, all of them earning no more than twenty dollars a month at Pavlovsk or the Catherine Palace, where they work as curators.

The gathering is called to order and a sturdy woman stands and begins to speak. 'Albina Vasiliava,' the professor whispers. 'Bolshoi Albina we call her. Porcelain curator at Pavlovsk. Great friend of Anatoly Kuchumov.'

Albina delivers a tribute to her recently deceased colleague, who worked for forty-six years in the sculpture department of Pavlovsk. The audience listens reverently to the story of how this curator in 1941 saved palace statues from the Nazis by burying them so deeply that, though the Germans dug, they never discovered them. And then, when the park was liberated in 1944, the curator came back and disinterred every one of them, even though the land was mined, recording the salvage operation in photographs.

'Some sculptures were broken in more than seven places,' Bolshoi Albina says gravely. Heads nod. 'We don't have a projector or a photocopy machine. So I'll pass these things around while I talk.' A ribbon of documents wraps itself around the room, members of the audience lingering over every item. 'We have only these few things, thanks to the curator's daughter,' Bolshoi Albina says as a photograph comes towards us of a picnic in Pavlovsk park, men in black berets puffing on cigarettes. All of them are enjoying a joke, including the man to the left. We recognize him. Anatoly Mikhailovich Kuchumov. We in the West are so accustomed to photographs of Soviet citizens in fur hats and great coats that it is disconcerting to see these comrades in such relaxed poses. We have caught a glimpse of the private world inhabited by museum curators like Kuchumov and Brusov.

Anatoly Kuchumov (left) and colleagues from the Leningrad palaces during the 1950s

As the lecture comes to an end, the room breaks up into smaller memory floes. A waistcoated clock repairer glides past. 'Can I tell you something?' he asks. 'Do you know why we all cling on, even though we are barely paid and rarely respected? Do you know why we never left? Because of those who came before us. Every night I walk through the halls of Pavlovsk, winding up the clocks in the dark, and I feel the souls of my predecessors watching me.'

We go from group to group, listening, introducing ourselves, meeting as many people as we can, explaining about our search for the Amber Room and how we were trying to find out why the story did not end in Konigsberg in 1945 with Professor Alexander Brusov's findings.

Heads shake. Eyebrows are raised. And then a dark-eyed woman shyly introduces herself. Nadezda Voronova. She tells us that her father worked with Kuchumov for decades, helping to research his book on the history of the Amber Room. 'You know very little,' she says. I hope you don't mind me being so direct.' Voronova stares at her feet. 'The search didn't end in 1945. Anatoly Mikhailovich went to Konigsberg in 1946 to reopen the investigation into the Amber Room. My father told me.'

But Professor Brusov's report had been emphatic: the Amber Room burned in the Knights' Hall between 9 and 11 April 194 5, we say. Voronova shrinks back: 'Sorry, I can't help you more. My father is dead. My mother is very old. Alone in our apartment in Tsarskoye Selo. I must leave. It's a long way. On the metro and then the bus.' She looks anxiously around the room and draws closer. 'Try the Pavlovsk library. Kuchumov's papers must be there. He was director of Pavlovsk for many years. Kuchumov knew the truth about the Amber Room.'

Vica Plauda, Kuchumov's granddaughter, had given us the same advice and we had forgotten to follow it up as we had become gripped by Brusov's mission to Konigsberg.

The next morning we head for Vitebsk Station and catch a train bound for the Catherine Palace's neighbour on the River Slavyanka, twenty miles south of the city, travelling the route taken by Vladimir Telemakov as he snatched interviews with Anatoly Kuchumov. It is early April and the rain has stopped so the train is crowded with families heading for their dachas.

A thin line of country men and women bustle down the aisle with handfuls of chewing gum and sticking plasters for sale. A raucous band follows, serenading passengers. A ragged veteran of Chechnya rolls along, with an outstretched hand and a missing foot. Every woman slips him roubles. The man sitting next to us tries furiously to get our attention. He motions towards a large glass bottle poking from his khaki pack. He mimes drinking the aquavit with an empty hand, pinging the bottle with his fingernail. 'Going for some fun in the countryside, eh? Don't you know? You only take a whore on the electric train! A lady goes by taxi.'

Half an hour later we are walking across the parkland, passing bronze figures cast after Bonaparte's return from Egypt with pharaonic trophies that started a craze for all things related to the Nile. Pavlovsk. A gift from Catherine the Great to Paul, her strange and ugly son, a boy with a bee-stung nose who managed to reduce Russia from imperial superpower to a vacillating state at war with France, in conflict with Britain, ignored by Austria and embarked upon a perilous expedition into the savage khanates of central Asia on the back of a foolish plan to mount a surprise attack on India. Paul would be assassinated in 18OL by courtiers wielding cushions. But visitors get no sense of this looking at the majestic Classical halls with their reserved beauty and elegant proportions.1

We explain the purpose of our visit to the urbane palace director and he summons a sullen librarian, his frame long and thin, hanging beneath a hand-knitted yellow jumper. 'There is not much,' the librarian blurts out, loitering in the doorway but refusing to make eye contact. He produces four books from behind his back and tosses them on to the desk. 'There is nothing else here belonging to Kuchumov. That will interest you,' he says, turning his back and vanishing. Forty-five years employed at the Leningrad palaces, a multitude of postings and offices, a leading role played in the cultural life of the Soviet Union's second city and four second-hand books to his name?

We leave, depressed, and a diminutive curator calls us over and leads us up the back stairs to her office, bursting with furniture that has just returned from an overseas exhibition. 'You are my guests, please.' She points shyly to two chairs labelled 'Tsar Paul I'. We sit and flick through Kuchumov's four books while she scrabbles around on her haunches, searching for the smallest fissure in the patina of a walnut writing desk. 'Put them away,' the curator advises. She stands and we at last recognize her from the meeting at the House of Scientists. She introduces herself as Malinki Albina (Small Albina, not to be confused with Bolshoi, her larger namesake, who also works here).

'There's nothing in those books. I've read them.' She scrapes back her silken grey hair to reveal eyes brimming with stories. 'You know the librarian is writing a book - on Kuchumov. I bet he didn't tell you. But of course it will never see the light of day. No money for books in Russia.' We think of Telemakov. To return his generosity, we have passed his manuscript on to Our Friend the Professor's publisher, but even he doesn't hold out much hope that he can raise the cash to get it into print.

'And because the librarian knows in his heart that his book is a pipe dream,' Malinki Albina continues, 'he will ensure that you don't get his information. He is young, he can wait.' As we gather our coats, Malinki Albina catches us by surprise, embracing us warmly. 'We are old. Not so beautiful as we were.' She stubs out a cigarette in an onyx Romanov ashtray. 'But we will help you to find Kuchumov's Amber Room files.'

We make our way back into the city. The carbon-thin air smells of bonfires even though we can see none. The source is probably the hiccuping incinerators on the Neva, where the wide waters of the river are pearles-cent in the moonlight. A tall ship driven into a low bridge by a sozzled captain has spilt 875,000 gallons of fuel. The entrance to every metro is choked with citizens rushing to get out of the chill. A quick shot of Russki Standard and an ice cream (even in the coldest winter) and then away. The takeaway bottle shops, glazed in armoured Plexiglass, are mobbed by commuters and list under the weight of their security precautions. We are back in Sovetskaya 7.

Midnight. The phone rings halfway down the hall. We sprint to reach it. A clicking and whirring. Then a voice. 'Try the Central State Archive of Literature and Arts.' It is Malinki Albina. 'Make for the Bolshoi Dom. I hear they might have Kuchumov's papers, though I can't get you in.'

The landmark that locates the literature archive today is the nearby Bolshoi Dom, a huge white edifice whose stone walls are not its own. The masonry originates from a cathedral dedicated to sailors who died in the Russo-Japanese war of 1905. The story goes that Stalin had the cathedral demolished and gave the bronze plaque with the names of the drowned to a local butcher as a chopping block. The stone was wheeled in barrows to the builders of the Bolshoi Dom, the new KGB headquarters for Leningrad to where, citizens used to joke, people came from all over to see the view of the Siberian gulags from its windowless basement.

The looming Bolshoi Dom is today the headquarters of St Petersburg's FSB (the successor to the KGB). But even after we find it, the literature archive is still difficult to locate. Concealed in an alleyway that runs off the broad Ulitsa Shpalernaia, its double front doors are obscured by a burnt-out Lada and the poorly laid tarmac path is sticky, trapping wouldbe researchers like flies. Although we have applied for a meeting with the director, we are a long way off from seeing any files. An assistant has refused to confirm whether any of Anatoly Kuchumov's papers are actually here. Even if they are, access to them might be restricted. We have been told that archivists require ten years to catalogue every new bequest before its contents can be made available to selected researchers. The director herself may be at her dacha and if so a deputy who has no executive powers will take her place.

Many former Soviet institutions are caught between their desire to profit from the future while being wary of revealing their past. We have been in Russia for several frustrating months now and we need this meeting to work. So we have taken a precaution, bringing with us a letter of recommendation that we have been advised to use if we encounter any obfuscation. We present ourselves to a frothy blonde guard who spurts up from her desk like a bottle of warm Soviet champagne. She leads us up a broad staircase lined with heavily barred windows. In the stairwell, an ancient document lift rises, its file-filled car attached to a steel cable with a reef knot. The steps are bowed, worn down by legions of clerks employed to keep researchers out and their applications in limbo. We are following a vapour trail of raw alcohol that emanates from somewhere up above us, wafting past photographs of a city caught singing, writing and dreaming (despite the regular firestorms): dancer Natalia Makarova thrown bouquets for her performance in Giselle, author Daniil Granin lauded after publishing his recollections of the siege of Leningrad; painter Alexander Vokraniv in his studio.

We are shown into an office. On the desk are half a dozen calendars and as many diaries. Another three calendars hang from the walls. Two clocks, three watches and a bedside alarm. A small, elderly woman with sculpted hair enters. Her nails, cardigan and blouse are all ribbons and rose pink, her tiny feet bunched into imposing heels. 'Dobroye Utro,' she demurs, slipping into her high-backed captain's chair, spinning it around in a ghostly hush. 'Alexandra Vasilevna Istomina, director of the Central State Archive of Literature and Art. Can I be of assistance?'

We plunge into Anatoly Mikhailovich Kuchumov. The director shakes her head, we slip our letter of reference across her desk. Alexandra Vasilevna's painted nail follows every word. It is from Our Friend the Professor's publisher, head of an important St Petersburg house. His company subsidizes the printing of Russian archive catalogues and he strongly recommends that we be allowed entry. A passionate man who had bowed deeply in his long coat when we had met, the publisher recalled Anatoly Kuchumov fondly and is also keen to know if the great curator's private files have survived.

The archive director smiles broadly. She produces three cups of black tea and a box. Out of it tumbles glittering foil wrappers embossed with a Soviet pantheon: red stars, saluting heroes, fairy-tale cottages in the Karelian woods, fiery rockets scorching the firmament, chocolates produced by a company founded by Nadezda Krupskaya, the wife of Lenin.

Alexandra Vasilevna sucks noisily on a Soyuz 10, making it soft and malleable. I joined the Leningrad archives in 1950,' she says. I have had no other job. I know it is not fashionable to talk about the Stalin times, but I will be honest with you. That time was good. We travelled everywhere in our USSR and we paid very little for everything.'

She spins her chair round to watch the rain falling through a portholelike window. 'We still have to get used to letting people in. To this openness, as you would call it. You are the first Angliyski I have ever met. Do you know that the only time I talked with an American was last year? At a social function at his embassy. I watched and I listened. He told me we were soulful, long-suffering, our leaders corrupt.' She tuts and shakes her head. 'They come here like children, quoting Orwell: "Four legs good. Two legs bad."' The director is asking for our understanding before advising us of the archive fees. But is there anything worth buying?

Alexandra Vasilevna begins to calculate, her pink nails tapping on a row of numbers she scribbles on a pad. 'All files will have to hurdle a vetting procedure'. Well, at least there are files. 'Their contents are to be assessed by a censor who will decide what is and is not pertinent. You may come in for one day next week,' the director rules cheerily. In Russia it is never today. And even though she has given us a day pass into the reading room, we are not sure what we have been granted access to.

The St Petersburg Literature Archive reading room

The following Wednesday the frothy guard barely fizzes as we enter. She knows we know the way. The reading room on the second floor is disappointing, in its ordinariness, with formica-topped tables and red kitchenette chairs. Unloved cheese plants clutter the windowsill. Infused with tobacco smoke, with gloss mocha walls, the room feels like we are in a railway waiting hall. The only other notable feature is Vitalia Petrovna, the buck-toothed superintendent, who is sporting a pair of mohair leg-warmers.

But on our desk is a file wrapped in ribbon. The file contains a batch of Kuchumov's private papers. Our names are the only ones written in the readers' record that has been stuck inside the folder so recently that the spittle to moisten the glue is still damp. Not even Kedrinsky has seen these documents. We are consigned to a far corner with the virgin file. Our Friend the Professor has agreed to translate for us and we begin to read.

A form printed on sugar paper:

Order 88, 1 March 1946, Kuchumov, Anatoly Mikhailovich, former curator of Amber Room and Chief of Central Stores, Leningrad, is sent on komandirovat from 3 March to Moscow, for several questions in connection with searching for museum treasures. Expenses to be paid by GA [General Administration], State Historical Museum.

The form is stamped: Staff Department, Catherine Palace. At the bottom someone has written, 'Kuchumov is to say he is on vacation.'2

Komandirovat is 'to be sent on a business trip' and in Soviet times it was a regular feature of working life, but citizens sent on these routine exchanges were never normally instructed to assume a cover story, telling friends and colleagues they were on holiday. This first document seems to confirm what Voronova told us. Anatoly Kuchumov had embarked on a clandestine state-sanctioned mission in 1946.

A letter is attached to the komandirovat form, written by the Soviet Ministry of Culture to the Leningrad authorities: 'L March 1946, ref 04-18, to LenGorlsPolKom. Kuchumov, Anatoly Mikhailovich, komandirovat to Moscow on orders of SovNarKom. Komandirovat also for Tronchinsky, Stanislav Valerianovich. Mission status: Secret.'3

The document confirmed that SovNarKom, one of the highest authorities in the Russian Federation, ordered Kuchumov's mission. He was to be accompanied by Stanislav Tronchinsky, who, according to museum workers at the House of Scientists, was a senior cultural bureaucrat stationed in Leningrad. They had met during the evacuation of the palaces in the summer of 1941 and corresponded throughout the war: Kuchumov in Novosibirsk and Tronchinsky in Leninsk-Kuznetsky, in the foothills of the Alatay Mountains.

The next documents are notes, an impromptu diary written in purple ink on graph paper, in a delicate hand that we recognize as Kuchumov's. We have seen his writing before in letters shown to us by his granddaughter.

Kedrinsky has read diary extracts to us. Telemakov has transcribed sections too. But this is the first time we have seen an original part of Kuchumov's diary.

Arriving in Moscow, Kuchumov wrote, he called at the State Historical Museum, looking for Alexander Brusov, the man who had led the previous year's unsuccessful search for the Amber Room. The museum told Kuchumov that the professor was working from home. When Kuchumov and Tronchinsky eventually found him, they revealed that this was not a courtesy call. They had been ordered to Konigsberg to reinvestigate the fate of the Amber Room. They wanted to debrief the professor about his findings. There is no explanation here of why Moscow was at this time questioning the professor's conclusions. But by going to the expense of sending a second mission in search of the Amber Room, the Soviet authorities demonstrated the significance they attached to it.

From Brusov's interview with Kuchumov it is clear that he was nervous. Had Kuchumov and Tronchinsky read his report from July 1945, he asked them? Yes, they had, but was there anything else he would like to add for the record? Brusov thought. He did have something new that might assist them. The professor produced a translation of the correspondence that he had rescued from the bonfire set by Konigsberg Castle Museum director Alfred Rohde. The work had been done by V F. Rumiantseva, an expert in German paintings at Moscow's State Tretiakov Gallery, who had spent nine months reconstructing the charred documents.

Brusov confided in Tronchinsky. There was one event from his 1945 trip that now unsettled him. Kuchumov made notes:

It was the Hofbunker. In September 1944 Rohde reported in a letter to Berlin that he couldn't get into the Hofbunker because he had lost the key. But when we went with Rohde to find this bunker, he said he had a key. But there was no door to unlock. As soon as we got in we were excited and forgot all about Rohde. Suddenly, I realized he was not with us and he only reappeared when we all left. Where had Rohde been? We didn't search the whole bunker on that trip. Were we taken to the right bunker? Were there more rooms in this bunker that we were not shown? That is my regret.

In Brusov's diary we had read a confident account of how he had thoroughly searched this Hofbunker and found nothing connected with the Amber Room, and yet this account was shot through with self-doubt. Brusov must have felt threatened by having his conclusions queried. Kuchumov and Tronchinsky did not commit their impressions to paper. Instead, they thanked the professor. They had to rush if they were to catch the train to Konigsberg.4

March 1946 was an ominous month for a journey from east to west. On 5 March, Winston Churchill warned an audience in Fulton, Missouri, that 'from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent', while Stalin in Moscow responded by blaming the West for a war in which the USSR had lost more souls than anyone else. The General Secretary also warned that the 'Imperialist Camp' was planning to do it all over again.

Kuchumov and Tronchinsky spent the journey to Konigsberg poring over the newly translated Rohde letters, several of which concerned the security of treasures for which Rohde was personally responsible.5 Brusov's latest statement implied that Rohde might have lied to his Soviet captors. The letters that he had tried to destroy might provide an explanation.

The earliest was written by Rohde on 2 September 1944, the day after a second wave of British air raids on Konigsberg, and was addressed to Dr Gerhard Zimmerman at the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin. 'In spite of the destruction of Konigsberg Castle with explosives and incendiary devices... the art collection up to now did not lose any important items,' Rohde wrote. 'Those items which we are keeping from your collections survived in the cellars without any damage.' Next he mentioned the Hofbunker, to which 'we have lost the keys to its iron door and so cannot get inside'. Brusov's story.

Kuchumov underlined in red crayon this paragraph and the next, in which Rohde asked for an urgent message to be relayed to his superior, Dr Ernst Gall, Director of Administration for State Palaces and Gardens in Berlin. 'To Herr Dr Director: there is no damage to the Amber Room at all apart from to the sockel-platten." While the twenty-two large and medium-sized amber panels, the most important parts of the room, had survived the air raid intact, this letter confirmed that six of the twenty-four sections of sockel-platten or skirting board had been destroyed. The larger amber panels had obviously been kept separately, perhaps in the so-called Hofbunker, Kuchumov reasoned in his notes.

The second category of correspondence was letters that Rohde had dashed off immediately after the Allied air raids. Believing that the city was now a target, he tried to find new storage facilities in the East Prussian countryside. He must have sat with a map of provincial castles, Kuchumov speculated in his notes, calculating which ones were furthest from the front as well as the most bomb-resistant.

Rohde's first letter, written on 6 September 1944, was to Prince Alex Dohna-Schlobitten. Prince Alex's castle (Schlobitten is today Slobity, in Poland) was a Teutonic fortress fifty miles south-west of Konigsberg and at the time seemed far from advancing Red Army units. Rohde would have known that the prince was not only 'anti-Bolshevik' but a patriot and a veteran of Stalingrad, where he had served with the German 60th Mechanized Infantry Division. Rohde wrote, 'Art treasures and also the Amber Room should be moved to a less dangerous place, so I am asking you to give two to three rooms of your castle.' This letter confirmed that Rohde was looking to evacuate the Amber Room. Kuchumov underlined the passage in red and put a question mark against one word, 'moved'.

Prince Alex Dohna-Schlobitten

Rohde sent a second letter on 6 September 1944 to Countess von Schwerin, advising her that he had already dispatched a shipment of art works to Wildenhoff, her country house twenty-five miles south-west of Konigsberg. Kuchumov made a note. He needed to clarify what this shipment consisted of. There seemed to be a lot more possible hiding places emerging from the Rohde letters than Brusov had investigated in 1945-With the front advancing by the day and Konigsberg under threat of further raids, Rohde needed assistance quickly. But Prince Alex replied on 11 September: 'The cellar rooms are very wet so they can't be used for placing art treasures. One room that is more or less dry is not very big. I can give you this space but I am afraid that it will not do for the Amber Room.' The panels were unwieldy and required a sizeable hall to store them in. They had not gone to Schlobitten Castle.

Countess von Schwerin's reply was not in the bundle that Brusov gave to Kuchumov, but from a second letter Rohde wrote to her on 17 October 1944 he noted that the unnamed art shipment arrived safely at Wildenhoff and that the German curator planned to inspect it in the last week of October. Maybe the Amber Room had gone there.

But due to the fragmentary nature of the letters saved by Brusov from the fire, Kuchumov and Tronchinsky found Rohde's movements difficult to follow. What did this partial document, sent to 'Very Respectable Herr Lau' on 21 October, mean? I would be deeply grateful if you could give me notice if something changes in our plan and if the packed boxes have to be moved again. I have to tell my superiors. At the moment I don't know if I can go any further than Insterburg.' Kuchumov underlined the section in red. There was no address for Herr Lau and no other reference to him in the bundle. Kuchumov drew a circle around Insterburg, noting that it was fifty miles east of Konigsberg. He also knew that by January 1945, three months after Rohde had written to Herr Lau, the town fell to the Red Army. If the Amber Room had been evacuated there, then the Red Army would surely have found it.

The Soviet team analysed travel permits made out in Rohde's name, from which they fished dates, times and places. On 18 October, the day after his second letter to Countess von Schwerin, Rohde received permission to travel to her castle, Wildenhoff. On 2 November he was issued with a permit to embark on a five-day trip to the home of Countess Sabina Keyserlingk in Rautenburg, fifty-five miles north-east of Konigsberg, near Tilsit (today Sovetsk in Kaliningrad Province). The outcome of this journey was confirmed in a letter to her, written by Rohde on LO November, three days after he returned, in which he advised the Countess that he had brought from her abandoned manor to Konigsberg 'two cars' of art works. Rohde's mission to find a new hiding place for the Amber Room, Kuchumov noted, was complicated by the need to evacuate art works from country estates belonging to aristocrats who had already fled East Prussia.

Gauleiter Erich Koch, the highest authority in East Prussia, signed the next permit, issued on 8 November 1944. He gave Rohde a mandate 'to take any measures in guarding, moving and evacuating any pieces of art from Prussia'. Clearly the German curator was at the centre of the Nazi art establishment in East Prussia and treasures were being shipped in every direction.

Rohde must have barely had time to catch his breath. On 15 November he wrote to the Ministry of Culture in Berlin about plans to evacuate Soviet art works from one East Prussian safe house to another. On 26 November he received orders to travel to Castle Binanen to transfer another art collection back to Konigsberg. But it was the permit issued on L December 1944 that caught Kuchumov's attention, authority to travel to Saxony, several hundred miles to the south-east, in the heart of the Reich. In the bundle was a report of this mission: 'My trip from 3 to LO December 1944 in Saxony'. Rohde had visited two castles, Wechselburg and Kriebstein, both west of Dresden, and concluded that they were secure and watertight hiding places, the perfect locations in which to secure 'irreplaceable treasure'.

A picture was emerging. Here in Rohde's letters was clear evidence that art stored in East Prussia was evacuated further west by the Nazis before the Soviet advance. It was possible that Brusov had been too quick to conclude that the Amber Room had been destroyed in Konigsberg. The last letter in the bundle gave Kuchumov further hope. It was from Rohde to the Ministry of Culture in Berlin and was dated 12 January 1945: I have been packing the Amber Room into containers and they are being sealed. The moment is ready for these panels to be evacuated to Saxony and more correctly they can be sent to Wechselburg in Rochlitz.'6 The letter appeared to conflict with Rohde's statement to Brusov that the Amber Room had remained in Konigsberg Castle until 5 April 1945. Kuchumov concluded that Rohde had lied.

Kuchumov and Tronchinsky began compiling a thirty-three-point list of questions for Alfred Rohde, comparing his statements to Brusov with his letters. Tronchinsky would begin the interrogation light-heartedly with information that was only really of interest to fellow academics: the arrival of the room at Konigsberg Castle and its display there. He would create the impression that he was an amiable party man marking time. Kuchumov calculated that if Tronchinsky could make himself small in the face of Rohde's arrogance, then the German would be unable to resist bragging to his poor Soviet cousin. The plump Russian figure in spectacles, Kuchumov, would remain in the background throughout the interrogation, a silent, brooding force who would conceal the fact that he was running the operation.

On 19March 1946 their train pulled in. General Vasilev, one of Konigsberg's commanders, met Kuchumov and Tronchinsky at the station and insisted on giving them a tour. 'The only buildings that were standing were single cottages at the end of streets, villas in the middle of the rubble that were now occupied by the Central Commandant and the Narkomats [representatives of the People's Commissariat],' Kuchumov wrote. 'One could only walk down certain streets at certain times, depending on the roster of demolition. There were about 25,000 German refugees that we could see living in cellars and ruined buildings in the suburbs.'7

Kuchumov and Tronchinsky were so on edge on the first night that, rather than resting in the city's only hotel, they walked two miles in the freezing dark to the ruins of the castle. Early the next morning they were back again, taking photographs of locations and masonry, plotting their approach like detectives at the scene of a crime.

They could not resist taking a few pictures for themselves, two men standing like mice before the forbidding hulk of the castle's blasted Albrecht Gate. Kuchumov pasted them into an album of black cartridge paper and wrote captions in chalk. This book, which has found its way into the literature archive, has been opened so infrequently that the tracing paper dividers are still pristine, as if the album had just been bought at the stationery counter of the Dom Knigi bookshop on Nevsky Prospekt. We gently turn the pages but we are not allowed to photograph it.8

Two beaming men in heavy tweed trench coats and worn leather shoes, their socks rolled over their trousers, Tronchinsky in a black beret, Kuchumov wearing a pork pie hat, both of them overshadowed by the mountains of rubble that they would soon have to clear. In another frame they sit by the remains of the Knights' Hall, serious, composed, Kuchumov carrying a small leather attache case. And in a third and a fourth, both men pose awkwardly before unrecognizable heaps of bricks that rise up far above their heads. In all of the pictures the two men wear identical suits, given to them in Moscow to make them inconspicuous. Two grown men in a post-war hell-hole, walking everywhere like shelled peas, their unnaturally pressed suits and white shirts contrasting with their undertaker's ties.

Dear Katya, We are here in Konigsberg for the third day. One and a half days have been taken up with bureaucracy. We found the grave of Immanuel Kant, remaining miraculously intact among absolute ruin, and visited a house where Richard Wagner had once stayed. We have now been allowed into the ruined castle. We begin to search through the rubble.9

Several documents in our file are informal letters like this one, written by Stanislav Tronchinsky, who, despite being on a covert mission, obviously kept no secrets from his wife. Every three days he had sent an extraordinary missive to Katya in Leningrad, a fact that Kuchumov only learned of in the 1960S when Tronchinsky's widow gave the letters to him to assist in the research of his book about the Amber Room. The ambiguity and innuendo in them suggests that Tronchinsky was aware that a censor would read them, but he was presumably senior enough within the party not to be afraid of recriminations.

Kuchumov wrote no such letters to his wife, Anna Mikhailovna. He confided only to his diary. Kuchumov is emerging as dogged and patriotic, putting to one side his personal life, while conducting the business of the state. Everything he typed went straight to the Ministry of Culture in Moscow, pages of reports, the carbon copies of which are here in these files.10

'First, we have made a detailed inspection of the castle cellars and tunnels that lead out of its precincts,' he wrote. We can imagine Kuchumov at his hotel dressing table, squinting in the candlelight as everyone else slumbered. Wearing his Moscow-issue black suit, his fleshy body pressing at its seams, the itchy woollen fabric taking on a sheen having wriggled with the curator over broken beams and masonry. Kuchumov stabbed at the typewriter keys, making frequent mistakes, which he hatched over with Xs.

The underground passageways were numerous and beguiling, Kuchumov noted. 'Many of them were flooded and all of them were dangerous.' Some had even been sabotaged, the water electrified or poisoned. Others were simply crumbling and filled with the smell of gangrene, the gasses of decomposition that could kill a man as easily. 'Forty Soviet specialists died,' Kuchumov wrote without comment, as if forty men killed in one incident was an unremarkable fact. Given what we know about the culture of checking, cross-checking and counter-checking in Moscow then, the incident was certainly investigated by another agency. We have no idea whether these deaths were connected in any way to the search for the Amber Room.

When Kpichumov and Tronchinsky began inspecting the ruined castle itself, they immediately made discoveries. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow: 'In different parts of the structure that was burned and destroyed we found a great number of fragments of furniture from the Catherine and Alexander palaces (including furniture from the Great Hall, the Karelian Reception Room of Alexander I, the Chinese Room and many others).' Then, in the East Wing: 'Near the main gate, we discovered big bronze locks that had once belonged to the Lyons Hall of the Catherine Palace.'

All of these pieces had been found within a few days and yet Brusov claimed in his report to have made a thorough search of the castle. But perhaps it was not entirely surprising, as Brusov was an archaeologist with no specialist knowledge about the Leningrad collections. And he had been working just weeks after the German surrender.

According to Tronchinsky's secret letters home, he and Kuchumov soon discovered more:

Dear Katya, we have found fragments of the Catherine Palace floor. Broken furniture from the Bolshoi Hall and the Chinese Drawing Room, as well as a cabinet from Alexander I. Anatoly Mikhailovich has to be careful. He was in the east wing when he fell through two floors, masonry pouring down on his head, he was only stopped from crashing into the cellars and killing himself by an old oak beam.

Kuchumov wrote to Moscow: 'While surveying the castle, in a small ground-floor room in one of the semi-ruined towers in the middle of the south wall, we also found among the rubbish more copies of Rohde's official correspondence.' One of the letters was from General George von Kuchler, who in 1942 had replaced General Wilhelm von Leeb as commander of Army Group North, which was barracked in the Catherine Palace. Kuchler asked his 'good friend Alfred Rohde' about the safe arrival of the Amber Room 'that had been sent to East Prussia'. This new letter proved that Rohde had some useful and influential connections.

Kuchumov and Tronchinsky systematically worked their way through the north wing. The Knights' Hall was to be the focus of their investigation. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow: 'Here, according to Rohde, was where the Amber Room was located at different times.' Here too Kuchumov and Tronchinsky quickly found items that Brusov had missed. Kuchumov wrote: 'Our detailed searches of layers of soot, garbage and debris that covered the stone floor of the Knights' Hall where the Amber Room had possibly been burned have revealed gilded pieces of wood varnish and great amounts of furniture springs and iron parts from German wardrobes.'11 Kuchumov concluded that he had discovered more of Countess Keyserlingk's incinerated furniture collection - pieces that Rohde had told Brusov had been packed beside the Amber Room.

Entrance to the Knight's Hall of Konigsberg Castle

Hinges, cornices, iron strips. Kuchumov ventured that if the entire Amber Room had burned here then there would be far more evidence still lying in the rubble. There had to be something left of the twenty-two large and medium-sized amber wall panels, the four amber frames that contained the four Florentine stone mosaic pictures and the stone mosaics themselves, commissioned by Catherine the Great.

Then, on 22 March, Tronchinsky wrote to his wife that Kuchumov had found something significant, something that they could directly connect to the Amber Room: 'Dear Katya, We found copper frames from the stone mosaics, but only three of them. Here they were, literally under my feet.'12

Kuchumov made the formal report to Moscow:

Near the entrance to the [Knights] Hall, where the staircase runs, covered in three layers of ash, totally burned and discoloured, we have found the mosaic pictures. Examining the profile of the bronze frames and the small decorative tendrils of wire that surrounded the stone pieces one could confirm that they were of Italian production and therefore the ones that once decorated the Amber Room.13

The findings appeared to bolster Brusov's theory that the Amber Room had burned. But Kuchumov argued the reverse. Having learned about the mechanics of the Amber Room while researching his book, Kuchumov advised Moscow that he had left all four small stone mosaics in the Catherine Palace in June 1941, and only three had now turned up in the rubble of the Knights' Hall.

The stone mosaics could be detached from the amber panels and the fourth might have survived elsewhere. If this fourth stone mosaic had been packed and stored elsewhere by the Nazis, then surely the possibility existed that the amber panels and thick carved frames that had comprised the Amber Room were still concealed alongside the fourth mosaic, in another location.

Space. When it came to them, Kuchumov wrote that both men burst out laughing. Kuchumov had memorized the Amber Room's original dimensions - a dozen large panels twelve feet high, ten medium panels just over three feet high and twenty-four sections of amber skirting board. He knew that the large amber wall panels could not be broken down into smaller pieces and so, when they had been packed up by Alfred Rohde in January 1945, they would have required large, cumbersome crates. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow:

More important than the number of stone mosaics is the issue of size. If we suppose that these stone mosaics were packed together with the large amber panels being still mounted upon them, all of which burned in the inferno [in the Knights' Hall], then the cases for the panels and mosaics would have had to be vast. And yet this place, between the two doors and the windows where we have found the three stone mosaics, is cramped and tiny.

Tronchinsky and Kuchumov studied the pile of ash on the floor before them. In the searing temperatures, the stone mosaics had been perfectly preserved in a neat stack, although they were now more fragile than a spider's web. The picture on the uppermost mosaic was even discernible, until Kuchumov touched it and it imploded in a puff of ash. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow:

If the mosaics had been stacked still hooked on to the amber panels, a layer of amber panel with its wooden backing, a layer of stone mosaic, and so on and so on, when the panels burned individual amber pieces would have separated as the glue that bound them melts at low temperatures, and the board that backed the panels ignites at around the same mark. Some trace of the amber, now loose and insulated by the stone mosaics, would have remained trapped. But we found nothing.

Nothing. It was inconceivable that not a single piece of amber from more than a dozen twelve-foot-high amber wall panels, each one of which was made up of thousands of slivers of the resin, had survived. In addition, Kuchumov advised Moscow that the Amber Room was decorated with twenty-four mirrored pilasters that, according to Pravda, had been marked as received in the castle's Gift Book. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow: 'Above these pilasters were twenty-four bronze wall chandeliers. Inspecting the ash we did not find a single trace of bronze or mirrored pilaster.'

Three mosaics not four. A tiny space in which to store only the smallest crates. No bronze or mirror fragments to be found in the ash. Nothing sandwiched between the stone mosaics. Kuchumov's reasoning was at times hard to follow but he argued that the evidence - much of which he had decided not to burden Moscow with - pointed to the Amber Room having been packed up and stored in multiple locations, or at the very least not solely in the Knights' Hall, where Dr Rohde and Brusov had said it was. Rohde's correspondence made it clear that the Germans had separated parts of the Amber Room as early as August 1944, when six sockel-platten, part of the amber skirting board, had been destroyed by fire in the south wing, while all other pieces had survived.

On 25 March 1946 Tronchinsky wrote again to his wife: 'Dear Katya, We have to work very hard indeed. We walk and run each day about six miles. We have revealed something.' But he did not tell his wife exactly what they had discovered.

But three days later, when he wrote again, he was in an altogether different mood: '28 March, Dear Katya, Yesterday was a week since we arrived in this city. We have walked now about 90 miles. Results of our work are small. We did not find the main thing: the mystery of the Amber Room has not been revealed to us.' Tronchinsky had good reason to be deflated. '[Rohde], the castle director is dead. He died three months ago. We cannot find any other collaborators.'

The man at the centre of the Soviet inquiry. The well-plotted thirty-three questions. The mystery of the evacuation to Saxony. Kuchumov and Tronchinsky were to have squeezed Alfred Rohde hard. No one had seen Rohde since December 1945. Not General Vasilev. No one at the NKVD headquarters in the Moscow Hotel. None of the SMERSH operatives. It was thought to be impossible to get in or out of the city and yet Alfred Rohde, together with Use, his wife, and Lotti and Wolfgang, his daughter and son, had vanished.

A German informant claimed that they had died from malnutrition. Kuchumov found this hard to believe as the Soviets had been feeding Rohde emergency rations to keep him alive. ' Werwolfs, members of the secretive Nazi resistance, had taken or executed them to conceal the secret of the Amber Room,' an anonymous letter that found its way to Kuchumov stated.14 He dismissed this out of hand. Tronchinsky knew that Germans who offered to collaborate had been hanged and that there were now ten such incidents under investigation. However, Kuchumov conducted his own inquiry and wrote to Moscow: I have learned that Alfred Rohde committed suicide. His wife is also dead. That's what people in the hospital have told me.' But Kuchumov also admitted in the same report that he had been unable to find the graves, the post-mortem reports or the death certificates. No doctors in Konigsberg could recall treating Rohde or any of his family. This was a city living in terror where it was virtually impossible to keep a secret, a city that had dematerialized along with Alfred and Use Rohde and their children.

But Tronchinsky and Kuchumov struggled on and on L April Tronchinsky wrote to his wife:

Dear Katya, we once again have found tracks of the Amber Room... If the room was demolished... it was not here in Konigsberg [Castle]... We have also found important furniture from the Amber Room... and are about to go on and follow the trail left by the Amber Room... We shall go to Moscow on 10 or 12 April.

Kuchumov wrote to Moscow that he and Tronchinsky had located three of Rohde's close associates. Paul Feyerabend, owner of the Blutgericht, the Blood Court historical restaurant that Kuchumov noted with distaste was 'located for 200 years in the old Teutonic Order's torture chambers beneath the Knights' Hall', had come forward claiming he was a Communist who had been forced to conceal his party card. Feyerabend claimed to have witnessed a puzzling event in July 1944. The interrogations were attached.

Blutgericht, the Nazi restaurant located in the former torture chambers of Konigsberg Castle

Feyerabend. Statement 1, 2 April 1946: July 1944 - two cars entered the castle yard, heavily loaded with cases. Small cases among the larger load were then placed on the ground. But the rest, the huge cases, were left on the cars. I asked Rohde what were these gigantic cases and Rohde said to me they were the amber walls from Russia.15

Feyerabend described how Rohde was called to an urgent meeting with Dr Helmut Will, the Oberburgermeister or Lord Mayor of Konigsberg. Kuchumov noted: 'Find Helmut Will.'

Feyerabend said:

Following the meeting, the cars, still loaded down, left the yard and Rohde then arrived at the Blutgericht restaurant to order a case of wine from me, telling me that he would be away for several days. He came back three weeks later and I saw him again. Rohde told me that he had been to a big country estate. Some time later he told me that his mission concerned the amber hall from Russia, which had been packed on these cars.

Following Kuchumov's prompts, Tronchinsky tore into Feyerabend. There was no evidence that Rohde had made any trips out of Konigsberg until the air raids of 27-28 August 1944. Rohde had told Brusov that after he had dismantled the Amber Room in July 1944, it had been stored in the cellars of the castle's south wing. What was the date of Rohde's expedition with the room? 'July 1944,' Feyerabend insisted.

The restaurant owner was asked to think hard about his statement, but he had nothing to add or take away. He could, however, recall other conversations he had had with Rohde after that date: 'Rohde told me many times that the room should and would have gone to Saxony in the end, but due to logistical problems in March [1945], it had not been moved there. Gauleiter Erich Koch had wanted it evacuated to Saxony too, but the tight military situation would not allow it.' But was Feyerabend in a position to know, Kuchumov asked? He might have poured wine for the elite but did he drink with them? How likely was it that a man of Rohde's intellect would trade secrets with a restaurateur?

The interrogation continued but the transcript before us abruptly finishes. We make a note to find the missing pages.

The next interrogation was of Ernst Schaumann, a war artist and friend of Rohde. He described Rohde as an amber expert. Rohde had written a seminal book known as Bernstein in 1937.16 'Must get a copy,' noted Kuchumov.

In April 1942 Rohde had also prepared an article illustrated with photographs for Pantheon, a German art digest, to celebrate the Amber Room going on display in the second-floor gallery in the south wing of Konigsberg Castle.17 'We must get this too,' Kuchumov wrote. Schaumann came up with the name of a new witness for the Soviets to find: Jurgen Sprecht, a Konigsberg restorer who had been sponsored by Rohde to study in Berlin. 'He was later assigned to work on the Amber Room,' Schaumann told Tronchinsky. 'Find Sprecht,' Kuchumov wrote.

Schaumann recalled one notable conversation he had had with Rohde: 'After my return from France in October 1944, I asked Dr Rohde about the destiny of the amber and picture collections,' Schaumann told Tronchinsky. 'He answered that by order of the authorities in Berlin they were packed and transferred to safe places at estates in East Prussia and Saxony. Later, at the time when Konigsberg was surrounded by the Red Army, Rohde repeated the claim.' Tronchinsky lost his cool. Feyerabend and Schaumann could not both be right. The Amber Room was either evacuated or not. One of them was lying. Kuchumov said nothing. He could not decide if Schaumann was credible or confused.

Finally, Otto Smakka was called. Smakka worked as a translator for the fisheries in Konigsberg. He confirmed the Amber Room had been on display. 'Yes, I saw it in the summer of 1942. It had obviously suffered in transportation. Several pieces of amber were either stolen or lost. Even the printed information sheets mentioned that parts were missing in the walls. It occurred to me that they were probably stolen.' The vast and opulent room that we have in our mind's eye, candles blazing, walls glowing, as it appears in the glass plate we were shown by Kuchumov's granddaughter, was not the Amber Room that had reached Konigsberg in the freezing winter of 1941. Since then, Kuchumov had established that three of the four Florentine stone mosaics had been destroyed, as had parts of the amber skirting board. Kuchumov noted that the scale of the Amber Room they were searching for was significantly different from the one installed in the Catherine Palace. But it did not affect his general conclusions that the space in the Knights' Hall, where the stone mosaics had been found, was not large enough to have accommodated the amber panels themselves.

Only one man, Alfred Rohde, knew the truth and he could no longer speak for himself. Kuchumov began to analyse the character of the German curator. He considered the letter sent by General Kuchler, the commander of Army Group North. Had Rohde actually sought out the Amber Room, requesting troops stationed beside it to transport the treasure to Konigsberg? Then there was Rohde's text book, Bernstein, published seven years before Operation Barbarossa began, and the scholarly article he wrote for Pantheon, apparently celebrating the arrival of the room in Konigsberg. Kuchumov wrote: 'Rohde dreamed for a long time of having the Amber Room in his collection. He expressed more than once his regret that it had left Prussia, that the Prussian King had made a great mistake in giving it to Russian barbarians.' Why would such a man leave his greatest treasure to the mercy of an army besieging the city, Kuchumov reasoned?

He concluded: 'The described circumstances force us to reject the claim of Dr Rohde that was treated as the truth by Professor Brusov about the destruction of the Amber Room in the fire in the Knights' Hall of the Castle.' Kuchumov was convinced that the answers lay outside Konigsberg.

He began to research the four months leading up to the fall of the city:

By mid-January the railway connections between Konigsberg and the rest of Germany had been cut off. So if they had used the road rather than the sea, they could only have taken the clumsy and heavy crates as far as some location within East Prussia. Moving the Amber Room to Germany by air or sea could have been done later, until mid-March, but these were the most dangerous ways possible, taking into account the proximity of the front and the domination of our air forces.

Kuchumov compiled a wish-list of Rohde's former friends and colleagues to interrogate. Where was Oberburgermeister Helmut Will? The NKVD reported that he had disappeared. Konigsberg Schlossoberinspektor Friedrich Henkensiefken? He was said to have fled to Germany. A 'Dr Gert', known to have been close to Rohde? No one even knew his full name. Erich Koch, the Gauleiter of East Prussia? There had been no confirmed sightings of him since March 1945. Jurgen Sprecht, the restorer and amber craftsman? Sprecht did eventually turn up. He had been held in a Soviet detention camp but was discovered hanged in circumstances that were still under investigation. It was a criminal inquiry. 'Bodies, bodies,' Kuchumov wrote gloomily. 'Dead and missing.'

It would be virtually impossible for the two men to find these witnesses without outside help, since millions of Germans, soldiers and civilians, were in flight - a mass migration of half of Europe. Kuchumov wrote to Moscow for permission to place a letter in Vo Slavu Rodini (For the Glory of the Motherland), a journal read by Soviet soldiers in the field. 'Help Us Restore the Museums of Leningrad', the letter was entitled, and it contained Kuchumov's exhortation for 'soldiers, sergeants and officers to advise us through the editors of locations where valuables of historical and artistic significance might be found so that they can take their place again in our museum'.18

'We shall go to Moscow on 10 or 12 April,' Tronchinsky wrote to his wife, and he and Kuchumov caught a train to the capital. They went back to Professor Brusov, who was still working from home. They discussed the chaos of Konigsberg: how there were only potatoes to eat; the depravity of the fascists. And then Kuchumov began to probe. He was confused, he said. Witnesses claimed that the Amber Room had been removed from the castle in July or August 1944, while Rohde had told Brusov that the room was concealed in the south wing. Kuchumov handed Brusov the statements by Feyerabend and Schaumann. The professor read in silence before defending himself.

Schaumann had got it wrong. When Rohde had talked about 'the amber and picture collections' being evacuated he was not referring to the Amber Room but to the Albertus-University's scientific amber collection. It was the most famous in the world. Brusov had located part of it, tens of thousands of pieces, and, judging by the communique he had sent to Moscow, he regarded it as the crowning achievement of his mission. 'Claims he found nearly all of the amber collection. Catalogued it. Sent everything to Moscow. Has witnesses,' Kuchumov wrote. 'Why, then, did this collection never turn up in Moscow?'

Brusov became agitated. Why was he being criticized given that he had found so much while enduring such appalling conditions? Was he being accused of theft, or lying, or treason? What had they found, the professor demanded, of Tronchinsky and Kuchumov? Nothing, they said, as they left.

This is what they wrote to SovNarKom in Moscow:

The conclusion is self-evident. The Amber Room was kept and hidden in safety in a place that was without doubt familiar to Rohde and the version he told [Brusov] about the destruction of the Amber Room in the fire in the Knights' Hall distracted the attention of the Beliaeva/Brusov commission from future searches.

The mistake of Professor Brusov was that he believed easily the words of Rohde, taking as truth the words of this museum co-worker, forgetting that he was dealing with a Nazi fanatic. Brusov didn't know the Amber Room or details of its decoration, so he couldn't check the veracity of Rohde's words by digging in the area where the fire occurred and so he couldn't tell truth from fiction. The most direct and best way to know the location of the Amber Room has been lost to us - Dr Alfred Rohde - but we now have the opportunity to gather additional information from former workers of the Konigsberg Castle Museum.19

Kuchumov submitted a list of names of those he wished to interrogate to SovNarKom and applied for a special permit to travel to Berlin.

5

After lunch at Kolobok restaurant, another file is waiting for us at the literature archive, an enticing box three times the size of the previous file. No one looks up as we scrape our chairs across the parquet floor, even though the reading room is bustling with men and women in white dustcoats. All of them are preoccupied, armed with small pencil erasers, which they feverishly apply to sections of files, as if rubbing out entire episodes from history.

We spring open the box and pick through the contents, but there is no response from Moscow to Kuchumov's list of German eyewitnesses to interrogate or a reaction to his taking apart of Brusov. No instructions or orders. Only greetings cards.1

We double-check the readers' record slip. Our names are freshly inked on it. But when we examine the file number, we see that it is not the one we have requested. The only sign of Vitalia Petrovna, the reading-room supervisor, is a lukewarm cup of tea and a trail of biscuit crumbs across her desk. So we walk down past the photographs of Makarova, Granin and Vokraniv to the director's office, where we find Alexandra Vasilevna Istomina studying the rain falling outside her window.

'We must assess what is pertinent to your research. We have decided that certain files are extraneous.' Alexandra Vasilevna smiles weakly. 'Well, of course you may resubmit your application. Errors are sometimes made. Decisions faulty. I can't vouch for all of my staff. We are dreadfully overworked,.' We nod and she fumbles under the desk. A bell rings in the corridor. Vitalia Petrovna, pops her head around the door, wiping her mouth, only to be hit by a raging gust of Russian invective.

Alexandra Vasilevna spins back to us on her chair's silky castors: 'It takes two days to locate a new file normally. The archive for which I am responsible is vast. There are several million files to pick through.' She motions up to the rafters and we nod appreciatively. 'But if you pay double rate, yes, pay a double rate, you can make an emergency submission. If I recall, an emergency submission comes back in only twenty-four hours. Is that right, Vitalia Petrovna? Come back tomorrow. I will extend your readers' tickets for three hours in the morning.' Everything is forbidden but all things are possible. We have no choice but to wait another night.

The next morning, the same file of greetings cards is waiting for us on the table and the director is not expected back for several days. We might as well read what we have.

'In celebration of your eighteenth anniversary as a Leningrad Museum Worker, from your friends and collaborators': this first greetings card is illustrated with a sketch of a scene in a library; rows of desks, and sitting at one a bespectacled researcher, sandwiched between two great towers of files. It looks like the Bolshoi Reading Hall in the National Library of Russia. The next card shows the same man in a black suit, pushing a weighty wooden wheelbarrow of books, a pork-pie hat balancing on top of them, their spines embossed with the words 'Archives', 'Extracts', 'Documents'.

Caricature of Anatoly Kuchumov at his desk researching the fate of missing Leningrad palace treasures

Caricature of Anatoly Kuchumov with a wheelbarrow of books marked 'archives, extracts, documents' in which he researched the reconstruction of missing treasures from the Leningrad palaces

'Upon your 47th birthday': a card edged in red from 27 May 1959. Here is another ink drawing of a plump man in a black suit striding purposefully across the page, a scholar with a forelock and little round glasses struggling with a tome under each arm inscribed 'arkivie\ Falling all around him, against a backdrop of the Leningrad palaces, are multicoloured parachutes that, on closer inspection, cradle pianos, chairs and candelabras, the returning treasures of the tsars. Inside is written: 'To Anatoly Mikhailovich from your grateful comrades at the Pavlovsk and Catherine palaces.'

1962: 'On the occasion of your 50th birthday, 27 May.' A lilac card with gold trim. Inside is a watercolour of a figure swathed in a blue toga, riding a chariot accompanied by a phalanx of maidens in lilac robes. Small photographs of faces have been pasted on to all of the torsos. The charioteer is Anatoly Kuchumov, his sylphs curators at the Leningrad palaces, including several faces that we recognize from the House of Scientists.

That year Kuchumov also celebrated his thirtieth anniversary as a Leningrad Museum Worker, and greetings were more formal: 'From the Workers of the Western European Art Department at the State Hermitage; heartfelt congratulations to you. We fully appreciate your great knowledge and Soviet patriotism, your acute taste and good eye that is so important.' Eight members of staff from the Alexander Palace also sent salutations: 'Many people died and were scattered to the winds by war. But we were all joined by former times to the Alexander Palace, where you were once director. We thank you, Anatoly Mikhailovich.'

The pile is several inches deep and it takes us all morning to pick through to the bottom of the box. One card catches our attention. It is from Kaliningrad, the Soviet name for Konigsberg, given to the city in October 1947 following the death of Mikhail Kalinin, chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet. Sent on 27 October 1975, the card is decorated with a bouquet of blue irises and contains the dedication: 'Dear Anatoly Mikhailovich, from our hearts congratulations on your honourable notation. We wish you health, creativity and success and we invite you as our guest, members of the Expedition, Chairman Storozhenko.' An expedition in Konigsberg. It may have been connected to the Amber Room. We note the name of the chairman, Storozhenko.

There follows a dedication written by Valeria Bilanina, the vice-director of Pavlovsk Palace, on 27 November 1977:

Why, my brother, are you lying in bed?
You have left us in trouble and now this year is nearly finished.
I can hardly carry my burden alone.
When it is all over we will all lie in rows.
Kuchumov, Kuchumov, Kuchumov!
Take notice, you must have more courage and instead of medicine you must have good health and return to our circle.
Through tears, Valeria Bilanina.

The box finishes with a gift from Albina Vasiliava, porcelain expert at Pavlovsk, surely the same Bolshoi Albina who gave the lecture at the House of Scientists: a hand-painted silk pennant.

Plaudits, caricatures, tears and a pennant. None of them can help us resolve what became of Anotoly Kuchumov's Amber Room investigation. We wonder if any of Kuchumov's adoring colleagues knew about his other life, the secret investigations into the Amber Room that we have only just begun to uncover in these papers that the literature archive has sat on for so many years. The orders from SovNarKom. The furtive komandirovats business trips to Moscow and Konigsberg. A request to the highest Soviet authorities to be allowed to pursue suspects to Berlin. Kuchumov's growing obsession with the Amber Room.

Our Friend the Professor says that she will speak to the archive director about the Kuchumov file we had actually requested, but in the meantime we contact Bolshoi Albina and tell her we have found her silk pennant. We hope her curiosity will get the better of her shyness.

Bolshoi Albina laughs when we call and agrees to meet. Two weeks later, sitting with her at a dinner table in the new suburbs, warmed by crimson Georgian wine, she is unstoppable, in the way that elastic unravels from a split golf ball.

'We all adored Anatoly Mikhailovich. And I remember painting the pennant for his birthday. How embarrassing it ended up in an archive,' she says, tucking a stray wisp of hair back into her bun. She is blushing. 'He fired us all with his enthusiasm. He said we should never give up the search for Prussian things stolen from us by the fascists.' She takes another sip of wine.. I had heard so much about him even before I started work. I thought that he would be tall and handsome, but actually he was quite small, with a thick neck, like a bullfrog. Quite clumsy.'

Bolshoi Albina pulls some photographs out of the pocket of her tweed skirt. 'Anatoly Mikhailovich was a man of simple origins. He didn't act like a director. He had only one suit and all of us used to dust him down when the high officials came.' In the first picture two young women are dressed up in imperial gowns, one of them sitting crossed-legged, her stilettos peeking out from beneath a long lace petticoat. 'That's me,' she says. 'Wearing the dress of Maria Fedorovna, the wife of Alexander III. In another picture a male curator sits on a throne wearing the gold crown of Paul I, laughing colleagues crowded around him, including a familiar figure, Kuchumov. Albina explains: 'Capusnik, we called it. It means chopping cabbage for winter. But it came to mean a staff party. Letting your hair down. Relieving the tension.'

Anatoly Kuchumov (left) and colleagues at Pavlovsk Palace; the crown was once worn by Tsar Paul I

We try to steer the conversation back to the private Kuchumov. Did he talk about the Amber Room?

'Not publicly. He would go off on komandirovat, certainly. He said he was going to conferences. About restoration work. Or he would tell us he was on holiday and leave us in chaos for a couple of weeks.'

All of the komandirovat forms we have seen so far suggest that when Kuchumov said he was on holiday or a work trip he was actually on Amber Room business.

Albina shrugs. 'When he returned all he wanted to know was what we had been doing. He had important friends with high ranks as party leaders. We were lowly. It was a difficult time. Perhaps the most difficult. He brought us together. You have no idea, I think, about what we had all gone through during the war.'

Albina smooths the creases in her skirt. 'On 2 October 1941 German soldiers running a slave caravan abducted me from my village near Smolensk. I was only five. We were stripped naked, disinfected and loaded into vans.' Her cheeks burn. 'We were bundled into Poland,' she says, fixing her memory on a harrowing journey to an unknown place. 'All the time the convoy was bombed by Soviet planes. Children are so simple. We used to try and hide in the craters as we thought that a bomb could not land in the same place twice. A German farmer bought us.

'When we were liberated the Red Army came to escort us back. Our brave soldiers. We walked or sat on carts pulled by heavy horses. The road was wide and deep with mud. We went through a big German city. I think it was Konigsberg. We were then in Smolensk and my mother said "This is your city," although I could see no city. But even then we were elated. Eventually we arrived at the village and saw that it too had gone. Still we got down on to our hands and knees and dug in the mud, proud of the Motherland, happy as we excavated holes. Over them we threw tin and wood, pits that became our temporary homes. But then the NKVD came.'

In the post-war Soviet Union there would be no room for anyone exposed to a foreign ideology that could unsettle the programme. By the summer of 1945 Stalin had rounded up Soviet citizens who had been prisoners of war in Germany, 126,000 of them, like those in Albina's village, who were now damned as 'capitulators'.2

Bolshoi Albina says, 'When we thought we could be no happier, living deep inside the Soviet earth, our friends and neighbours began to disappear. "Don't say you were captured," the whisper went. "Don't ever let the NKVD know that you were a prisoner of the Germans."'

Despite the purges, at the end of the war the vast majority of Soviet citizens felt deeply patriotic, and this sense of nationhood would become a valuable tool. In 1946 Andrei Zhdanov, leader of the Leningrad Communist Party, proposed to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) a new theme, 'no servility before the West'.3 Emancipation meant recouping everything Soviet. Victory over the Hitlerites was now the Great Patriotic War, in which Soviet losses and the ability to endure were brought to the fore: the battle of Stalingrad, the 900 days of siege, the desecration and rebuilding of the Leningrad palaces. All that was Russian had to be found, brought back, reconstructed and celebrated. Every treasure looted had to be tracked down and returned to its rightful place, and the world was to be advised of these Soviet losses and triumphs through the new Communist Information Bureau (CominformJ, established by Zhdanov in 1947.

We walk to the metro and Bolshoi Albina links arms with us as we dodge between speeding marshrutkis. 'It was when I began working at the palaces that I learned how to be proud of my country. Anatoly Mikhailovich, with his ceaseless searching for looted treasure, made sure of that.'

Our Friend the Professor calls. The literature archive has found the missing Anatoly Kuchumov file we requested several weeks ago and we have been given permission to come and read it, as a special favour from the director. When we open it the next morning we find a report entitled 'Document Defending the Character of Mikryukov'. The document is stamped 31 October 1945 and was compiled by the colleagues of Ivan Mikryukov, director of Pavlovsk, who had been arrested on suspicion of being 'anti-political'.4

It states, in his defence, that he led the packing of treasures at Pavlovsk Palace in the late summer of 1941, after the first shipments had left with Kuchumov for Novosibirsk. Like Kuchumov, Mikryukov had 'improvised wadding and containers, salvaging curtains and linen to bulk out cases that were sewn together from old sheets and carpets, saving 42,000 treasures valued at an estimated 1.5 billion roubles'. How could Mikryukov be anything other than a patriot? Many risked their liberty to sign this document, but on the reverse is stamped the verdict: attempted to 'pack too early', a defeatist. The sentence: 'komandirovat to Kazakhstan'. The official wording suggests a business trip to the Central Asian state, but Mikryukov never returned.

Surprisingly, Kuchumov's name was not attached to this petition to save Mikryukov and yet he preserved the document for many decades. Within six months of the defence document being submitted to the Leningrad authorities, Kuchumov was on his way to Konigsberg, searching for the Amber Room. It seems certain, then, that on that long train journey to Konigsberg, Kuchumov would have been preoccupied with not only the letters that Alfred Rohde had tried to burn (given to him by Professor Brusov) but also the fate of his close colleague from Pavlovsk, whose actions had been condemned as unpatriotic.

The second document in the file is a telegram dated October 1947. It is yet another komandirovat, a supposed business trip, this one to Moscow. Once again Kuchumov was to tell his colleagues that he was on holiday. In Moscow, he reported to the Committee for Cultural Institutions, a body that came under Zhdanov's empire and received instructions from Committee Chairman Comrade T. M. Zuyeva.5

The next document is an account of the meeting, written by Kuchumov in purple ink on graph paper. Chairman Zuyeva introduced Kuchumov to Comrade Georgy Antipin of the State Historical Museum, who was attached to a 'special unit of the Military Department', and Comrade David Marchukov, representative of the Committee for Cultural Institutions. Kuchumov noted that Antipin was an intense, brooding man. All three were issued with special passports and permits to travel and were then driven to the Sheremetyevo military airstrip, where they boarded a DC3 bound for Kaliningrad.6 It seemed that Kuchumov was being sent back to reinvestigate the Amber Room again.

The whole region was under the tightest security and at Kaliningrad airport the border guards inspected the three men's papers and luggage. According to Kuchumov's notes, he was held up for hours by security staff. He had packed 500 photographs of the pre-war palaces of Leningrad in his suitcase and was accused of being a spy. It was Marchukov who eventually persuaded the guards that Kuchumov was on a classified mission. Only then did the DC3 take off again, this time heading for Tempelhof airport. The final destination of the mission was not Kaliningrad but Berlin.

Kuchumov wrote that his digs in that city were 'not far from the Gestapo headquarters' in Prince Albrecht Strasse and that he, Antipin and Marchukov 'rambled through the streets, eager to see what this capital of terror was really like, this city that gave birth to the Third Reich'.

In Pravda Kuchumov had read how the Soviet Fifth Shock Army had been first into the city and by the morning of 25 April 1945, when US troops met with their Soviet counterparts on the River Elbe, the noose had been pulled tight, Berlin surrounded. Russians pressed on to the Brandenburg Gate, fighting house by house, using T-34 tanks and katyu-sha rockets, devastating firepower for such a close-quarters battle. The rows of bombed-out houses reminded Kuchumov 'of skulls with hollow eye sockets'.7

When the mint at the National Bank of Prussia fell in April 1945, Soviet riflemen had forced their way into its vaults to find piles of banknotes as well as remarkable antiquities from Assyria and Persia that had once been displayed in the city's Pergamon Museum. By 27 April 1945 the Soviet Eighth Guard Army had reached the Zoological Gardens, in the western suburbs, where they pounded the Zoo Flakturm, an enormous concrete anti-aircraft tower with thick steel shutters, inside which more than 3,000 civilians cowered alongside paintings and collections (including a priceless golden hoard excavated from Anatolia that was said to have once been worn by Helen of Troy).8

Allied air raids during the first three months of 1945 had levelled much of Berlin's historic Prussian centre and in 1947 Kuchumov was anxious to see what remained of Museum Insel, the small island on the River Spree, in which had been housed priceless treasures excavated by German archaeologists from Turkey in the 186OS and 1870S. Here should have been the legendary altar of Zeus from Pergamum with its delicately

Victorious Soviet troops pose in front of the Berlin Reichstag, 194s

carved frieze. But Kuchumov could find nothing. A British soldier who was there at the same time wrote of a 'shambles of crumbling rubble, with the great monuments from Mshatta and Miletus peering like ghosts over ruins, more sudden than those they had seen before in their two- or three-thousand-year history'.9

Outside the Reichstag, where German troops had made a last stand on 30 April 1945, Kuchumov scooped up some charred masonry from the ground and could not help but smile: 'who could resist a small souvenir of the evil of fascism from this city broken into smithereens?'

Kuchumov visited all four sectors of Berlin: American, British, French and Soviet. In the British-controlled Tiergarten, when the portly curator, still in his not-so-new black suit, witnessed the sprawling side-show of whores and touts, con men and fences, most of them wearing an array of military uniforms, he was filled with a deep sense of revulsion. 'It is enough for me to smell the rottenness of the bourgeoisie that is so foreign to the heart and soul of every Russian man,' he wrote. It was an aside that was surely written for any of those charged with implementing Comrade Zhdanov's new campaign, who might (accidentally) peruse this log.

Exhausted, Kuchumov caught a lift to Berlin-Karlshorst through the khaki traffic jam of jeeps and trucks, to where the Soviet Military Administration was now based. 'It was the only place that seemed in any kind of order,' he wrote. Anyone reading Kuchumov's account would believe that he kept only Soviet company, shunning contamination by the West. The next day he moved into the Berlin-Karlshorst district and was immediately called to a meeting. This was to be the first time he saw the general.

General Leonid Ivanovich Zorin, head of the Department of Reparations and Supplies, supervised the tracking and return of Soviet art works plundered by the Nazis. He had a small team of Soviet experts working for him, one of whom Kuchumov might have known by sight, Comrade Xenia Agarfornova, a curator from the Hermitage in Leningrad.

General Zorin gave Kuchumov his orders. His report from Konigsberg had been received warmly. The evidence - that the Amber Room had survived the fall of Konigsberg and might be concealed elsewhere - was compelling. The Committee of Arts of the Council of Ministers of the USSR had been deluged with replies to Kuchumov's appeal for help published in Vo Slavu Rodini. So he was to continue with his Amber Room investigation as a matter of urgency, but as well as chasing down witnesses he was to scour a vast warehouse of looted Soviet art works that had been assembled by the Americans at the end of the war. Kuchumov warned the general that his komandirovat was for only one month since he was needed at the Central Stores in Leningrad, which was still receiving a constant flow of treasures. The general replied that a month was probably enough to trace the Amber Room.

'Taken down to the banks of the Spree by the general,' wrote Kuchumov. 'In the east harbour was a long, grey building of sombre stone, at least a third of a mile of it.' The gigantic riverside property was the warehouse known as the Derutra building. The Deutsch-Russische Transport-Aktiengesellschaft (German-Russian Storage and Transport Association) had been formed in the 1920S. The general, Kuchumov and Comrade Antipin unlocked the huge steel doors. 'Believe me, we could not trust our own thoughts,' Kuchumov wrote.

Here the notes have been annotated at a later date. Kuchumov has copied down Comrade Antipin's first impressions of the warehouse:

Enormous heaps of pictures in frames and rolled canvases. Can you imagine it? Icons, wood and marble sculpture, manuscripts and books, ceramics, tapestries and carpets, glass, porcelain, drawing and ancient arms, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of exhibits from museums in Kiev, Minsk, Pskov, Novgorod, Kirch, Pavlovsk and Pushkin. Dizzying all of it. Dizzying.10

The building was filled with dismembered Soviet collections that had been stolen by the Nazis and hidden all over the Third Reich. Kuchumov was told that the majority of these works had been found by US troops and transferred to Berlin from US Army collection points in Munich and Wiesbaden, where they had been gathering over the past twenty-four months. But there was a problem. Many of the treasures had been stolen from the Soviet Union by roving units of Alfred Rosenberg's ERR, the Third Reich's art theft squad, whose knowledge of 'culture of the Russian and Soviet empires' was negligible. Original Soviet inventories had been destroyed and replaced with German index cards that were inaccurate. The Americans had relied on these indexes to determine the provenance of the stolen art. Kuchumov wrote: 'The crates had also been opened. Many of the pieces inside were missing.' The task of matching individual items to their original institutions was enormous. But not as large as opening every single box to check for traces of the Amber Room. Kuchumov would need staff, he told General Zorin. He would need transport. A lorry and a jeep were on call. He would need time.

He hired ioo German workers from the labour exchange. Every box was opened and resealed with a Soviet official present as a witness. Kuchumov was so eager to work quickly and comprehensively that he roped in all able-bodied people, even his German housekeeper 'Paul', who was sent off to search an annexe at Derutra.

And 'Paul' almost immediately came running back with news. Inside the annexe building, a former grain warehouse, he had found wooden-backed sheets poking out from beneath a tarpaulin. Having been told by Kuchumov that the panels of the Amber Room were backed with wooden boards, he was sure he had found it.

Kuchumov wrote: 'We scrabbled around with our hands. But what we found was a parquet floor, inlaid with Australian mother-of-pearl and rare hard woods, rose and amarantus, that had once been in the Lyons Hall in the Catherine Palace.' It might not have been the treasure he was after, but it taught Kuchumov a lesson. The Lyons Hall had been dismantled by the Nazis, who had then scattered pieces of it across Europe, a plaster mould abandoned in a field outside Pushkin, the bronze locks and a door in Konigsberg, and here in Berlin the floor itself. Kuchumov noted in his diary that the fate of the Lyons Hall demonstrated a Nazi methodology that might also apply to the Amber Room - stolen, packed and then spread about.

The Germans working in the Derutra warehouse went through tens of thousands of crates in the flickering paraffin lamplight, kneeling over artefacts long into the night. Kuchumov wrote: 'They brought with them food and thermoses, so there was no need to take breaks. They worked diligently and professionally. They are pedantic and tireless. Our relations were cordial.'

For all the detailed description of his work at the Derutra warehouse, Kuchumov did not comment on the fact he never had time to leave Berlin, to travel to the castles of Saxony to where Alfred Rohde had planned to evacuate the Amber Room.

What is palpable is Kuchumov's exhaustion. His writing began to deteriorate. The entries became breathless. The general forced him to take a few days off. Kuchumov heard a platform performance of Wagner's Gotterdammerung (the apocalyptic Twilight of the Gods) but he thought it sounded like the torching of Leningrad. Only when he found a Russian-run cinema screening Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin did he feel revitalized.

November came and his time was up. Kuchumov was dispatched to Leningrad alongside 2,500 crates packed into eleven railway carriages. Six more carriages left for Kiev and another four to Minsk. He wrote: 'A special flat-backed carriage was also used in the procession leading back to Russia and on it the huge bronze statues of Hercules and Flora, sawn from their podiums near the Cameron Gallery at the Catherine Palace.' They had been found in a smelting yard in Dresden, barely recognizable, having been dragged all the way from Russia by German tanks. 'They can be mended. Of that there is no doubt.'11

As he left the fallen capital, Kuchumov wrote: 'Here was the lifeblood flowing back to our cities.' But he must also have been conscious of what he was leaving behind, the unexplored lines of inquiry that had sped out of Konigsberg in the spring of 1945. He had not found a single trace of the Amber Room.

The Soviet Union that Kuchumov returned to would soon become a quagmire. On 31 August 1948 Stalin's protege Zhdanov dropped dead, starting a ferocious three-way fight between Georgy Malenkov, Deputy Prime Minister, Lavrenty Beria, Minister for Internal Affairs, and Viktor Abakumov, the Minister for State Security and former head of SMERSH. The instability also consumed the cultural establishment.

Sergei Eisenstein's rushes for Ivan the Terrible Part II (the Tsar was Stalin's role model) were denounced and his new work was suppressed. Shostakovich was banned from teaching at the Leningrad and Moscow conservatories. Prokofiev, who had willingly abandoned a life in America for Mother Russia, now hid in his dacha, destroying anything that he owned from those foreign times. Polina Molotov, the Jewish wife of Stalin's foreign minister, was accused of being a Zionist plotter who intended to establish 'California on the Crimea'. Her husband left her on Stalin's orders and the following year she was renamed Object No. 12 and exiled to Kustanai oblast in northern Kazakhstan.12

The slightest hint of disloyalty could end one's career. In 1946 Leningrad writers Mikhail Zoshchenko and Anna Akhmatova were both expelled from the Writer's Union. Zoshchenko's manuscripts and letters were later thrown into a rubbish skip by workmen clearing his apartment.13

Those things that were deemed quintessentially Russian were feted and, although he had struggled to find time to search for the Amber Room in Berlin, Kuchumov could not afford to give up on it now. The final paper in the file before us reveals how the curator exploited his contacts in the Red Army to revive the search for the treasure. It is a letter from someone called Simeon Pavlovich Kazakhov, who wrote to the curator:

Before my visit to Zorin, they had heard nothing from you. But they listened to me very well and the affair has now begun. Tomorrow I will go to the general commander with a report and inevitably they will send the doctor to Kaliningrad along with someone else to investigate this place, because either he really did forget or he is pretending he cannot remember.

The future destiny of the Amber Room will proceed in ways that I just don't know. We will wait for the resolutions of the Lord God, but not the one in the heavens, the one who lives on earth. I am certain there will be good results to this affair. I long to return to my native Motherland. That is my only wish. I shake your hand, yours in solidarity, Comrade Kazakhov.

The small blue envelope is postmarked '19 October 1949, Poland, Post Dept No. 40223' and the stationery is that which the Red Army issued to its soldiers in the field. There is a stamp from the military censor that confirms this letter came from an army camp. And there is a postscript. 'Don't write letters to me here. Send them to Leningrad.'14

It is clear that Kuchumov was engaged in an ongoing correspondence with Soldier Kazakhov concerning the Amber Room, but frustratingly there are no other references to him in the literature archive index. We have no idea who 'the doctor' was or what 'place' in Kaliningrad they were referring to. Whatever the 'the doctor' claimed to know was obviously connected with the Amber Room and was of such significance that special arrangements were being made to send him to the Baltic city. Our translator notes that in 1949 the phrase 'Lord God on earth' could only have been a reference to the Soviet secret services or Stalin himself. The Kremlin was closely connected with the whole enterprise.

We make a copy of the letter.

Alexandra Vasilevna, the literature archive director, has advised us that she intends to carry out an important audit of the Anatoly Kuchumov papers so they will not be made available to readers again for at least six months. We cannot afford to sit around in St Petersburg doing nothing. We have to find another route. We need to trace Kuchumov's contemporaries from 1949 or at least someone he confided in. But the women and men whom he employed as junior curators, like Bolshoi Albina, were not let into his private world. We need to find someone who was of equal or superior standing. We recall the fond cards sent to him and particularly one containing the question, 'Why, my brother, are you lying in bed?' written by Valeria Bilanina, vice-director of Pavlovsk Palace and Kuchumov's deputy. We call Our Friend the Professor and leave a message.

Later that night, she rings back: 'Valeria Bilanina is alive! But she is a recluse.' Nothing in our Russian life is straightforward. 'And she is unwell, about to go into hospital for surgery. She has never allowed anyone into her apartment, but perhaps you can sip tea together in Tsarskoye Selo.'

Curiosity gets the better of Valeria Bilanina. She agrees to meet at a bus stop on a small lane running through Tsarskoye Selo. When we arrive on a crowded marshrutki, the sun is shining but she does not show. We call and someone picks up straight away, as if they were sitting beside the phone. 'It is far too hot to be practising detente in the open air.' It is Bilanina. 'You had better come to the apartment.'

We climb to the second floor of a post-war red-brick block. 'Come in. Very slowly,' Valeria Bilanina rattles, pushing and pulling us along her small hallway. 'Do. Not. Destroy. Deface. Crumple. Scrumple. Anything. Sit. Stand. I don't care.'

The first thing that strikes us about her apartment is that it is so cluttered no one else can sit or stand. Towers of boxes fill every space. We ask her if she knew Kuchumov back in 1949?

'Of course not,' Valeria Bilanina snorts, flinging open a door and diving into a kitchen, from where drifts the smell of browning butter. On the wall is her graduation portrait from fifty years before, and in it she is slim, studious and beautiful. Either side of the photograph are propped drawings of Landseer lions.

Ten minutes later, Valeria Bilanina reappears to brush the living-room table clean. A bust of Catherine the Great sits on the mantelpiece, along with a collection of broken teapots. Glass flowers are propped into jars surrounded by a forest of ribbon and satin roses, every piece of gift-wrap that she has ever received. The apartment block in which she lives was built for the workers of Pushkin to commemorate the centenary of Lenin's birth and Valeria Bilanina arrived in 1970. Before then, she had shared a room in the Catherine Palace's Central Store. I am still waiting for the memorial plaque to go up,' she says only half jokingly. Now, having retired from Pavlovsk, Valeria Bilanina is busy curating her own lengthy life in this small flat. 'My arkhiv. Every one of these' - she sweeps a hand over the cardboard metropolis - 'has a different theme. This, for example.' She hauls out a bundle of yellowed cards. 'These are the evacuation indexes from 1812 and there are twelve books of them.' We wonder why these things are not in a museum. 'And this painting.' We look up at the wall. 'This was a gift from Anatoly Kuchumov. It is by Ivan Bilibin. He found it under a hedgerow and gave it to me. "Keep it," he said. "To remind you.'" Obviously not everything that was recovered after the war went to the Central Stores. 'And this watercolour of Empress Anna Ivanovna was another gift from Kuchumov.'

Valeria Bilanina produces plates of hard-boiled eggs, hanks of fleshy sausage and a pot of steaming kasha, kernels of steeped buckwheat. Even as she eats she talks. How can she help us if she didn't know Kuchumov back in 1949, we ask? Valeria Bilanina seems stunned. Beads of sweat glisten on her darkening face like bubbles breaking on the surface of a steaming bowl of borscht. Her great frame shivers and twitches and we wonder whether to fetch her some water. I got my job the day I left Leningrad University in 1952. But I knew Kuchumov better than anyone. When I first met him he was still wearing the suit given to him by the commission in Moscow in 1946. He was so embarrassed when he realized that he and Tronchinsky were issued identical clothes: tie, shoes, shirt.'

So Bilanina doesn't know what Kuchumov was doing in 1949, we ask again? She shoots out of her seat and begins tearing through boxes. Finally, she retrieves four letters from a pile. 'Kuchumov received many letters and cards from this man, a German. He was connected to what happened in 1949.' She looks triumphant. 'There are things we were not meant to know and Kuchumov knew how to keep a secret, but as he became older he was careless.'

She thrusts into our hands four envelopes that are now pockmarked with grease spots. 'How can you Angliyski understand? Even Kuchumov did not understand everything. I should know, I wrote his obituary.' She is quivering again. 'You see the kind of woman you're dealing with now? And all this trouble the day before I go under the knife.'

Four empty envelopes. We lay them on the pine table at our apartment in Sovetskaya 7. They bear the postmark of the former German Democratic Republic (GDR) and are addressed to 'Pawlowsk, Leningrad Schloss Museum, A. Kugumow'. They are all dated after 1949 and we wonder if Valeria Bilanina misunderstood our questions. One is from 3 January 1951, another from 1 January 1970, the third from 4 January 1973 and the last from 25 December 1976. Quite possibly they contained seasonal greetings. Each one bears the stamp of the Soviet censor.

But we notice that the envelope dated 4 January 1973 is slightly plumper than the others. We hold it up to the light. An opaque, oblong shadow runs across the envelope like a tumour on an X-ray. We slice the lining of the envelope open with a razor blade and a piece of tracing paper falls out. We open up the fragile square. It is a letter written in German with an extremely light hand in pencil, so that no discernible indentations could be felt if the envelope was patted down.

The writing is formal and outmoded. The author of this letter had so much to say that, having filled the paper his words then run vertically up one side of the page:

Dear Mr Kugumow, a long time has passed, in my opinion almost twenty-four years, since we worked together on the mystery of the Amber Room. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart for the New Year and I wish you all the best and great successes in this year's work. You will probably not remember me after so long. On 3 October 1970 I visited Leningrad with a tour party. I wanted to very much meet you again but I couldn't remember your surname correctly and nobody could help me when I asked about the great art historian who searched for the Amber Room.

The writer was forgetful and possibly old. He also had a confession:

Very often I blame myself that I did not insist in Kaliningrad on systematic searching. This feeling was especially alive when I saw a Soviet movie last year about the Amber Room when my name was mentioned and again recently when Mr Seydervitz, the former general director of the Dresden Gallery, wrote about the destiny of the Amber Room. Not everything he wrote is quite right, but he shows well how cruelly and without responsibility the Nazis behaved towards your great monuments of art.

Then there was a request: I would very much like to come to Leningrad again. Could you give me in Pavlovsk somewhere to stay, since without it I am not allowed to go to the Soviet Union?' He envisaged an exchange of favours. 'Maybe you would like to visit our Republic too? I invite you as my guest and you can stay at my home. The wife of my son is a student of Slavonic studies and she can translate for us.'

Since it remained concealed until we sliced it free from the envelope's lining, Kuchumov never read this secret letter. We can only presume that what the great curator took out of the envelope and what the Soviet censor also saw was an innocuous New Year's greetings card. The tracing paper square with its mention of the Amber Room and a secret trip to Kaliningrad was presumably concealed to keep the subject matter private. And yet from what we have learned so far it is clear that every detail of the operation to find the Amber Room was planned, funded and supervised by Moscow. Perhaps the paranoid German writer was trying to conceal his thoughts from prying eyes at home.

Finally, it is signed: 'Comradely Greetings, Yours, Dr G. Strauss, in Berlin, Heinrich-Mann-Platz 4, GDR'.15

We go back to our notes. We compare this letter to the one sent in October 1949 to Kuchumov by Soldier Kazakhov. 'Tomorrow I will go to the general commander with a report and inevitably they will send the doctor to Kaliningrad... because either he really did forget or he is pretending he cannot remember,' Kazakhov advised Kuchumov.

Before us is a letter from a forgetful doctor who is writing in 1973 and referring to a trip to Kaliningrad made by him twenty-four years earlier. There is only one way to establish if Dr G. Strauss is the same doctor Kazakhov referred to. We cannot get back into Kuchumov's private papers for another five months. But we can go to Berlin and check out Dr G. Strauss. When the Stasi, the East German secret police, was disbanded in March 1990 it left behind comprehensive files on one in every three German citizens. An East German who corresponded with a Soviet official about the search for the Amber Room must have come to the attention of the authorities in East Berlin. We call the Federal Authority for the Records of the State Security Service of the former German Democratic Republic (GDR), the bureaucratic structure that is responsible for sifting and disseminating what was left behind by the Stasi. Yes, they say that there is material concerning Dr G. Strauss and the Amber Room. But, they add, it may take several months to process our application.

Once again our research is put on hold.

6

Berlin is clear and white. Even though it is two days after Christmas 2002 the city is still festively optimistic. But beneath the iced pavements we are rolling back in time. The U2 subway revives feelings from an age when West Berliners boarded city-bound trains at the comfortable shopping and residential quarters of Zoologischer Garten and Sophie-Charlotte-Platz while their compatriots in East Berlin stepped on at tense Pankow or at functional Schonhauser Allee. But the shoppers and workers never saw each other, riding instead within their separate political systems. When the westbound and eastbound trains were forced to converge at Potsdamer Platz, each would wiggle around and retreat back along the darkened tracks. Now, thirteen years after die Wende (or 'the turning point', as Germans describe the process of reunification), it is still something of a novelty to travel the entire length of the U2 and see incredulous faces crease up with surprise as a brightly lit carriage rattles past their train window, in the opposite direction.

Six months after leaving Russia we are still waiting to hear if our application to see the Stasi files has been approved, and in frustration we have come to Pankow to search for Dr G. Strauss ourselves.

Outside the station, the easternmost stop on the U2, fierce winds from the Baltic slice between the cement towers, whipping woollen scarves from red-raw necks and thieving hats. We cross the street, looking for the address recorded in Gothic capitals: 'EEL Berlin, Heinrich-Mann-Platz 4'. We make our way down the slippery path.

The supermarkets are prefabricated, the houses muddled with concrete and pebble dash. In the 1960S and 1970S, the red brick and carved masonry of Pankow were replaced by a bloc utilitarianism that was deemed more suitable to the hard-wearing society that was being raised there. Today its residents are not so durable and beneath the ripped steel awnings are greasy drunks and fumbling dealers, elderly junkies and wrinkled skinheads, all of them more than likely former servicemen who now have no one to serve.

It has not always been so deadbeat. Pankow was once a gentile retreat for prosperous nineteenth-century Berliners and in the 1940S it became the favoured suburb of Walter Ulbricht and his clique. Within a year of the collapse of the Third Reich, in February 1946, Ulbricht, the leader of the German Communist Party (KPD), signed a pact with Stalin that tethered the East German state to the USSR. Three years on, Ulbricht, 'a scoundrel capable of killing his father and his mother' (according to Lavrenty Beria, the NKVD chief), founded the German Democratic Republic, which was to be governed by his new Socialist Unity Party (SED), and one of its first acts was to commandeer Pankow's nineteenth-century mansions as homes for its Politburo.1 Niederschonhausen Castle, where Queen Christine, the wife of Frederick the Great, was reputed to have died of boredom and the Nazis stored 'degenerative art', was also seized and transformed into a state guesthouse, later used by Fidel Castro and Mikhail Gorbachev.

By 1950, when the Stasi was formed, the sedate suburb of Pankow was completely encircled by its agents. Only the most trusted were permitted to enter, let alone live within the security perimeter of what was now a water-tight enclave. Dr G. Strauss was one of them.

In St Petersburg, the Kuchumov papers are still officially closed. But Our Friend the Professor has used her connections to help us once again and has secured a few documents from a correspondence file of Kuchumov's, stored in the literature archive, concerning contacts in East Berlin.

She has sent us a batch of notes she has taken and written a covering letter. She recalls we were looking for a source known as 'the Doctor'. She is excited, she writes, having come across an intelligence briefing and interrogation report of a former German internee who, in 1949, claimed to know the location of the Amber Room. His name was Dr G. Strauss and his file bears the stamp of the Soviet Ministry of State Security, Comrade Viktor Abakumov's MGB (the former Soviet intelligence and counterintelligence agency that was a forerunner to the KGB).2

Abakumov, Beria's pupil, had become the Soviet's spymaster and chief of the new MGB in 1946, inheriting the old NKVD's extensive network of interrogation and holding centres that had been set up at the end of the war to imprison Nazis, collaborators and anyone else whom the system deemed objectionable. Abakumov's agents stalked the Baltic and Eastern Europe, seeking out opposition and arresting saboteurs and dissidents. Abakumov also fostered the growth of like-minded security organizations within the Soviet's new partner nations, including the Stasi.3

We see that the MGB file Our Friend the Professor has sent to us was prepared for Anatoly Kuchumov and it is dated October 1949, a briefing prepared for his meeting with Dr G. Strauss in Kaliningrad that December. Attached to it is a komandirovat for Kuchumov to travel to Kaliningrad. It stated that General Zorin, in Berlin, had finalized the arrangements for transporting Dr G. Strauss. We are now certain that Soldier Kazakhov's source, 'the Doctor' and this former German internee are one and the same.

In the MGB briefing, Strauss was described as 'an art historian' with long-established links to East Prussia. He was born there in 1908 in Mohrungen (today Morag in Poland), a market town founded by the Teutonic Knights, not far from Prince Alex's castle at Schlobitten. Dr G. Strauss studied art history at Konigsberg University and on graduation was recruited by East Prussia's Provincial Memorials Office. In 1939, he was appointed as an assistant to the city's director of art collections. This makes it likely that he was a contemporary of Alfred Rohde, Konigsberg Castle Museum's director.

There is more. In 1934 Strauss became a brown-shirted street fighter, joining the Sturmabteilung and three years later, while many others chose not to, he joined the Nazi Party. His service record shows that during the war he was a Wehrmacht officer, stationed in East Prussia, and for the last two years of the war he was assigned to protecting the state and its treasures from Allied air raids, a job of great importance considering the value the Third Reich placed on the haul of artefacts stashed in the region. It was a posting that also revealed a degree of political favour, as Strauss could have been ordered to the front, where so many Germans perished.

The file shows that these classified briefing papers originate from a Major Kunyn at MGB headquarters in Berlin-Lichtenberg and state that immediately after the war Strauss was interned by the Soviets at Bornholm Camp in Rossenthin, south-east of Berlin, in the verdant Brandenburg Spreewald. The vast majority of detained Germans spent years waiting to get out and another decade coming to terms with the collapse of their splintered nation. Strauss, however, was released after only four months at Bornholm and was then allotted a villa at Pankow. This is the villa in Heinrich-Mann-Platz that we are heading towards.

Many Germans secured their freedom by declaring allegiance to the Communist Party. The MGB briefing paper stated that Strauss told his Soviet interrogators that he had been a Communist since 193 2. He claimed only to have joined the Brown Shirts and the NSDAP on the orders of the Communist Party that instructed him to go to any lengths to conceal his real political affiliations.4 What should we believe? We do not know.

We enter Pankow's Gothic-style Rathaus, with its gargoyles and faded yellow Bayreuth sandstone, practically the only thing that evokes the kind of Germany to which this suburb once belonged. 'Heinrich-Mann-Platz 4,' the counter clerk says, running a finger down the electoral role. 'Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss, this is the person now living at Heinrich-Mann-Platz 4. Here is a telephone number. I'll call it right away.' The old man is still alive. We have not contemplated this eventuality. We have hoped at best for relatives or a forwarding address, perhaps a quick glimpse of the house in which he lived. No, we say, no thanks, and walk back on to the street.

We try to settle ourselves. We want to be as natural as we can when we knock on the door. Around us through the snow we can see the outlines of large, foreboding chalets, each in its own mute private grounds, the low-slung roofs insulated by thick ice. We stand before No. 4. The gate is locked, although through a downstairs window we can see the lights of a Christmas tree. We gently rub the frosted brass plate: 'STRAUSS'. What shall we say? Something low-key and neutral. We are researching a Russian curator's life and have discovered that he had a pen pal in East Germany. We press the buzzer.

A face appears at an upstairs window. Possibly a man. 'Dr Strauss?' we call. 'Sprechen sie Englisch, bitte?' The front door rattles. Chains are unwound. A bolt is drawn back and it opens to an archer's slit. 'Dr Strauss?' we ask.

A dark-haired man dressed in black jeans and a sweater makes his way cautiously to the gate, slipping along the frosted path, inspecting us with eyes like iced water. We shout an explanation in German so broken that we can only be English. This man is about fifty. He cannot possibly have met Anatoly Kuchumov in Kaliningrad in 1949. And yet he is opening the gate and we are following him back to the house.

Inside, there is not a mark on the new stripped-pine floors except for the large black prints left by our slush-filled boots. On the whitewashed walls are moody oils and organ pipes, pieces that give the space a chaste air. The man motions us to sit beside the tree whose hand-carved ornaments are volkisch. We try and clarify who he is and what we are doing in his living room. But he will not hear it. Not just yet. We must wait. A woman's voice floats through from the hall, 'KaffeeV she calls. After ten silent minutes, listening to the percolator bubble on the hob, amaretti biscuits placed on a tray, the woman has joined the man in their living room. They serve us even though none of us know who the other is.

'Zo?' the woman says, as we drain our cups.

'So,' we say. 'Do you know Dr G. Strauss?'

'Ja, of course,' the man answers in broken English, loosening the neck of his jumper, gasping a little, as if the air is now rarer. 'Gerhard Strauss was my Vater. Warum?

'Oh, Stephan,' the woman interrupts. 'How funny you sound.' She turns to us. I teach English and Russian at the university. I will translate. Darling, your languages are really terrible.'

We hand over one of Valeria Bilanina's envelopes.

'Stephan, look. How strange!' the woman exclaims, her eyes scanning the handwriting. I remember Vati writing some of these.' She turns to us. 'Stephan and I were just married, in 1972, and Gerhard, my father-in-law, asked me to translate some letters into Russian. He was trying to find a curator in Leningrad, right? The one who was looking for the Bernsteinzimmer} You found these in Russia? Vati was so disappointed, you know. I don't know if he ever received replies.'

Kuchumov, we say, is unfortunately dead. And Dr Gerhard Strauss?

Stephan has had time to gather his thoughts and now his arms are wrapped tightly around his ribcage and his legs are crossed. Suddenly all of his anxieties tumble out: 'What do you know about my father's work? Who are you? Why do you want to know about him? Why are you here?'

The woman lays her hand on his lap. 'Stephan, let the people talk.'

He relaxes a little. 'It is difficult to speak of these things,' he says. 'You may know facts now that even I, we - ' he squeezes his wife's hand - 'do not know about my father. There were things he had to do in the war to survive. We have come through difficult times.' He glances at his wife for reassurance. 'I'm not sure what you will do with any information I will give you. And anyhow I was a child, you must realize.' He pauses. 'But I do recall my father travelling to Kaliningrad sometime after the war.' He fixes his gaze on the Christmas tree. 'Russians came to the house. They were not wearing uniforms. At the time I was disappointed. Now I think they must have been KGB. There were whispered discussions. Papers were passed around the room. This room. But why should I tell you about these things?' He is losing his cool again, frowning deeply. 'You are strangers in my house.'

It is a beautiful house, we say, slowing everything down. And it is true that only a cup of coffee back we walked through that front door.

'They gave my father this place after the Nazis were cleared out. My father was a Genosse, you understand?'

Yes, we say. He was a comrade.

'He told us many stories about his secret KPD activities before the war. How he had to go underground. He had to join the Nazi Party but he hated them.' He pauses and sends his wife upstairs. She returns with a large photograph in a white wooden frame. It shows an elderly man wearing a black beret, a proud man in a park on a winter's day. You can see his breath forming as it hits the cold air.

'Gerhard passed away in 1984,' she says. 'He would have been delighted to have more visitors from Russia!'

So the doctor is dead.

'It was snowing the day he left in 1949, like today.' Stephan rocks the photo of his father gently on his knees. 'My mother was so worried. She said he would never come back. You have to understand, we were a little afraid of the Russians.' Stephan smiles at us. 'Perhaps the word is unsure. Unfamiliar.' He tries to encapsulate the feelings of the time. 'Well, the Red Army had taken away so many people. After six weeks my mother was frantic. She picked up courage and went to Karlshorst. Don't worry, they said. The weather was bad on the Baltic Coast. Father's plane was delayed. She was told to go home and wait.

'My father came home in the middle of January. He wouldn't talk much about what had happened. He mentioned that he had tried to find his parents' house in Mohrungen but had been prevented. And that he had helped in the search for the Amber Room. He felt it was his personal responsibility to find it and return it to Leningrad. Later, he became obsessed. It was a constant topic of conversation at the dinner table. On the phone. It was not good. It made him ill. Odd people kept calling. Russians, Poles, even West Germans. One called George Stein invited himself over for dinner, yes, George Stein. Have you heard of him?' Stephan sees us writing down the name and dries up again.

Why does he think his father was of such interest to the Soviets, we ask?

'During the last two years of the war my father was assigned to the airraid protection forces in Konigsberg. I suppose he must have been responsible for the safety of the Amber Room, that's why the Russians were so interested in him. His boss was called Andrei. No, not Andrei but . . .'

His wife interrupts: 'Alfred, darling, Alfred Rohde.'

The director of Konigsberg Castle Museum.

Stephan studies us with his iced water eyes and volunteers that he has an attic full of material belonging to his father, diaries and semi-official documents. He is a polite man who wants to be helpful. Can we see them, we ask?

He sees the excitement in our eyes and pauses. I have looked at them before. But not properly. I should study his papers first. Maybe if you come back. In a few weeks.' For as suddenly as he has blurted out about his father's private archive he wishes that he hadn't. He appears panicked. We can see his train of thought. Brown Shirt, card-carrying Nazi or loyal Genosse acting on the Communist Party's orders? And even if only a Genosse, what had Gerhard Strauss done for the regime?After so much time only the papers remain and Dr Gerhard Strauss's real motivations might be blurred.

We sense that Stephan is grappling with the conundrum faced by everyone reunited after a conflict. How should a family deal with the multiple histories that coexist in one life: by exposing them all or by concealing the unpalatable ones? Should one carry on oblivious, loving the person one ate with and slept with or strolled to the park with? Post-war Europe was a kaleidoscope of multi-coloured truths.

I have my own life to live. Our own lives to live. One cannot live one's father's life although I love my father. Can I drop you somewhere?' Stephan asks, standing up. He has to leave for a meeting in town. He is a landscape architect employed by the municipal authorities to help rebuild Berlin. He leads us out to his Volvo and we sit in silence as the engine warms.

The Volvo settles and Stephan drives through wisps of freezing fog into a darkening Berlin, past Daniel Liebeskind's Jewish Museum with its Holocaust Tower. And we notice out of the corner of an eye an Arab boy on a mountain bike frantically pedalling to reach the queue for the museum before it disappears behind the armed security perimeter. Then, as he nears, he pulls a gun from his tracksuit. He has a pistol in his hand and before we can shout out he has pulled the trigger, again and again, waving the firearm wildly. But no one seems to see, apart from us trapped in the traffic behind fogged windows, boxed in on the other side of the street. However, no one is falling, crying or bleeding. The weapon must be a replica, although his hatred is real enough. We may have been the only people this day to have seen his drive-by fantasy.

Stephan pulls over at Alexanderplatz and leans across to open the passenger door. 'There are things I don't want to read and I hope you will not write them. Do you understand?' If we do come back, there will be documents in the attic that Stephan Strauss will not want us to print.

We cannot promise to censor our research to leave his father's reputation intact. With Alfred Rohde dead, finding Dr Gerhard Strauss, one of his assistants, must have been a critical moment for Anatoly Kuchumov. And it is for us too.

We'll call, we say, before diving into the hushed darkness of the westbound U2, while Stephan Strauss drives off to his meeting in the east. Even though our paths have crossed, we have not really met at all. We have been prevented from understanding each other, our true characters and emotions blacked out, obscured (on our part) by self-interest and on his by a fear of history.

We have felt a clammy-handed excitement as the mystery of the Amber Room unravels but so far all of it has been from a distance - the story told through reports, diaries, letters and memories. Today the Amber Room has lifted off the page and into the lives of those around us, casting doubt and fear.

Two weeks later, we return to our Berlin hotel to find another couriered package from St Petersburg waiting for us. We rip open the envelope and a photo of Gerhard Strauss falls out. This Strauss is a young man, elegant and relaxed in a white shirt, his head of thick dark hair slicked back in a confident, cosmopolitan manner. While there are many similarities between the younger and older Gerhard Strauss, the older man did not have this younger man's confident stare.

Gerhard Strauss

Our Friend the Professor writes that the literature archive has completed its audit of the Anatoly Kuchumov files and that she has obtained a reader's ticket on our behalf and found more material concerning our East German doctor.

Dr Gerhard Strauss. What did he know? Leningrad curator Anatoly Kuchumov was certain that Alfred Rohde, the Konigsberg Castle Museum director, lied in 1945 and the Amber Room had not burned in the Knights' Hall. But with Rohde dead, Soldier Kazakhov had found another source whom he called 'the Doctor', a man who claimed to have important information about the location of the Amber Room. We now know that 'the Doctor' was Dr Gerhard Strauss and that in December 1949 he was sent to Kaliningrad to meet Anatoly Kuchumov.

In our latest Russian package is an MGB briefing paper dated 8 August 1949 that explains how the Kaliningrad mission came about. It begins with a letter from Dr Gerhard Strauss in which he reveals a different version of events than that remembered by his son. Gerhard Strauss wrote that he invited Soviet agents to his home in Heinrich-Mann-Platz (a decision that he had obviously not shared with his wife, who believed he was being arrested, according to Stephan Strauss's recollections). Gerhard Strauss was ready to assist the new Soviet administration, offering 'information on your missing Amber Room'.5

The letter was addressed to Major Kunyn, a liaison officer for the MGB in the Department of Soviet Military Officials, Berlin-Lichtenberg. Strauss must have been sure of himself and of what he had to barter to have dared contact an organization feared by the majority of Germans. I figured out from my chief of department, Mr Volkmann, that you are searching for the Amber Room,' he wrote breezily. 'Since the war ended I have met many people who came from Konigsberg and they know only about the death of Dr Rohde and the destruction of the castle. But I know more.'

Strauss was exact and unburdened by guilt or modesty. His letter revealed that this was not the first time he had made contact and he expressed frustration that the Soviets had not reacted to three previous attempts to volunteer his services concerning the Amber Room.

One was made during his 'unfortunate' internment in May 1945, where I told everything'. His second statement was given in 1946 to a 'Major Poltavsev, Dept of Information, SV/V Germany'. Strauss approached the Russians a third time, in 1947, when he was questioned by Comrade Xenia Agarfornova, from the State Hermitage, the curator whom Kuchumov had met in Berlin in 1947 while cataloguing the looted Soviet art works stored in the Derutra warehouse.

I told everything to the art historian from Leningrad, Mrs Agarfornova,' Strauss complained to Major Kunyn. 'Since nobody followed it up and I had no possibility to get in touch with you by phone, I decided to write.'

There must have been a serious breakdown in communication between the Soviet authorities in Berlin, Moscow and Leningrad concerned with the recovery of looted art works. While SovNarKom had ordered a mission to recover the Amber Room just weeks after the German capitulation, it had taken Dr Gerhard Strauss four years and four attempts to get anyone's attention.

Maybe Comrade Agarfornova had not taken Strauss seriously enough to inform her Leningrad comrade Anatoly Kuchumov of his statement in 1947. Maybe Comrade Agarfornova had not known Kuchumov was looking for clues about the Amber Room in the Derutra warehouse. We will never know, but it was only through Strauss's determination to be heard that he and Kuchumov ever met.

In the file sent to us from Our Friend the Professor in St Petersburg, Strauss reassured Major Kunyn that he was never a Nazi. Neither was Alfred Rohde. The real fascist was the Gauleiter of East Prussia, Erich Koch, a man Strauss described as 'a military criminal'. Strauss wrote about the Amber Room: 'It would really be a big loss if this piece of art were to become a victim of the Nazi war. No question, I am ready to help in this matter.' Major Kunyn marked this passage with three exclamation marks.

Strauss contradicted Alfred Rohde's testimony by saying that the Amber Room had survived the fall of Konigsberg. 'But it cannot be in the Soviet Zone [of Germany] since despite my requests it wasn't moved in time,' he wrote. Major Kunyn marked the passage with a question mark. What was Strauss's exact role in wartime Konigsberg? He seemed to be suggesting here that he was directly responsible for the safe-keeping of the Amber Room.

Strauss's letter continued: 'No amber objects have appeared on the Berlin art market but in March 1945 I did overhear that the evacuation of the Amber Room was assigned to one place, east of Gorlitz [an area that was part of Saxony until 1949, when it became part of Poland].' Again Major Kunyn drew three bold exclamation marks. Strauss signed off 'Chief of Applied Arts Museums, Monuments and Education, GDR, Berlin'. He had been rehabilitated into the new East German regime remarkably quickly and had risen to an influential post. But drawing attention to himself in this way was a risky endeavour.

The next document is a poor carbon copy of a long interview conducted on 12 December 1949. As we slowly trace the sentences we realize that this is the transcript of Gerhard Strauss's interrogation. The man asking the questions was Anatoly Kuchumov.6

The two men talked at the Hotel Moscow in Kaliningrad. Pre-war photographs show it to have been a historic red-brick building. As one of the few Konigsberg-era edifices still standing in April 1945, the NKVD had commandeered it as their headquarters before the MGB occupied it. In order for Strauss to have reached Hotel Moscow, he would have been driven past the ruins of the castle, past the statues of Bismarck and Prince Albrecht with missing limbs and their heads shot off, and along what he knew as Steindamm Strasse. It had been renamed Leninsky Prospekt and led into Prospekt Mira, where the Hotel Moscow stood. We wonder if seeing the levelled city of his youth shocked Dr Gerhard Strauss.

There is no scene setting in the file but we can imagine the likely circumstances, Kuchumov wrapped in his heavy tweed overcoat, wearing his pork-pie hat and black suit. No doubt the battered leather attache case lay open by his ankles. Kuchumov's granddaughter still has it, although his former colleague Valeria Bilanina has probably obtained its contents. Opposite him, cool and confident, 'the doctor': Gerhard Strauss, his dark hair slicked so that not even one strand would become unruly.

At the outset these two men should have had much in common: a love of art history, a background in conservation, an overwhelming desire, albeit for different reasons, to find the Amber Room. But while they were now on the same side, recent events had created a gulf between the haughty Prussian and the shabby Russian.

Session One: '12 December 1949. What I know about the Amber Room, (translated by Captain Shukin)'.

Translated. Kuchumov had no language apart from Russian. We know from Strauss's daughter-in-law that the doctor could only speak German. And so all the nuances, the tucks and nips of language that help friendships settle, were lost as they sat down in the (no doubt freezing) Hotel Moscow during a Kaliningrad winter for a formal discussion, encumbered by an intermediary, the translator Captain Shukin.

Kuchumov began by asking about Alfred Rohde. What could Strauss say about the castle curator? Strauss was fluent on his former chief: Rohde had been born in Hamburg and served as an officer during the First World War, during which he had been gassed. Kuchumov noted that this might have accounted for the Parkinson's-like shakes observed by Professor Brusov in 1945. After demobilization in 19E8, Rohde moved to Munich where he studied art history at Marburg University, then continued his education in Paris, before eventually taking up appointments in museums in Hamburg, Breslau (today Wroclaw in Poland) and lastly Konigsberg.

Next question: what were Rohde's politics? Kuchumov suspected him of being a Nazi but Strauss informed him that Rohde was never a member of a political party. The only organization Rohde ever joined was the Union of Artists, for whom he arranged annual exhibitions of contemporary works.

Did Rohde know the Nazi elite? This was one of those probing questions, a proving ground, that Kuchumov also used with Brusov. After all, Kuchumov had read the castle curator's personal correspondence and already knew that Rohde was acquainted with Gauleiter Erich Koch and General von Kuchler, head of Army Group North. Strauss performed well. He confirmed that Rohde had been acquainted with Erich Koch since 1928, the year that the curator arrived to become director of the city's art collections and Koch became Gauleiter of East Prussia. When Koch was later elected to the East Prussian Reichstag and took responsibility for the culture of the region, he and Rohde were brought into more regular contact. 'But they were never friends,' Strauss added. 'Rohde was a very modest and reserved person, respected by all of his colleagues. Politically, he certainly belonged to the middle and I even thought the left. Most people he associated with were of that persuasion. His closest friends were Hans Hopp and my teacher R. Worringer.' Kuchumov noted the names Hopp and Worringer. They mean nothing to us.

But Kuchumov pressed Strauss. Rohde must have been a Nazi sympathizer to have done so well. I remember how much he disliked the Nazis,' Strauss countered. 'Rohde told me so when he showed me pictures from Kiev. But professionally he was nice to them. The fact he didn't leave Konigsberg only demonstrates that Rohde recognized his professional responsibility to his exhibits.' Strauss wrapped up the topic symmetrically. 'Alfred Rohde was not scared of the Soviet Union either. He had no bad intentions. That's all I can tell you about him.' Kuchumov has placed a small exclamation mark in the margin.

Kuchumov asked Strauss about the Amber Room. Strauss said: 'In 1941 I, together with Dr Rohde, was anxious that the Amber Room was going to be destroyed. Rohde contacted an old friend, General von Kuchler, and asked him to save the room by sending it to Konigsberg.' Kuchumov drew an asterisk here - thinking, no doubt, of the letter from General von Kuchler, addressed to 'my good friend' Alfred Rohde, that he had found in the ruins of the castle in 1946. Strauss seemed to be telling the truth.

Strauss continued:

When the room arrived in 1942 or 1943, it was installed in the museum in the south wing of the castle, in a room with only one window, facing the river on the third floor. The panels were in a very good condition. It was installed with care, the broken pieces glued back together and the mosaics were put in place. The walls were sixteen feet high and it seemed as if they shone with yellow-brown light beaming from them. On a cloudy day it created a rather grotesque impression.

Kuchumov has marked another small asterisk here. He had learned from his interrogation with Otto Smakka, translator for the local fisheries, that the Amber Room was already badly damaged when it reached Konigsberg,. Strauss's dates for the room's arrival also conflicted with Smakka's evidence and with the Gift Book found by the Soviets in 1945. But Kuchumov gave Strauss the benefit of the doubt.

Strauss was pressed to expand his comments and responded with a caveat. He had never seen the room before, 'so I couldn't tell if all the parts had been delivered to Konigsberg'. He supposed that 'it was complete' since Dr Rohde didn't say anything about losses. 'Dr Rohde believed that the Amber Room might ultimately return to [Pushkin]. Despite the fact that its beauty was overwhelming, I was quite depressed and worried that I was an accomplice to that robbery.' Another small asterisk. Perhaps Kuchumov was becoming irritated by Strauss's clumsy attempts at ingratiation.

What could Strauss tell Kuchumov of the evacuation plan? Strauss claimed that he had attempted to get the Amber Room out of Konigsberg in the spring of 1944. 'It was then that I warned Rohde for the first time that it was dangerous to keep it on the third floor of the castle as it could be destroyed. There was an obvious danger of aerial bombing.' But, according to Strauss, Rohde was reluctant. 'Only after several warnings from me did he agree to board up the window to prevent shrapnel from getting in. But even so we only boarded up the bottom third of the castle window.'

Strauss said that his persistence led to the room eventually being dismantled, packed into crates and moved to the south-wing cellars, only days before the first Allied air raids - 27-28 August 1944. Yet another asterisk. Kuchumov wrote a name beside it: 'Castle restaurateur Paul Feyerabend'. He had told Kuchumov that Rohde had temporarily evacuated the crates to an undisclosed location outside the city in July 1944, before the air raids.

Was Strauss sure about his dates? 'Yes,' he replied. He knew this was the case because, although he had missed the bombing raids, he had returned to Konigsberg on E September 1944 and gone straight to the castle. 'It was entirely burned but the outside walls were still standing. I met Dr Rohde by chance in the castle yard outside the entrance to the south-wing cellar. He was surrounded by boxes, big and small, and told me the room had been stored in the cellars during the raids and wasn't damaged.' If it had not been for Strauss's insistence, then the Amber Room would not have been moved and would have taken a direct hit.

And then? Kuchumov was plotting times, dates and places. What happened next? Strauss thought for a moment. In December 1944 Rohde began to travel, Strauss said. Another mark in the margin. From Rohde's reconstructed correspondence, saved from the fire by Brusov, Kuchumov knew that it was in November 1944 that Alfred Rohde began looking in earnest for hiding places outside the city.

Strauss corrected himself. Yes, now he remembered. It was November 1944. Rohde had made a few local trips to find hiding places for the castle treasures in that month. But in the end these stores in castles and manors were not safe enough. Strauss had heard it said that Rohde had written in a letter that he intended to evacuate the Amber Room to Wechselburg Castle in Saxony. So did Rohde carry out the plan? 'About the moving of the room from Konigsberg, I don't know,' Strauss replied.

Kuchumov asked about the Knights' Hall, where Brusov concluded that the Amber Room had burned. Was it used as a temporary store for the Amber Room? Strauss replied: 'Maybe [Rohde] told me that he wanted to put the boxes in the Knights' Hall, I'm not sure.' Strauss was becoming defensive but Kuchumov would not let up and asked about the last time that he saw Rohde. 'Some time between 11 and 15 January [1945]. But I cannot recall if the Amber Room was even discussed,' was Strauss's vague response.

Suddenly the pace and direction of the interrogation transcript changed. The cool-headed doctor asked to return to Berlin. He claimed that he needed to winkle out more witnesses. Not Nazis, but Germans, like him, silent, concealed opponents of Hitler who had weathered the final weeks of the war. 'Ernst Schaumann, for example, lives in Berlin. His address I can figure out and somebody can check it,' Strauss suggested to Kuchumov. 'Maybe it's possible to ask the general [Lasch] who capitulated and was taken as a POW? Maybe Lasch knows something about the Amber Room,' he said.

Strauss had only just arrived and, from the correspondence and files that surrounded the preparation for this trip, it had been arranged at significant political and financial cost. It was unlikely that the Soviets would let him go so quickly. We contrast Strauss's imprecise responses with his letter to Major Kunyn: 'But I know more.'

Strauss had one last thought: 'If it was lost, I suppose that such a room could be re-created with the help of photographs?' It was an unhelpful suggestion that could not have been made at a worse time.

Session Two: '12 December 1949. What I know about Soviet pieces of art taken to Germany (translated by Captain Shukin)'.

Take the pressure off the witness. Let him relax. Talk him through areas that he feels more comfortable about. Seduce him. Knead his ego. Make yourself small. Kuchumov seemed to be calming Strauss as the next session began. What had Strauss witnessed during his wartime office as an air-raid warden with access to bunkers and storerooms? Strauss replied: 'Dr Rohde showed me things he had been given by Gauleiter Koch for safekeeping: things from Minsk, Kiev and Rostock. They came in 1942, or was it 1943? It was forbidden to talk about or show these items.'

What items? More precision please? Strauss replied: 'Pictures: eighteenth and nineteenth century. Also Chinese porcelain and vases manufactured in St Petersburg. Icons too.' Names? Descriptions? Strauss couldn't recall: 'Everything was in a good condition but they were not great works. We supposed at that time that only a small section of [Soviet] treasures was in German hands, that the most famous things had been hidden by the Russians.'

Where were these small number of Soviet items kept? 'Everything was located in the first floor of the round tower in the north-west corner of [Konigsberg] castle; the entrance was through the Knights' Hall.' Anything more? 'Well, there were church bells from Latvia. In 1942, or was it 1943? And not long before the end of the war, famous silver treasures from Riga and Danzig.'

Fearing incrimination, Strauss added: I got this information from Dr Rohde and members of his staff. This is all I know. I didn't work at the museum. I was only interested from a political and scientific point of view.' His answers were beginning to take on a defensive tone again.

Kuchumov placed yet another asterisk against this last statement. We know from his notes that the great curator had read some of the Nuremberg depositions concerning looted art, including that of Hermann Voss, director of the Dresden Gallery, who, according to his American inquisitors, relied constantly on 'failure of memory to explain discrepancies in his testimony, a tactic that did not improve the atmosphere of the interrogation . . .' Voss's captors had concluded: 'He takes the profoundly German attitude that art history is pure science, and that one can pursue it without exterior moral responsibility.'

Session Three: '12 December 1949. Where could the Amber Room be located? (translated by Captain Shukin)'.

Kuchumov returned to the events of January 1945. Strauss began: 'According to Rohde's letter of E2 January, the Amber Room was still in the city.' Asterisk. These letters were found by Brusov and passed on to Kuchumov, who knew that Strauss could not possibly have seen them. At best, he had heard about them from gossiping German museum curators.

If this information was third-hand, then what else in Strauss's statements was begged and borrowed? Strauss struggled to defend himself: 'Before 15 January [the Amber Room] could have been delivered by rail to Germany, after that it would have only been possible by sea or plane.' Asterisk. Wrong. Kuchumov had researched train movements out of Konigsberg. He knew that the last one left for the German heartland on 22 January 1945.

Did Strauss believe that the Amber Room remained in the castle until the fall of Konigsberg? Strauss was even more evasive: 'Dr Rohde was a lover of amber. There is no doubt that he would have tried to save the Amber Room. But I didn't see him again. I heard only gossip about hiding places at Gorlitz. But there were many hiding places in East Prussia too, you know.'

Gossip. Maybe. Perhaps. If Strauss was so misinformed, why had he tried four times to gain the attention of the Soviet authorities? No answer. Then Strauss volunteered: 'There was a bunker.'

Kuchumov was very interested in bunkers - he recalled Brusov's mention of the Hofbunker. Rohde had talked about this hiding place in a letter to his superiors in Berlin, but showed it to Brusov in 194 5 only after this letter was pulled by Brusov from the fire. In 1946 Brusov had told Kuchumov that he feared he had not thoroughly searched the Hofbunker after being distracted by Rohde and a story about lost keys. Was the Amber Room concealed in the Hofbunker? Strauss replied: 'Pictures from Konigsberg Museum were supposed to be stored there. That is all I know.'

Where was the bunker? Kuchumov wanted an address. Strauss blurted out: I think, maybe on Lange Reihe or on a street in Nasser Garden. Precisely where I don't remember.'

We recall a phrase from Soldier Kazakhov's letter in which he wrote to Kuchumov about Strauss: 'they will send the doctor to Kaliningrad along with someone else to investigate this place, because either he really did forget or he is pretending he cannot remember.' It seems possible that Kazakhov was referring to the Hofbunker and Strauss's inconsistency.

On the defensive, Strauss now launched into a list of other potential hiding places in East Prussia. 'The nineteenth-century city bastions are many: Wrangel Tor, Rosegarten Tor, Friedlander Tor. All were used. There was also a room in the main railway station. And the safe of the Reichsbank near the castle.' The fortress at Pillau, had they tried there?

'But I suppose that was unlikely since it was full of wounded soldiers. Lochstadt Castle... what about that castle?'

But what about the Hofbunker, Kuchumov persisted? The other sites that Strauss mentioned had been searched already by the Soviets in 1946 and they had found nothing in them.7

Kuchumov challenged him. Was Strauss concealing facts about the Nazi evacuation plan? Strauss defended himself:

I buried treasure. I helped to bury books from Konigsberg Library and the state archive on the lower underground floor of Lochstadt Castle. Sixty-five feet down. We wrote a message on a big piece of cotton with the help of a captured Russian soldier, 'Russian cultural treasures, open only in the presence of a curator.' Treasures were hidden at Schlobitten Castle too. Nowadays it's in Poland. There we placed furniture and paintings. People from Konigsberg Museum moved them. Possibly they took some things from the museum too.

Strauss began to trail off, perhaps realizing that he was in danger of incriminating himself again. I wasn't there. I got this information from Helmut Hels from Hamburg... no, maybe Mrs Clomp from the Monuments Commission.' More names. More contradictions.

Strauss asked for a break, but Kuchumov returned to the Hofbunker.

Strauss threw back yet more suggestions, names and locations: 'Schlobitten Castle, the home of Prince Alex zu Dohna-Schlobitten. Talk to him. He knows. Professor Voringer from Halle, he told me that things from the university and the most treasured items from Konigsberg Library were moved to Langheim Palace, near Warstenburg. You should talk to him.' More names for Kuchumov's witness list. 'There was talk too of moving icons from Konigsberg churches to Tilsit [Sovetsk, Kaliningrad Province] and of moving other items to Tsiten [Kaliningrad Province] and also an estate on an island at the Samland Peninsula, the name of which I don't remember.'

Think now. Don't stop. You can rest soon. You must know the name. Strauss dried up: 'No,' he said finally. I don't know any more. Not about art from the USSR. I can't remember anything else.'

Here was a man confident enough to contact the MGB, an organization feared by most Germans, and volunteer his services in the search for the Amber Room. He promised precision and details, even a solution, and yet, having been issued a special permit to travel and having been escorted to the closed military province of Kaliningrad, Strauss delivered nothing of substance. While placing himself at the centre of key events, claiming that the Amber Room had survived the air raids of 1944 only after he insisted on its being dismantled, Strauss failed to reveal anything concrete about Rohde's plans for the Amber Room and he claimed to know nothing about its final resting place.

What Kuchumov had to decide was whether Strauss really did not know or was playing a dangerous game. In an appendix to the official typed interrogation transcript that was compiled some time later, Kuchumov wrote:

In 1949, according to the decisions of the local party and the Soviet administration, a big and authoritative commission was organized A hundred soldiers and firemen, mobile generators and other equipment was provided. Giving evidence, Dr Strauss affirmed only those facts that were already known from the evidence of others and Rohde's correspondence. He didn't describe the exact location of the Amber Room in spite of our belief and hope that he must have known more about it.

There was more. Once the Soviets had decided to dig in Kaliningrad, Strauss had hindered the operation. The great curator concluded: 'Strauss tried, as Rohde also did by different means, to deflect the attention of our commission from heaps of bricks at the southern side of the castle, making recommendations to search in the north wing, discouraging the digging until the time that plans for the castle could be found.'8

Strauss stood accused of grave charges: wasting the time and resources of the Soviet government.

There is one last document in our packet from St Petersburg and it serves only to increase our uncertainty about Strauss's motives. We have before us a folded sheet of paper that carries obscure doodles, as well as maps, dates and names.

On one side, there is a message: 'To my best comrade from Leningrad. It's better to search in Henkanziskan! 7-19. XII.49'.9

The Cyrillic is poor. It's somebody's second language. But the dates are intriguing: 7-19 December 1949, the period during which Kuchumov interrogated Strauss in Kaliningrad. Only General Zorin, Soldier Kazakhov and the MGB were supposed to know about this classified mission.

The sheet is dominated by a large drawing of a man with little round glasses, wearing a pork-pie hat, a miniature shovel sticking out of the hatband like a feather. His nose has been coloured in blue, and beside this freezing figure is a thermometer measuring minus EO°C. Unlike the hand that painted Kuchumov's birthday cards, this artist is no professional, but there is no doubt about who is being caricatured.

The cartoon Kuchumov is carrying a magnifying glass inside which the word HENKANZISKAN appears again, in large wobbly letters. Although incorrectly spelt, this can only be a reference to Friedrich Henkensiefken, Schlossoberinspektor of Konigsberg Castle, one of the people near the top of Kuchumov's list of missing German officials. We wonder who is taunting the curator about this man and why.

Doodle of Anatoly Kuchumov searching for the Amber Room with a magnifying glass, 1949

Beside the cartoon Kuchumov's feet is a small sketch of the Knights' Hall in the north wing of Konigsberg Castle. And to the right is a globe, featuring a magnified detail of the Samland Peninsula and again the name 'Henkanziskan'. On the far right of the page is a strange kind of hieroglyphic: a cartoon depicting a bearded man floating in the clouds with a telephone to his ear. At the other end of the line (presumably down on earth) a Red Army soldier listens, standing amidst drawings of the Brandenburg Gate, a Christmas tree, a bottle labelled pivo (beer), a gun and a chicken, above which is written the name STRAUSS.

A Red Army officer stationed in Berlin (possibly Soldier Kazakhov) talks to God (maybe the MGB or Stalin) at Christmas time about a dangerous situation in which a chicken called Strauss is involved.

The reverse of the paper sheet is given over to a hand-drawn map of the Baltic coast, a railway line stretching between Leningrad and northern Germany, along which a steaming train chugs out of 'Detskoye Selo' (Pushkin) towards Kaliningrad and then on to a Berlin that is divided into sectors, each one highlighted by the occupier's national flag.

Doodle sent to Anatoly Kuchumov, depicting clues as to the post-war location of the Amber Room, 1949

The chicken called Strauss is depicted again, standing in the American sector. 'Cluck, cluck' is written over his open beak. Across the top of the page, again in faulty Russian, is written a word that could say 'place' or, if the letters are better formed, could also read 'revenge'. If this is the theme, then the caption makes some sense: 'It is better for my best comrade of Leningrad to go around Berlin through the American sector.' This is where the answer to the mystery lies, according to the cartoonist.

Someone was warning Kuchumov to beware the chicken called Strauss, who was willing to barter the life of others in order to keep hold of a priceless secret.

Someone else believed that Strauss was lying, despite having volunteered to assist the Soviets. And to understand why Strauss would embark on such a high-risk venture, we need another source, an objective one who will not attempt to filter our understanding, one who might also lead us to Friedrich Henkensiefken, Schlossoberinspektor of Konigsberg Castle. It cannot be Stephan Strauss, the doctor's protective son.

We are torn. The material that Our Friend the Professor has obtained from the literature archive in St Petersburg is sensational and we are desperate to see what else they have. However, an official from the Stasi archives has also contacted us to say our application has been approved. We will stay in Berlin for another two weeks while Our Friend the Professor works in the literature archive in Russia on our behalf.

7

The Federal Authority for the Records of the State Security Service of the former GDR is a mouthful that most people shorten to the Ministry of Truth.

We enter its headquarters through plate-glass doors at 10.30 a.m. Female guards glower behind Perspex screens: applications for passes are to be filled out in triplicate, no cameras, no tape recorders, no ball pens. At 10.50 a.m. we are escorted to the office of the senior functionary who has been assigned to our inquiry.

From the ninth-floor windows, you can see the view clearly: right across the congested five-lane highway of Otto-Braun-Strasse and into pigeon-grey Alexanderplatz, the former hub of East Berlin. Here, on 4 November 1989 half a million demonstrators gathered to whistle at spy-chief Markus Wolf, who had been called to placate the daily public protests at the intrusions of the Stasi.1

The box-like office into which we are ushered has bare walls and is empty save for a large white plastic desk and four white plastic garden chairs. Sitting in one is a woman resplendent in pearls like a Japanese empress, one globe in each ear, a generous string at her throat and a delicate strand around her blue-veined wrist. As she speaks, spitting words like a slingshot, she drums the desk with a silver pen. 'So you have got your passes?' A tick in the book. 'So you have your accreditation?' A tick in the book. 'You have references?' A tick in the book. And so on and so on until she has gone through every single page in the large file of paperwork we have accrued in order to gain entry. The Ministry of Truth has a reputation for being fearsomely bureaucratic, fenced in by labyrinthine legislation. We hope our introductory interview will not be protracted.

The functionary looks at her watch, her pen hovering. 'Unfortunately, you are still not ready to see any files. I must explain the protocol.' It is now EL.15 a.m. Speaking as if to unruly children, she continues: 'Your task is difficult. I am responsible for all files relating to art theft and its investigation, from the Nazi and Stasi periods, a study that requires the examination of more than 1.1 million Nazi-era documents and tens of millions more generated by the Stasi. And there is only me and nine coworkers. Complicated research applications arrive every week from all over the world. As well as yours.'

The Stasi had begun as a smaller mirror-image of Victor Abakumov's MGB, its sponsoring organization which gifted to it Soviet interrogation records from the end of the war, a starter kit on which to build its own domestic intelligence service. But under the guiding hand of Erich Mielke, who became Minister for State Security in 1957, it underwent a kind of Marxist mitosis, its founding departments of counter-espionage, sabotage, and subversion subdividing into daughter offices responsible for coercion, intrusion and betrayal: fifteen Directorates, twelve Departments, four secretariats, the Dynamo Sports Club, the Feliks Dzerzhinsky Guard Regiment (named after the chief of the Soviet Union's Cheka), a publishing wing, a law school, a medical agency, as well as four work groups, including the fabulously titled Central Workgroup for Secrecy. At its height, the Stasi employed 91,016 staff and deployed a network of 180,000 informants (one for every sixty-two civilians).2

The MGB file on Strauss that we had been sent from St Petersburg contained references to three interrogations of the doctor carried out in Berlin between 1945 and 1949. Copies of these statements should be here, in the Ministry of Truth. 'Then there is the four-eyes principle.' The functionary is still talking. We can see from a typed pro forma that she is nowhere near the end of her presentation. It is now 11.30 a.m. 'The principle is designed to absolutely prevent intrusion into personal data.' There is no point mentioning that intrusion into the personal enabled the creation of these files in the first place. 'So a minimum of two members of staff are in the room with a file at any time. But these files are not actually here, so to speak, only copies. The originals are where they have always been, in another building, now controlled by the Federal Authority for the Records of the State Security Service of the former GDR.' She protectively strokes a binder.

All original Stasi and Nazi-era documents remain at the defunct ministry's headquarters three miles east, in Berlin-Lichtenberg, locked inside steel cabinets specially designed to bear the weight of a nation's secrets. The Stasi inherited this site, a block-and-a-half compound on Normannenstrasse, in 1950. Our functionary in pearls shoots out statistics: 'Side by side the paper files would stretch 122,000 metres... Microfiche: 46,500 metres. 360,000 photos. Negatives: 600,000. Slides: 24,000. Videos: 3,850. Movies: 730. And 1OO,OOO sound recordings.'

No one would really know the scale of the Stasi's enterprise until 15 January 1990, when pro-democracy campaigners of the recently formed GDR Citizen's Committee occupied the block-and-a-half and broke into the central archive. Here they found huge motorized card indexes of GDR citizens. Above were seven reinforced floors that held the files themselves and below a vast empty room lined with copper to prevent electronic interference, inside which the Stasi had been planning to install a supercomputer to accelerate the crunching of surveillance intelligence.3

The functionary smiles. 'We are the reading supervisors. We cannot talk to those working in the central archive at the former ministry. We are prohibited from visiting the Stasi central archive - as are you. All decisions on what is released by them are final,' she declares. Those files that are approved for public consumption are sent down Karl-Marx-Allee to Otto-Braun-Strasse under guarded transport, where reading supervisors like the one before us will censor them yet again.

'Can I be frank with you?' She has so far. 'You will see only a skeleton of information as we only have a fraction of what the Stasi actually produced. What is preserved in our archive are the deactivated papers. Cold cases put back in the store. Files on live objects or those out in the field have all vanished.'

Strauss died in 1984, six years before the Stasi ceased to exist. Is this enough time for him to become a cold case? And what of Kuchumov (dead in 1993)? And Schlossoberinspektor Henkensiefken (who, the author of the cryptic doodle insisted, was a vital source for Kuchumov)? We have no idea if he is alive or dead. It is now n.40 a.m.

Intelligence files of the Stasi, the East German secret police, bundled up ready for shredding, January 1990

'Even that which had been filed was got at by agents in January and February 1990.' Photographs in the lobby of the Ministry of Truth show the interiors of Stasi offices and depots as they were found: documents bulging in mailbags, heading for thousands of shredders employed by agents to turn them into bails of paper straw. As the first thing that any prospective applicant to the Federal Authority sees, it marks every trip of discovery with a disconcerting air. One is further reassured as one rides to the ninth floor in the lift by a poster that tells how, in a small village outside Nuremberg, a Federal Authority team, known as the Puzzle People, is employed to stick back together more than 15,000 sacks of those files recovered in a partially shredded state, an exercise that will take more than 375 years to complete.

'Laws too,' she explains. It is now LL.50 a.m. 'Reading of files is regulated by the Stasi Records Act, 199 L. According to Section 32, I must decide whether the people you are investigating are "contemporary historical personages". These files are available for study only if "no overriding protection-worthy interests of such persons are adversely affected".' Her finger traces the wording of the law. 'Therefore, I will black out all information unnecessary for your research. I will black out anything that relates to third parties. You will not receive any original documents, only photocopies. Photographs? They may be obtained only if they are already in the public domain.' We nod even though all of it is barely comprehensible. Although the Federal Authority was set up so that victims of the Stasi could read their files, it seems that the process of extracting one's own can take a lifetime.

'Unfortunately for you - ' we thought she had reached the end - 'there are also new considerations.' We sigh. 'The law has recently been amended and any files we have already censored will have to be censored again.' Former West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl fought to introduce the legislation to open up the Stasi files in 1991. But now Kohl has brought about their closure. Having been found guilty of receiving 900,000 dollars in illegal funding for the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), for which he accepted a fine so that the charges would be dropped, Kohl then took an action out against the Federal Authority when it appeared that Stasi files (including transcripts of Stasi phone taps at CDU headquarters) might throw a brighter light on his activities. A court ruled in March 2002 that Kohl's privacy would be invaded if these Stasi files were accessed and as a result millions who were afforded no privacy at all in GDR times will find it far harder to find out how, who, what and why.4 Every time a request is made for a personal file the subject of it, even if they are former Stasi agents, must give permission before it is released. 'But you are lucky. As the re-censorship process for these files has not yet begun you have a small window of opportunity.'

We have only twelve days left in Berlin before we are scheduled to return to St Petersburg. The functionary's watch reads now 12.10 p.m. 'You might find a few helpful references in here,' she says, passing an A4 ring binder over the desk.

Before us are fourth-generation photocopies that have been scored through with so much thick black marker that they are barely legible. Someone zealously wielding a hole-puncher has cut words out of pages and whoever made these most recent copies has aligned them so badly that the reader has to guess the first word of every line. Then there is the prolific stamp of the Federal Authority itself. It recurs with such frequency that more words are obliterated beneath it. The indelible marker is lazily applied. On one page a name is blacked out but then mentioned in full seven lines beneath. Two small passport photographs of individuals wear sad Zorro-like masks of black marker. The only obvious fact that we can initially derive from these papers is that all of them have been prepared or filed by a Stasi agent with the initials P. E.

However, what we have before us is something completely unexpected. Although the date has been obscured on the first document, it is not difficult to work out the year from the text. It is not an MGB interrogation of Gerhard Strauss but an official report written by him for Dr Paul Wandel, concerning Strauss's trip to Kaliningrad in December 1949. So now we get to see the Hotel Moscow interrogation from the other side of the desk.

This version is strikingly different from Kuchumov's. In it Strauss accused Kuchumov of holding him under virtual house arrest after being interrogated. He said that he was detained in Kaliningrad for several weeks while his Soviet counterpart decided on an inadvisable excavation.

Strauss wrote that 'the ground is hard as rock due to the sub-zero temperatures. Several days were taken up with clearing a passageway through the [castle's] former Albrecht Gate for the required Soviet excavator to pass through. It was far too big.' Strauss claimed that Kuchumov was so desperate to find the Amber Room, he excavated at random:

I told him it was pointless without a proper set of plans for the castle, which I could find in Berlin. He shouted at me, accused me of knowing less than him about the layout of somewhere I had worked for years. It was most exasperating. Several days were wasted digging out the rubble that covered the remnants of the south-wing cellars. I tried to tell him that he would find only collapsed chambers there, but he did not believe it until he saw them for himself.5

There is no mention here of the gossip, the second-hand intelligence, the desperate lists of names, the scene of Strauss stammering under the weight of Kuchumov's questions. But then Kuchumov failed to mention the shortsightedness of embarking on a major dig in the midst of a Kaliningrad winter. We have no idea who is telling the truth.

It is only when we look up a biography of Paul Wandel, the recipient of Strauss's report, that we truly appreciate its significance. An early supporter of the German Communist Party (KPD), Paul Wandel had fled to Russia in August 1931. In Moscow, he had been selected for the Lenin School (for spies), entrance to which was limited to only the most promising cadre. Wandel graduated to the Marx-Engels Institute, where he was introduced to a senior German comrade, Wilhelm Pieck. During the war, Wandel acted as Pieck's personal secretary and in his spare time broadcast anti-fascist propaganda directed at weakening the morale of the Wehrmacht. After the return of the KPD leadership to Berlin in July 1945, the German Communist leader Walter Ulbricht appointed Wandel and Pieck to his inner circle, Wandel becoming Minister for Education and Pieck the GDR's first President.6

By writing to Paul Wandel, Strauss was effectively reporting his thoughts on the Amber Room to President Pieck and, by extension, to Ulbricht, General Secretary of East Germany's ruling Socialist Unity Party (SED). Although it was barely a year old, the SED Politburo must have been as concerned with the fate of Amber Room as SovNarKom. We are beginning to appreciate the political muscle pushing the ongoing search for the Amber Room. We cannot yet comprehend why.

'May I have?' The functionary is back and has her hand out. 12.30 p.m. 'We are closed for the day.'

The next morning. In one of the anodyne white rooms at the Ministry of Truth, a file awaits us. Inside are more chewed-up pages, stamped, blotted, scribbled over, but we can see that all of them are authored by Dr Gerhard Strauss. In Kaliningrad, Strauss performed so poorly that he seemed to us to have nothing to contribute to the search for the Amber Room. An incidental witness who would fade away. And yet before us, in classified documents submitted to his superiors in the GDR, Strauss appears unstoppable, generating piles of intelligence about the Amber Room. Vain, naive, treacherous, arrogant, whoever the real Gerhard Strauss was, he was far more central to the search for the Amber Room than we had previously thought.

The first document in this file is another report written by Strauss in 19 50 for Dr Paul Wandel. Strauss provided a detailed breakdown of all that he could recall about the events of 1945. And there was a lot. He wrote that on 15 January 1945 he returned to Konigsberg from a tour of castles in East Prussia, having learned of plans to evacuate art works from the city's castle. He found Dr Alfred Rohde and ten workmen surrounded by half-packed crates, duvets and pillows in the castle yard.

Strauss even recalled the names of the blacksmith and joiner employed to make the crates: Herr Weiss and Herr Mann. Rohde complained that the task to evacuate treasures was being slowed down due to his additional responsibilities as a Leutnant with the Volkssturm (the Nazi home guard). Instead of spiriting priceless art works from the doomed city he was digging defences. Strauss wrote that he advised Rohde to take urgent action, particularly regarding the Amber Room. But Rohde informed him that it was of such value to the Nazi hierarchy that he could not move it without authorization from Dr Helmut Will, the city's Oberburgermeister. Getting permission from Dr Will was proving difficult. Strauss then left the city on other duties as an air-raid warden and returned only at the beginning of March 1945, by which time there was no sign of Rohde. The last thing Strauss heard about the Amber Room was from a junior civil servant at the Konigsberg office of the Ministry of Culture, who told him that it had been evacuated to 'somewhere east of Gorlitz'. So this was the source of his Gorlitz story, the hook in Strauss's letter of 1949 sent to Major Kunyn in Berlin, offering his assistance to the Soviet's Amber Room search. Strauss had then written: 'in March 1945 I did overhear that the evacuation of the Amber Room was assigned to one place, east of Gorlitz'.

Nothing about his coming forward in 1949 had been down to chance. Prior to travelling to Kaliningrad in that year, he had spent four years researching the fate of the Amber Room using documents from the Soviet archive of Nazi files at Potsdam, a heavily militarized area south-west of blockaded Berlin. The Soviet Military Administration had discovered caches of Nazi files all over Germany that they locked into this high- security archive. To gain access to them Strauss must have offered his services as a translator and convinced the Soviets of his Communist credentials. We cannot yet understand why a man who must have been trusted by the Soviet authorities in Berlin treated his comrade Kuchumov in Kaliningrad with contempt.

Strauss studied the Nazi plan to evacuate art from Konigsberg thoroughly and, even though he would not meet Anatoly Kuchumov until December 1949, this research shows that both men were working independently on the same theory as to the fate of the Amber Room - that it was not destroyed in the Knights' Hall.

In the dossier prepared for Wandel in E950, Strauss cited a letter dated November 1944 from Gauleiter Erich Koch to Martin Mutschmann, the Gauleiter of Saxony, in which Koch advised his counterpart that, due to the worsening military situation in East Prussia, he was sending a museum official to Dresden, in Saxony, to search for potential storage facilities.

In November 1944 Saxony was still a safe haven, with an array of disused mines, caves and medieval fortresses in which things of value could be concealed. It was also a gateway to Bavaria and Austria, where the Nazi High Command had built its eyries and Hitler had his southern headquarters, the Eagle's Nest at Berchtesgaden.

The next wartime document in Strauss's dossier for Wandel was a report from the man chosen by Koch as his emissary, Helmut Friesen, head of the Provincial Memorials Office in Konigsberg. Friesen arrived in Dresden on 22 November 1944 and met Arthur Grafe, chief of Saxony's Department of State Collections of Art, Science, Castles, Gardens and Libraries. An account of this meeting written by Arthur Grafe revealed that the two men discussed 'the storage of irreplaceable art treasures of high monumental value' and identified one of them as 'the famous Amber Room, a present from Frederick the Great toTsar Peter III [sic] that had been rescued after the terror air raid on Konigsberg'.7

Strauss had proved that in November 1944 two senior figures in the cultural apparatus of the Third Reich, acting on the orders of two Nazi Gauleiters, had begun to discuss the evacuation of the Amber Room in the certain knowledge that Konigsberg was no longer safe.

According to Arthur Grafe, storage depots in Saxony were in short supply and there were just six locations that Friesen could view: castles Sachsenburg, Kriebstein, Wechselburg, Albrechtsburg, Augustusburg and Grossgrabe Manor. On 24 November, Mutschmann approved the use of these six castles as stores for East Prussian art and Friesen returned to Konigsberg.

On 1 December 1944 Arthur Grafe was advised to expect a second official from East Prussia who would oversee the transfer of treasures from that region. Strauss found a telegram from Konigsberg to Grafe naming him as Dr Alfred Rohde. Strauss's research in Germany dovetailed with the documents found by Brusov in the bonfire set by Rohde in Konigsberg Castle in June 1945: a report of Rohde's trip to Saxony and his travel permits.

However, by the time Rohde arrived in Dresden on 4 December 1944, Sachsenburg Castle, west of Chemnitz, was being used as a test centre for biological weapons. Albrechtsburg, near Meissen, had been filled with the Dresden Gallery collection, including Raphael's Sistine Madonna. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Hitler's shadow, had requisitioned Augustusburg, also near Chemnitz, as a storage facility for the Reich Chancellery and it now contained personal items belonging to Hitler, including portraits of him, several grand pianos and Otto von Bismarck's furniture. Grossgrabe Manor, near Kamenz, was full of museum treasures from Dresden. This left Alfred Rohde with only two choices: the castles of Wechselburg and Kriebstein.

We know from Rohde's report on his Saxony mission, analysed by Kuchumov in 1946, that on 4 December 1944 Rohde and Grafe drove fifty miles west of Dresden into the heart of the Zwickauer Mulde valley. Before the war this sleepy region had been popular with German tourists, who were captivated by its turreted castles and craggy forts. Now it served to remind the Nazi High Command of the indomitable nature of the Allies. Here was Camp Colditz, a maximum-security holding centre for Allied officers, from which 130 POWs had managed to escape to date, scaling the seven-foot-high walls and abseiling down the 250-foot crag.

In a later interview, Grafe recalled that it was snowing when they arrived at Wechselburg, a Baroque castle built next to an 800-year-old basilica, twelve miles south of Colditz.8 Monks were preparing the church for Christmas and Grafe and Rohde were shown around by one of them.

Rohde asked permission to use 'unoccupied rooms in the palace's church and [in the palace itself], the large hall on the first level, as well as about five or six other rooms'. Even though this would displace hundreds of refugee families, Grafe ordered the district capital of Rochlitz to requisition the space 'in favour of the municipal art collections of Konigsberg'. Strauss wrote in his dossier for Paul Wandel that Rohde and Grafe left Wechselburg as dusk fell and travelled to Kriebstein, a Gothic fortress twelve miles to the east. In December 1944 this journey would probably have taken more than an hour. Tensions were high and Rohde and Grafe would have been overtaken by dozens of military convoys heading towards the Eastern front. Small huddles of German soldiers manned checkpoints along the road. One can imagine the scene, their car flagged down in the snow, shivering sentries waiting impatiently at the driver's window to inspect papers by torchlight.

Rohde and Grafe arrived at Kriebstein around 8 p.m. The 600-year-old castle, perched upon an icy spur above the River Zschopau, must have been an impressive sight in the moonlight. From photographs we know that, inside, its dark vaulted corridors were hung with antlers, while long crimson banners bearing swastikas fell from the ceiling of a banqueting hall. Several rooms were already filled with museum exhibits from Dresden. However, space was still available for things of 'irreplaceable value'. In a report submitted by Grafe to his superiors (and found by Strauss), he wrote: 'Four heated rooms in the gatehouse of Kriebstein Castle to be placed at the disposal of the municipal art collections of Konigsberg. In addition Herr Rohde would be very pleased if he could obtain the banqueting hall for the storage of larger-scale goods from the Konigsberg collections.'9 Larger-scale goods could also mean the Amber Room, Strauss advised Paul Wandel, adding that Rohde had chosen the location well. Beside Kriebstein Castle was a small factory that manufactured aeroplane parts. It had its own railway siding connected directly to the Reichsbahn.

Having proved the Nazis' intention to evacuate the Amber Room to one of two castles in Saxony, Strauss now attempted to confirm that the transportation happened. However, he advised Wandel that he could locate in Berlin only one letter concerning either castle. It was from a Reichsbahn official to the manager of Kriebstein Castle and was dated 19 December 194 5. It mentioned that two specially chartered train carriages were on their way from the East Prussian capital. Here Strauss stumbled. The carriages could not have contained the Amber Room since the date and location contained in the Reichsbahn letter conflicted with one written by Alfred Rohde on 12 January 1945. Three weeks after the two specially chartered train carriages had left for Kriebstein, Rohde advised his superiors that the Amber Room was still being packed in Konigsberg in preparation for its evacuation to Wechselburg Castle.

Strauss's research was interrupted by his journey to Kaliningrad where he seems to have withheld almost everything he had gleaned from the Soviet files from curator Kuchumov. As an East Prussian who had been based in Konigsberg, maybe Strauss felt possessive, that this mystery was his to solve, and he alone hoped to win the glory and rewards. Or maybe Kuchumov's files have been cleansed.

What we do know from the Ministry of Truth files before us is that when Strauss returned from the failed Kaliningrad mission he was rewarded by his own government. A letter signed by Wandel, dated June E950, praised Strauss for having 'on his own initiative' diligently searched the Soviet zone for missing art treasures, including the Amber Room. Strauss now received an official commission from the GDR government to head a new investigation into the fate of the Amber Room.10 A race was on, two parallel inquiries were under way. One was headed by a senior palace curator from Leningrad and the other by a senior cultural bureaucrat from the GDR.

According to this file in the Ministry of Truth, Strauss began his new investigation by writing to every jeweller in the GDR, asking them to report any noticeable increase in the number of carved amber pieces coming on to the market since 1945. He was looking for evidence that the Amber Room had been brought to Germany and broken down.

Strauss also ordered that every one of the new republic's 921 castles be searched and that all resettlers living in them be interrogated.

Strauss received permission to personally head investigations in Saxony, a place Kuchumov had been unable to visit in 1947 as his time in Germany had been monopolized by cataloguing Soviet art works in the Derutra warehouse in Berlin.

A report written by Strauss for Wandel in June 1950 confirmed that his first stop was Kriebstein Castle, one of the two castles that Rohde had selected in December 1944. Strauss did what Kuchumov could have only dreamed of - he located an eyewitness. He found museum curator Walfried Kunz, who described how, in April 1945, Kriebstein Castle, packed with art from all over the Reich (including Konigsberg), had been stormed by the Red Army. Kunz told Strauss that the Soviet commander, based at the nearest town of Waldheim, immediately commandeered the art crammed into the banqueting hall, gatehouse and other rooms. Kunz had been ordered to help open and sort through the crates. But the Amber Room was not among this haul.

That was not all. Kunz informed Strauss that a special Red Army brigade arrived at Kriebstein in July 1945 had carried out another search. They seemed to know about art and, Kunz claimed, he overheard them talking about Konigsberg and missing treasures from there. But, as far as Kunz knewr, the Soviets found no more. Strauss turned his attentions to Wechselburg Castle, dismissing Kriebstein as a possible location for the Amber Room.

At Wechselburg, he found an old Catholic father, Gottfried Fussy, who had been caretaker of the basilica for more than thirty years. Fussy confirmed to him that in December 1944 he had shown Dr Alfred Rohde and a museum administrator from Dresden (Arthur Grafe) around but had heard nothing more until Grafe returned shortly before Germany's surrender. Strauss wrote: '[Fussy] was then told [by Grafe] that the transports from Konigsberg had not got through. The railway lines were cut by the Soviet army near Elbing.' According to Father Fussy, the next visitors to Wechselburg were American soldiers in mid-April. Strauss reported to Wandel: 'They found a few crates which they took away.'

There was only one conclusion that Strauss felt able to convey to his superiors. High-level plans had been made for the evacuation of the Amber Room to Saxony that were thwarted by Allied troop movements and the interruption of transportation routes out of East Prussia. However, given the status of these plans, the high-ranking Nazi officials involved in them and the cachet attached to the Amber Room as an 'irreplaceable treasure', Strauss wrote that it was 'inconceivable' that the Amber Room would have been abandoned in the unsecured Knights' Hall, in a wrecked castle at the epicentre of a besieged city whose future was getting bleaker by the hour. It had survived the war, concealed somewhere in Konigsberg.

There is only one more document in this Ministry of Truth binder, a June 1959 edition of Freie Welt, an illustrated magazine published by the German-Soviet Friendship Society that contains an 'exclusive' two-part series entitled 'Where is the Famous Amber Room?'

The article began: 'For the first time all citizens of the GDR will learn the true and fascinating story of the Amber Room, thanks to the generosity of our guest editor, Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss, director of the Faculty of Art History, Humboldt University, Berlin.'

We are surprised to see Strauss revealing to his fellow citizens something that had up until then been a state secret: 'a covert investigation conducted into the fate of the Soviet Union's greatest treasure'. Strauss informed readers that contrary to the earlier conclusions reached by Professor Alexander Brusov of the State Historical Museum, Moscow, the Amber Room was not destroyed in the defeat of Konigsberg. It was still missing and readers were encouraged to write in to Freie Welt with any information that might help their Soviet comrades find this national treasure.

It is unthinkable that such a revelation would have appeared without the blessing of the Stasi and the KGB. And that raises the possibility that the recently promoted Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss was a Soviet agent of influence or a Stasi informer. The strands of Cold War intrigue are becoming increasingly difficult to disentangle.

We revert to the Russian files. In an attempt to understand the precise nature of the relationship between Anatoly Kuchumov and Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss, we have requested all material from the Leningrad curator's papers relating to the 1950S. A slim package has arrived from St Petersburg. Our Friend the Professor says she is busy and has not been able to visit the archive as frequently as she had hoped. Also, she tells us that the archive director intends to limit our research - we can only have six further days. We cannot return to Russia just yet so will have to rely on the professor.

What we have been sent is a photocopied scrapbook on which is written in large unsteady letters the words YANTARNY KOMNATA, the Amber Room.11

It contains pages of newspaper articles, and must have been one of those volumes seen by Vladimir Telemakov when the journalist for the car workers' daily visited Kuchumov at his Pavlovsk apartment.

We flick through wartime reports until we reach three long cuttings from Kaliningradskaya Pravda, a densely written Soviet broadsheet. The use of pictures is spartan as nothing must be allowed to interrupt the columns of minuscule dogma that run page after page like machine code. However, when we notice halfway through the first piece a smudged shot of war-torn Konigsberg and the words 'Yantarny Komnata" we decide to translate them.

Written by Vladimir Dmetriev, the first article, dated 6 July 1958, was headlined: 'The Search Continues for the Missing Amber Room'.12 Dmetriev revealed to his readers that this was the start of an exclusive three-part series in which 'for the first time all citizens of the USSR will learn the true and fascinating story of the Amber Room'. We have just read a similar phrase - in German.

Surrender of Konigsberg, April 1945

Dmetriev wrote of what had, up until then, been a state secret: the covert investigation into the fate of the Soviet Union's greatest treasure, the Amber Room of the Catherine Palace. He informed his readers that contrary to the earlier conclusions of Professor Alexander Brusov of the State Historical Museum in Moscow, the Amber Room had not been destroyed in the fall of Konigsberg and was still missing. Strauss would make exactly the same claims a year later in Freie Welt.

Reporter Dmetriev claimed that, in December 1949, he was a member of the 'top-secret mission to search for the Amber Room in Kaliningrad', an investigation ordered by ObKom (the oblast or provincial committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union) and authorized by SovNarKom in Moscow. I was really involved and excited. I had never done anything so interesting before. We reported every day to ObKom our measurements of the castle and during the evening analysed results, as if it was a difficult crossword.' We are certain that Dmetriev was referring to the same expedition as the one led by Kuchumov, to which Gerhard Strauss was called. It was supposed to be covert.

However, Dmetriev continued: 'This was vital work. Soldiers were assigned, sappers, engineers, officers, drainage experts with water pumps, generators to light up the rubble, tunnels and bunkers. I looked through fortresses and estates, wondering where the Amber Room could be hidden.' We are puzzled that Kuchumov made no mention of a valued team member called Vladimir Dmetriev and realize that our view of the 1949 mission has until now been restricted to the interrogation room in the Hotel Moscow, where Kuchumov faced down Gerhard Strauss.

The Kaliningradskaya Pravda report revealed that a crack team of specialists and Communist Party cadre were on the trail of those surviving Nazis who knew the coordinates of the Amber Room's secret location. 'Write in,' Dmetriev urged his readers. 'Write to us with all your information.' Dmetriev was particularly keen to have help in finding Helmut Will, Helmut Friesen, Gerhard Zimmerman, Ernst Gall and Friedrich Henkensiefken. Surely it was not a coincidence that these names were also on Kuchumov's list of missing Germans and that one of them, Friedrich Henkensiefken, was the Schlossoberinspektor of Konigsberg Castle referred to on the cryptic doodle sent to the great curator from Berlin.

The second article from Kaliningradskaya Pravda was published three days later, on 9 July E958. In this piece, Dmetriev revealed that the first Soviet investigation into the fate of the Amber Room, in May 1945, mounted by Professor Alexander Brusov, was a debacle. Using a series of transparent pseudonyms, Dmetriev launched a stinging attack on 'Viktor Barsov' (Alexander Brusov) and team member 'Comrade Beliaev' (Tatyana Beliaeva), accusing them of being slipshod and failing to follow even the most obvious clues. 'Barsov' was 'muddle-headed' and omitted to question the key witness in the inquiry, Dr Alfred Rohde, director of the Konigsberg Castle Museum, about the Amber Room, partly because 'Barsov did not know that [the Amber Room] was taken from the Catherine Palace'.

These claims wildly conflict with Professor Brusov's own diary in which we read that his primary objective was to travel to Konigsberg to bring home the Amber Room and that Rohde was his key source. Dmetriev was lying.

He then claimed that 'Barsov' came into contact with Rohde and his wife only by chance, when he hired them to help search the castle for other missing treasures, giving them the same pay and food rations as those received by Soviet helpers. 'Rohde and his wife had a wonderful, comfortable life and work,' Dmetriev wrote, 'until they disappeared.'

From 'a high-level military source' Dmetriev learned the true fate of Rohde and his wife, who did not die of sickness, malnutrition or suicide. 'Both had been poisoned,' Dmetriev revealed, 'murdered to stop them giving away the secret location of the Amber Room.' Dmetriev wrote that two death certificates found by 'Barsov', stating that Rohde and his wife had contracted dysentery, were fakes and that the doctor who allegedly signed them after carrying out post-mortems had vanished. When the Soviet authorities opened the graves to re-examine the bodies, there was nothing inside them. 'Even today, we have not found [Rohde's] real tomb,' wrote Dmetriev. Yet Brusov had written in his diary that Rohde was still alive when he left the city in July 1945.

The second Dmetriev article concluded with a confession from 'Barsov' that we read in astonishment. I am a historian,' he told the newspaper. I am naive about the character of people. I am not able to see their mood. I cannot understand if a person is joyful or sad. This became a problem after I got orders to search for treasures with the Soviet Army.'

It is hard to reconcile this voice with the one in the diary we have read. Either 'Barsov'/Brusov must have been compelled to make this humiliating public statement for reasons that we do not yet understand or the entire article was a fabrication.

The third and final piece for Kaliningradskaya Pravda, published on 12 July 1958, was far shorter but equally explosive, as it touched on the issue of treason. Reporter Dmetriev wrote that military sources had revealed to him that a number of Soviet museum curators were traitors who collaborated with the Nazis: 'Our German friends and their little Soviet helpers know the secret of the Amber Room. It did not burn. It is still not found. The search continues. Dear comrades, send your notes and proposals to Kaliningradskaya Pravda. '

The Freie Welt and Kaliningradskaya Pravda articles contained identical idiosyncrasies and errors. They both called Rohde's daughter Use, claiming she left Konigsberg in 1944, when her name was Lotti and she had stayed in the city until 1945. They both used the same awkwardly worded retraction made by muddle-headed 'Barsov'. Both contained the identical revelations that Alfred Rohde had been murdered and the Amber Room had survived the fall of Konigsberg. It would be easy to dismiss these articles as spurious if we had not then discovered that the same story was also carried by Soviet Russia on 21 June 1959 and by the Soviet newspaper Front six days later, as well as by all the regional editions of Pravda.

After all the years of silence following Professor Brusov's interview with TASS on 13 July 1945, with not so much as a word said about the fate of the Amber Room, an entirely new story had tumbled out. And when all the versions of it, published in the Soviet Union and the GDR, are placed side by side, it strikes us that what we have before us is a deliberate campaign to end any lingering speculation that the Amber Room was destroyed in the Knights' Hall of Konigsberg Castle in April 1945. The public focus was being drawn away from loss and towards the Nazis accused of evacuating the Amber Room from Konigsberg Castle to no one knew where. With the spectre of traitors in their midst, all good comrades would have to rally together and help track down these Nazis, so that the Amber Room could be restored to the Soviet Union. There had to be a purpose behind such a campaign.

We need help, ideally from one of those responsible for the story. It first broke in Kaliningradskaya Pravda, but when we call no one there has heard of Vladimir Dmetriev. A contact in Moscow, who has assembled a database of journalists, says that no one by the name of Vladimir Dmetriev has ever been registered. That makes Vladimir Dmetriev more than likely a pseudonym and the thought suddenly occurs to us that Dmetriev might be Anatoly Kuchumov, the man sent to reopen the Amber Room search, a key opponent of Professor Brusov. It would have been in Kuchumov's interests to discredit his predecessor's findings. For the first time we notice that Kuchumov's name was absent from all of these articles about his 1949 Kaliningrad mission (articles that are pasted into his scrapbook).

But Kuchumov is dead. Gerhard Strauss too. Freie Welt closed down in 1991. We are not scheduled to go back to Russia for another ten days. However, since the Stasi controlled all publications in GDR times, we contact an information trader from former East Berlin who, we have been told, sells contacts with old apparatchiks.

Could he broker a meeting with a former editor of Freie Welt, we ask? 'No,' the information trader says, 'but there's someone else who might be able to help.. I do have contact with a former Stasi lieutenant-colonel who worked in propaganda. Pay up and I'll get you an introduction. Maybe he knows something about it.' The information trader hangs up.

It is said that if you put the right number of coins in the box these days in Germany, former Stasi officers pop up. And yet when the Stasi lieutenant-colonel calls us, we are still surprised to be talking to him. It is a brief conversation, devoid of any niceties. The man demands a pseudonym. We settle on Herr 'Stolz'. He asks the topic of discussion. We keep it tight. We say we want to talk about his specialism - state propaganda. He asks for our address. We give him the room number at the Berlin Swissotel. Overlooking the Swissotel's glass atrium from the eighth floor, we watch a middle-aged man in a black felt beret pacing the lobby in black zip-up boots. He observes the minimalist scene with its stained pine, marble and chrome, stopping to press the plush cream furnishings and stooping to sniff the pink lilies, all the time keeping an eye on everyone who emerges from the lifts.

Once in a while he sits down on the sofa beside the lobby bar, his black boots easing themselves into the luxurious pile, his suede gloves sliding over the smooth leather seat covers. And then off he goes again. The flowers. Rising and sitting. Stooping and sniffing. This must be 'Stolz'.

We ring down to reception and a few minutes later he is at our door, his milky blue eyes studying our faces, while a gloved hand strokes an immaculate Walter Ulbricht beard.

Only when our room door is locked does he signal that he is ready to talk. Can 'Stolz' tell us anything about Gerhard Strauss's articles in Freie Welt} Hunched on the bed facing the window, his back to us, 'Stolz' is monitoring the shoppers milling along Kurfurstendamm. Suddenly he looks over his shoulder. 'Freie Welt was a textbook case,' he says. What does 'Stolz' mean by a 'textbook case'? He ignores our question but takes off his gloves and his black felt beret. We notice that his rosy cheeks and thin pink fingers have an expensive spa sheen as he launches into a lecture about the art of propaganda and disinformation.

We interrupt. Can he be more specific? Can 'Stolz' tell us about Freie Welt} The Amber Room?

He picks up his beret and starts to pull on his gloves. I don't know anything about the Amber Room. Have you brought me here under false pretences?' he snaps. I thought I had come here to talk about me. My expertise. My career in the disinformation unit at the Stasi's foreign affairs directorate.'

We try to calm things down. Talk him back. He is almost at the door. We do need your expertise, we say. We are interested in your career. But we also need to understand the Freie Welt articles, what they really meant. Would he like a coffee? 'Stolz' goes quiet. We point to the room's personal chrome Gaggia machine and push a small black button marked ESPRESSO. A lush coffee oozes out. 'OK,' says 'Stolz'. The former Stasi officer is hypnotized by such sophistication and he sits back down at his perch by the window.

'You're never going to understand Freie Welt until you understand the nature of disinformation,' he says, savouring the espresso shot.

'Our textbooks were Lenin. Of course.'

We nod.

'And Sefton Delmar.'

Who was Sefton Delmar, we ask?

He tut-tuts. 'Sefton Delmar was the genius behind the science of disinformation. I am surprised you have never heard of him, as he was a famous journalist with your Daily Express.' He's deviating again, but we do not interrupt this time.

'Stolz' explains how all Stasi operatives in his directorate were ordered to study Delmar's two-volume autobiography, Trial Sinister and Black Boomerang, in which the former Daily Express Berlin bureau chief revealed his double life.13 In 1940 Britain's Special Operations Executive (SOE) had employed Sefton Delmar, a fluent German speaker, to devise methods of weakening the morale of the Wehrmacht. Delmar set up a phoney German radio station, Soldatensender Calais, perfect in every way apart from the fact that it broadcast from Ashdown Forest in Sussex and its presenters were British intelligence officers.

Delmar's radio persona was a belligerent Prussian diehard, an army officer known to German listeners as Der Chef, who was deeply loyal to the Fatherland but outspoken on certain policies. 'Stolz' recounts how in one of the first broadcasts, Der Chef bitterly attacked Hitler's deputy Rudolf Hess, who, a few days previously, had made his flight to Scotland. Stolz becomes animated: I have studied the transcripts. Delmar was a subtle master. Der Chef stormed, "As soon as there is a crisis, Hess packs himself a white flag and flies off to throw himself and us on the mercy of that flat-footed bastard of a drunken old cigar-smoking Jew, Churchill!" 'Don't you see,' 'Stolz' says, putting down his empty cup. 'The message was plausible. What was false was the source.'

Is 'Stolz' saying that Freie Welt (which we know to be a genuine GDR publication) ran a phoney story about the Amber Room, one that had been generated in the Soviet Union?

'No,' 'Stolz' says. 'It wasn't the story that was false. The story was partially true, although some details may have been exaggerated. It was the source of the information that had been disguised. New evidence had been unearthed that confirmed that the Amber Room had been evacuated from Konigsberg to a secret location, but there were conflicting stories about its precise location.

'A major investigation was being planned. But to be certain, the authorities needed to identify anyone out there who knew about the Amber Room, who was connected with it, and who had gone to ground after the war. They needed assistance in testing and honing their hypothesis. Thousands of GDR citizens had been convicted of being Nazi collaborators, of looting, of war crimes, and the Stasi was still hunting down people. No one would come forward voluntarily if the request was made by the state, but a respected East German academic like Strauss, a former citizen of East Prussia, a man already connected with the Amber Room story who was not afraid to say so in public, gave people the confidence to write in. And thousands of letters arrived in response to the Freie Welt articles.'

What did the letter-writers reveal?

'It was not my responsibility. All I know is that Freie Welt was dealt with at the very top, by the Committee of the Minister for State Security, Comrade General Erich Mielke, and that soon after the Stasi formed a highly secret study group to find the Amber Room. I know this because I used to be in contact with its chief, Oberst [Colonel] Seufert.'

Did Oberst Seufert ever hint at what new evidence the Stasi was working on, we ask?

'No. I told you I was not involved. I worked for a different directorate. But I do recall strict instructions about informants who came in with leads about art thefts. We were to pass them immediately to the office of Generaloberst Bruno Beater, Mielke's deputy during the 1970s. Particularly if they concerned the Amber Room. Generaloberst Beater apparently took the issue of the missing Amber Room very seriously. Sometimes we would get questions back from Beater's office. But I did not deviate from my orders. I only asked the questions I was ordered to.'

Was Strauss then working for the Stasi, we ask, or perhaps a Soviet security agency? The story he wrote had originated in the USSR after all.

I couldn't possibly say,' says 'Stolz'. I never met Strauss but I knew him by reputation. The Herr Professor Doctor was well respected among the upper echelons of the SED Politburo.'

Can 'Stolz' put us in touch with Oberst Seufert, General Beater or anyone else connected with the Stasi's Amber Room study group?

No response. From a leather folder 'Stolz' produces a slim volume with a cheap cellophane cover decorated with a drawing of the Amber Room, tinted yellow and white: Bernsteinzimmer Report. 'Have you seen this? The author was the GDR's foremost Amber Room expert. Amassed a lot of information.'

Paul Enke's book on the search for the Amber Room, published in 1986

'Stolz' throws the book on to the bed and turns back to look down on Kurfurstendamm. Bernsteinzimmer Report, published in 1986 by a man who might or might not have been a Stasi agent, is the most famous German book about the Amber Room mystery. But it is long out of print and this is the first copy we have actually seen.

Was Paul Enke part of the Stasi study group, we ask? 'Stolz' isn't listening. He's at the mirror, moulding his black felt beret back on his head. We flick through the book to see in the flyleaf a handwritten inscription: 'To my Comrade ['Stolz'], with thanks, Paul Enke.' You know the author, Paul Enke, we say? No response. Can we at least speak to Enke directly?

'Stolz' stifles a little laugh with a gloved hand, brushing the leather against his lips. I don't think so,' he murmurs. 'Enke's dead. Quite unexpected. A relatively young man. We were all very shocked. Bernsteinzimmer Report had only just been published.'

'Stolz' holds out his hand. 'Give. I need it back. Must go. Have to pick up my daughter from the airport.' And with a waft of cheap soap, he is gone although we have held the book just long enough to see the name of its editor, Giinter Wermusch, and the quote that begins Paul Enke's story, something he had taken from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: 'Some of the splendour of the world has melted away through war and time.'

8

We ring round the second-hand bookshops in Berlin that specialize in publications from the former GDR, but none of them has a copy of Paul Enke's Bernsteinzimmer Report. One outlet in Ackerstrasse, in former East Berlin, suggests we contact Enke's editor directly. 'Giinter Wermusch. He is still alive,' he says.

But there are several G. Wermuschs in the phone book. Eventually we connect to this weary voice: 'Wermusch, ja bitte?'

A hacking cough interrupts our prepared speech. The man at the other end sounds consumptive or very old. He drops the receiver. Hack, hack, clunk. We call back again, mention a name and wait for his answer.

'Paul Enke? Scheisse. Nein, nein.' Clunk.

We try again: 'Hello?'

Silence. Then Wermusch manages a few words: 'Sprechen sie Deutsch? I don't speak English. Not since 1992.' Clunk.

One final attempt from us: 'Guten Tag, we have flown from London

Hack, hack. Then Wermusch hoarsely whispers: 'Ach. Nah. What did you say your name? OK. Who told you about me? In three days' time you come. 5 p.m. Nur eine halbe Stunde, ja?' Clunk.

We return to the Ministry of Truth, where we have applied for files on Paul Enke, Oberst Hans Seufert and the Stasi's Amber Room study group. They are not ready. Two days later we are contacted to say that a single personal file has been located. It will take longer to find and release any files from the study group, the Ministry of Truth functionary says, and we will not be allowed to see Seufert's file without his permission. He is still alive.

Paul Enke, KSII404/82, is waiting for us on a white plastic table in a sterile reading room. This personal file on the author of Bernsteinzimmer Report is a brick of paperwork. With Enke dead, Wermusch reluctant and the book out of print, getting hold of it is better news than we could possibly have hoped for and there is plenty to read. Enke's book jacket carried no biography. There was no author photograph. No explanation as to how he had become, as the blurb claimed, ' . . . involved in the inquiries and investigations about the fate of the Amber Room ...' Judging by the length of what we have before us, Enke was obviously significant to the Stasi and we open his file, unsure whether we are about to read of a lowly informer and weekend Amber Room fanatic or discover between the pages a forensic investigator at the heart of a state-sponsored inquiry.

First are pages of photographs. The earliest, a black-and-white shot, is clipped to a 19 50 Volkspolizei service record. Enke was a people's policeman. It shows him as a dashing young recruit, proud of his gilt epaulettes, his collars stitched with the emblem of the force. The next frame portrays Enke, about a decade later, now dressed as a purposeful bureaucrat in a tight black suit, wearing heavy-framed glasses. We wonder if he became a plain-clothes officer. The last pictures are of Enke in his late middle age with receding hair, his face now puggish. He wears a look unique to the GDR, a garish checked sports jacket, a black shirt, a clashing light tie and a distant expression. This strip, probably taken in the early 1970S in a photo booth, recurs throughout the file.

Paul Enke, c.i960

Next is a report by Major Schmalfuss, a Stasi departmental director, who seems to know everything about Paul Enke.1

Born: Magdeburg, 20 January 19 2 5. Social class: worker. 'In his parents' home, Paul Enke received a Protestant education and consequently joined a Christian youth organization in 1931,' Major Schmalfuss wrote.2

Left school at thirteen. Apprenticed as a lathe operator. Early political development: 'Christliche Jugend and Hitler Jugend'. The Stasi had uncovered a serious black mark against Enke that would surely impact on his adult life in the GDR, membership of the Hitler Youth. But Major Schmalfuss was satisfied that the blame lay with Enke's parents: 'Due to the inadequacy of positive political-ideological influences [at home], Comrade Enke became a member of the Hitler Jugend in 1935 and volunteered in 1942.'

Enke was seventeen when he set out to fight for the Fatherland. Schmalfuss wrote: 'Served in fasch. Wehrmacht, FunkmeBer [radar technician] Marinebrigade (1 May 1942 to 8 May 1945), lance-corporal, stationed in Gdingen, Poland; in Kiel, northern Germany; in Courland, on the Baltic coast. He has never been decorated.'

Enke served through the war in and around the Baltic's amber coast, which might provide a tenuous personal connection between him and the Amber Room. We wonder if he heard about the triumphal arrival of the Amber Room in Konigsberg Castle after it was opened to the public in the spring of 1942.

The war ended for Lance-Corporal Enke on 8 May 1945 when he surrendered to the Red Army that marched him and hundreds of thousands of others to prison camp. Major Schmalfuss listed Enke's POW record: 'Soviet Camp 27/2 Moscow (May 1945 to January 1946); Soviet Camp 7711 Leningrad (January 1946 to May 1949); Zentralschule 2041, Kursant (June to December 1949).

Zentralschule 2041. By 1949 Enke must have convinced his Soviet captors that he could be rehabilitated, and while thousands of others languished in camps until 1955, he spent six months on political study leave at the Soviet Central Training School in Kursant. Here, according to Schmalfuss, Enke 'worked as a lathe operator, fitter, blacksmith and bricklayer'. We are becoming a little concerned. The Paul Enke we are reading about was not promising material for a high-velocity secret inquiry in pursuance of the Amber Room Major Schmalfuss did have something positive to say about Enke's days at the Soviet Central Training School, Kursant: 'He had his first contacts with anti-fascists, becoming a member of the Anti-Fascist Committee in Leningrad, and was employed as Brigade and Company Propagandist after short training courses. Comrade Enke's theoretical knowledge of Marxism-Leninism is good.'3

Enke may not have been bright, but he clearly was cunning. He understood that he would have to change to fit in with the new world that had sprung up around him. Major Schmalfuss wrote: 'Comrade Enke arrived at the realization that the ideological view of life that he held hitherto had been incorrect. This realization and the world view he is holding nowadays are separating him from his parental home but Comrade Enke places the political necessities in the foreground.' Enke had returned from the war a different man, willing to denounce his parents - and his religion. 'Against his parents' wishes [Enke] resigned from the Protestant Church,' wrote Major Schmalfuss. His file is beginning to illustrate a man edging towards the state apparatus.

But what would Enke do with the rest of his life? 'Joins GDR Volkspolizei (25 January 1950), Magdeburg.' This must have been when the first photograph of Enke was taken, in his uniform. Oberrat Bahr, the Volkspolizei school director, wrote a glowing report on 23 October 1950: 'Comrade Enke's class-consciousness is well developed. Through his continuous self-studies he will eventually succeed in becoming a good propagandist... Nothing disadvantageous or detrimental is known about his social life.'4 By 1952 Enke had been promoted to the rank of Oberrat (senior councillor) and a superior wrote: 'Enke possesses a healthy ambition and makes efforts to fulfil his tasks, sacrificing his free time... Enke's fighting spirit becomes apparent during discussions about deeper problems.'5 We can almost feel Enke maturing, greedy for success and knowledge.

Five years later, on i April 1957, he was seconded to the Ministry of the Interior at Potsdam, employed to 'deal with the administration of the cadre and teacher seminaries'. He won a law diploma, grade 'Good', from the Walter Ulbricht Training Academy at Potsdam-Babelsberg. Enke's diploma certificate was embossed with the recently adopted Soviet-sponsored emblem for the state, a hammer and a compass ringed by a crescent of rye, symbolizing the GDR's new social divisions: the worker, the intelligentsia and the farmer. He had come a long way since leaving school at thirteen.

A handwritten report appended to the file noted that Enke began to use his position in Potsdam to access the wartime archives, conducting on his weekends 'private research into a hobby'. We feel a charge of excitement as we read that Enke's chosen subject was 'the fascist robbery of the Amber Room'. The note recorded that he had made 'significant finds' and located important new archive documentation.6

The Ministry of Truth's functionary in pearls announces that she has recently come into possession of 12,000 pages of Stasi material relating to the Amber Room. Are we interested? Of course, we say. The files have been missing since 1991 and have never been properly analysed, she tells us. Lost and found? We look incredulous. 'The papers were in the Bundesarchiv facility at Koblenz. They had been sent to the wrong archive after die Wende,' she explains, unflustered. I always thought they had been destroyed. But they were just sitting in the dark somewhere, until I got them back. Archives are very territorial places.' The functionary beams. 'You are very lucky.'

The Stasi files

An assistant comes in and drops a bulging binder on to the white plastic table, just one of thirty volumes. 'Finish this one. Then request another.' She leaves us alone with the paper mountain. We have been warned that there are now only days left before all these files are closed so that they can be recensored under the Kohl judgment. We need to work quickly.

Straight away we find references to Enke's private research in Potsdam. But it is not clear whether he gave his material voluntarily or if the Stasi requisitioned it.

Written in a forward-slanting, purposeful hand is a report by Enke himself. It began in hyperbolic fashion with Enke describing 'the German fascist's robbery of Europe's cultural heritage' as far worse than those carried out by 'the Persians at Babylon, the Romans at Athens or the Crusaders at Constantinople'. The theft of the Amber Room was, according to Enke, 'the most painful loss of all'.7

Enke substantiated his claim. He set out to prove that the pillage of Europe and the theft of the Amber Room were premeditated. The Nazis had been preparing to cherry-pick Eastern Europe as far back as 1933, he reported. They had gathered information about Eastern European museum collections via a cover organization called the German Academic Exchange Service. Free excursions, conferences and training workshops were offered to museum staff from the USSR, while Germans of Baltic origin were dispatched to spy on their collections. Even while Molotov and Ribbentrop were negotiating the non-aggression pact in E939, and Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia were being constituted as Soviet republics, this team of art spies was drawing up lists of collectables for Hitler.8

On 15 November 1940 team leader Dr Nils von Hoist, an Eastern art expert and head of the Berlin State Museums' external affairs department, issued a secret circular to museum directors across the Reich, asking them

Dr von Hoist was still writing up his Soviet findings when Operation Barbarossa was launched on 22 June 1941. Two days later he presented his report on 'the most important collections of cultural possessions in the Baltic countries' to Dr Hans Posse, then director of the Dresden Gallery and, more significantly, a key art adviser to Hitler.9 Enke found a dispatch order dated 8 July 1941 forwarding the list of collectables on to the 18th Army headquarters, from where it was disseminated to the commanders of German units advancing on Leningrad.

On 1 September 1941 Dr von Hoist was sent back to the Soviet Union, initially to Smolensk, recently captured by the Wehrmacht s Army Group Centre, with instructions to help establish the eastern headquarters for Einsatzstab Reichleiter Rosenberg, the art-looting organization headed by Hitler's ideologue Alfred Rosenberg. By 26 September, Dr von Hoist was at the front, camped at the Catherine Palace with Army Group North, charged with safeguarding 'the art treasures of [the tsars' palaces at] Krasnoye Selo, Peterhof and Oranienbaum and later also Petersburg [sic]\ according to a letter from the Fiihrer's aide-de-camp, dated 26 September.10 Although initially sceptical we are now gripped by how closely Enke was able to follow a Nazi art expert all the way into the Catherine Palace.

Next Enke reported that he had found a copy of Dr von Hoist's list, attached to Hitler's order from July 1941, reserving the first pick of art works plundered from the East. But here was a set-back. The Amber Room was not on it.

Enke was undeterred. He dug on until he discovered a second list, compiled for propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels by Otto Kiimmel, the seventy-year-old director of the Berlin State Museums and Dr von Hoist's boss.11 This one consisted of all German art works that had gone abroad since 1500 and were to be repatriated. Prominently placed on it was the Amber Room. If Enke's research was reliable, he had proved that the theft of the Amber Room was premeditated. And whoever had planned its theft would possibly have also worked out how to conceal it in 1945.

Enke wrote that all items on the Kummel list were to be returned to their German towns of origin or set aside for Sonderauftrag Linz (Special Operation Linz), a Fuhrermuseum and Aryan culture park that Albert Speer, Hitler's architect, had been asked to construct on the banks of the Danube, outside Linz, the town where the Fiihrer had spent his childhood.

Enke found a war diary for the 18th Army and in it an entry for 29 September 1941 that, he argued, proved the dismantling of the Amber Room had been overseen by the Nazi High Command: '16.oohrs: Cavalry Captain Count Solms, from the Supreme Army Command, who has been commissioned to record the works of art in the tsarist palaces, asks for protection for the tsarist palace in Pushkin... It is now in the immediate vicinity of the front line and is endangered by the thoughtless behaviour of our troops.'12

Dr Ernst-Otto Count zu Solms Laubach

Enke tracked down Captain Solms's unit, the 50th Corps, and in its journal he found this entry: '14 October 1941. Krasnogwardeisk. Removal of the works of art salvaged by Cavalry Captain Dr Count Solms and Captain Dr Ponsgen in Gatchina and Pushkin, including the wall panels of the amber hall from the Pushkin Palace to Konigsberg.'

From military archives held in the GDR, Enke learned that the cavalry captain's full name was Dr Ernst-Otto Count zu Solms Laubach and that he was an aristocrat from Frankfurt-am-Main and a museum curator in civilian life. One week before the Count had arrived in Pushkin, he had been in the Leningrad palace of Peterhof, supervising the looting of the Neptune Fountain, an art work that was also on the list prepared by Otto Kiimmel for Goebbels. Hitler had personally requested that the Neptune Fountain be returned to Nuremberg, where it had been cast in the mid-seventeenth century.13 If the Count had been acting in Peterhof for Hitler, then it was, Enke argued, likely that he was acting for Hitler in the Catherine Palace too.

But having established that the Nazi High Command had ordered the Amber Room theft, who had taken specific responsibility for it in Konigsberg and after? Enke reported that 'General [sic] Marshal Goering, Reichsfiihrer SS Himmler, Reichsleiters Lammers and Bormann, Rosenberg and foreign minister Ribbentrop' had all used their positions to amass large art collections and were possible contenders.14

However, it was Alfred Rosenberg that Enke focused on and he discovered some interesting connections.15 Although Rosenberg was of German descent, he had been born in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, on the Baltic coast. The son of a cobbler, he had been sent to college in Petrograd (Leningrad), where, Enke reasoned, it was likely that he would have learned of the legendary Amber Room. When Rosenberg fled Petrograd in 1917, finding common cause with 600,000 White Russian refugees who converged on Germany, he joined the Freikorps, roving counter-revolutionary units that held back the Bolshevik advance. When disbanded, these Freikorps veterans remained closely linked through the Baltic Brotherhood, an organization for ex-servicemen whose ceremonies were steeped in Norse and Teutonic myths of heroism and self-sacrifice. Many, including Rosenberg, converged on Munich, forming a pseudo-intellectual circle around Hitler and joining the secretive Thule Society, which conjured the existence of a mythical island, the source of amber, a land locked into the ice flows of the far north whose pagan inhabitants adopted a creed of strength and loyalty.

Through his tenacity and hard work, the weekends spent researching in Potsdam, Enke had identified a senior member of the Nazi High Command who not only was responsible for looting art but also had clear links with the Baltic culture surrounding the Amber Room and the coast from where it originated.

On 18 November 1941 Alfred Rosenberg won another portfolio as head of Hitler's Reichsministerium fiir die besetzen Ostgebiete, the Ministry for the Occupied Eastern Territories, The Times of London commenting: 'Rosenberg is Hitler's Eastern expert... Rosenberg, who hates everything Russian, will certainly conduct his office with ruthless brutality.' The only part of the USSR that was to be maintained intact was the Baltic states, Rosenberg promised, a region that he described as having been captured '700 years ago by German knights'.16

Enke traced the growth of ERR-Ost, Rosenberg's Eastern art-looting organization, as it spread its tentacles into every city and town. In Lithuania, ERR-Ost was operating out of the capital, Kaunus. In Latvia it was based in Riga. In Estonia it had offices at Tallinn and Tartu. It was based in the Belarus capital at Minsk and in the Ukraine, where the wealthy republic kept busy four offices at Chernihiv, Dnipropetrovsk, Kharkiv and Kherson. There were ERR-Ost operations in the Caucasus, the Crimea and in Russia proper, where units fanned out in an arc west of Moscow, 'at Pskov, Smolensk, Voroschilovgrad [sic] and Voronezh'. Rosenberg's staff were everywhere.

But it was all of academic interest until Enke found an ERR-Ost report about the Amber Room itself. On 28 April 1944 Dr Nerling at the ERR-Ost depot in Riga advised Rosenberg's ministry in Berlin about 'the works of art salvaged from the operational area Army Group North [in October 1941]'.17

Dr Nerling wrote: '[Captain Solms] sent five coaches with art treasures to Konigsberg... via stations Siverskaya, Luga, Pskov and Riga... Among the treasures sent were the Amber Room and various precious paintings and furniture...'18 If Alfred Rosenberg's ERR-Ost had supervised the removal of the Amber Room to Konigsberg in 194E, had it retained responsibility for transporting it again in 1945, as Konigsberg fell, Enke asked?

But our file is finished.

We return to Enke's personal papers. Judging by what we have just read, Enke clearly devoted all of his energies to his research, so it is surprising to read that he found time to marry (Gerda, 1950) and to have a daughter (Sonia, 1952). It is not known if he mourned the deaths of his estranged parents (Klara, 1958, and Paul, 1959).

In 1962, one year after the Berlin Wall was erected, at a time when a second reinforcing wall was being raised parallel to it, Enke faced a serious set-back that threatened to terminate his Amber Room hobby and his career. A reorganization within the Ministry of the Interior left him out of favour and his post as the deputy director of Department Administration Training was axed. On 17 September 1962, one month after GDR teenager Peter Fechter was shot, falling into the death-strip between the Berlin walls, where he was photographed bleeding to death in full view of the GDR border guard, Enke came up with a survival plan.

The next document reveals that he was spying on his colleagues and students at the Ministry of the Interior. Stasi Oberstleutnant Hut wrote that Enke informed on his co-workers 'without hesitation' and appeared to be objective. 'In this context, it should be mentioned that good contacts had always existed between Comrade Enke and the [Ministry for State Security]...'19 We had wondered how a lowly bureaucrat in the Ministry of the Interior was allowed unfettered access to what were obviously sensitive wartime documents. Now it is clear that he had done so by forging a relationship with the Stasi.

Oberstleutnant Hut continued: 'Towards the conclusion of [our discussions] Comrade Enke was asked whether he was prepared to cooperate with the Ministerium fiir Staatssicherheit [MfS] even more closely than before. He declared his agreement.' Enke was asked to submit a list of relatives who were to be investigated before he could be put on the Stasi pay roll. He signed a pledge not to reveal anything that had been discussed at the meeting. A pattern of behaviour was emerging, a man willing to sacrifice friends and family to ensure his betterment.

As security around the Berlin Wall was bolstered with minefields and trip-wires, Enke ascended through the ranks of betrayal, from casual work-a-day sneak to a dedicated informer. He was attached to Directorate XX, the Stasi department responsible for recruiting and maintaining informants: cameras mounted in tree trunks, concealed in traffic lights and car doors, microphones in matchboxes left on a bedside table. Most informers were coerced into working for the Stasi, but at a time when East German salaries were paltry, the lure of cash payment was enough to persuade some, like Paul Enke, to volunteer.

All informers were marshalled into ranks: the Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter (IM), the lowly tell-tales who lived next door; the high-ranking Hauptamtlicher Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter (HIM), senior snitches who had direct contact with the person under surveillance - your best friend or your wife; the Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter zur politisch-operativen Durchdringung und Sicherung des Verantwortungsbereich (IMS), the verbose rank of boss or a secretary responsible for reviewing the political pedigree of his coworkers. But despite all of this stratification, the Stasi handlers referred to their charges by the derogatory term spitzel, which translates roughly as 'nark'.

By December 1962 Enke's remaining family members had been security-cleared and Hauptmann Schliep, an officer attached to the Stasi's Department of Agitation visited him at home.20 Schliep wrote: 'Enke placed the question on the table, what sort of income he expected to realize... He declared that he could not hope to equal his current income of L,8OO Ostmarks net. The undersigned [Hauptmann Schliep] pointed out that Comrade Enke could count on a net income of approximately L,2OO Ostmarks if he was employed by us.' Paul Enke became a Stasi IM on New Year's Day 1963.21

In the next document we read that on 5 October 1964 Enke joined the Stasi itself as a full-time operative, with the duty grade Oberstleutnant and the duty rank of Referatsleiter (departmental manager) in the Observation and Investigation Directorate (HA VIII, Section 8). So here was proof that several years after beginning his private research, the author of Bernsteinzimer Report had become a Stasi agent.

'Worker OLL-747 Enke' recited the Minister for State Security's personal oath to 'protect our workers and farmers', promising 'eternal loyalty to our fatherland, the GDR', to give his life 'in defence of every enemy' and be forever 'unquestioningly obedient to the military authorities'. He pledged to protect the republic and its Ministry for State Security

'for ever and everywhere in the world'.22 We flick back to the photograph of the purposeful bureaucrat in a tight black suit, wearing heavy-framed glasses. This was the authorized image of a man who would later become faceless.

In 1968, Enke completed his Stasi training and his Service Qualification read: 'Dr Paul Enke, Historian.' In 1970, he became an Offizier im besonderen Einsatz, a Stasi special operations officer.23 He was given a new cover, assuming the name Dr P. Kohler, a senior researcher at the Documentation Centre for the State Archives Administration of the Ministry of the Interior, Potsdam. 'At the same time he continues his usual social activities (participation at all party and other important events connected with his service).' Enke was back in the archives in a much more senior position than before.24

His arc was complete: lathe worker, radar operator, informant, historian, spy. Enke's only concern now was how to make an impression in an organization so vast.

Another binder from the Amber Room study group lands on the white plastic table. It begins with a selection of wartime newspaper cuttings collated by Stasi Oberstleutnant Paul Enke a.k.a. Dr P. Kohler of the Documentation Centre for the State Archives Administration of the Ministry of the Interior, Potsdam.

On 12 April 1942 the chief editor of the Berlin Lokal-Anzeiger reported on the Amber Room's unveiling ceremony at Konigsberg Castle.

It was presided over by Captain Helmut von Wedelstadt, the deputy Gauleiter of East Prussia. There was no mention in this story of Hitler, the Gauleiter of East Prussia, Erich Koch, or Alfred Rosenberg sending their congratulations.25

Enke found the article in Pantheon magazine, an illustrated German art digest, dated October 1942.26 It was written by Castle Museum director Alfred Rohde, but it provided no clues about who was in overall charge of the Amber Room while it was in Konigsberg. It painted Rohde in a completely different light from that presented by Dr Gerhard Strauss.

Strauss had told Anatoly Kuchumov during their interrogation sessions in December 1949 that Rohde was never a Nazi and that his politics (if he had any) were centre-left. But here in Pantheon Rohde was describing the Amber Room as a 'Prussian cultural monument' that had been 'rescued' from the 'furthest forward fighting' around Leningrad after 'a nearly unimaginable storm of victories' by the German army. (Although, of course, Rohde may have had no choice but to frame history in this patriotic language.)

Dismissing the wreckage and plunder of the Leningrad palaces as 'unavoidable war damage', Rohde revealed that 'Captain Solms Laubach supervised several army authorities, comprising one NCO and six men of a pioneer company, [who] making a supreme effort and through sharing their common interests, succeeded within thirty-six hours in this urgent dismantling job.'

Thirty-six hours. We are shocked to learn that it took the Nazis only a day-and-a-half to unlock the complex amber puzzle that Anatoly Kuchumov had claimed was impossible to dismantle. We recall that Kuchumov had had eight days to pack up the palaces and we wonder how this article would have reflected on him when Moscow read it. Rohde concluded on a rousing note: 'In its deepest meaning of the words, the Frederick I Amber Room had thereby returned to its native land.'

Enke's most interesting cutting was from the Konigsberg Allgemeine Zeitung, which reported how, on 8 July 1944, Bernard Rust, Reich Minister for Science, Education and Public Instruction, visited Konigsberg to preside over the four hundredth anniversary of Albertus-University. During a celebratory dinner thrown at the Blutgericht restaurant (in Konigsberg Castle's old torture chamber), Rust told guests that the time had come to start moving the Third Reich's treasures into the heart of the Fatherland. Enke believed that he had found the origin of the plan to evacuate the Amber Room - and it had been conceived as early as 8 July 1944.

Days later, Amtmann Mertz, one of Rust's officers from Berlin, arrived in Konigsberg with orders for Alfred Rohde. He was to dismantle the Amber Room immediately and send it with other art works to a storage facility at Kassel, the medieval city on the River Fulda where the Brothers Grimm had written their fairy tales. But the Gauleiter of East Prussia intervened. According to Enke, Erich Koch argued that moving the city's treasures and in particular the Amber Room would undermine morale. Mertz returned to Berlin to seek advice.27

By November 1944 Erich Koch had been persuaded to let the evacuations go ahead. Here in the file we see that Enke read Gerhard Strauss's report to his minister, Paul Wandel, written in 1950. And, like Strauss, Enke highlighted the correspondence between Erich Koch and Martin Mutschmann, from November 1944. Like Strauss, Enke stated that both Gauleiters approved a plan to set aside a castle in Saxony for the Amber Room (if it could be transported out of Konigsberg).

Then we reach the critical part of the file. Was Enke able to prove that the Amber Room had been moved out of Konigsberg? With his access to Nazi wartime archives, he was able to reconstruct the last days and months of the battle for East Prussia in much more detail than Anatoly Kuchumov, who had attempted the same exercise in 1946.

Kuchumov had concluded that the last train out of Konigsberg had been on 22 January 1945. However, Enke learned that there were two trains that day: a so-called Special Gauleiter Train, which supposedly took Erich Koch to safety, and also a D-Zug, a civilian express train. This meant there had been a second opportunity to move the Amber Room.

Reviewing orders issued by the Nazi High Command, Enke also found a record of a ship leaving Konigsberg on 22 January 1945. According to an order from Hitler to Admiral Donitz, the German navy's commander-in-chief, the Emden, a small cruiser that had been laid up in the Konigsberg shipyard, set sail on a secret mission. Nazi footage discovered long after Enke conducted his research, shot by Goebbels's cameramen, shows how on the Emden's deck two coffins lay draped with old flags from German regiments that had fought the battle of Tannenberg, east of Konigsberg, where the Russian army had been crushed in one of the most decisive campaigns of August 19E4. Surrounded by an honour guard, the coffins contained the bodies of former Reich President General von Hindenburg and his wife, who had been disinterred from a memorial constructed at Tannenberg. On the Fiihrer's orders, icebreakers towed the Emden to Pillau, where the coffins were transferred to a passenger steamer, Pretoria, that set out for Stettin the same night. If bodies could be moved on 22 January 1945, Enke asked, what else might have been on board?

Pulling together orders, intercepts and old footage, Enke discovered that even after the Red Army had reached Elbing, south-west of Konigsberg, cutting off all direct routes to Germany, it would still have been possible until 31 January 1945 for the Nazis to transport crates and people out of the region by heading north-west up through the Samland Peninsula before boarding a boat at Palmnicken (now Yantarny).

Enke found orders issued by Gauleiter Erich Koch for ammunition to be supplied to Konigsberg using this sea route that showed it must have remained open until March 1945. Enke also deduced that between 19 February and 6 or 7 April 1945, German forces temporarily rallied, reopening roads between Konigsberg and Pillau, leaving the possibility that the Amber Room could have been evacuated right up until two days before the fall of the city.28

Enke concluded: 'I am convinced that the Amber Room and further precious art treasures robbed in the Soviet Union by the fascists were transported to the West. If one were able to search the archives of the Wehrmacht one would find the Amber Room's destination.' There was but one small hitch for Enke, working in the GDR. The main Wehrmacht military archive was at Freiburg im Breisgau, in West Germany.29

'The file please.' An outstretched hand. The working day has ended. Exactly at 4 p.m.

Paul Enke must have been stuck for many months in the air-tight archives, without access to those quickening modern aids of fax and Internet. Even the telephone was a problem. He could not just pick it up and call Moscow or Leningrad when he needed to check a fact. And those responsible for generating most of the material he was reading had been hanged, hounded, jailed or had flitted to the West or South America.

But in this melee Enke fought to prove that the Amber Room had been evacuated to Germany, disproving the conclusions of Anatoly Kuchumov and Gerhard Strauss, who believed that it had survived the war but remained concealed somewhere in Konigsberg.

Enke worked in a blizzard of foreign-sounding names, obscure locations, train timetables and shipping news. Cyrillic text was transliterated into German and back again, details eroding with every version. The Soviet curator began life as 'Kuchumov' before becoming 'Kugumow' and then 'Kutschumow'. A Leningrad suburb was once called Tsarskoye Selo and then Detskoye Selo before becoming Pushkin. An East Prussian village now sat in Poland with a new name and resettled population who knew nothing about the past. And yet Enke stayed the course, although we do not know what he had discovered that made him so certain the Amber Room had reached Germany.

We are relieved to see that the next binder that arrives on the white plastic table is filled with far more contemporary Stasi material on the Amber Room. Most of it dates to the 1970S and we hope that it may at last give us a glimpse of the intelligence that prompted the Minister for State Security to mount a full-blown inquiry into the fate of the missing treasure.

What we notice straight away is how Enke was ordered to deploy the ministry's training manual to interrogate eyewitnesses to the Amber Room story. We flick greedily through pages of surveillance reports of 'operationally interesting persons', written up from notes probably made on the backs of envelopes, scribbled on sheets torn out of school exercise books and on U-bahn or cinema tickets.

This binder bulges with cross-references to Operative Personenkontrolle files (OPK), a dossier opened on any individual selected by the Stasi for further investigation. Each OPK began with a formulaic description: gender, age, height, hair colour, eye colour, distinguishing features. Then came an opening report, followed by a plan of action, requests for clandestine checks, with responses ranging from 'provisional arrest' to 'arrest' and from 'search' to 'interrogation'.

There were school and university records, curriculum vitae and statements taken from neighbours, co-workers, friends and family. There were maps of housing estates and written comments: 'Is it possible to get the keys to his apartment without telling him?' Or: 'Does this "object" have a mistress we could approach?' And: 'We are not aware of the address of Countess Schwerin in the Federal Republic of Germany. The source of the information is one of her relatives and has been passed to us by a reliable and trustworthy informant.'

From this ball of information some individuals became Operativ Vorgangs or OVs, targets for a full-blown investigation. Agents used a range of technological devices that made the task of peeling back the layers of privacy easier. Again more choices: 'A' measures (telephone tapping) or 'B' measures (bugging).30 Odour samples were requested, collected from crotches and armpits of 'hostile-negative elements'. The Stasi transferred the swatches to their 'smell conserve', to be brought out along with packs of hounds called the schnuffeltieren if a surveillance 'object' went AWOL.

There was also the van painted with the cheery slogan 'Fresh Fish from Rostock!' In GDR times everyone knew that inside were men and women stacked like trays of silvery mackerel, up to seven prisoners in one small vehicle that drove repeatedly around the suburban streets so everyone would know. Round up in daylight. Interrogate at night. The proliferating paranoia drove citizens to extraordinary lengths to protect themselves, secreting miniature pencils in body cavities when they feared the agents of the state were approaching, so that later they might have something with which to scribble a plea for help. The Stasi responded to by introducing the 'penis search'.31

Judging from the number of surveillance forms and OV files that are contained in this one binder, Enke was evidently in pursuit of a rich new seam of intelligence about the Amber Room.

Here we at last come across a small reference to the 1959 articles in Freie Welt (written by Gerhard Strauss, identifying for the first time that the Amber Room had survived the war). Enke wrote that much of the intelligence that he was acting upon came from readers of Freie Welt. 'Stolz', the former Stasi agent we had met in the Berlin Swissotel, had been right. By disguising the source of the Freie Welt story (the Stasi and KGB), readers had responded in their hundreds.

However, frustratingly, almost every detail that identified these readers and what they had volunteered, has been blacked out. All our potential leads and therefore any insight into the Stasi's thinking on the Amber Room have been obliterated by the Ministry of Truth's censors.

In some files only the 'Reg-Nr', the case number for a particular 'object', remains and the Ministry of Truth will not give us access to the corresponding name index. What has not been obscured was written deploying the terminology of Erich Mielke's Dictionary of Political-Operative Work, a 500-page lexicon of terms and definitions that was into its third edition when the Berlin Wall fell.32

Take the word 'hate'. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as 'A feeling of intense dislike, anger, hostility, or animosity'. The minister's favourite word, hass, was defined as 'one of the fundamental features of the passionate and irreconcilable struggle against the enemy', an essential attribute for any good Chekist. And although this lexicon would ultimately control the lives of everyone within the GDR, it was one of the many paradoxes of the time that it was never made available to the general public, who were left deliberately confused and at cross-purposes. As are we, reading the files now.

What we are left with in this binder is an intriguing hierarchy of code-names that we cannot decipher without help.

Günter Wermusch, the editor of Paul Enke's Bernsteinzimmer Report, lives in an eastern Berlin suburb where the past has been smothered with a forest of identical towers. As we walk past the sports centre, it echoes to the splash of a lone swimmer.

Before our fingers have left the buzzer a voice urges: 'You must walk up. Elevator is kaput.' We climb eighteen flights. A door is open. In the shadows stands a man who is younger than we had expected, wearing two days' stubble and a synthetic tracksuit. Giinter Wermusch looks like a bedraggled Soviet sports coach, the kind who shouted gruff instructions to shrimpy gymnasts on television in the 1970S. 'Better come in,' he mutters, limping back through the apartment.

We smell mildewed books, boredom and emptiness. In the kitchen a solitary supper is laid out on the grey Formica: a bottle of red wine, a tin of mushrooms, a knife and fork. The hallway is stuffed with old cardboard boxes spilling papers on to the floor, files stacked precariously on top of them beside a battered photocopier. Russian paperbacks prop up homemade shelves. We notice that there are no family photographs on the walls. No finger-paintings on the fridge.

'Zo, you've flown from London, eh? I hope not just to see me. I think

Günter Wermusch

I might disappoint.' Wermusch clears his throat and fills a briar pipe from a pouch of vanilla-scented tobacco. An English dictionary sits on the arm of his chair beside several boxes of pills. 'Who gave you my name? Who have you talked to?'

We do not mention 'Stolz' or the Ministry of Truth files just yet. We stick to the Bernsteinzimmer Report.

'I'm a Lektor,' Wermusch says defensively, rippling through the pages of his dictionary. 'Yes, an editor, not quite the right word but you know what I mean? I am a historian and with Bernsteinzimmer Report I did what my publishing house, Die Wirtschaft, asked of me.' He limps over to the picture window that fills the far wall with a distant view of the giant TV tower on Alexanderplatz.

And Paul Enke, we ask? How did you meet him?

Wermusch has boxed himself into a corner. 'He came to me in 1984,' he says, trapped between the shelves and a chair. I had edited a scientific book on amber. It contained a chapter on the Bernsteinzimmer. Enke rang up. He said he'd been researching the mystery since the 1950S. He had a manuscript he wanted me to look at.' A kiss-curl of smoke floats over Wermusch's head.

What did he tell you about his research, we ask?

'Enke told me he had seen the Amber Room in Konigsberg during the war and later became a research officer of the Volkspolizei. The Amber Room investigation was like his weekend thing. A hobby-Historiker, we call people like him. Why should I be suspicious?' We could think of a number of reasons but say nothing.

'At the time I presumed Enke had got interested the same way we all had. The Freie Welt articles in E959 got everyone very excited. Went and bought metal detectors.' Freie Welt again. Gerhard Strauss's articles obviously succeeded in generating a lasting clamour.

Wermusch ponders a stain on his carpet. 'In 1959 we all thought we would find something that everyone else had overlooked. The Amber Room story did that, ja} So when Enke came to Die Wirtschaft in E984, we thought it seemed like a great idea to publish his manuscript. Get people excited again.' The phone rings in the hall. Wermusch looks relieved. He limps out. 'Wer ist da? Nein. Nein. Nicht. Eine minute.' He drops the receiver and shuffles back into the room, distracted. 'All the time, these people call. I don't know who they are.'

Are they ringing about the Amber Room, we ask? Wermusch does not answer.

'Before die Wende you didn't ask questions,' Wermusch says, forgetting the caller and hanging up. 'We worked on the manuscript at Paul Enke's house in Berlin-Griinau. There was always a third man present, with black hair, but he never talked. Enke once introduced him as "my friend Hans".'

You met this man on dozens of occasions and never knew who he was, we ask?

I only found out after Enke died in December 1987.' Wermusch pauses. He stares at us. Looks at his watch. He fills his pipe and then begins again. 'The funeral. I suppose I was invited because I was Enke's Lektor. We were not great friends or anything. Zo, there were a few people to see him off. But no green policemen. You know, the Volkspolizei. No friends from the force turning up. I thought it was, er, sonderbar.' Wermusch rifles through the dictionary. 'Odd, ja} The only person I recognized was the black-haired silent man from the meetings in Enke's house. I went up to him after the service. He introduced himself as Hans Seufert.'

Seufert. The Stasi Oberst or colonel in charge of the Amber Room study group.

I asked Seufert: "Where are Enke's Volkspolizei colleagues? Seufert laughed at me. "Comrade," he said. "We don't wear uniforms." He was laughing so much he could not get his words out. And I still didn't get it.'

We sit in silence, pondering Wermusch's claim to have worked out Enke's membership of the Stasi only after the funeral.

Can we clear up something else, we ask?

'Anything,' he splutters. 'Whatever you like.'

Were you in the Stasi too, we ask?

Wermusch jumps up, a glimpse of his old agility returning, and rustles furiously through one of his boxes. I was only ever paid by my publishing house,' he shouts over his shoulder. 'Look, look at the proof.' He bounds over to pass us some paperwork mutilated with the familiar stamp of the Ministry of Truth. But he sees that we linger over an abbreviation next to his name: 'Gen.'

'Nein. Nein. Nein.' He pounds the arm of his chair. 'Nicht General but Genosse. We were all comrades. Look here. Look at this word.' He points to Freiwilliger. 'Volunteer, that's what I was. Volunteer, not Stasi, not informer. Take it. I have another copy.'33 We have no idea of what he 'volunteered' for but he has a ready supply of these non-incriminating references from his Stasi file. 'How could I be Stasi after all?' He rings his hands. 'My father was in the SS.' The warped logic of unified Germany is that someone would rather expose their family's Nazi pedigree than be revealed as Stasi. 'Maybe I was singled out to edit the book because I was good at Russian. I don't know. I had worked for Comrade Naumann as translator. I went with him to Moscow several times.' (Konrad Naumann had been the SED's party boss for East Berlin in the early 1980S and held a senior position in the Politburo.)

Wermusch fetches three bottles of soda water and pops the lids. So what had Enke and the Stasi learned that made them certain that the Amber Room had been concealed somewhere in Germany, we ask?

I don't know. I was not involved in the Stasi investigation,' Wermusch snaps. He stands and hobbles into the hall, reaching up to a shelf almost at ceiling height, where dozens of binders and files are stacked, their spines annotated with dates, all of them drafts of Bernsteinzimmer Report. 'Enke exercised total control over his material. All I have is what he showed me. There are many official papers about the search for the Amber Room and they must be in the Stasi files.' Yes, we know. That's the main reason we are here. His face takes on a sweaty sheen. 'Are you taping me?' No, we say. We need your help. To decode Enke's Stasi files. Wermusch giggles. 'You don't need me. You need someone who was on the inside.'

We read out some of the names we jotted down in the Ministry of Truth. Generaloberst Beater? 'He's dead. 1982.' Generalleutnant Neiber? 'You'll never get him to talk, not since he was sued by someone he imprisoned.' Markus Wolf, the Stasi's foreign espionage chief? 'You can't afford him. Doesn't open his front door unless the cash is on the table.' What about Oberst Hans Seufert, is he still in touch with him? 'You're a bit late. He died two days ago. His wife called me.' Our timing could not be worse.

We run through a list of codenames for Stasi informers and sources who worked on the Amber Room. 'Dead. Dead. Dead. Missing,' Wermusch recites. He is enjoying himself. 'Wait.' He stops at HIM 'Bernd' (a Hauptamtlicher Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter or senior paid Stasi informer). I know that one. It's the codename for a mole in the 'Kripo' [the criminal police], an Oberstleutnant. He did the strong-arm stuff for Enke. He's around. Anyhow, he appears to be your only choice.'

Will he help us, we ask?

'Depends on whether he thinks you're worth it. He told the German government where to go when they came sniffing around for information about the Amber Room after reunification.'

Is 'Bernd' reliable?

'He did time in Bautzen prison - it was said that he tried to play both sides, got caught cheating on the Stasi, allegedly selling secrets, and then found out from prison that his boss was messing around with his wife.'

So, the reason why he went to prison is unclear. We can't call him 'Bernd', we say. The Cold War is over. 'His real name is Uwe Geissler.'

Wermusch shuffles into the hall. 'I'll call him tonight. Oh,' he says, poking his head around the door, 'you might like this.' He tosses us a copy of Bernsteinzimmer Report.

We open it and read a few words from the introduction. 'The German fascists' robbery of Europe's cultural heritage was far worse than those carried out by the Persians at Babylon, the Romans at Athens or the Crusaders at Constantinople,' Enke wrote. And the Amber Room was 'the most painful loss of all'. We have read this passage before, in one of Enke's early reports to his Stasi masters. It made the final edit.

9

Two days later we find Giinter Wermusch blinking in the stairwell of his block, dressed for a field trip in a blue bomber jacket and combat trousers. 'How are my new friends?' he asks. His mood has lifted. 'I have some things for you,' he declares, passing us some papers. 'I typed out my theories last night. Just my small hobby. Not so important. Read them later.' He hands them over with an apology. 'Writing is too painful these days. Can't seem to hold a pen.'

No one picked up the phone at Uwe Geissler's apartment near Allee der Kosmonauten in East Berlin. But Wermusch knows the location of Geissler's weekend bungalow, two hours south-east of the city, and he thinks we might find Geissler there. As we drive out, beside the River Spree, Wermusch explains that he got to know Geissler while accompanying him on trips around the GDR after Paul Enke's death, interviewing potential eyewitnesses connected to the Amber Room story. Wermusch is interested to see how Geissler has weathered, he says. We think to ourselves how curious it is that this Lektor accompanied a Stasi informer on official investigations. But we will broach that subject later.

After an hour we arrive at Lake Krossinsee. Nearby is a red-brick village with a stagnant duck pond, a place Wermusch, who is now visibly sweating, says has become a favoured retreat among retired Stasi officers. A side road peters out into a sandy track that feeds a cluster of identical cement chalets running down to the shore. 'Uwe Geissler lives somewhere here,' Wermusch gestures, struggling to disentangle himself from the seat belt. Ahead is a signpost announcing Ziegenhals, 'Goat's Throat Village'.

The chalet peeps over a manicured border of marigolds, tiger lilies and busy lizzies. Frogs burp contentedly beside plastic tulips. The lawn is a deep emerald green and rolled into checks and stripes. A short, pigeon-chested figure in a purple polo shirt and nylon trousers leaps up from his garden chair as we approach and rushes over to the knee-high picket fence. A neighbour has informed us that this is Geissler's spread. 'Scheisse,' he shouts, his forehead creasing as he attempts to recall whether these are faces he would rather forget. 'Mein Gott!' And then, as it dawns on him, he reaches out with a tanned hand. 'Wermusch? Wilkommen. Wilkommen. Und ...?'

Geissler leads Wermusch off, down towards the lake. We can see them gesticulating vigorously, looking back, towards us, before Wermusch places a steadying hand on his acquaintance's forearm and guides him up the path. And as we squeeze around a small plastic table we notice the family of pottery gnomes peeking out of the shrubbery. For a retired collaborator at peace in his garden, Geissler's eyes are remarkably bloodshot. He complains to Wermusch that these days he cannot sleep. He lights a cigarette and dissolves into a whooping cough, while Wermusch stares longingly at the pile of stubs ground into the ashtray.

Geissler sets some rules. Never betrayed anyone, got it? Was never a sneak, right? 'We've all been betrayed by the Ministry of Truth. I never spied. I was just trying to help. It's my natural impulse.' Wermusch stares into space. 'The Soviets were dealt such a terrible blow in the war, losing so much more than anyone else,' Geissler says. 'It was only right that we Germans help find what was stolen from them.'

Geissler's eyes track a delicate woman with prematurely grey hair who emerges from the chalet behind us. 'Liebling, get our guests something to eat,' he barks. Geissler's liebling must be half his age and she silently shakes our hands with the grip of a jailer, before retreating into the chalet.

What was Geissler's role in the Amber Room study group, we ask?

'The "fraternal authorities" [KGB] were trying to locate all the old East Prussian aristocrats, those whom Alfred Rohde had corresponded with in 1944 as he struggled to find a hiding place for the Amber Room: Keyserlingk, Dohna, Schwerin. Also the high-ranking castle and museum officials: Henkensiefken, Will, Friesen, Gall, Zimmerman. Would you like a Danish butter cookie? Pass them around, liebling.' These names are becoming familiar to us. All are on Anatoly Kuchumov's list of missing Germans; in Freie Welt and Kaliningradskaya Pravda. We still do not know what role any of them played in the Amber Room story.

So did you find them, we ask?

Geissler isn't listening. He's talking. For a man who is supposed to have spent a lifetime keeping his mouth shut, he seems incapable of doing so. 'We were remarkably successful.' Wermusch shudders as Geissler wedges a large biscuit in his mouth.

I tell you. The Soviets made a mistake throwing out all the eyewitnesses.' By 1949, the authorities in Kaliningrad had expelled all Germans from East Prussia, filling their homes and farms with Soviet settlers. Did Geissler ever point out the short-sightedness of the policy? 'Well, I could have done,' he splutters, 'but I was too busy. On the road. Rounding them all up again.'

Dark clouds gather overhead and the candy-striped awning above us flaps loudly. We try and steer the conversation to what we have come here to learn. What was the new intelligence about the Amber Room that the security services had obtained? 'Freie Welt. More than 1,OOO eyewitnesses came forward after the articles were published and we went checking them all out. Soldiers who'd been looting in Leningrad. Konigsberg residents who'd seen the Amber Room,' he says, thunder echoing across Lake Krossinsee.

But what was the impetus for publishing the articles in the first place, we ask? Freie Welt was surely the second stage. We recall Herr 'Stolz's' theory but do not mention it. Rain begins to whip the chalet, water pouring down off the awning. 'There are a lot of liars out there,' Geissler shouts above the deluge. 'Sad, deluded people who wanted to be part of the mystery, wanted to be part of something special. Some of them even tried to find the Amber Room themselves. We had to stamp on that right away.' Imagine sending a letter to the editor of The Times, we think, and finding an MI5 agent on the doorstep.

Geissler's eyes flicker skywards. 'Looks like rain,' he says, noticing it for the first time, pushing past us into the cabin where his liebling kneels on the floor, picking crumbs off the carpet. He settles behind a smoked- glass coffee table, beckoning Wermusch and us inside. I was a specialist. Not like some of the creeps they employed. I was a criminal investigator.' He lights another cigarette. 'I'd only move in on an "object" when I was ready. Sometimes it took several attempts to break through their deception to the real story.' A nudge and a wink. 'We had to know more about them than they knew about themselves.' Geissler takes a slug of tea.

'I'd say, "If you have looted stuff, that's acceptable. Everybody nicked stuff in the war. But if you've killed people, well, that is a different matter. Not so easy to forgive."' Geissler grins. 'It was a great trick. Worked every time. So they would all eventually admit to looting, but then we would have them. Stupid pricks didn't realize we were looking for looters all along, particularly anyone connected with the Amber Room.' He bunches his hands into fists and Wermusch slips outside with a cigarette. 'There was this one guy who admitted to having stolen something quite valuable. When he realized that I was going to report him, he pleaded with me. Said he'd never told his wife and now she would find out from the Stasi. I had to call the ambulance.' Geissler is laughing and tears well in his eyes. 'The guy had a fucking heart attack.'

Geissler's liebling grabs her purse and marches out of the chalet, sending a beaded curtain flying. We are beginning to understand why GDR citizens would never have responded to Freie Welt if they even suspected that the Stasi was its source.

Is it true, we ask, that you spent time in Bautzen (a high-security Stasi prison nicknamed 'Yellow Misery' by those cast into its urine-coloured buildings)?1 We have heard enough bravado.

Geissler reaches for a cigarette. 'It was all a misunderstanding. That's what my boss, Oberst Hans Seufert, said when he got me out in 1977. Served three years. All of it in solitary. Listen to my cough. My parents died and they would not even let me out to bury them. They accused me of selling Stasi secrets.' Did you? 'Never. A Stasi officer was giving my wife one. Wanted me out the way. I was framed. Seufert told me, "You've done your time, now shut up. If you argue you'll go back inside." It worked out all right in the end. I found a new wife, a younger one. And I was brought back into the Amber Room team.'

Geissler goes on the offensive, jabbing a finger towards us. I know many important things,' he shouts, motioning to an imaginary store at the back of the cabin. 'Government people came looking for me in 1993, the Ministry of the Interior and the head of the Berlin CDU. They were so impressed by what I knew about the Amber Room that they offered me money to write it all down.' His face reddens. 'Money too for my Stasi documents about the Amber Room investigation. I told them all to piss off.'

What documents, we ask? 'My papers are my pension. Took them in January 1990, when it all went to hell.' Oberst Seufert once told Giinter Wermusch that his Amber Room study group generated 180,000 pages of intelligence and yet we know from the functionary at the Ministry of Truth that the files she has recently acquired run to only E2,ooo.2 Someone is still sitting on the rest.

But what story do these documents tell, we ask? Geissler cannot keep it to himself: 'The Stasi had intelligence that the Gauleiter of East Prussia, Erich Koch, had successfully evacuated the Amber Room from Konigsberg Castle to Germany. When Freie Welt came out, the intelligence was substantiated by one of the letter-writers. A man wrote that his father, an SS Sturmbannfuhrer, had overseen the evacuation of the Amber Room on Koch's orders.'

Could this possibly be true? The existence of a plan to evacuate the Amber Room had been glimpsed by Kuchumov, confirmed by Strauss and plotted by Enke, but this is the first positive confirmation we have had that someone ordered it and that the task was accomplished. We are not yet ready to believe it. Geissler's revelation opens up a staggering range of new possibilities. We begin to wonder if we started our research at the wrong point in the wrong country, chasing the wrong line. We need to pin Geissler down. Can he show us the evidence?

He smiles, sucks in a deep lungful of smoke and then leans forward until his head is barely an inch from ours. We can see every oily pore and his chipped incisors. 'Wouldn't that be interesting? Worth something a little extra.' We have not yet discussed money. Geissler settles back into his chair. 'I'll give you a taster. For free. The letter-writer only found out his dad's secret when he discovered wartime documents hidden in a leather pouch in the family's cellar in 1949, a couple of years after his father died. He had never spoken about these documents until he read the article in Freie Welt.'

What did these documents state, we ask? We must keep Geissler talking.

'There was a receipt confirming the handing over of forty-two crates and packages to the letter-writer's father and an order to take the Amber Room to a secret storage facility codenamed BSCH. Another document was a transcript of a radio message reporting the implementation of that order and it read: "Action Amber Room concluded. Storage in BSCH. Accesses blown up. Casualties through enemy action." There was also a map. But there was confusion over what location these documents identified. And there was a much more serious problem. The letter-writer was just a kid when he found them and he was so frightened by what they said - there were regular round-ups of old Nazis going on 1949 - that he burned them.'

It is a lot to believe. How did you corroborate the letter-writer's story, we ask?

'He was vetted. By the author of the Freie Welt articles, Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss.'

That name again.

'Dr Strauss reported back that he thought the letter-writer was telling the truth. He had little to gain by exposing his father's Nazi past. We agreed to disguise the letter-writer's identity and he became source 'Rudi Ringel'.

Where was BSCH?

Geissler brushes our question aside: 'After Strauss had finished with "Rudi Ringel" he was whisked off to Kaliningrad so the Soviets could check him out too. Comrade K. Lebedev, the chairman of the district committee on arts affairs, was in charge. All intelligence connected to "Rudi Ringel" was sent to Comrade Veniamin Krolevsky at the Kaliningrad Party Secretariat.'

You said the evidence pointed to Germany, so why take 'Rudi Ringel' to Kaliningrad and channel all of your information to the KGB, we ask?

I told you there was some confusion over the location of BSCH because the documents were burned. The "fraternal authorities" agreed that "Rudi Ringel" was probably telling the truth but deduced that BSCH was a location in Kaliningrad. Of course we were not in a position to contradict them and while they did their work we did ours, checking out all the remaining Freie Welt letter-writers. Finally, "Rudi Ringel" came home to the GDR.'

What happened next, we ask?

Silence. The windows of the cabin are dripping with condensation, the rain is thundering on the corrugated roof and Geissler's wife appears at the front door, soaking wet, bearing a box of cherry pies.

'Liebling. Let's have a break from talking. Let's eat and drink together.' The pot is brewed. The coffee is poured and it is not until Geissler is sated that he continues. 'Enke grilled "Rudi Ringel". I did the sister and the mother. We were all over like them like a virus.' Thankfully, Geissler is unstoppable. 'We found many references in Nazi records that supported the "Ringel" family's stories.' He lights another cigarette. 'And these references revealed what we suspected all along, that the documents "Rudi Ringel" had found in the family's cellar had been misinterpreted by the KGB. BSCH could not be found in Kaliningrad because BSCH was here in Germany.'

How did the Stasi locate BSCH? What were these clues, we ask?

'That would be telling and telling equals money, but what I will tell you for free is that Enke proved that "Rudi Ringel's" father had evacuated the Amber Room out of East Prussia. The radio message - "Action Amber Room concluded. Storage in BSCH. Accesses blown up. Casualties through enemy action" - was broadcast from a location in Germany.

'Paul Enke went to Oberst Seufert but the boss was cautious. Didn't want to clash with the "fraternal authorities" who were digging in Kaliningrad. Seufert said that if we found more evidence then he would back an application for funding a dig in Germany. But - ' Geissler takes a mouthful of pie - 'there was a problem. Enke identified in the GDR 700 possible locations for BSCH: salt mines, coal-mines, quarries, caves and underground bunkers. The Stasi Secretariat ordered us to whittle the list down. We went back to "Rudi Ringel" but he said he knew only what he had seen in the documents. His father had died two years after the war without ever talking about the location of BSCH. The only living person who could confirm the location of the Amber Room was the man who issued the orders, the Nazi war criminal Gauleiter Erich Koch.'

Geissler looks at his watch. 'Time's up. Nothing more for free. I'm back in the city on Monday. Call me and we'll talk cash,' he chirps. 'You'll have to. I'm the only one connected to the Amber Room study group still alive.'

Liebling struggles to hold the door and slams it shut behind us. 'Goat's Throat Village' sinks beneath the deluge.

On 28 May 1949 the Daily Telegraph reported the arrest of a farm labourer called Rolf Berger in the village of Haasemoor, north of Hamburg, after a tip-off from suspicious neighbours. 'In his trouser pocket was found a glass phial of cyanide of potassium, the kind issued to leading Nazis. A similar phial was used by Himmler after his arrest in 1945,' the Daily Telegraph revealed. Under interrogation, the labourer admitted that he was Erich Koch, the former Gauleiter of East Prussia, and that he had been living incognito for four years in the same sparsely populated northern-most German state where Alfred Rosenberg, the Nazi ideologue and Reich Minister for Occupied Eastern Territories, had been run to ground in May 1945.

It was a coup for the joint British-German intelligence operation code-named Old Lace, which had been tasked with chasing down missing Nazis. Erich Koch, who had been among the first to join the National Socialist movement in 1922 and bore party ticket number 90, was one of the most wanted, along with Bormann, Eichmann and Mengele. However, with no central prosecuting authority now in place, the International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg having closed, the British guarded Koch at their base in Bielefeld, while they decided what to do with him.

Stalin demanded to be allowed to prosecute Koch, since more than four million Soviet citizens had died and two million more been sent to Nazi work camps during his tenure as Reich's Commissar for the Ukraine (a position he held before becoming Gauleiter of East Prussia). While the British requested that the Soviets send a detailed legal case for extradition, Koch launched his own action, submitting a plea: I know that as a former member of the Nazi Party... I have incurred heavy political guilt but I would ask you to believe that in all my political and human mistakes I . . . was servicing a good cause and the welfare of my people.'3 He wrote that he had no illusions as to 'what awaits me behind the Iron Curtain'. It was not death he feared 'but the base and inhuman treatment that this [Soviet] system applies to its opponents. It is the cold-blooded way in which a human being is made use of and then atrociously killed.' (This from the man who had ordered the corpses of Soviet prisoners in Rovno to be incinerated and the ash sold as fertilizer to German farmers.)

The British were unmoved by Koch's appeal but the former Gauleiter would not be tried in the Soviet Union. Instead of witness statements, affidavits and photographs, the Soviets submitted a terse letter claiming that Nuremberg had already established Koch's 'grievous war crimes'.4 Then another application for Koch arrived in West Berlin and this one was a detailed legal document accompanied by eyewitness accounts married to specific charges. It had been compiled by the Polish government. The British dispatched the former Gauleiter of East Prussia to Warsaw.

But having got him, the Poles declined to try Koch. For nine years he was held on remand at Warsaw prison, a delay that was never adequately explained, although the Poles claimed weakly that he was too sick to face trial. We contrast the Polish inactivity with Nuremberg, in which a significant proportion of the leadership of the Third Reich was tried, prosecuted, jailed or hanged in just eighteen months.

News footage of the trial of Erich Koch in Warsaw, 1959

It was only in November 1958 that the Poles began the case against Koch. Televised footage shows a tearful former Gauleiter lolling in the dock with a handkerchief tied around his head like a casualty of the Great War. On 19 March 1959, after ten years in custody, and a court case of four months and seventeen days, during which L,500 pages of evidence had been heard, the Poles finally passed the death sentence. Koch immediately launched an appeal on grounds of ill-health, further delaying his fate, an opportunity that would be pounced upon by the Soviets.

We have asked Our Friend the Professor in St Petersburg to scour the Kuchumov papers for any references to the former Gauleiter of East Prussia and with only four days left on our readers' tickets a couriered package arrives at our Berlin hotel. It contains an extraordinary series of classified Soviet documents. The first is a letter from the Catherine Palace, dated 28 March 1959, nine days after the death sentence on Koch was passed, then suspended pending an appeal. Comrade A.V Bobidanosov wrote to the office of the General Prosecutor of the Soviet Union: 'One can add another crime to all the terrible crimes committed by Nazi troops on the territory of the occupied Soviet Union: the robbery of the Amber Room from the Catherine Palace.'

Comrade Bobidanosov reported that research to date 'clearly shows that the Amber Room has not perished in the war and could not have been taken out of Kaliningrad... One can see that high-ranking German officials were interested in the fate of the most valuable international art trophy in the world. Therefore it is possible that Erich Koch could have known about [the Amber Room's] fate.'

Comrade Bobidanosov continued:

As far as we know in the recent trial in Warsaw the Amber Room was never mentioned and therefore it is possible that this war criminal may take his mystery to the grave. Therefore the state commission for search of art treasures is urging you to address the general Polish prosecutor with the following requests:

1. Erich Koch should be interrogated about the Amber Room. 2. One should check in the trial materials to see if any witness reports shed light on transportation of the Amber Room.

The General Prosecutor of the Soviet Union replied to Comrade Bobidanosov on 3 June 1959: 'According to our request the authorities in Poland have interrogated the former Gauleiter Erich Koch. But he knows nothing of the fate of the Amber Room and he was not aware of the existence of the room and never was informed about its unique value. Also, in the materials of his trial there is no trace of the Amber Room.'5

It was a strange response from the Poles. We recall that in 1949 Dr Gerhard Strauss had furnished the Soviets with a dossier of evidence connecting Koch to the Amber Room: letters from him to Gauleiter Mutschmann in Dresden, asking for secure storage facilities; orders from him to Alfred Rohde to inspect castles in Saxony for places to hide 'irreplaceable treasures', including the Amber Room.

Unsurprisingly, the Soviets refused to accept the Polish response and insisted on sending their own emissary to interrogate Erich Koch. They would need a neutral figure who would not aggravate the Poles or the former Gauleiter. We search for an account of the meeting. There is no reference to it in the literature archive but in the Ministry of Truth we come across a report dated 24 June 1959.6 In it we read that a top-secret grilling took place that month in the GDR embassy in Warsaw and, examining the list of those who attended, see that the man chosen as the Soviet's emissary was none other than Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss of Humboldt University. For us, Strauss had begun as an incidental character, a name in a grease-flecked letter discarded by a Soviet curator, but now he seems to crop up everywhere. By 1959 he must have been very highly regarded by both Moscow and the GDR Politburo to have been chosen to front such delicate negotiations.

The minute shows that the meeting - attended by Strauss, Erich Koch, his lawyer, the GDR Deputy Ambassador Riesner and the Polish Solicitor General - got off to a terrible start. One of the prison warders had given Koch Strauss's recent articles about the Amber Room, published in Freie Welt. Koch immediately began to attack Strauss, saying that he was unhappy about the articles and the 'accusations raised' that he had some connection to the fate of the Amber Room. A Nazi prisoner on death row faced the emissary of the bloc, accusing him of peddling lies like a tabloid journalist. It must have been an excruciatingly embarrassing moment for Strauss, who struggled to reassure the former Gauleiter that he was in fact a serious East German academic trying to solve the mystery of the Amber Room on behalf of his government. 'It was possible to make light of it,' Strauss reported. We will never know what Strauss really told Koch about Freie Welt, but the former Gauleiter kept talking.

Strauss and the prisoner then discussed art concealed in bunkers. Koch's knowledge of East Prussian storage facilities, Strauss noted, tallied with his own and the former Gauleiter conceded that it was possible that the Amber Room had been hidden in a bunker or cellar. However, Koch insisted he had never given orders concerning the Amber Room, a reply that Strauss cautioned should be seen in a wider context. 'In total Koch took great care to give only such information that minimized his own responsibility and spoke in his favour.' Although the former Gauleiter claimed to have no personal knowledge of the fate of the Amber Room, he said he thought it impossible for it to have been evacuated to Germany.

Koch proposed his own radical theory. Strauss wrote: 'Koch thinks it is likely that the Amber Room was transported by the Soviet Army but when I said, "Well, in that case it would have been reinstalled in Pushkin," Koch accepted that my argument was more convincing than his.' As the ninety-minute meeting drew to a close, Koch demanded Strauss's 'word of honour' that their discussion would remain confidential. 'Nobody should find out that he was helping to find the Amber Room,' Strauss reported. 'At the moment we cannot expect more from Koch, but because he is trying to influence his appeal process, it is not impossible that shortly we shall get further statements from him.'

We had left our meeting with Uwe Geissler still unsure of how the Stasi had tied Erich Koch to the Amber Room and a hiding place in Germany. In this Stasi report Koch divulged no evidence connecting himself to the Amber Room or an evacuation plan ending in Germany. But just as we begin to think that Geissler may have been lying, the next document sent to us from St Petersburg bolsters Geissler's story. He told us that in the summer of 1959 a GDR citizen codenamed 'Rudi Ringel' had been flown to Kaliningrad and cross-examined by party functionaries. Here we read confirmation that 'Rudi Ringel' did exist and that this source was flown to Kaliningrad in the summer of 1959. The Soviet official who interrogated him there was Leningrad curator Anatoly Kuchumov.

In a typed report marked 'Ringel: Top Secret', Kuchumov summarized the witness's story. It was remarkably similar to the one Geissler told us. Kuchumov wrote:

In July 1949, two years after the death of his father, when the family was preparing to move house, ['Rudi Ringel'] was sent to clear the cellar by his mother. Under some rough moist coal he found a leather map pouch, like the ones used by soldiers during the war. It was covered in mildew. Its contents were wet through and stuck together. What could be deciphered were typewritten sheets of orders, reports, parts of a Konigsberg town plan and various SS documents with passport photos of his father [SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel'], one of which bore Himmler's signature. 'Rudi Ringel' was only thirteen but old enough to understand the significance.7

So the map that 'Rudi Ringel' recalled seeing was of Konigsberg, not Germany. Geissler's story was still at odds with this one.

Kuchumov asked 'Rudi Ringel' to reproduce from memory the contents of the map pouch and noted that the witness reconstructed seven documents, each of which he signed as 'true copies'. Kuchumov initialled them. Comrade Wagnerman translated them. Comrade Shaposhikovna of the KGB 'certified' them.

The first reconstructed document was a letter addressed to 'Rudi Ringel's' father, dated December 1944:

To SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel'. It is supposed that soon in Konigsberg Operation Grime will begin. It will then be necessary for you, as agreed, to assume your responsibility for the evacuation of the Amber Room. Borders B-Sch-Kniproderstrasse, Steindamm, Reihe/BU3UP, visible from streets Jakobstrasse, Gezekusplatz. After burying it, blow up the building. Then you and your officers go to place [name missing], moving there as agreed. When you have successfully completed this mission please confirm by courier. Heil Hitler.

Although the street names are garbled, what was almost certainly being described here was a location in Konigsberg, somewhere adjacent to Steindamm Strasse.

'Rudi Ringel' recalled that the next document he read was marked 'Top Secret' and addressed to 'the Main Office of the Reich's Security Minister V.V.S. (military air forces department)': 'Order is executed. Action Amber Room is finished. Entrance according to orders has been blown up. Many victims due to enemy action. I am coming to agreed place [name missing].' 'Rudi Ringel' recalled his father, the SS Sturmbannfiihrer, had signed the message although it was not dated.

Kuchumov sketched a map of the centre of Konigsberg. At the junction of Steindamm Strasse and Lange Reihe the great curator marked Steindamm Church, a pond and a First World War monument. An area running between the church and the pond was shaded and labelled 'bunker'. If 'Rudi Ringel' could be relied on, then the evacuation of the Amber Room, codenamed Operation Griine (Green), had gone ahead and the Soviet treasure had been taken from Konigsberg Castle and concealed somewhere near Steindamm Church. We wonder how the Stasi could have reached the conclusion that the Amber Room was evacuated to Germany.8

Frustratingly, the five remaining documents transcribed by 'Rudi Ringel' are missing from our file. We call St Petersburg and ask the Professor to recheck the index. She soon gets back to us: 'Nothing.' We revisit the Ministry of Truth to see if the Stasi was sent a record of Kuchumov's debriefing of 'Rudi Ringel'. Again nothing.

All we have before us from the literature archive are yet more of Kuchumov's newspaper clippings and they concern Erich Koch.

As Strauss predicted in 1959, Erich Koch soon began to talk again about the Amber Room, leaking information to his guards at Mokatovska Prison. In September 1961 he also spoke to Polish journalist Vladimir Orlovsky and then in October to Izvestiya: 'Erich Koch knows of two bunkers where art works were hidden by Rohde and Dr Helmut Will.9 There, among other items, are some things from his own collection. He cannot be LOO per cent sure that the Amber Room is there but he thinks it almost certainly is.'10 Although Koch still denied any responsibility for the Amber Room, he was almost certain that it had been moved to a bunker beneath Konigsberg, a story that seemed to tally with the evidence of letter-writer 'Rudi Ringel'.

Three years later the Polish authorities commuted Erich Koch's death sentence to life, publicly stating that the prisoner had been reprieved because he was suffering from a terminal illness. Shortly after, Koch was transferred to a specially built compound in the Polish countryside, from where he continued to cooperate.11 In 1967 stories leaked out that the former Gauleiter (remarkably, still alive) had incriminated Reichsleiter Bormann, who, he said, was keen to acquire the Amber Room, which in Koch's estimation 'was worth in excess of 50 million dollars'.12

On 5 February 1967 TASS reported that the Soviet authorities were now certain that the Amber Room was in East Prussia after Koch finally admitted that it was he who gave the order to Alfred Rohde and Dr Helmut Will 'to take out this treasure' and conceal it in a bunker under a city church near Steindamm. Surely this was the same bunker identified by Kuchumov on a map he drew eight years earlier, having interrogated GDR letter-writer 'Rudi Ringel'. At the end of February 1967 TASS revealed that Soviet investigators were indeed heading for Konigsberg - with heavy drilling equipment. There is no record here of what this dig achieved.13

When the articles in Kaliningradskaya Pravda and Freie Welt came out in 1958 and E959, the public focus was drawn towards unnamed Nazis who were accused of evacuating the Amber Room from Konigsberg Castle, although no location for it was revealed (or perhaps known). New information from 'Rudi Ringel', writing in response to these articles, suggested that the unnamed Nazi was Erich Koch. In E967 Koch finally admitted that he had been involved in the Amber Room evacuation (although he insisted that it was to another site in Kaliningrad). At the same time the Stasi and the KGB seemed to be using the Koch-Ringel evidence to pull in different directions. Geissler assured us that the Stasi interpreted the story in such a way that it led them to search for the Amber Room in Germany where they believed Erich Koch had had it sent. The KGB was sticking with Kaliningrad.

Maybe we are missing the point. We are acutely aware of the fact that time is running out. Do we stay here in Berlin or return to St Petersburg? We take the lift to the ninth floor of the Ministry of Truth in Berlin and after half a morning searching through hundreds of censored interrogation documents we come across this draft report from 1976: 'Plan of measures for the carefully concentrated pursuit of the search for the tracks of the Amber Room on the territory of the GDR'. Here at last is a report, written in the Stasi's clumsy language, about its German operation. We hope it will explain or rebut Geissler's statement. Thankfully, because there are not many names contained in it, the censors have spared the document.14

Oberstleutnant Paul Enke advised his section head Oberst Hans Seufert: 'We are aware that in the Soviet Union the search is run by a government commission but based on the clues this search has been concentrated exclusively on Kaliningrad and only relatively little trouble has been taken for an intensive exposure of clues and hints pointing to hiding places in Saxony and Thuringia.' This statement suggested that by 1976, nine years after TASS reported that digging had begun in Kaliningrad, based on Erich Koch's evidence, the Soviets still had not found anything.

Enke recommended: 'Intensive, on-the-spot investigations into the large numbers of facts and clues. The veiled hint of Koch to where his private collection is located may refer to Thuringian storage depots as well as concealment locations in western Saxony.'

The report continued:

Further recommendations: it seems necessary to question Erich Koch extensively on the subject of his private collection. Such an investigation was carried out once already in i960 [sic] by Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss, Berlin, without any result and had anyhow been restricted exclusively to Kaliningrad. Koch could nowadays be given some clues that could be of assistance to help his memory and start him thinking. (Suggested questions attached.)

This is exactly what Geissler told us. The KGB was thought to have misinterpreted the evidence provided by Koch and 'Rudi Ringel'.

Enke called for an 'investigation of the true role of SS Sturmbannfiihrer "Ringel" in the concealment of the Amber Room'. He advised: 'The statements made by "Rudi Ringel" during questioning by a Soviet Government Commission [Anatoly Kuchumov] rest only on his childhood memories (he was thirteen in 1949). I recommend re-questioning now.'

Why Enke felt it necessary to reanalyse the statements made by Erich Koch and 'Rudi Ringel' becomes clearer when we read a report of a research trip to Thuringia and Saxony conducted by Enke in June 1976.

He was accompanied by Gerda, his wife (a couple on holiday was a 'legend' that the Stasi used time and again). They headed first for Weimar, the birthplace of the Weimar Republic. Leaving Gerda to pace the cobbled streets down which Hitler's armour-plated Mercedes once clattered, Enke set up office in the local Stasi headquarters, a villa on Cranach-Strasse, where he spent hours poring over Nazi-era archive material.

Enke reported to Seufert: 'Everything which the Nazis had brought to Thuringia in order to continue the good life... had to be left behind. Palaces, even the dance halls of many inns, had been filled up to their ceilings with luxury goods.'15 In the Weimar archives, Enke immediately encountered 'interesting traces' of Koch, including 'extensive stocks of files from the estate of his bloody governance of the Ukraine that had been evacuated to [nearby] Bad Sulza at the beginning of 1945'.

Many East Prussian artefacts had been evacuated to Thuringia in the spring of 1945, Enke reported, including medieval sculptures from Marienburg Castle (today Malbork in Poland) and an iron chest of the St George Brotherhood from Elbing. A few days later, Enke found an inventory from 1945 of 'museum goods delivered for storage to the State Museum of Weimar', written by its wartime director, Dr Walter Scheidig. It included valuable Gobelin tapestries, paintings and a large collection of wall-mounted silver candelabras. But what initially caught Enke's eye were paintings of insignificant monetary value: A View of Elberfeld, Roaring Monarch of the Glen and a series of third-rate family portraits.

Enke reported that Elberfeld, in the Rhineland, was the birthplace of Erich Koch and, according to papers Enke had read in Potsdam, Roaring Monarch of the Glen was one of many gifts received by the Gauleiter while he was in Konigsberg. Enke contacted East Berlin: 'We have found the relocation site of [Koch's] robbed collection, even without Koch's assistance!' Enke added that he had once read in a GDR newspaper that Erich Koch had bragged: 'If you find my art collection then you will find the Amber Room too.' Enke believed he was closing in on something significant.

Enke went in search of Dr Scheidig, who had compiled the inventory of Koch's evacuated art works. At the remains of the State Museum of Weimar (heavily bombed in the war and still a ruin in 1976), Enke found an elderly retired art dealer who told him that Scheidig was dead. But Enke should not worry, as the dealer (name blacked out) also knew how the Weimar museum came to receive Erich Koch's collection.

The old art dealer recalled that a Nazi officer had arrived in a van on 9 February 1945, saying that he was an 'administrator for Gauleiter Koch' and was 'bringing museum treasures from Konigsberg'. The officer wore the uniform of the Nationalionalsozialitsches Fliegerkorps (NSFK) and appeared uneasy. He was 'neither an art historian nor a museum curator' and seemed anxious to leave as soon as he had unloaded the contents of his van. The old man noted that the cargo was an assortment of 'crates, racks, suitcases and chests' that museum staff stacked unopened on the ground floor. 'Everything about the evacuation of these crates seemed to have been conducted without thought or pre-planning, leaving much to chance,' Enke wrote.16

After several weeks of bombing raids over Weimar, on 9 April 1945 (the day that Konigsberg surrendered) Gauleiter Koch's administrator returned to remove the 'museum goods from Konigsberg', cramming crates and suitcases into a small van with Swiss number plates, operating under the flag of the International Committee of the Red Cross. He came back again the next day to take another batch and said he would return on 21 April for the last. But he never returned, since the next force to arrive in Weimar was the US Third Army (on 11 April 1945) and American art experts who accompanied the troops found the unclaimed crates in the lobby of the Weimar museum. Museum director Scheidig was ordered to open them and make an inventory, noting that alongside family portraits, German etchings and prints were silver candelabras and museum exhibits that bore labels written in Russian. It was this list that Enke had discovered.

So where was this cache now, Enke asked the old art dealer? He said that he was surprised Enke didn't know. A female curator from Russia had visited Weimar in 1948, debriefed Scheidig and taken most of the contents of the crates back to the USSR. The old man thought her name was Xenia Agarfornova.

We know this name. According to Kuchumov's diary from his Berlin mission in 1947, when he worked for General Zorin, sorting stolen Soviet treasures in the Derutra warehouse, Xenia Agarfornova was part of the staff. She had come from the Leningrad Hermitage and was given a roving role to retrieve art works concealed in the German countryside. She had also interrogated Gerhard Strauss. The USSR had claimed part of Koch's collection and not thought to tell the Stasi. Why?

Enke would have to check with the Soviet authorities and sent off a letter to Leningrad. While he waited for a response he worked on mapping Koch's consignments that had left Weimar in the Red Cross van on 9 and LO April 1945.

Sitting at his desk in Cranach-Strasse, with his favourite thinking food of black beer and pickled pork, Enke plotted the 1945 Allied advance on his route map of Thuringia. 'Under the conditions described, the average van speed may hardly have exceeded 30 kmh,' he wrote in his report. 'Considering the journey to the depot [Weimar museum], unloading, the return journey, controls en-route and resting periods, this would have allowed a maximum distance to be travelled of 150-180 kilometres from Weimar.' But in which direction had Koch's treasures been driven?

North was into the arms of the Red Army. If the van had driven west it would have run into the American troops that reached a Thuringian village called Merkers on 4 April 1945. The Americans were also advancing from the south and were at Coburg in Bavaria by 11 April, threatening the Berlin-Nuremberg A9 autobahn. Enke concluded that the only sensible route on 9 and LO April 1945 would have been east, along the A4 autobahn to Gera and on towards Dresden. 'To simplify and shorten our description, we will call this mooted area western Saxony,' Enke wrote.

Where in western Saxony? Enke reported: 'By April 1945 all [Nazi] hope had evaporated and turned into the certainty of total defeat. At this moment the Nazis no longer searched for palaces, castles or monasteries... but for hiding places where [art] might be stored and remain undiscovered for a certain length of time.' Mines not castles. Caves not monasteries. Bunkers not safes. Enke reminded Seufert about the American discovery in May 1945 of the vast Fuhrermuseum collection found in a salt mine beneath the Alt-Aussee mountains of Austria.

Enke sought out archives to help locate subterranean bolt-holes in western Saxony. He visited Dresden and among the papers he recovered there was a letter from Professor Fichtner, who wrote to the Reich Chancellery in December 1943: 'The best and most ideal safeguarding and rescue depots are at this moment in time decentralized accommodations in well-camouflaged areas of central Germany.' Fichtner named a limestone quarry at Lengefeld, on the northern edge of western Saxony's Erzgebirge nature park, much of which was 'laterally inside the mountain and may be considered to be absolutely safe against air raids'. At the time, the Reich Chancellery declined the offer and, as far as Enke could establish, the hiding places had remained free.17

Enke applied himself to the Erzgebirge region, a dense and uneven strip of pine forest hugging the mountainous border between Saxony and Czechoslovakia. Erzgebirge means 'Mountain of Ore' and the region had been heavily excavated for zinc, silver and lead since the twelfth century. Enke visited a 'mountain archive' at Freiberg, a small town on the northeastern tip of the Erzgebirge, a document centre mapping the region's disused mines. He reported to Seufert: 'It is imperative that the search must be precisely targeted because the stock of files extends to several thousands of metres of shelving, as well as around 76,000 individual mine and shaft sketch plans.'

Enke learned from local residents that on 11 May 1945 the bodies of Hitler's brother-in-law, as well as four members on the staff of the Gauleiter of Saxony, Martin Mutschmann, had been found in the Erzgebirge. He recalled the correspondence from 1944 in which Koch debated with Mutschmann about the best places to conceal the Amber Room. Mutschmann himself had been arrested in this area in May 1945, found by the Red Army in the hamlet of Tellerhauser and allegedly taken back to the Soviet Union. Enke speculated that Mutschmann had fled to what he thought was the safest part of his state. This would be the area where the Stasi would dig for the Amber Room. All that Enke needed was the Secretariat's approval.

In an attempt to focus his inquiries, Enke began to work on identifying the Nazi officer who had transported Koch's treasures in through Weimar. Enke reported to Seufert that, using a combination of archival resources and eyewitnesses, he arrived at the name Albert Popp, an NFSK Brigadefuhrer in Gruppe-7 (Saxony) and, more importantly, Gauleiter Mutschmann's nephew.

Enke reported that Popp had acted for the Nazi High Command already, evacuating Angela, Hitler's half-sister, from Dresden to Berchtesgaden in March 1945. To demonstrate further the proximity of Popp to the Nazi High Command, Enke advised Seufert that, while Popp fled to the West after the war, his wife remained in the GDR and adopted the children of missing Gauleiter Martin Mutschmann.18

Enke tested the name Albert Popp on the old art dealer, the only surviving eyewitness to the arrival of Koch's crates at Weimar museum in February 1945. Enke reported: 'The dealer said, that if he could hear or read the name, he would probably remember it. So, we wrote down two dozen names, some of them fairly similar, with the name of Albert Popp in thirteenth place. The old man read through the names... and then he said: "Yes, the driver was called Popp."'19

Enke also tried out his theory on a Soviet source. Our Friend the Professor has found two letters from him to Anatoly Kuchumov in the St Petersburg archive, written while Enke was conducting his Saxony research. We never knew that the two men had ever corresponded. The first letter, dated 24 July 1976, began with 'heartfelt greetings to my battle comrade'. Enke wrote:

And now to a... problem... You told me about the last statement of Erich Koch regarding possible connections between the Amber Room and his private collection. Do you think it likely that maybe Erich Koch thought to hide them together? This idea corresponds exactly with a version of the story that I have been researching... as I told you in April in Pushkin and Pavlovsk.20

So Enke and Kuchumov had met, in Leningrad in April 1976, and discussed the possibility that Erich Koch had evacuated the Amber Room along with his own art collection from East Prussia. Until now we had thought that the Stasi and Soviet investigations had gone their separate ways and that Enke had never left the GDR.

Enke continued:

I have found a list of Koch's vast stolen collection and on that list is a great amount of silver candelabras. I recalled the description of the Amber Room in Pushkin and above all remembered the light emitted by the large number of candles that were reflected by the huge mirrors. According to my calculations, from photographs, there should be 132 candelabras. It is interesting to me that on this list of silver belonging to Koch is the same number of [Russian] candelabras. Maybe these are the decorations of the Amber Room.

Enke's theory (and Geissler's account of it) was beginning to make sense. He had a final question for Kuchumov:

Did you see during your searches the name of Koch's aide? Was it Popp or Poppa? I have evidence that this man was trusted and helped hide some of the treasures on Koch's list. My heartfelt thanks to you and your colleagues in Pavlovsk and Pushkin. Be sure that we from our side direct all our energy to help you reach our mutual goal, with Communist regards, P. Enke.

Enke's second letter was written on 22 October 1976: 'My respectable Anatoly Mikhailovich, first of all my wife and I personally thank you for your battle-felt regards on the occasion of our national festival of the GDR [7 October].' Enke was still keen to learn all he could about Albert Popp, the driver of the Red Cross van: I have a question about a man who transported the treasures of Koch in 1945 from Konigsberg to central Germany and hid art pieces so successfully that some are still missing. Could you tell me anything more about this Popp, his date of birth, his real name.' Perhaps Kuchumov had not answered Enke's previous inquiry.

Enke continued, easing his way into more delicate matters:

During vacations with my wife we travelled through Thuringia and Saxony and visited useful people who gave us information. But I have a question for you. It seems that in 1948 Soviet art historian Xenia Agarfornova found part of Koch's treasure, including the silver candelabras (that I spoke of before) and delivered them back to the USSR. Is she a curator from the State Hermitage and did you establish that these candelabras were from the Amber Room? Heartfelt regards and I am sure together we are going to find the Amber Room. P. Enke.

This is the first time that we have seen any evidence that part of the Amber Room (albeit only the candelabras) might have been found in Germany by the Soviets after the war. If what Enke confided in Kuchumov in this private letter was true, it explains why the Stasi was so certain that the Amber Room was in Germany. What it doesn't explain is why the Soviets chose not to tell the Stasi about their discovery of the candelabras.

Kuchumov's replies, if he sent any, are not in the Ministry of Truth. What is here is another report dated E976 from Enke to Oberst Seufert. In it Enke attempted to tie up all the loose ends, and addressed the issue of the evidence given by GDR citizen 'Rudi Ringel'.

His line of reasioning was as follows: Koch had hinted that his treasures were concealed together with the Amber Room; Enke had traced Koch's treasures to Weimar and then into a Red Cross van; if 'Rudi Ringel's' father, the SS Sturmbannfiihrer, had also been involved in the secret operation to evacuate the Amber Room, that placed him together with Albert Popp in the Red Cross van heading in all probability into western Saxony and not, as the Soviets had concluded, in downtown Konigsberg. It was an unconvincing and staggeringly simplistic piece of logic but the Stasi seemed to have accepted it.

To prove his theory, Enke began to prise apart 'Rudi Ringel's' family history, testing the stories told by his mother, sister and brother against available wartime records, looking for connections to Albert Popp, a Red Cross van and the western Erzgebirge. We realize, reading this document, that it must have been at this point that Enke called in Uwe Geissler to help him with the cross-examinations. According to the report, 'Frau Ringel' claimed that on 2 November 1944 she and her children had relocated from bombed Konigsberg to Crimmitschau in Saxony, sixty miles west of the Erzgebirge. Her husband, the SS Sturmbannfiihrer, stayed behind, but on 5 February 1945 he arrived in plain clothes on his family's doorstep in Crimmitschau, carrying a duffel bag, a machine gun, a pistol and some food.

According to local records, scoured by Enke and Geissler, the SS man had registered with the Crimmitschau police on 6 February 1945. His wife claimed he then disappeared for ten days and did the same in March and April 1945. In February 1946, the 'Ringel' family moved again, to Schlema (a suburb on the edge of the Erzgebirge). In nearby Greiz hospital, Enke located the death certificate for the SS Sturmbannfiihrer, 'dated 14 October 1947 (lung disease)'. It was in the cellar of the family's Schlema house that 'Rudi Ringel' claimed to have found the map pouch in July 1949 as his family prepared to move again to Elsterberg, west of the Erzgebirge, a place that Enke discovered had been Albert Popp's hometown. Popp and the 'Ringel' family's proximity to the Erzgebirge was tantalizing for Enke (although it seems to prove little to us).21

We read on impatiently, as Enke reported to Seufert:

There had been many voices that claimed 'Rudi Ringel' is a swindler, a fantasist and for these reasons he does not have to be taken seriously. Initially we too had some doubts, but we wanted certainty and therefore we dealt thoroughly with 'Rudi Ringel's' past... We do not consider the radio message ["Action Amber Room concluded. Storage in BSCH. Accesses blown up. Casualties through enemy action."] to have been a mistake or a forgery, but we only query the opinion mentioned by several investigators that the message had been sent from Konigsberg.22

Enke was so certain of his breakthrough that a few months after writing to Kuchumov he factored the Koch-Weimar-Popp-Ringel theory into a plan for a book that he gave the provisional title 'Traces of the Amber Room: A Historical Criminological Investigation'. This was the start of what would eventually become Bernsteinzimmer Report. Chapter 6 promised 'New Tracks That Point to Western Saxony'.23

We flick ahead through the file, looking for a report on the outcome of the 1976 digs in the western Erzgebirge and instead find something baffling. Two years later, Paul Enke had been taken off the Amber Room investigation altogether. Now based at home, he composed this letter to Generaloberst Bruno Beater, Deputy Minister for State Security, Erich Mielke's right-hand man, first among several deputies.

Enke wrote: '30 January E978, E18 Berlin-Griinau, Dear Comrade Beater! I am in need of your good advice and practical assistance and I am asking for the possibility of a personal consultation. My request is for information about the BZW [Amber Room file]... With the best will in the world I cannot accept the recommendation to give up the search.'24

One minute he was digging in the Erzgebirge. Now he was begging for access to the Amber Room files that surely he had compiled. We read on, trying to understand what had happened to Paul Enke. What had gone wrong?

Enke continued:

The result of ten years' research is now to hand in the form of an art-historical-criminological study... in which I am furnishing proof that the Amber Room was brought on 9 February 1945 to Thuringia and was then conveyed in the beginning of April 1945 to Saxony. I am contradicting all other versions (East Prussia, Konigsberg, the Baltic, Bavaria, Lower Saxony)... Dear Comrade Beater, please do find a possibility for me and ascertain how I could report directly to you... I remain, with the best regards of an old Fighter [sic], yours Paul Enke.

The situation must have been critical for Enke to go over the heads of his immediate superiors and make contact with Beater, one of the most powerful men in the GDR; with the Stasi from the start, a member of the notorious kidnapping gangs sent out by Mielke in the 19 50s to bring back defectors.

Six days later, Enke wrote again:

5 February 1978, 118 Berlin-Griinau, Dear Comrade Beater! Initially please accept my most sincere wishes for the rudest of rude health and I hope that you will continue to be successful at your work! The enclosed work might perhaps be suitable to clarify somewhat the extent of the problem BZ [Amber Room]... The difference between my manuscripts and all other publications consists to a large extent in the... constant and general use of facts and proofs indicating the exact sources and renouncing all speculative pseudo-facts.

There was a justificatory tone creeping into this letter, as if some authority had questioned Enke's research.

In case Beater still needed to be convinced of Enke's discernment and experience, there was a postscript:

Within the framework of my Service Qualification as 'historian', I presently read the newest book by David Irving (England): Hitler and His Generals. Eight years ago Irving had been in contact with us... and together we searched near Perleberg for items from the legacies of Nazi leaders. In the above mentioned book [Irving writes] about this matter... 'It took weeks to search a forest in East Germany with the aide of a Proton Magnetometer... but the jam jar, supposedly containing the last Goebbels diaries, [was not there] although according to the map we stood above it.'25

There is no suggestion that David Irving was ever in the pay of the Stasi and we do not know if Beater replied. But one month later, on 15 February 1978, Enke submitted another plan of action: he wanted permission to interrogate Koch (who was still in Poland) and to contact the Soviet authorities.26

On 21 August 1978 action was taken. The Stasi rejected Enke's appeals and instead called a moratorium on all investigations based on evidence given by GDR citizen 'Rudi Ringel'. The order went out: '"Rudi Ringel" to be reinterrogated'. The Stasi agent, brought in for the task, was Uwe Geissler, the man we had met at 'Goat's Throat Village'.27 He had not mentioned this.

GEISSLER: There has never been an SS Sturmbannfiihrer or an SS man of a similar rank with the name ['Ringel']. What is your explanation?

'RUDI RINGEL': My father was very brown [a militant Nazi]. He joined the Nazi party on 1 May 1937. Everyone knew that it was him who had burned down Konigsberg's synagogue. He wore many uniforms, brown, grey and black, but he had certainly had the double silver lighting-strike runes [of the SS] pinned to his epaulettes. The family used other names. Perhaps my father was enlisted into the SS using one of those.

GEISSLER: Why did your father keep documents after 1945 that could have sentenced him to capital punishment?

'RUDI RINGEL': My father was a Prussian wooden-head. I now think that my own behaviour can be connected to that family trait.

GEISSLER: How did you find the letters?

'RUDI RINGEL': It was while I was clearing the basement. I found a hinged pouch with the name of my father on it. It was locked and nearly rotten. But inside there were sheets that did refer to the Amber Room. On one my father was addressed as Sturmbannfiihrer. I remember seeing the Nazi eagle and that it came from the RSHA [Reich Security Main Office]. At the time I burned the documents because I was of the opinion that it was better if they didn't exist.

GEISSLER: Under what circumstances have you been in contact with the Soviet state authorities?

'RUDI RINGEL': In the illustrated Freie Welt there was a request for people to come forward. I wrote to Berlin and said I could make a statement. The editors of Freie Welt [names blacked out] visited me. Then I flew to Moscow and Kaliningrad.

GEISSLER: The Soviet authorities state that you indicated to them that the Amber Room was stored at Ponarth [a south-western suburb of Konigsberg] Church, a building that the SS blew up. There was only one church in Ponarth and it was not blown up in 1945. What do you say now?

'RUDI RINGEL': It must be a translation fault. I have never made such a statement. I only talked about a path from the castle [Konigsberg] to Steindamm Church.

GEISSLER: In the statements you have made on the Amber Room to date has your imagination taken over?

'RUDI RINGEL': Today I could have made it very easy for myself and told you that everything was fantasy. But this is what I remember. I am prepared to think about it once again and if I remember anything further I will contact the Stasi. I have read the protocol and this statement to you is true.

The document was signed by 'Bernd' and 'Rudi Ringel'.

Poor 'Rudi Ringel' (described in this interrogation report as a lathe operator). He must have been enthralled by the revelations in Freie Welt and come forward of his own volition, probably hoping to win kudos with the local party, possibly a glass of schwarzbier or a holiday in the spa town of Friedrichroda. Instead, he was whisked off to Moscow and then Kaliningrad, forced to become a party to state secrets, interrogated by Kuchumov, then Enke and now 'Bernd'. But the one thing he could never do, after writing that fateful letter to Freie Welt, not if he wanted to stay alive, was back down.

On 9 November 1979 'Bernd', a.k.a. Uwe Geissler, reported back to the Stasi Secretariat. He had at last found trace of 'Rudi Ringel's' father and what he revealed was not what he told us in the concrete chalet in 'Goat's Throat Village'.

'Rudi Ringel's' father was a member of the NSDAP but from 1940 was attached to a post office protection unit. 'Bernd' wrote: 'After an injury [name blacked out] suffered while serving in occupied Poland he was disabled out of the service. According to his daughter, since then he had made a living by manufacturing bags from scrap fabric' It was highly unlikely that an invalided post office security guard would have been entrusted with the Amber Room by Erich Koch.

At the back of 'Rudi Ringel's' Stasi file is this conclusion:

The statement made by ['Rudi Ringel'] is wrong. He either deliberately or indirectly made difficulties for the Amber Room investigation and misdirected the search, causing it great harm. It is suggested that judicial responsibility should be examined according to paragraph 228, concerning false accusations, and paragraph 233, aiding and abetting.

'Rudi Ringel' also stood accused of 'providing false information to Soviet organs'. All of the Soviet excavations in Kaliningrad based on 'Rudi Ringel's' evidence had been a waste of time.

We call Geissler at his apartment in East Berlin, near Allee der Kosmonauten, and ask him what happened to Enke and his digs to find BSCH, the secret hiding place for the Amber Room? Was it these digs that led to the outing of 'Rudi Ringel' as the son of a lame post office guard?

All we can hear on the line is the wheezing of Geissler's emphysemic lungs. 'We dug,' says Geissler. 'We dug and dug. Pulled in experts from Switzerland. Heavy machinery hired from abroad. Paid for it all in hard currency. Spent 6 million or thereabouts [500,000 dollars] on excavating just one of the mines. And eventually we did get into the tunnels of Schwalbe V, near Gera. It had been a Nazi underground factory where scientists were trying to synthesize petrol from coal. Enke had told the bosses, "We are the first to get in." But when we lit up our torches... ' The line goes silent. A crackle as Geissler inhales. 'We found nothing but small, charred, rolled-up pieces of Pravda dating from July 1945. The Red Army had been there, decades before us, and left behind their cigarette butts. We even knew the date. Back in 1945 supplies of everything were low, including cigarette papers, and the Soviet troops used pages from Pravda instead. Enke had been wasting our time.'

As we ponder how everything came to a grinding halt in an empty mine already searched by the Soviets (with 'Rudi Ringel' in the dock), the functionary in pearls enters the room. 'Time, please,' she says, tapping her wristwatch.

1O

In the last week of May 1980 Generalmajor Karli Coburger and Generalmajor Jochen Biichner, two of the Stasi's most senior directorate heads, met to discuss Paul Enke's career.1

According to Enke's personal file, KSII404/82, he had 'exposed LOO possible locations for the Amber Room' over twenty-five years of service. Using the pseudonym Dr Paul Kohler and the cover 'functionary at the State Archives Administration', Enke had 'got in touch with West German citizens and with FRG journalists' in connection with the issue of restitution of stolen Soviet art.2 But his career was not without blemish.

The generalmajors also had before them this reference from 15 April 1952, written when Enke was a young police recruit: 'Character Appraisal. The calm manner revealed by Enke in most of his dealings is quite obviously only an apparent show, hiding a vivacious and impulsive character.'3

Generalmajors Coburger and Biichner also read this from 5 October 1964, one week after Enke had been sworn in as a Stasi agent. While the new officer was prepared to 'carry out tasks that may exceed normal working hours... Enke tends to deal exclusively with the theory and distance himself from practical activities... Sometimes, he also tends to adopt a certain stubbornness of manner whereby he is often not open-minded enough to confront criticism of his person or decisions.'4

Given these doubts, we are suprised that Enke was entrusted for so many years with such a sensitive, secret and costly operation as the search for the Amber Room.

On 30 May 1980 Enke was called to Stasi headquarters at Normannenstrasse in Berlin-Lichtenberg. A report of that meeting noted: 'Comrade Biichner opened the discussion with the statement that it was necessary to raise the research work on the art robberies in the Soviet Union to a national level and thereby the results of the researches carried out by Comrade Enke should be consolidated in one official dossier.' It was concluded that the Amber Room inquiry should 'take on a more political operative character' and Enke was 'obliged to place all material relevant to the case for operative evaluation'.5 Enke was told: 'All the above named material, accompanied by advice and annotations, must be delivered by L.30 p.m. on 4 June E980.' He had four and a half days to pack up his career.

Biichner called the meeting to a close. Taking into consideration increasing bouts of poor health, Enke was now 'granted sick-leave and will later be retired with a pension'. As he was shown the door, Biichner wished him 'much success in carrying out his new brief'.6 The official retirement date was set for 1 January 1981 but in the meantime there was much for Enke to do.

Enke was being edged out and the Ministry of Truth files before us confirm that the order for a new 'systematic approach' to the Amber Room investigation came from the highest level - Erich Mielke. The files do not explain why the Minister for State Security ordered a completely new inquiry, but it must have been connected with the humiliating discovery that the Stasi had squandered millions without even having had a passable shot at the prize.

Enke's Amber Room investigation was to be renamed 'Operation Puschkin' and would receive higher levels of funding and staffing, in the form of a 'Special Task Force' that would report directly to Generalmajor Neiber, Mielke's first deputy. Enke's former boss Oberst Seufert was the only man from the old team who would remain, assisted by his new aide Oberstleutant Bauer and liaison officers Hauptmann Rudolph and Oberleutnant Kiihn.7

While Enke's career was being deboned, he was sent home to his apartment in Berlin-Griinau. He was to remain on call, with a safe installed in his house, although the Secretariat envisaged an outflow of confidential material from the apartment rather than a continuation of the old days during which Paul Enke was left alone to stockpile documents for which there was only one index, in his head.

Enke was required to sign a form that stated 'today even more than hitherto our activities and results must be kept strictly secret and conspiratorial in order to avoid supplying arguments to our enemies that may lead to politically-hostile [sic] actions against the GDR and the Soviet Union'. We wonder if he had been indiscreet before as well as prone to bouts of fantasy.

In future, only Oberst Seufert and Oberst Stolze, head of the Nazi archives, would have access to the Amber Room files. Further, 'the previous permission of Seufert must be obtained if it becomes necessary to contact citizens of other countries'.8

Another significant player in the old Amber Room investigation was also terminated. A handwritten note by Hauptmann Rudolph recorded: 'Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss should be deleted from any further utilization in the procedure "Operation Puschkin".' An attached note (that also confirmed what we have suspected all along, that Strauss was a Stasi collaborator) stated: 'Professor Strauss has been removed from the whole process of the Amber Room after the intervention of the Comrade Minister.'9 (After reunification Strauss's place of work, Humboldt University, would be exposed in the German press as a Stasi hothouse, with one in six professors and one in ten employees having had links to Mielke's ministry).

For Enke, there was to be some recompense. Seufert suggested that the Secretariat award him the Battle Decoration in gold (Kampforden) and a one-off bonus of L,500 Ostmarks - one month's salary.10 But surely nothing could console Enke, having been forced out of that which he created.

Once Enke had turned over his paperwork, he was ordered to complete his long-overdue book, an exercise that the Ministry of Truth files stated was 'critical to the success of the new "Operation Puschkin"'. The Secretariat had ditched Enke's dogmatic title in favour of something more pithy: Bernsteinzimmer Report. Enke was given just months in which to polish his manuscript and, to hurry him along, two Stasi-approved Lektors (editors) were hired: Wolfgang Ney, Humboldt University professor of criminology and Dr Manfred Kirmse, director of the Documentation Centre at the State Archives Administration.11 No mention yet of Giinter Wermusch or Die Wirtschaft, the eventual publishers.

According to Ministry of Truth files, the latter chapters of Bernsteinzimmer Report would provide a 'description of the finding of the new tracks of the Amber Room in Thuringia', proving that 'arriving from Konigsberg, the unique art collection of Erich Koch, including the Amber Room, had been stored in the State Museum of Weimar and that on 9 or 10 April [1945] these collections had been taken to a place of safety away from the approaching US Army. The man in charge of the double relocation of the collections was Albert Popp.' The book would 'succeed in proving that a man living in the GDR and serving as an informant to the Soviet government (a.k.a. 'Rudi Ringel') told how his father was supposed to have concealed the Amber Room and that as a result of the author's research... new tracks [of 'Rudi Ringel's' story] point to western Saxony, a version supported by information emanating from the Soviet Union which was passed under conditions of confidentiality to the author'.12

Given the internal investigation into 'Rudi Ringel's' evidence, the failed digs in Saxony and the pensioning off of Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, still today the most famous book on the Amber Room mystery, was shaping up to be a classic exercise in disinformation. In a report to Generalmajor Neiber, Oberst Seufert confirmed this, writing: 'The book is to be published to lend new impulses to the search.'13

While Enke sweated over his manuscript, Seufert picked through his subordinate's files and began to discover significant gaps. Enke had never seen Professor Brusov's assessment of Konigsberg Castle Museum director Alfred Rohde, written in 1945, or Anatoly Kuchumov's dismantling of it in 1946. Enke had never been shown any of Kuchumov's 1946 interrogations. Or a transcript of Kuchumov's interview with of Dr Gerhard Strauss in the Hotel Moscow in Kaliningrad in 1949. In fact, Enke had mislaid the Stasi's entire file on Gerhard Strauss, an incident that now led to a high-level inquiry, with one Stasi directorate head writing to another: 'This file could be of great importance to our investigations but for operative reasons it cannot be located. We have already been looking for it in the State Archives Administration and the Central State Archive in Potsdam with no result. Do you have it?'14

Although Enke's main investigations to date hinged on the theory that the former Gauleiter Erich Koch had ordered the evacuation of the Amber Room and that it had been shipped from East Prussia alongside Koch's private art collection, Seufert reported that Enke had never seen Strauss's cross-examination in Warsaw of Erich Koch from June 1959 (in which Koch stated that it would have been impossible to evacuate the Amber Room to Germany). Instead Enke had derived his intelligence on the former Gauleiter almost exclusively from Polish and Soviet newspapers.

The Gauleiter of Saxony, Martin Mutschmann, had signed off all art transports into his state and yet Enke had found no documents connecting Mutschmann with the Amber Room. Although it was an open secret that the Red Army had probably found Mutschmann in the Erzgebirge in May 1945 and taken him back to Moscow, Enke had made no formal request to the KGB for intelligence. There was no evidence (aside from that given by an aged Weimar art dealer) that Albert Popp, the man who had evacuated Hitler's half-sister, had also been the driver of the Red Cross van bearing Koch's art collection to the Erzgebirge. There were no witnesses or corroborative facts that supported the claim that the man in the passenger seat was 'Rudi Ringel's' father. Not only had Enke based his investigations on one source alone ('Rudi Ringel'), he had also tailored the source's statement to fit his own theory. While we had read in Kuchumov's original debriefing of 'Rudi Ringel' that BSCH (the supposed codename for the secret Amber Room storage facility) was described as in Konigsberg, Paul Enke placed it in East Germany.

Oberst Stolze wrote to Generalmajor Neiber, warning him of an even more worrying factor. In reviewing Enke's interrogations of old East Prussians, Stolze had discovered that virtually every German citizen questioned by the Stasi in connection with the Amber Room story had already been quizzed by the Soviets at the end of the war. Stolze wrote: 'It has been ascertained that in the post-war years, the Soviet Union... undertook intensive measures in the territory of the GDR to find the Amber Room. Many of the persons and objects of these searches, which had been undertaken at the time, have reappeared in our inquiry.' If the Stasi and KGB had the same motives in searching for the Amber Room, why had the Soviets not shared their findings, Stolze queried, and saved the Stasi time and money?15

On 28 October 1980 the Stasi wrote to the KGB in Moscow to rectify the situation. 'In our efforts to obtain new hints, indications or documents which could lead to the finding of the Amber Room we are asking for any information from your archives, card indexes and other sources in the USSR in connection with the enclosed questionnaire.'16 Attached was a thirteen-page list of what the Stasi needed: intelligence on Nazi organizations, eyewitnesses and suspects. The request was copied to the chairman of the KGB and the KGB liaison in Berlin-Karlshorst.

While it waited for a response, the Stasi recruited more staff to help comb through the old Amber Room files, dispatching a constant stream of briefing papers to deputy minister Neiber, including a twenty-three-page report dated 11 January E982 containing new indexes for locations, transport firms, digging sites, witnesses and names of former Nazis. There were chronological lists of newspaper articles, alphabetical tables of Nazi art depots, maps - scores of them, now sorted and classified - and photographs too. All of Enke's theories on the Amber Room's disappearance were anatomized. Buried towards the end of one of these reports was a significant concession: perhaps the Amber Room had remained concealed in Kaliningrad after all.17

The Secretariat signed off a fifteen-page recommendation on 2E January 1982: 'Political-Operative Plan of Steps for Cooperation between Foreign Security Services for the "Operation Puschkin" investigation'. It was a plea to brother intelligence organizations to share information with the Stasi. The KGB in Moscow was petitioned again to open their files and the Polish security services were asked again for access to Erich Koch, who was still alive.18

By February 1982 Generalmajor Neiber was actively involved. He proposed a top-level delegation, 'a business trip of a working task force by five MfS members to the Soviet Union's KGB'. Steeped in Mielke's lexicon, Neiber wrote: 'Duration - four days. To take place in May 1982...for the further harmonization, liaison and cooperation in the realization of the planned political and operational measures, necessitated through the Security Process "Puschkin" No. XV 3241/80 as controlled by the office of the Comrade Deputy Minister'. Translation: let's work together, please. Yet even in matters of international significance there was the old Stasi banality. Neiber signed off his report with a coda: 'It has been agreed that the delegation will travel by aeroplane to and from Moscow.'19 An attached letter - 'Berlin 02/1982, For Information Only, to Generalmajor Karli Coburger' - set out the delicate nature of the trip.

The [Soviet] documents relating to persons and objects [that we have received] following a request to the Investigation Department of the KGB, which had been dispatched in October 1980, had been useful only in the partial clarification of some subjects in the range of investigations... The results transmitted remained within a narrow framework and did not lead to clarification of the basic matters of concern in this process.'

Translation: the Stasi request to the KGB for help, made sixteen months earlier, had achieved little.20

Neiber would sort out the trouble. He forwarded a list of key Soviet figures that the Stasi delegation would like to meet: 'Comrade A. M. Kutschumow, Comrade Xenia Agarfornova, Comrade Jelena Storozhenko (Geological-Archaeological Expedition, Kaliningrad), Comrade W. D. Krolewski (search commission, Kaliningrad), Comrade Julia Semjonow (long-term Soviet newspaper correspondent in the FRG and now in based Moscow)'.

In a correspondence file for the Stasi district office in Magdeburg we learn the fate of deputy minister Neiber's trumpeted mission to Moscow.21 It was cancelled at the last minute - by the Soviets. Magdeburg reported to East Berlin that it had uncovered a potential informer, 'Comrade M... who is capable of making a statement clearing up some details about the Amber Room'. Magdeburg was delighted with its find and wanted to know if it should interrogate Comrade M locally or send him to headquarters. But East Berlin advised Magdeburg to do nothing: 'The proposal for [Neiber's] trip to Moscow... has been rejected. Deputy Comrade Minister Generalmajor Neiber has decided that overall charge of the political-operational handling of the entire above-mentioned complex must remain in the hands of the "fraternal authorities"...' Translation: the Stasi was bowing to the KGB. 'With a large degree of probability the main part of the Amber Room had still been stored in 1945 in Konigsberg,' East Berlin informed Magdeburg, effectively telling the district office to stop looking for it in East Germany. All Stasi efforts to locate the Amber Room in East Germany had been a waste of time.

However, the Ministry of Truth files do record that there was another visit to Moscow in the spring of 1982 concerning the Amber Room. A handwritten note dated 22 February reported that Comrade Enke had called in with some startling news: 'A ten-person commission led by FRG citizen George Stein has arrived in the Soviet Union to talk about the BZ.'22

Moscow was courting a West German.

We have come across George Stein before.23 Gerhard Strauss's son, Stephan, had told us that a 'George Stein' had been a frequent visitor to their house in Heinrich-Mann-Platz. We had also spotted the name on a grizzly dossier of deaths (said to be connected with the Amber Room) that had been shown to us by the staff of the Catherine Palace in St Petersburg (although we saw it so briefly we couldn't understand its meaning). And we have seen the name in a Ministry of Truth file, in papers that revealed the Stasi would have been familiar with George Stein too, since he had come to its attention during what Erich Mielke would have described as a 'favourable political-operative situation': the return to Moscow of missing Soviet treasure.

In 1966 George Stein, a strawberry farmer from Stelle, a village south-west of Hamburg, had begun to scour West German archives in his free weekends, looking for information about the Amber Room. It was an exciting hobby for a man who had been raised in the former East Prussia.

He began his research with the war. In state archives in Bonn he read how, despite the division of Germany into Allied zones at the Yalta Conference in February 1945, a race had ensued to reach the Nazi hoards. In April 1945 the US Army had beaten the Red Army to Thuringia (in the Soviet Zone) and removed the Reichsbank reserves, 'LOO tons of gold and silver bullion'.24 From the Soviet Zone US troops also took priceless German art collections, as well as Soviet treasures looted by the Nazis that had been stored beside them. Stein considered the possibility that the Amber Room had been found by US troops and taken back to America.

Art works stolen by the Nazis, hidden in German mines and found by American troops in April 1945

He read how the USA had tried to placate Stalin in 1945 by assuring him that all Soviet art would be returned, and between 1946 and 1948 the USA sent to the USSR tens of thousands of crates. There was, however, no apology for taking the gold and German art collections from the Soviet Zone. By March 1949, with Berlin blockaded, the wrangle over reparations and the bitterness felt by the Soviets at losing out contributed to the freezing of relations between East and West.

Stein read in the Bonn archive how Marshal Vasily Sokolovsky, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Occupation Forces, accused his American counterpart, General Lucius Clay, of 'deliberate spoilage or theft'.25 The US dismissed the claim as Stalinist propaganda, stating that the only Soviet items it continued to hold on to were politically sensitive documents, such as the Smolensk Communist Party Archive, which 'served their purpose as a training ground for American Sovietology'.26 If we have hoarded Soviet art, the Americans challenged Moscow, show us the proof.

In 1972, Stein found it. In the Ministry of Truth files, we come across a report on Stein's researches, written by Paul Enke, that stated Stein had discovered in the Bonn archive (a place barred to the Soviets and East Germans) a letter dated 27 April 1955 from Dr Clemens Weiler, director of West Germany's Wiesbaden City Museum. In the letter, Weiler explained how he had been made responsible for numerous art works left behind by the Americans after they had closed their central art collection point, which was based in Wiesbaden, in E951. Four years later Dr Weiler was offering some of these art works, specifically a collection of Russian icons, to another West German museum, the Kunsthalle in Recklinghausen.27

Stein probed and found more correspondence about the Russian icons, this time letters from Clemens Weiler to Ardelia Hall, head of the US Restitution Program at the Department of State in Washington. Weiler reported to Hall his intentions to pass on the icons and Hall advised him to dispose of them as he saw fit, requesting only that they be made 'as accessible to the public as possible'. There was no discussion about returning the icons to the Soviet Union.28

In 1972 Stein drove to Recklinghausen and discovered that the deal had gone ahead. In fact the Russian icons were still there, locked up in a third-floor store. He contacted a family friend who had been part of the wartime resistance in Konigsberg, Marion Donhoff, the famous 'Red Countess of East Prussia', who after the war had become the publisher of Die Zeit newspaper. The story Marion Donhoff printed forced the Recklinghausen museum to defend itself. Its spokesman claimed that the wooden icons had been locked away only 'to avoid infestation with moths' - hardly a convincing argument - and failed to answer the question of what icons belonging to the Soviet Union were doing in a West German museum in the first place. The West German government too made little effort to apologize. Helmut Rumpf, a Foreign Office spokesman, issued a statement: 'You know what it is like, the personnel in charge changed, the files were taken to the archives and then all was forgotten.' Rumpf also turned on George Stein, describing him as 'a zealous whinger looking for a life's task'.29 West German newspapers agreed, accusing Stein of being a traitor, a liar and a fantasist.

But the story would not go away. What Stein had found was one of the Soviet Union's most precious missing devotional treasures, the Byzantine icons from the Mirozhsky Monastery in Pskov. They had been stolen by the Nazis in the autumn of 1941, packed into crates along with ruby-studded crucifixes, bishops' crowns encrusted with precious stones, and gold and silver chalices, and shipped to Castle Colmberg in Bavaria in 1944. There they had been discovered by American forces, who had taken them to Wiesbaden in April 1945.

As soon as the story went public, the Soviets lodged an appeal for the return of the treasures and the West German Foreign Office was forced to back down. On 14 May 1973, amid a barrage of negative publicity in West Germany, where curators called for Moscow to hand back items allegedly looted by the Red Army in 1945 (including a Gutenberg Bible, stained glass from St Mary's in Frankfurt an der Oder, the 'Trojan Gold', drawings by Diirer and the entire collection of the Bremen Kunsthalle), the Pskov icons were repatriated to the Soviet Union. In Moscow, the West German Consul-General presented them to Patriarch Pimen, head of the Russian Orthodox Church, who then awarded George Stein the Star of the Order of St Vladimir Second Class, a cross worn around the fruit farmer's neck on which was embossed the motto 'Usefulness, Honour and Glory'.30

Lionized in Russia, George Stein returned to West Germany in June 1973 to be belittled as a meddling hobby-Hist or iker by bristling and chauvinistic elements in the West German press. But according to the Ministry of Truth files, what the Stasi had identified as a 'favourable political-operative situation' (the Soviets and East Germans portrayed as preyed upon by the greedy West, which was forced by one of its own citizens to return stolen art) rapidly deteriorated into a 'politically hostile situation' (the Soviets and East Germans demonized by that same citizen - George Stein).

Stein learned from irate West German museum curators that extensive files concerning secret Nazi art storage facilities and the fate of the Amber Room had been amassed by the USSR and GDR. He began demanding access to them and in particular he repeatedly wrote and called the State Archives Administration in East Berlin (the place where the Stasi's own Amber Room expert, Oberstleutnant Paul Enke, worked undercover as researcher Dr P. Kohler).

In the Ministry of Truth we found this report, written by Paul Enke:

[day and month blacked out], 1975. in connection with problems of exchange of works of art, my department has unofficially learned that George Stein is...trying to force the USSR and the GDR to make available and accessible information that is closed about the hiding place of art treasures and especially the Amber Room of Pushkin. In 1974 and on 3 July 1975 George Stein has asked our Documentation Centre of the State Archives Administration for assistance in his search for the Amber Room. On 18 August 1975 he received a reply that in spite of detailed researches there is no information about the Amber Room in the archives of the GDR.31

But the Stasi had underestimated how tenacious George Stein could be. When he received the letter from the State Archives Administration on E 8 August 1975, brushing him aside, he turned to press contacts he had made after recovering the Pskov icons. He called up 'Red Countess' Marion Donhoff of Die Zeit, Anthony Terry at The Sunday Times in London and reporters on the Washington Post. He accused the East German and Soviet governments of withholding sensitive information about the Amber Room, hobbling those who were making genuine attempts to find it. Stein's accusations immediately picked up speed, as the Freie Welt and Kaliningradskaya Pravda stories had by now percolated into the West, creating great interest in the Amber Room.

In the Ministry of Truth files, the Stasi's alarm was palpable. Enke's boss Generaloberst Biichner and Stasi deputy minister Generaloberst Beater immediately demanded further intelligence about the activities of George Stein. Beater and Biichner were advised by Enke:

West German hobby-Hist or iker George Stein is talking to the English and American press, saying that the GDR and USSR are hindering attempts to find art works like the Amber Room, that the GDR and USSR have information about the hiding places of art treasures that they do not want to publish. We cannot allow this threatened press campaign by Stein to interfere with the cultural agreements being negotiated between the GDR and FRG.32

West German citizen George Stein had blundered into Ostpolitik. West Germany had held out its hand to Moscow, making peaceful overtures, and for its part Moscow and East Berlin were being made to look recalcitrant. George Stein would have to be headed off.

The files show that it was Professor Dr Gerhard Strauss who was brought in to handle the delicate negotiations. Strauss called George Stein to say that the GDR and USSR were keen to share information about the search for the Amber Room. He invited Stein to Heinrich-Mann-Platz for dinner (which must have been when Stephan Strauss, Gerhard's son, met him) and in the course of the evening explained that the GDR was not being obstructive but was a stickler for protocol. All future inquiries should be directed via him to a Dr Paul Kohler, senior researcher at the Documentation Centre of the State Archives Administration. Dr Kohler would provide relevant documents in exchange for sight of Stein's own research in Western archives and he would even pay for the material.

Stein must have been flattered to be courted by such a prestigious East German cultural scholar as Strauss and to be offered money for what he had so far had to fund from his own pocket. He readily agreed, but could not have known that Paul Kohler at the archives was Paul Enke of the Stasi.

The watchers in the East would now manipulate George Stein. A Stasi report noted: 'Based on Stein's inquiry at the State Archives in Potsdam we have the possibility of establishing specialized contacts via Comrade Enke which have been useful in giving Stein hints about objects and persons in [West Germany] which he could follow up much better than we could.'33 The portal operated in both directions. Stein would be fed information that the East wanted publicized and fetch from the West that which the East couldn't reach.

Within two years, evidence of the success of this strategy would appear. On 23 April 1977 the West German newspaper Der Tagesspiegel carried an exclusive story: 'One of the most famous collections of amber in the world that belonged to Konigsberg University, considered to be lost in the last days of war, has been found in Gottingen University.' During a spring-clean at the geological department, staff at the West German university were said to have broken open two wooden boxes to find 1,1oo exceptionally fine pieces of amber. They bore handwritten labels in Gothic script: 'Institute of Palaeontology and Geology, Albertus-University, Konigsberg, East Prussia'. We recall that part of this collection had been found in Konigsberg by Soviet investigator Professor Alexander Brusov in 1945. At the time Brusov had advised Moscow that the best pieces of this collection had already been evacuated by Nazis from the city. Now they had turned up in West Germany, where it appeared that Gottingen University had been sitting on them for thirty-two years.34

George Stein confronted the university with a series of incriminating documents. One of them, dated 1 November 1944, was from a curator at Konigsberg's Albertus-University, Herr Hoffman. Writing to Hauptmann Peters, Munitions Department, Volpriehausen, Lower Saxony (a pit village twelve miles north-west of Gottingen University), Hoffman said: 'The transporter of this letter has two wooden trunks with the most valuable pieces of amber from the collection of the Prussian state. Please keep them in a place which is specially guarded.' One wagon of valuables had already been sent, Hoffman added, and another 'containing irreplaceable art items of the university will come next week, addressed to the Burgermeister'.35

Irreplaceable items - the same words used by Alfred Rohde when writing in December 1944 of his intention to evacuate the Amber Room. Across the bottom of the Hoffman letter was a postscript: 'It makes sense to address the boxes during transport with "ammo dept" so as not to bring them to the attention of others, since they are filled with priceless goods.' On the back of the letter were two handwritten notes, one of which was dated 7 November 1944, and recorded a call from Hauptmann Peters saying that 'everything went smoothly'. The other, dated 4 January 1945, advised: 'The placement of the Konigsberg salvage items has been completed.' Stein had found proof that East Prussian treasures were moving west.36 Could Stein possibly have found genuine tracks of the Amber Room too?

Reporters from Der Tagesspiegel learned from residents of Volpriehausen (the pit village named in the Hoffman letter) that heavily loaded trucks had been seen arriving at the mine in November 1944 and January 1945 - dates that corresponded with the transports from Konigsberg. In September 1945 the entrance of the pit had been blasted shut by the Allies as they withdrew. The following year a Gottingen University professor had gathered a group of students to mount an amateur salvage operation and they had descended L,625 feet down the main shaft on ropes, managing to recover 360,000 partially burnt books. Only the collapse of the roof at the end of the main tunnel had prevented them from continuing. When the Der Tagesspiegel reporters were shown some of the books in 1977, they noticed the stamp of Konigsberg University library. Stein announced that the Amber Room was in the pit and he would lead a team of specialists into the tunnels to salvage it.

But George Stein had no money and in 1978 began to noisily lobby the West German Bundestag to fund the excavation. The Stasi carefully monitored each stage of this 'Volpriehausen episode'. In one report Enke wrote: 'Professor Dietrich of the SPD [Social Democrat Party] initiated several questions in the Bundestag on behalf of George Stein, including specific queries about fascist depots in Volpriehausen.'37 Enke reported that in the village of Stelle, Stein and his wife, Elisabeth, were besieged by newspaper reporters and that right-wing newspapers were asking why West Germans should be concerned with restocking Russian museums when their own were still bare.38

The Bonn government was unimpressed with Stein's campaign. Chancellor Helmut Schmidt refused permission to excavate. There was insufficient evidence to warrant the expenditure. And what was in it for the FRG, apart from expiation of guilt?

On 1 December 1978 Die Zeit published more evidence from George Stein that he claimed connected the Amber Room to the Volpriehausen pit. It included a letter from 6 March 1944, written by the Nazi Kreisleitung (district administration) that identified the Volpriehausen pit as a vital storage depot with 7,000 square feet of available space. Another document, dated 29 December 1944, reported how twenty-four railway wagons filled with books and valuables had safely arrived at the pit. Die Zeit informed readers that the source of much of Stein's classified and pristine material was 'Dr Paul Kohler in the GDR', whom Stein described as 'my good friend'. Stein claimed that the most compelling document was a copy of a wartime telex concerning 'enterprise Amber Room' that showed how the treasure had been evacuated from Konigsberg in the spring of 1945. Stein told Die Zeit that the telex reported how the room was eventually concealed 'in a place codenamed BSCHW, a cipher that could be unpicked to mean 'B-Tunnel [Volpriehausen]'. The head of the secret operation SS Sturmbannfiihrer Ringel apparently signed the telex.39

Suddenly we realize that the Volpriehausen episode was a highly successful diversionary ploy. While the Stasi had secretly suspended all of its own operations connected to the source 'Rudi Ringel', it had recycled his dubious evidence for a new purpose - through George Stein. BSCH, the secret hiding place of the Amber Room, was becoming nomadic: first in Kaliningrad, then in East Germany and now in West Germany, alongside 'Rudi Ringel's' father, the lame post office security guard who appeared to have signed a telex in 1945 using a pseudonym given by the Stasi in E959. It was all getting rather far-fetched.

We can see how conveniently this bad publicity played out for the Stasi. To the delight of the authorities in the East, Bonn once again appeared to be intransigent and chauvinistic, while the Soviet Union's wartime losses were highlighted through the fate of the Amber Room.

The Soviets contacted the Stasi, asking for more background information and a character assessment of George Stein. In his reply, Paul Enke made certain that he was not eclipsed by his West German mole:

I suggest you don't really expect anything sensational from this source...Stein works with somewhat dubious methods, for instance with forgeries. The motives for these practices are not quite clear to us. Maybe it is only the greed for sensationalism and the need for so-called scoops inherent in Capitalism. Just recently Stein published in the Hamburg weekly Die Zeit four reports about the storage of the Amber Room in the pits near Gottingen. According to a statement by Stein... he has a copy of a wartime telex that writes about the conclusion of 'enterprise Amber Room' that is supposed to be graced with the signature 'Ringel'. But as we are all aware, the name Ringel is only a pseudonym given to our 'object' in 1959, therefore it can hardly be the signature on a letter from 1945. This is only one further example of Stein's talent for invention.40

This was a bold statement from a Stasi man who would already have known that he was about to be investigated in connection with his reliance on the dubious evidence presented by 'Rudi Ringel'. But Enke's unflattering portrait of Stein failed to put the Soviets off the scent.

Five months later, flattering articles about George Stein began to appear in the Literaturnaya Gazeta, & highbrow Soviet literary journal, under the byline of its Bonn correspondent, Julian Semyonov. This must be the 'Comrade Julia Semjonow' that Stasi deputy minister Neiber requested to see on his planned mission to the KGB in Moscow in 1982.

In May 1979 Semyonov wrote an article headlined 'A West German Citizen from the Village of Stelle'.41 He described the scene:

I am sitting here in the home of the married couple Stein in the village of Stelle near Hamburg. Wooden beams blackened by the wind from the sea lie across the white walls of this genuine Hanseatic house as I listen to the story. Like every enthusiastic person [George Stein's] language is unclear, rapid and jumps from one subject to another. George Stein knew that the search for the Amber Room had to continue and this is his story...

The thousands of words that follow tell how Stein had inadvertently become 'Europe's most successful Second World War treasure-hunter'.

Semyonov revealed that Stein's interest in Nazi loot was sparked in 1966 when, laid up in a sanatorium at the foot of the Matterhorn, recovering from a car accident, he read a series of articles by Anthony Terry in The Sunday Times about Erich Koch's prison-cell confessions concerning the Amber Room. Semyonov revealed that Stein, a native of East Prussia, vowed to find the Amber Room as a tribute to his family. His father, a Konigsberg industrialist, had been part of the wartime resistance, while Dorothea-Luisa, Stein's sister, had worked at Konigsberg Castle as an assistant to Alfred Rohde. Can this possibly be true? It seems a little neat. Semyonov continued: George Stein had been conscripted to defend the city, which he did until he was captured by the Red Army in May 1944, only learning after his release from camps in Uzbekistan and Leningrad that the SS had executed his entire family on discovering their links to the resistance and the 'Red Countess' Marion Donhoff. Putting his tragic past behind him, Stein had migrated to Stelle, married Elisabeth, the daughter of a local farmer, and settled down to grow strawberries, until he crashed his car into a traffic policeman and ended up in Switzerland, bored and compulsively scanning the newspapers.

A photograph of Stein shows a large, jovial man with a harelip and thick-rimmed glasses, ostentatiously smoking a cigarette at a dinner table, a wine glass before him - a bon viveur dining out on a flush of stories.

George Stein

Julian Semyonov revealed that, having pressed the West German government to dig at Volpriehausen, Stein's life was now in danger. Hate mail had arrived at his home in Stelle. Semyonov wrote: 'George Stein has found out through innumerable threatening letters and public hostility how close the criminal past is connected with the present in the Federal Republic of Germany.'

Enke clipped everything Semyonov wrote about Stein and the Amber Room, pasting it into his files. Several translations have notes scribbled in the top left-hand corners, showing that the articles were referred up the hierarchy to the deputy minister and to Mielke himself. Key sentences were underlined, all of which were quotes from George Stein about 'my good friend Dr Paul Kohler in the GDR'. Paul Kohler was in danger of being unmasked as Stasi agent.

Paul Enke had to get alongside Semyonov. The flamboyant, hard-drinking Soviet journalist was well known to the Ministry for State Security. A graduate of Moscow University, Semyonov had begun publishing fiction in 19 5 8 and by the time he was posted to Bonn in the early 1970S, he was the author of a bestselling series of spy novels starring Maxim Stirlitz, a cultured Soviet agent who could speak almost every European language 'with the exception of Irish and Albanian'. While readers in the West were thrilled by Ian Fleming's You Only Live Twice and Diamonds are Forever, bibliophiles in the East bought Semyonov's Diamonds for the Dictatorship of the Proletariat and He Killed Me Near Luang Prabang. However, unlike James Bond, the Stirlitz novels were meticulously rooted in historical fact and advanced a propagandist agenda, such as the storyline in which the spy exposed an attempt by Britain and the United States to make a peace-pact with Hitler, opening a united front against the Soviet Union (something that the KGB archives reveal that Stalin had actually believed when he forged the non-aggression pact with Germany of 1939). With access to limitless visas and a capacious expense account, Semyonov travelled the world researching his books. By the time he began to write about George Stein he had served as president of the International Association of Crime Writers. Semyonov insisted that it was his success with Stirlitz that bought him his freedom and connections, but few other writers in the Soviet Union at this time were given carte blanche like this.42

The Stasi Secretariat viewed Semyonov's interest in Stein as a possible threat. Stein was a Stasi source, a useful tool that it did not want to lose to the Russians. The German Amber Room operation was run by the Stasi from the East and not George Stein in the West. The Stasi would have to engineer a collaborative relationship with Semyonov. They would do it 'through the mediation of a female comrade by the name of [name blacked out]'.

We do not know what actually happened between Semyonov and this 'female comrade' (name blacked out), but on 31 October E979 Enke received a series of telephone calls at his home, 'several very urgent requests' to meet Semyonov at the Soviet Embassy at 10 p.m. Enke wrote an account of what happened next for his deputy minister Generalmajor Neiber: 'At 22:00, on return from his official trip, I met [Semyonov] at the embassy and I then accompanied him to the railway station, from where he continued his journey to Moscow around midnight.' Always the minutiae before the meat. 'Semyonov informed me as follows. He had concluded his activities in Bonn, Vienna, Geneva and The Hague and intended to get on with some of his literary projects during the following period of time.'

Both men talked about the fact the other was preparing a book on the Amber Room and, according to Enke, agreed to co-author a two-volume edition. Enke wrote: 'The first volume would deal with the history of the room as well as the activities of the imperialist secret services and the counter-espionage engaged in the fight against such machinations.' It sounded like a plotline from Stirlitz. Enke, who, according to his personal file, had as a young man been desperate to become a journalist, was flattered by the attentions of his new and famous acquaintance. There was even an invitation dangled by the celebrated Soviet writer. Enke wrote: 'Julian Semyonov announced a forthcoming visit for me to Moscow for the premiere of a play he has written.'43 It is a shame we cannot see what Semyonov reported to the KGB about Paul Enke.

Believing they had engineered a positive relationship with Julian Semyonov, the Stasi now felt confident enough to reactivate Stein and soon he was used to plant another story. A letter written by Enke on LO September 1981 reported that Alfred Rohde's written assurances of September 1944 that the Amber Room had survived the Allied air raids 'will [soon] be utilized in the article to appear in October in Die Zeit. On this occasion we will remember that 14 October is the fortieth anniversary of the date on which the Amber Room was dragged out from Pushkin on eighteen trucks laden with works of art... We will continue to support [Stein] as much as we can.'44

But the following February, in 1982, George Stein was invited to Moscow without the Stasi's prior knowledge at a time when the Stasi deputy minister's request for a visit to Moscow had been rejected by the KGB. A West German hobby-Historiker was welcomed to the Soviet Union at the head of a commission searching for the Amber Room, while the dutiful Stasi's Amber Room operation remained marooned in East Berlin.

There was now even more need for the Stasi to find the Amber Room and return it to Russia.

'All these comrades are our models and teachers for our work,' Erich Mielke once wrote of the leaders of Soviet Russia.45 He and his ministry would, at least in public, maintain unquestioning loyalty to Moscow Central until the very end.

The KGB made certain. Moscow attached a KGB colonel to every Stasi directorate and all Stasi intelligence was fed back to Moscow and into a super-computer called SOUD (System of Unified Registration of Data on the Enemy) that could place an enemy operative into any one of fifteen categories. Regardless of how it was treated by the KGB, George Stein or no George Stein, the Stasi always gritted its teeth.46

In September 1982, four months after Stein's mission to Moscow, Mielke also flew to Russia for talks with his KGB counterpart, Chairman Vitaly Fedorchuk. East German workers already footed the bill for apartments, kindergartens, cars, furnishings and everything else needed by the 2,500-strong KGB team at Berlin-Karlshorst. And on LO September 1982 Mielke signed a thirty-eight-page protocol pledging absolute loyalty and a further extension of his ministry's financial support. An indication of the enormity of the sums involved comes from a Soviet estimate equivalent to 19,ooo dollars to refurbish just one KGB apartment in East Berlin, at a time when the average East German earned the equivalent of 33 dollars a month.47

So tight-knit were the connections between the KGB and the Stasi that in November 1989, as the Berlin Wall came down, dozens of KGB teams flew into Berlin to destroy documents stored at Stasi headquarters, preventing the exposure of live operations and the links between Moscow and the Stasi leadership.

However, the KGB sweepers were not entirely thorough. Amid the thousands of pages of Amber Room files at the Ministry of Truth we found an extremely rare letter written by Erich Mielke (famous for his reluctance to commit anything to paper). It concerned the Amber Room and was addressed to Comrade Viktor Mikhailovich Chebrikov, who became chairman of the KGB in December 1982.

The letter revealed how Mielke had used his scheduled September 1982 trip to Moscow to resuscitate 'Operation Puschkin'. Although the Stasi must still have been smarting from seeing George Stein reach Moscow before them, Mielke put the episode behind him and sought out Chebrikov, who was then KGB deputy chairman.

'Dear Comrade Tschebrikow!' Mielke wrote. 'During my visit in the autumn of 1982 I passed to you a progress report on the state of the search [for the Amber Room] in the GDR. As it made clear the search on the territory of the GDR has been and still is justified. I wish to assure you that the GDR and her MfS will not rest or relax in their search for the whereabouts of the Amber Room and other treasures of world culture.'

Viktor Chebrikov, KGB chairman, with Erich Mielke (right), East Germany's Stasi chief, at Stasi headquarters, East Berlin, 1987

The minister wrote that he was certain that documents, witnesses and maps could still be found in East Germany to help unravel the mystery. But he was also at pains to assure the KGB that he did now recognize 'the possibility' that the Amber Room could have remained in the former Konigsberg 'or its nearer or further vicinity'.48 Mielke was distancing himself from the German theory, banked on by the Stasi for so many years, most likely in recognition of the damage caused by the 'Rudi Ringel' episode.

In February 1983 the Stasi received a response to Mielke's Amber Room progress report, but it did not come from the KGB. Oberst Seufert reported that Professor Vladimir Andreievich Bojarsky, of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, had made contact and 'stated that he was running a commission for research into the natural resources of the earth and... that his academy had recently been commissioned to carry out a further search after the Amber Room'. Seufert concluded: 'Bojarsky stated his conviction that it would be helpful to arrange a working consultation to be held in Moscow with Paul Enke.'49

That was it. No round of toasts at the Lubyanka, KGB headquarters. No dinner at the Kremlin. There was no way to disguise the poverty of relations. But the Stasi needed to grab any line it could get into the Soviet Amber Room inquiry and ordered Enke to reply.

However, even this lowly offer of a scientific exchange failed to materialize. More than a year later, Seufert wrote that Enke was still waiting for his invitation. All that had been received from Professor Bojarsky (and therefore from the USSR) over the past twelve months was 'noncommittal cards with good wishes on the occasion of certain [public] holidays, without any obligation'.50

But still the Stasi would not give up. Preserved in Generalmajor Neiber's files in the Ministry of Truth is a series of letters that reveal that while the deputy minister was 'rejected' by Moscow, Paul Enke (now retired on medical grounds) kept relations between the GDR and the USSR going by establishing a back-channel with Julian Semyonov. Most of their discussions concerned the ongoing work of George Stein.

April [day blacked out] 1984. My dear Julian, There have been no sensational developments about the Amber Room but I am sure you have seen the article published by Stein in the periodical Die Zeit. It contained a lot of nonsense. Stein seems to be becoming dangerous, due to his unrealistic trains of thought with the resulting self-deception, to which he seems to fall prey. If he continues as he proceeds at the moment he will certainly become a case for treatment.51

A search through Die Zeit's archive shows that in 1984 George Stein had revived his discredited Volpriehausen theory (that the Amber Room had been evacuated to a pit near the West German city of Gottingen). That year Stein also made new approaches for funding to West Germany's conservative coalition of Chancellor Helmut Kohl. It declined but, aware of how previous governments had been portrayed as unrehabilitated nationalists, the coalition issued a holding statement: 'For some time the Federal Government has made efforts to clarify the whereabouts of the lost Amber Room [and] will continue her efforts to find it.'52

Enke's letter to Semyonov continued:

After an interruption of several months we are working again on the opening of an old mine for which there are indications that it might have been selected in 1944-5 as a depository for works of art. At the request of my comrades we have now decided to publish the provisional results of our researches. It will turn out to become two publications around which I currently negotiate with publishers. Due to the shortage of paper the print run may be too low. I embrace you and send you the warmest fraternal regards and messages of congratulations on the anniversary of the victory over Hitler's fascism.

The Ministry of Truth files confirmed that in 1984 Seufert's 'Operation Puschkin' team was targeting a new site at Langenstein, a village in the foothills of Brocken Mountain, an area riddled with lead, copper and zinc reserves.53 It was miles away from the Erzgebirge and Enke's previous hypothesis and the dig site was surely symbolic, located near a high-security Soviet military base and a Stasi electronic eavesdropping station that overlooked the West German border. The Stasi would be seen digging by Russians and West Germans. We are pulled up short by the language Enke uses. 'We are working'. 'Our researches'. In fact Enke was at home with his incomplete manuscript, fighting to save Bernsteinzimmer Report from budget cuts. It must have been now that Enke called up Giinter Wermusch at Die Wirtschaft publishing house.

Another letter from Paul Enke.

15 May 1984. My dear Julian, I have heard that you have returned from South America to your native country. I do hope the large tour has been a success. Your readers and I myself will obviously be especially interested if you manage to trace the tracks of Martin Bormann. Following the forged Hitler Diaries, Der Stern of Hamburg has warmed up the legend that surmises that Martin Bormann could still be alive. Since Bormann was so obviously involved in the concealment of the Amber Room, the story would certainly create interest. I have just looked again at the correspondence between Martin Bormann and his wife. Extremely meaningful for the study of the psyche of this criminal. An author with whom I have become friendly claims to have located Gerda Bormann in Italy and to have spoken personally with her. He swore by all the saints in the calendar that this woman was really and truly Bormann's wife. You know my attitude to such 'sensations'. Comments are superfluous.54

Another month, another letter to Julian Semyonov and another conspiracy for Enke, who clearly yearned for the respect of his brother writer. His own problems, over forgeries and the 'Rudi Ringel' debacle, seemed to have been forgotten.

Enke continued:

Last month George Stein called at the State Archives Administration in Potsdam. He also tried to make contact with P. Kohler. But Kohler had been at the time on an extended journey to Cuba. I therefore had to represent Kohler and look after Stein... discussions that lasted four days. He informed us extensively about his work and about the clues he has been following, whereby I am afraid, regarding the Amber Room, the tracks followed were more in the realm of wishful thinking than in the region of reality. In spite of all this, it is still regrettable that although in this way a so-called German-Russian dialogue and exchange of experiences on the subject of the Amber Room has materialized it is, however, only in Berlin instead of in Moscow.

In creating his persona of a senior researcher at the Ministry of the Interior archives, Stasi officer Enke had borrowed the identity of a real employee, a man George Stein thought he had telephoned and even quoted in his articles, without realizing that he was actually dealing with a Stasi agent. Now Stein had arrived to meet Kohler in person and, with the real archivist on leave, Enke was brought out of retirement to maintain the deception. Enke obviously felt comfortable enough in his relationship with Semyonov to bemoan the state of play that had reduced the Stasi and KGB dialogue on the Amber Room to a circuitous correspondence, with Stein acting as witless intermediary.

'Translation from the Russian. Dear Paul' - an undated letter from Julian Semyonov to Paul Enke:

I was happy to receive a letter from you, many thanks. Following my Latin American impressions - I had been from January to April in Argentina, Paraguay, Peru, Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua - I have in spite of everything arrived at the full conviction that Bormann had been alive here. Especially since they mentioned to me the day of his death in Asuncion. He died seven years ago from [line blacked out]. He was too old (he did not deserve to live that long). The matter of George Stein is more complicated: his wife had died and this had affected him very much and then somebody - this has been my feeling - had begun to work against us, to try and influence him subtly against us, because he knew too much about the Nazis - this is very rare in the West. I am not going to write anything about this in the letter, better when we have a chance to meet face-to-face. I embrace you [name blacked out]. Kindest regards to all the buddies, comrades and friends, until we meet again, Julian Semyonov.55

What had led Semyonov to write in such a conspiratorial tone? We search newspaper archives in Hamburg and discover something shocking. Two years before this letter was sent, George Stein had reported to the police that on Good Friday he had been attacked by masked men who had stormed his house in Stelle, drugged him, tortured him and interrogated him about the Amber Room. Stein woke up later covered in blood and found a sheet of paper lying beside him on the floor with a strange motto in Latin scrawled upon it: 'If your disgraced servant is White, then Christ should spray his blood. If he is Red, Christ should extinguish him. If he is Black, Christ should let him die.'56 Another newspaper report revealed that, in the following summer, Elisabeth Stein was found hanged in the cellar of the family home. Semyonov claimed that Stein 'knew too much' and that 'somebody had begun to work against us', and yet while he suggested that Stein's injuries and his wife's death were somehow connected to the Amber Room search, he didn't want to write down who was responsible, possibly fearing that the letter would be intercepted.

We had taken lightly the Kaliningradskaya Pravda claim that Alfred Rohde had been murdered to stop him revealing the location of the Amber Room. In the 1960S it was revealed that his children, Lotti and Wolfgang, had in fact survived the war and were living in West Germany. Yet Semyonov was hinting at another possible murder. Was someone so desperate to keep the location of the Amber Room a secret that they were willing to kill? We read on and see that the last letter to Julian Semyonov was from an entirely different correspondent in the West. We have no idea how it ended up in the Stasi files.

8 December 1984. My dear Julian, I have not heard from you for some time. I do hope your health has improved. Good health is the most important thing in life... Amber Room: I am often corresponding and telephoning Stein. He really has no more money to carry on with his research trips and I am the only one who supports him financially. The sums I have lent him are already considerable. I do hope the two of us achieve positive results soon otherwise it would be a great pity for the pair of us to have made such a big effort. I wish you and your family a Happy New Year. Please tell your cousin Serge, I will bring his stomach pills with me when I visit in the spring (I have just received his order through TASS). Eduard.57

The letterhead is embossed with a crest: two horses rearing above a name and address, Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein, Villa Askania Nova, Vaduz, Liechtenstein. We have never heard of him, but for someone who clearly knew Stein intimately we are surprised that he makes no reference in this letter to Elisabeth Stein's recent death or to the attack on Stein himself. We are also surprised to see that George Stein must have been receiving two wage cheques for his Amber Room investigation from opposite ends of the political spectrum, one from the Stasi and another from a baron whose villa was named after a region in the southern Ukraine, making it possible that he was a White Russian exile. Maybe Stein was playing one off against the other and someone had had enough. Maybe this was the reason Stein was tortured and his wife found hanged.

There is one document left in our Ministry of Truth file, a KGB communique to the Stasi Secretariat. It abruptly states:

We... wish to let you know that according to a statement received from the authorized department at Section 5 of our Establishment, the search for the Amber Room has been discontinued on the territory of the Soviet Union... This decision was taken according to a resolution by the Council of Ministers of the RSFSR [Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic], adopted in October 1983. All the Organizations and Authorities which took part in the measures and searches will no longer occupy themselves with these tasks.58

Barely a year after George Stein was brutally assaulted and just months after Elisabeth Stein was found hanged, the Council of Ministers, the highest executive body in the Russian Federation, ordered the end of all searches for the Amber Room, bringing to a close thirty-seven years of secret investigations in a single paragraph. But for some reason they had failed to tell the Stasi for over two years, since this KGB communique was dated 15 April 1986.

11

The Hamburg phone book brims with 'Stein's. But there are none with the initial 'G' listed as living in the village of Stelle. Maybe the family fled the tragic house in whose cellars Elisabeth Stein was found hanged and in whose living room George Stein was drugged and tortured by men apparently seeking or protecting the Amber Room.

There is nothing to do but ring them all.

Do you know George Stein, we ask repeatedly. One male voice eventually answers 'Who's this?' At least he hasn't hung up. We are calling in connection with the Amber Room. Das Bernsteinzimmer. 'My father can't speak to you,' the man replies.

His father? Have we reached the right number for George Stein? 'Well, I - 1 suppose so. I - 1 - 1 am his son. I better see you. Not at the house, it is impossible. I - I will meet you outside Hamburg station tomorrow night. I sell strawberries in the day. My name? I am Robert, Robert Stein,' the man stammers in broken English, before replacing the handset.

George Stein's son had volunteered no description of himself and the next evening thousands of commuters mill around the Hamburg terminus. But at 8.10 p.m., as a stream of roller-bladers swoosh past, a lopsided man with wild hair and a beard, his black jeans held up by leather braces, wades through their midst, sending them flying, his eyes zeroing in on the copy of Bernsteinzimmer Report we hold in our hands.

'Ja, ja, Robert Stein. Sorry, I - I missed the train,' he mumbles. We sit at a station cafe and he looks over his shoulder before talking. 'Das Bernsteinzimmer broke our family. My mother said to my father, "You're a fruit farmer." Four children and 4,000 bushes. But our father ignored us and now I work on another man's farm. People say I - 1 am like him, that I am crazy. No, it is not true. I am finished with das Bernsteinzimmer story. I - I do not want to be a lost-treasure artist. I sell strawberries. Police came to the house in Stelle and took away thousands of pages from my father's archive. They said he had stolen them. "Good, I said. Take it all away."'

Had the authorities come to the house as a result of Elisabeth Stein's death, we ask? Had the family sold the house in Stelle soon after? I will never go back to Stelle. There is too much there to remind me of what happened,' he says distractedly.

What happened, we ask, trying to settle him down? Robert Stein's eyes are fearful: 'People came to the house. I - 1 don't know names. All the time my father, he goes away. I don't see him.' He is staring mournfully at his empty beer glass. 'The Baron, he finds people who say they know where is das Bernsteinzimmer. He asks my father to run all over Germany. My father spends all our money. He sells our bushes, he sells our land, he sells our farm, our home.'

Is he talking about Baron Falz-Fein, the man who wrote to Soviet crime writer Julian Semyonov about George Stein and the Amber Room in December 1984, we ask? I cannot talk about the Baron, you must ask him yourself.' So the Baron is still alive. Robert Stein starts rambling again. 'My father was always afraid. I don't know of what, but it started in Konigsberg in the Second World War.' He curls strands of hair around his fingers, singeing the ends with a roll-up cigarette. 'He broke my mother's heart. She murdered herself. Too much blood.'

Desperate for precision, we ask directly if Robert Stein's mother killed herself. Was her death connected to the Amber Room? 'Of course my mother's death was connected to das Bernsteinzimmer. To my father's search for it,' he says. 'Everything comes back to the das Bernsteinzimmer. Three days before my father was in blood, a man came to the house. I rang this man later and he denied having been there. Why? I learned from many people that my father had been in touch with Paul Enke. You may have heard of this man from the Stasi. My father went to see him in the GDR. He was on his way to see him again in E987.'

What does Robert mean his 'father was in blood'? Is George Stein dead? Does Robert believe that the Stasi killed his father? Robert produces from his jeans pocket a used white envelope that might have once contained a bank statement. I have learned to say, "It's enough."' He smooths the envelope on the table.

Without saying another word Robert Stein stands up and walks off, leaving the envelope. We see he has drawn on it rows of crosses with the letters RIP written beneath each one. Across one corner he has scribbled: 'Deceit. Lies. Fear.'

Robert Stein does not want to answer any of our questions or is incapable of doing so. We have no idea why he agreed to meet us. All we can see is that he is haunted by the Amber Room and the catastrophic effect it has had on his family. Faint and distorted, flickering like a light bulb about to pop, Robert Stein is overshadowed by whatever happened to his parents.

There is a Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein listed with international directories at Villa Askania Nova, Liechtenstein. Before calling the number we check the Ministry of Truth files to see if the Stasi was interested in him too.

It was. We find a report from 1987 to Stasi deputy minister Neiber.1 Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein was obviously a significant player. Here he was described by a Stasi watcher as 'a descendant of Tsar Nicolas II, a cousin of Vladimir Nabokov, and last in line to a boyar title from Askania Nova, in the southern Ukraine'. The report stated:

Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein uses his entire influence to return looted Russian works of art to the Soviet Union... It is known that he maintains contacts up to the highest Soviet leadership. For instance, he travelled with Comrade Gorbachev on his trip through the Baltic Soviet Republics in the spring of this year [1987]. [Falz-Fein] spoke on Soviet television and he took part in discussions lasting several hours with the Soviet Minister of Culture about the search for stolen works of art.

So this would explain his connection with the Amber Room. We call. 'My dears, who did you say you were?' asks a reedy voice. Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein says he is busy packing his travelling wardrobe. 'I'm sorry, dears, but I have a very important tea appointment with Prime Minister Yushchenko in Kiev on Thursday. Yush-chen-ko. That's it.'

Can we talk about George Stein, we ask? 'Oh.' The line goes quiet. 'George Stein.' A lengthy pause. 'That was a long time ago. If you can make it down here tomorrow, then I'll see if I can squeeze you in. But I have a young lady to escort to Switzerland at i p.m., so I won't be back until L.30 p.m.' He lives in a small world, a principality of sixty-two square miles squeezed between Switzerland and Austria. 'Have your lunch before you come, dears. I'm a simple bachelor of ninety-one years old and I don't entertain. You'll find my little place up Schloss Strasse, the last house before the castle. Look for the name, Askania Nova, my beloved birthplace.'

In Vaduz, Liechtenstein's capital, where the air is filled with a rich scent of warm milk and the gentle thrum of cash machines, we find the Baron's white stucco villa wrapped in wisteria, overlooked by that of his next-door neighbour, Crown Prince Hans-Adam II, ruler of the tax haven.

Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein might be ninety-one years old but in his fawn moccasins and slacks he looks like a youthful playboy. 'You are journalists, I take it? I hope you have brought your tape recorder.'

Closer to, the Baron's full head of hair has a sandy tint and he shaves patchily. The scent of spiced fruitcake wafts around him. 'My pedigree is very important to me, my dears, and I am very proud to be still alive.' Can we come in? 'No.' He bars the entrance and points with an exquisite feminine finger to half a dozen rusting coats of arms bolted around the door. 'First you must understand I am a legend in Russia and the Ukraine. This one on the right is the oldest coat of arms in the whole of Russia, it came down to Mummy directly from Peter the Great. And here, this is the Falz-Fein coat of arms. From Daddy. Died of a broken heart after we fled the Bolsheviks.'

The Baron steers us over the doorstep. 'Now you know a little, you may enter my humble refugee's abode.' He stops again in the hall. The walls are lined with oils, many of which look familiar. 'Here is the last Tsar. Here is his wife,' the Baron gushes over a murky portrait whose original certainly hangs in the Russian Museum in St Petersburg. 'What a beautiful lady she was. What a tragedy. Murdered in that filthy cellar in Ekaterinburg.' The Baron clutches his breast. I gave DNA to identify the Romanov bones. I was the only "foreigner" invited to the funeral when they were laid to rest in St Petersburg in 1990. Such an honour.

'Here is my grandfather Nikolai Alexeievich Epanschin, the General of Infantry and Director of the Emperor's Page Corps.' The Baron trails a protective finger across a line of blurred portraits. We notice the clock on the wall is set four hours ahead. To Ukrainian time.

An hour into the tour we reach the Baron's own generation. We are ushered into his living room. In one corner is a vast nineteenth-century boyar's desk and next to it a well-used exercise bike. 'Everyone wants to give me a special order,' says the Baron with mock fatigue, opening a glass cabinet crammed with citations and medals, a glittering mass of hammers, ribbons, sickles, red stars and even a black iron cross. 'They want me to wear them.' He doesn't say who. 'But heaven forbid! I would look like Brezhnev.'

The Baron leads us to a red leather sofa from which we can see sweeping views over the velvety Liechtenstein valley. How did you meet George Stein, we ask? 'My life has taken ninety-one years to live and you cannot understand my motivations for hunting for the Amber Room unless you understand my background. Allow me this short summary.' He checks to see that our tape machine is whirring. 'L'Equip snapped me up in Paris and sent me to cover the 193 6 Olympics. I saw how Hitler was mad when Jesse Owens won the LOO metres! The Fiihrer was only twenty yards from our press box.' After his stint in journalism, the Baron became a cycling champion, a luge champion and then a racing driver.

'Eventually my friend Porfirio 'Rubi' Rubirosa said to me, "Eduard, there is a time in every man's life when it is no longer appropriate to be flirting with little girls." No more Casanova. I went to see cousin Vladimir Nabokov in New York, where I proposed to my first wife.' In 19 50 the Baron married Virginia Curtis-Bennet, the daughter of Sir Noel, a president of the International Olympic Committee and mandarin at the British treasury. I asked the Archbishop of Canterbury's permission for an Orthodox service with a Russian choir. We married in the Savoy Chapel. It was a sensation, dears. All the royalty came.

Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein reporting at the 193 6 Munich Olympics

'But later, oh, we fought like cats. She tried to convince me that everything English was best, like your chocolate and cars, but it is not so. I told my darling, "Don't be silly. Only Swiss chocolate is the finest in the world. Your cars are tin cans." Eventually a very fine American author, Paul Gallico, rescued me. He took her off my hands. Afterwards they married and moved to Monte Carlo and started hanging out with Princess Grace. After Gallico died, Prince Rainier took my former darling on as Dame d'Honour du Chateau. When Princess Grace died, my former darling looked after the royal children. Quelle tragedie. She is still there and we are the best of friends. Whenever I come down to Monte Carlo I'm very nicely treated. The Prince invites me for lunch.'

So extraordinary is the story of this life that if it were not for the grand piano that prominently displays the photographic evidence, Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein could pass as a slick confidence trickster. But here he is as a young hack in the Berlin Olympics press box with swastikas flying around his head; dining with Princess Grace in Monte Carlo; and then walking across the piste in the 1960S with British royals, Prince Philip and Prince Charles; even in a clinch with Joan Crawford.

The Baron's mobile phone trills a fragment from Swan Lake. It is the office of Mr Yushchenko, the Ukrainian Prime Minister, and he fields the call in halting Russian before hanging up and finally turning to the subject of the stolen art. I began looking for art stolen from Russia in the 19 50s. I found a Gobelin tapestry from the tsar's family that had been looted from the Livadia Palace. I outbid the Japanese for it, at a sale in Bonn. Mon dieu, mon dieu, what a welcome the Russians gave me when I returned it to the palace.' The Baron's eyes prick with tears: 'Dum, didum, didum. Thousands of people there to see me give back what had been stolen. Little me, a poor refugee living in Liechtenstein!'

And what of George Stein, we ask?

'Yes, yes, I'm coming to him. After I found the Gobelins I got a call from a Soviet writer stationed in Bonn. He was a working for Literaturnaya Gazeta. Mon dieu, Julian Semyonov.' The Baron strikes his forehead in horror. He is talking about the Soviet crime writer whose letters and articles about George Stein we have read in the Stasi files.

'The first time Julian Semyonov came here he stayed fifteen days. Sat there, where you are, on the red sofa, drinking half a bottle of vodka for breakfast and then falling asleep until lunch. Julian cost me a fortune, creeping around the house looking for gluggables. I never touched a drop or smoked a single cigarette in my entire life. When Julian woke up, all we talked of was the Amber Room. He said he needed my help to find it. In 1975 he introduced me to George Stein, who had returned the Pskov icons to Moscow. I thought Stein was a little crazy but we had a common interest. He had a theory about a mine in Volpriehausen, near Gottingen. Irreplaceable amber buried in that pit. So exciting. George Stein said: "I know where the Amber Room is. Give me some money and I'll go and find it for you.'" So after the West German government had turned him down, George Stein had sought out a private source of finance to pursue the story planted by the Stasi.

Was it worth it, we ask?

The Baron walks over to an enormous antique carved oak chest, a family heirloom from the Ukraine that is filled with a jumble of paperwork. 'Our archive,' he declares. 'Myself, Julian and George, we decided to form a little committee. To look for the Amber Room. George had all these wartime documents that suggested that the Amber Room might have been concealed in Volpriehausen in West Germany and we were so excited, because until then all the searches had been beyond our reach - in Russia and the GDR. Now we could search for buried treasure in the West too and, my dears, we worked so hard.'

The Baron hands us a photograph of Semyonov, a bull-necked man with a bushy black beard. I like to think I played a small part in his career.'

Was Semyonov KGB, we ask?

'My dears, I wouldn't be so rude as to ask and he never volunteered. Let's just say he went on a lot of foreign holidays.

Julian Semyonov

'Amber Room fever hit the West in the 1970S and journalists, detectives and writers flocked to join our little committee: Georges Simenon, the Beige who lived in Paris making a fortune from his character Inspector Maigret. Simenon was a friend of Julian Semyonov's too. We also had darling "Red Countess" Marion Donhoff, the Grand Dame of the East Prussian resistance. Somehow George Stein had convinced her that their fathers had been great friends in Konigsberg.

'So, through Marion we had the influential Die Zeit on our side. There were others circling on the periphery. A little Englishman from the intelligence services, MI6, perhaps he was called Eldridge. Or was it Aldridge? Oh, I don't know.' The Baron's eyes are gleaming like a child's on Christmas morning. 'It was all done with our own money, a lot of money, crazy money. For a time the Amber Room held such a fascination for all of us. It was like a drug. And I poured money in.'

Marion Donhoff

The Baron pulls newspaper cuttings out of the old chest. By the early 1980S 'the Amber Room committee' was hogging increasing amounts of newsprint, its activities gobbled up by the West German, British and American press, willing it on to find the Russian treasure ahead of the Communists. Komsomolskaya Pravda, 1983: 'Face to Face - an Interview with George Stein'. The Sunday Times, 20 October 1985: 'The Theft of the Amber Room'. Digs in Carinthia. Hunting in the Odenwald, east of Mannheim. Secrets buried in classified US Army files in Washington. Julian Semyonov and Baron Falz-Fein debating the Amber Room mystery over cups of champagne at Maxim's in Paris. The Baron staying over at cousin Vladimir Nabokov's, researching the last months of the war. And the Baron's committee infecting others with the Amber Room bug, spawning feverish speculation about where the treasure lay buried. Magazines. Books. TV documentaries.

Did the Baron know that much of Stein's intelligence was coming from the Stasi, possibly Moscow? We show him some of the papers we have found in the Ministry of Truth.

He shrugs. 'Paul Enke. He told us he was from the Ministry of the Interior. I didn't know for sure that he was Stasi. But we had our suspicions since Enke could never come out of East Berlin. We always had to go there, as tourists through Checkpoint Charlie.'

But what of the Volpriehausen episode, where George Stein relied on a fake telex from 'Rudi Ringel's' father to prove that the Amber Room was buried in the pit? We show the Baron the report of 'Rudi Ringel's' interrogation by Uwe Geissler in E979 that revealed how 'Ringel's' father was in reality an invalided post office guard. The Baron pushes it away. 'I'm an old man now. Talk to the ones continuing our search.' His eyes well up as he embarks on what sounds like a well-rehearsed story. I had to get involved. When I was a little boy, only five, my grandfather the General took me to see the Amber Room and said, "When you are a bigger boy you will remember that I showed you one of the wonders of the world." I never forgot. And when I came to a time in my life where I could help return it, I saw it as my duty. To give back the Amber Room.' He stands up. 'Now I must go to a meeting.'

We show the Baron the Stasi report that accused Stein of doctoring documents to fit his theories.

'No one paid more heavily for following the Amber Room than dear old George Stein,' he retorts.

Is the Baron referring to the death threats, the assault and Elisabeth Stein's death, we ask?

He sits back down. 'So, you know. George's problems began when his wife died in terrible circumstances in 1983 and then, the following year, his mentor in the East, Berlin art historian Gerhard Strauss, dropped dead too. Without Gerhard Strauss, Stein had to deal with Enke directly and those two never got on, dears. So protective of their respective versions of the story, they fought like torn cats. Everyone had a version in those days. Anyway, I must take your leave,' he says, standing up again.

Why did the Soviets close down the Amber Room inquiry and fail to tell anyone else, we ask? We are trying to keep the conversation alive.

The Baron's mood darkens. 'It all collapsed in the summer of 1987. Stein phoned me and said, "I don't know where to go. Can I come over to see you, as I have sold everything." He stayed one, two, three weeks, I can't remember, writing, writing, writing. Then one day I said, "Tomorrow I must go away." It was the start of the Tour de France. I had been invited, personally. Stein said he had a friend in Munich. I drove him to the station. Gave him money. I felt terrible packing him off. Miserable. I told him, "Please be careful." Imagine if it had happened here in Vaduz. What a horror.'

What happened, we ask?

The Baron forces a bundle of documents into our hands and urges us out into the hall. 'Here, this is everything you need to know. So nice to meet you,' he beams and opens the door. As it shuts behind us we notice on the papers the insignia of the Bavarian police force, Criminal Investigations, Ingolstadt. Case: George Stein: 20 August 1987.2

'Villa Askania Nova, Schloss Strasse, Vaduz.' A letter from the Baron to Julian Semyonov. The first document in the bundle he has given us:

8 April 1985, Dear Julian, yesterday I spoke to your daughter and found out that you are in the Argentine. Please call me in ten days on your return. The visit I desired is now coming about and I shall arrive [in Russia] on 27 May, 17.05, with the Swissair from Zurich. I took a visum for three weeks and therefore I will have time to fly with you also to Yalta. Please organize my stay as well as the planned detour to Leningrad for the rededication of the tombs of the Admiral Epanschin. I greet you in order to renew our old friendship and I am very pleased to see you again. Eduard.

The Baron and Julian Semyonov, once close friends, were planning his Grand Tour of the Soviet Union.

'Ashhausener Strasse, Stelle, Hamburg.' A letter from George Stein to Julian Semyonov:

10 November 1985, My dear Julian! I have been very surprised that you have surfaced so suddenly but anyhow have a good time in Geneva. I am enclosing an article from The Sunday Times on the subject the 'Theft of the Amber Room'. The contract for the filming of "The Amber Room" I also enclose. It has been decided by the Bavarian Broadcasting Corporation that shooting should begin in early 1987. The plan is to produce an evening-long documentary and later a feature film. The basis of the film will be my archive with circa 2,300 documents. On the basis of my negotiations with the central archive of the GDR in Potsdam, we pursue clues that lead to the FRG... We must talk about these matters several times... the first chance for such a contact would be Friday a.m. at 7.45, with kindest regards, your friend George!!!

Having learned from the Baron that Semyonov was back in touch, Stein immediately began bombarding the Soviet crime writer who had made him famous in 1973 With wild Amber Room theories, fed by documents from the Stasi.

'Ashhausener Strasse, Stelle, Hamburg.' Another letter from George Stein, the same day:

10 November 1985, Dear Baron von Falz-Fein, please show Julian... a copy of the article written by Anthony Terry [The Sunday Times]... Please send back the original contract from the Aktive Film Company... I am not sure if Julian wishes to help. He was trying to make some films about the subject [of the Amber Room] himself. Could you sound him out?... We must discuss these questions in detail before you meet Julian... He is a nice enough chap but he is just not reliable. It would be favourable for an increase in my finances as well. With the kindest regards, as ever, sincerely yours, George Stein.

Always the showman, Stein's greatest fear was losing control of the Amber Room story and particularly to the already famous Soviet crime writer Semyonov. But in the end it was not Semyonov that he would fear.

There is a significant gap in the bundle of correspondence, presumably the period in which Stein's Amber Room documentary was being filmed, before this flurry of press releases in 1987:

Deutsche Press Association, ARD [Channel One television] and NDR [Norddeutscher Rundfunk]. 16 April 1987. Headline: Amber Room taken to the USA on 15 May 1945. George Stein reveals that the room was transported via Grasleben [mine in Helmstedt, eighty miles north-east of Volpriehausen] - to Wiesbaden [US central collection point] - and then Antwerp [sea port] - finally arriving in the USA [secret depository].

Bayern 3 TV: 16 April 1987. A 90-minute documentary screened tonight will show how the hunt for the Amber Room led by hobby-Historiker George Stein has revealed that it was taken to the United States.

Die Zeit. Hamburg: 18 April 1987. Mystery of Amber Room Now Solved?

Stein had been passed documents by the Stasi that showed how the Amber Room had been taken by US forces and smuggled to America, a revelation that, although surely a fake, created a press frenzy.

'Hamburg-Eppendorf Psychiatric Hospital.' A letter from George Stein, 13 May 1987. Less than one month after the German media aired Stein's controversial American theory, he was in a psychiatric hospital.

My dear Baron! I am lying here for the last three and a half weeks exactly. Why, you shall find out today. On 15 April [the day before Stein's TV documentary was broadcast], I received an ultimate demand from the Inland Revenue for the amount 400,000 DM. My children have been induced to clear the house in Stelle. It is now standing empty and will be auctioned in the near future by the state. The Amber Room affair is at an end and that probably was the main aim of the 'State Action'. We were nearly at the final stage. Revenge for the little matter of the monastery treasure [Pskov] is also playing a role in this affair. I myself own nothing except the clothes I am wearing.

'The Amber Room files are locked up in the empty house. Friends are trying to rescue these and take them to safety... I have no money at all. Somebody has given me the stamps for this letter. In spite of all this I retain courage and hope. Please inform all our friends, you know who I mean. Please do not forget me. I often think about all of you... My children despise me and they don't visit any more... With kind regards, George Stein.

P.S. How do I get out of here? Can our friends help?'

Stein was in a manic state, on the verge of bankruptcy, and we wonder if he was seeing clearly, fearing that the West German government was trying to silence him about the Amber Room before he made his controversial revelation. But we are beginning to understand what contributed to Robert Stein's state of mind. We read on, as fast as we can.

'Files of the Criminal Investigation Department, Ingolstadt.' Extract from a report by Professor Gotze, senior physician, Hamburg-Eppendorf Psychiatric Hospital, May 1987:

The patient always reacted in an identical manner, when challenged directly about mysterious or occult facts; emphasizing the importance of his own person, hinting at his function as a confidant of secrets, as a researcher of complicated areas and a connoisseur of international political entanglements - and of the dangers arising for him out of such matters.

Professor Gotze was suspicious of his conspiracy theories.

'Villa Askania Nova, Schloss Strasse, Vaduz.' A letter from the Baron:

1 June 1987, Dear Mr Stein! Enclosed please find a letter from Mr Popov, Deputy Director of the Soviet Television Corporation and a telegram from Julian Semyonov. You can see that you have not been forgotten. I have naturally replied that it is impossible that you and [Robert Stein] accept the invitation to the Soviet Union for 3 June, especially as no financial proposals for the flight have been mentioned. I am enclosing a 100-DM note for your expenses. With all my heart I wish you an early convalescence. Eduard von Falz-Fein.

George Stein and his son had obviously been planning to take the controversial American theory to Moscow, where it would be broadcast to maximum effect. The Baron seemed to be keeping his distance.

'Files of the Criminal Investigation Department, Ingolstadt.' Extract from Professor Gotze's case notes, E6 June 1987:

Mr George Stein has been treated in our ward between 23 April and 16 June 1987 after being treated in the Chirurgical Dept. 5 for an abdominal cut... during the operation we carried out a partial resection of the colon, which was followed by intensive medical care. We succeeded in stabilizing the patient's post-operative condition in such a way that after a few days we were able to recommend his transfer to a ward... Mr Stein left our ward on 15 June, with the intention of travelling to Switzerland.

When Stein was hospitalized, one week after his Amber Room documentary was broadcast, he had suffered a serious abdominal injury. But there was no explanation of the circumstances in which Stein was stabbed and we cannot understand why Stein made no mention of it in the letter to the Baron. Maybe the men who drugged and tortured him in 19 8 2 had returned to finish the job. Stein's fears might have been genuine after all.

'Files of the Criminal Investigation Department, Ingolstadt.' Extract from a report by Dr Benno Splieth, Clinical Assistant, District Hospital, Starnberg, Bavaria. Another medical report, this one originating from southern Germany, was written twelve days after Stein was discharged from a hospital in northern Germany.

29 June 1987... We report about the patient who was found yesterday in Starnberg woods with abdominal trauma and brought to our clinic by the emergency doctor. The exploratory laparotomy revealed a 5-10 cm long diagonal gaping wound in the middle of the upper abdomen with an opening into the peritoneum, which was contaminated with grass... two damaged veins in the vicinity of the transverse colonic-mesenterium were noted, from which the patient had lost an estimated two litres of blood.

Only two months after the unexplained stabbing incident in Hamburg, George Stein was seriously injured again. Stein appeared to have been pursued across Germany. We calculate that this second incident must have happened shortly after Stein visited the Baron in Vaduz. The Baron had told us that he had put Stein on a train to Munich when he turned him out of villa, Askania Nova, at the end of June 1987. But why had the Baron not mentioned to us that Stein had been stabbed, once before arriving in Liechtenstein and again, shortly after he left?

'Krieskrankenhaus Starnberg am See, Bavaria.' A letter from George Stein. '7 July 1987, Dear Baron, I have now been here one week. Berlin had to be cancelled. Dr Enke could not get a visa for me. I will be here for another six days. Where am I going to then?... Couldn't cash the cheque. Regards, G. Stein.' We cannot understand why none of Stein's correspondence mentions the fact that he was stabbed twice and nearly died. Instead, he was preoccupied with his failure to get a visa from Paul Enke, whose real identity he had learned at last.

'Krieskrankenhaus Starnberg am See, Bavaria.' Another letter from George Stein, whose hospital stay was much longer than he had predicted:

13 August 1987, Dear and honoured Baron! After six weeks here at the clinic I will move at the weekend; my surgeon has a weekend house, so for a start I can shelter there temporarily. I cannot go home because my children have sold everything... I am left without a penny to my name. The next three weeks are going to be difficult for me... I must manage to get through with only 120 DM... I suppose one can also live from dry rolls... What is going to happen later, I still don't know. But the Amber Room research goes on!!! And this is the only thing that matters!! Please send me something I can smoke. When are you going to Russia? With the kindest regards, George Stein. Forwarding Address: George Stein c/o 8079 Altdorf, Post: Titting, Bavaria. No Telephone Connection.

Although weak, Stein was still obsessed with the Amber Room. Once again he put pressure on the Baron.

'Files of the Criminal Investigation Department, Ingolstadt.' Extract from an outpatient referral from Starnberg to Hamburg. As far as hospitals staff were concerned, Stein was heading back home.

15 August 1987. Dear [Dr Arlt, Ward Registrar, Hamburg-Eppendorf Psychiatric Hospital], enclosed please find some additional information about George Stein, who will attend your clinic on 25 August 1987... Stein is an intelligent, subtly sophisticated personality in full possession of his mental faculties.. . Stein's strategic guideline for his life [is to] look for much honour even at the price of large numbers of unwanted enemies... Many kind regards, Dr Benno Splieth, Clinical Assistant.

George Stein's Bavarian doctor was upbeat about his patient's recovery prospects but concerned about the forces pitted against him. We still do not know if his enemies really existed or if they were in his head.

'8079 Altdorf, Post: Titting, Bavaria.' A postcard from George Stein who was recuperating from his recent traumas in the countryside.

18 August 1987, Dear Dr Splieth! I am well, I am walking a lot, write and make new plans! Your parents have been here yesterday, we hung up the laundry, which had become quite stiff in the sun. I intend to walk now to Eichstadt to post the mail. In the enclosure you can see how the publication of one of my books is being planned. Kind regards, yours George Stein.

The enclosure is missing, so we can only presume that the book was about the Amber Room and Stein's American theory. It is remarkable that Stein had lost none of his bravura and even intended to set out on a round trek to the post office that we calculate would be forty miles.

According to a report in Bild, a farmer claimed to have seen George Stein emerging from a hotel, Pension Schneider, in the small Bavarian hamlet of Altdorf in the early hours of 20 August 1987, shortly after sending his postcard to Dr Splieth. The owner of Pension Schneider told the police that Stein had arrived days before in a highly agitated state and during his stay ate very little, spending most days out walking.

We drive across the belly of Germany, following the line of the Austrian Alps, then turn north, through Bavaria. We skirt Munich and head along the A9 autobahn, past the medieval city of Ingolstadt (the setting for Mary Shelley's Frankenstein), where George Stein's criminal file originated. A side road plunges between hop poles and low-slung whitewashed farm buildings. Twelve miles down the road lies Altdorf, a hamlet of less than half a dozen houses, fringed by Titting Wald.

We read in Bild how, on the afternoon of 20 August 1987, Aloise Dirch, a resident of Altdorf, found a body lying in the ruins of the fourteenth-century castle that stands on a hill above the village. Kriminalhauptkommissar Wermuth from Ingolstadt wrote in his report that the victim has been stabbed in the abdomen several times.3 The pathologist from Ingolstadt hospital, who examined the body, wrote that most of the wounds were made 'using a dissecting scalpel'. He also found disturbing evidence of other recent 'sacrificial cuts to the [victim's] abdominal wall'.

Two police photographs exist of the body as it was discovered, lying beneath fallen beech leaves, a relatively tidy scene for such a violent death. In the first picture there are few signs of struggle, only smears of dried blood on the victim's fingers and caked beneath his nails. The face, with its slightly perplexed expression, as if he had consumed too much red wine and fallen off his chair, is instantly recognizable. The thick-rimmed glasses slightly askew, shirt buttons undone. And in the second crime shot, an unseen hand has brushed aside the leaves and raised the victim's shirt to reveal a series of deep gashes across the upper abdomen. Beside the body lie two pairs of scissors and a scalpel. Next to them is a half-empty packet of Marlboros and a glass flask, its contents either drunk or spilt, as if a stake-out or perhaps a night-time rendezvous had been envisaged.

Police photograph of the body of George Stein, 20 August 1987

When we arrive in Altdorf it is drizzling. We cannot find Pension Schneider or anyone who knows Dr Benno Splieth's parents, who supposedly had a weekend house here. In fact, although we try many doors, everybody is determined to be out. We spot a small sign, pointing to a footpath up the hill in the direction of 'Ruine Brunneck, L.5km', and see a castle on top of the hill. We follow the track beside a barn filled with lowing cows and pass a young woman gardening who runs off as we near. We press on into a copse of beeches. Dry leaves crunch beneath our feet. The canopy is thick. The wood gloomy. And then we hear a slow, deep drumming. Quietly at first and then more percussive, it nears. Finally, there are gusts of breath and snapping branches. We jump back as a deer skitters across the path.

Climbing a muddy bank up through the trees, we spot a castle turret and a gateway. Inside the ruin is an amphitheatre of old trees. A recent fire pit. Some charred branches. Old graffiti scored in Gothic script on to the trunks: 'SCH L', '1964/66', 'LOEH 76/77'. The letters 'B', 'Z', and 'CH'. The word 'Goppingen'. All of it is familiar, but not quite right. In the distance we hear a chainsaw scream.

We imagine George Stein here at dawn, having climbed up from Pension Schneider in the dark, looking out across the vale of Altdorf, watching the green tractor below churning the rust-red soil. And by the time the sun had risen high in the sky, he had bled to death.

The discovery of George Stein's disembowelled corpse was front-page news across Germany and the Soviet Union. Many of the reports lingered over the ritualistic nature of his death and his proclivity for embarrassing the West German government with revelations about wartime loot. Reporters converged on the torpid hamlet of Altdorf and besieged the bankrupt fruit farm in Stelle. Rumours spread that the West German hobby-Historiker had been murdered to stop him revealing the hiding place of the Amber Room. Izvestiya reported:

Historian George Stein for twenty years searched for the Amber Room and other works of art. He achieved much and was able to help several former owners retrieve their property - including the Soviet Union... Unknown assassins have already tried to murder Stein on several occasions... The circumstances and motives of his death have not yet been satisfactorily cleared up.4

The official Stasi reports concerning Stein's death were also conspiratorial. One to Deputy Minister Neiber, stated:

The starting point for many of our contacts concerning the Amber Room was George Stein, who has died under mysterious circumstances... During the period of collaboration Stein passed us more than 150 files and diligently followed any clues received... George Stein cooperated regularly and was an important person for our investigations in West Germany.

But there was no time for mourning: 'Now that [Stein's] dead it is advisable to try to create active connections with... Baron Falz-Fein.'5

Regardless of whether Stein's death was murder or suicide, it played into the hands of someone with whom he had continually competed with for suzerainty over the Amber Room investigation. The previous summer, on 30 June 19S6, a meagre paperback volume with a cheap, pliable cover had appeared in East German bookshops promising to unravel the thrilling mystery of the 'missing Eighth Wonder of the World', proving that, 'contrary to other claims and suspicions, the Amber Room was not destroyed'. Bernsteinzimmer Report, Paul Enke's magnum opus, had been published, at last, by Die Wirtshaft and edited by Giinter Wermusch. Those who asked for biographical information were advised that Enke was a functionary in the GDR Ministry of the Interior. Unsurprisingly, there was no mention of the Stasi.

With George Stein dead (and a strong suspicion he had been murdered for spreading Amber Room secrets), Bernsteinzimmer Report became a bestseller. Vlad Lapsky, Berlin correspondent for Izvestiya, wrote: 'A short time ago the book's second edition appeared in a relatively high run only six months after 20,000 copies of the first edition had been sold. It practically never reached the tables of the bookshops.'6

Public imagination, pricked in 1958 by Kaliningradskaya Pravda and in 19 59 by Freie Welt, now fed off the chilling drama surrounding Stein's death and the authoritative details contained in Bernsteinzimmer Report: interviews with real eyewitnesses, original Nazi documents saved from the fire, explosive allegations linking the West German, British and American governments to a vast conspiracy to steal the world's most valuable treasure.

The climax of Bernsteinzimmer Report was set in the spring of 194 5: a Red Cross van driven by Albert Popp and probably SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel', loaded down with the art collection of the Gauleiter of East Prussia, Erich Koch, and the Amber Room. Skirting Allied bombers, Popp and 'Ringel' raced through Nazi Weimar to a disused mine in the western Erzgebirge in Saxony. Page 227 concluded: '[Gauleiter of Saxony] Mutschmann, Albert Popp and SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel' have taken the secret with them to the grave of where some of the most valuable goods of world culture were hidden for the filthy fascist plans of the future.'

For once the Stasi was delighted with the out-of-favour Enke and, in assessing the impact of Bernsteinzimmer Report, Oberst Seufert revealed that its sole aim was 'to reawaken awareness of the FRG's public' in the hope they would write in, leading 'to new hints'. Seufert reassured the Secretariat that Enke's book 'is not a diary of the search' and there were no secrets in it 'as the documents and facts used are... practically accessible to everyone'.7

One of the key facts, the Erich Koch connection with the Amber Room, would be revealed as a bogus story just months after the book came out. In an interview conducted with the elderly ex-Gauleiter in his Polish prison shortly before his death on 15 November 1986 (thirty-seven years after he was diagnosed as suffering from a terminal illness), Koch told journalist Mieczyslaw Pozhinsky that he had never known what had happened to the Amber Room. 'Do you think that in the spring of 194 5, with the Red Army attacking in all directions, I had time to worry about those boxes?' he asked.8

However, the readers of Bernsteinzimmer Report were not listening. Thousands wrote in to GDR publishers Die Wirtschaft with new angles on old scenarios. 'After careful perusal of your book about the disappeared Amber Room, I suddenly recalled everything,' wrote Herbert from ZeLilenroda, a town twenty miles north-east of the Erzgebirge.9 In 1953 Herbert had trained as a fireman at a castle near Weimar, where he had discovered 'in the half-open drawer of a cupboard and also on the floor in a shallow dish were lying small honey-yellow stones of amber'.

Other correspondents were more imaginative. Gerhard from Uder, a village twelve miles south-east of Gottingen in West Germany, wrote: 'My life has been tragically involved with these events. I have lived to see some quite incredible things.' Most incredible was Gerhard's claim that, on 22 January 1945, he had seen a Special Gauleiter Train packed with the Amber Room panels, commanded by SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel'. Gerhard claimed even to have heard 'Ringel' talking on the telephone to Erich Koch and then Hermann Goring.10 Since the Stasi inquiry was still underway, Enke was called on to weed out the fantasists.

Then, on 7 December 1987, Paul Enke was found dead, at the age of sixty-three. Another death connected with the Amber Room. But this one barely raised a murmur in the press, as Paul Enke had hardly existed. Very few people were invited to attend his funeral at an East Berlin cemetery, his casket lowered into the grave in the rain, watched by a gaggle of sodden and disparate associates including his Lektor, Giinter Wermusch. And afterwards Oberst Seufert licked and stuck shut the composite file on a life. Enke, Paul, file number KSII404/82, was deactivated, filed away with the cold cases on one of the seven reinforced floors of the Stasi's central archive.

However, the hunt for the Amber Room would carry on. Despite the orders from Moscow of 1986 to desist from searching, the death of the agent closest to the inquiry and his main source in the West, the Stasi would not give up on 'Operation Puschkin'. We are amazed to see a report fired off to Deputy Minister Neiber: 'What can be done now that Enke is dead? How can we utilize Enke's contacts and extend them for further measures in searching for the Amber Room?' The Stasi was obsessed with finding the Russian treasure, even though they had discovered nothing new and had had all their old Erzgebirge theories seriously undermined. There was no good operational reason for the Stasi to persist (alone without their Soviet comrades), so the impetus must have come from on high, possibly a 'minister's must'. Maybe Erich Mielke was unable to let go of his fantasy of winning plaudits in Moscow by presenting them with the ultimate prize, the Amber Room.

We read in the Ministry of Truth files that within days of the funeral the Stasi approached Giinter Wermusch: 'After the unexpected death of Comrade Enke it became essential to find a person suitable to continue his work who would at the same time be acceptable to the public. Comrade Wermusch, who identifies himself totally with this task, has been persuaded by Seufert to accept the job.'11 So Wermusch was more than just an editor and had gone on to run part of the Amber Room inquiry.

His first job was to process and reply to all Bernsteinzimmer Report correspondents, aided by 'Bernd', a.k.a. Uwe Geissler, the Stasi informer we had met in 'Goat's Throat Village'. So this was how they knew each other. We recall that Wermusch had told us that he had travelled the GDR with Geissler after Enke's death, but he had not said it was on Stasi business (although nothing in the files indicate that Wermusch was a paid employee of the ministry).

Seven months after Enke's death, someone else we know well contacted Wermusch. We found this letter in the Ministry of Truth files. 'Villa Askania Nova, Schloss Strasse, Vaduz.' Baron von Falz-Fein.

18 July 1988, Dear Mr Wermusch! My German secretary is on holiday and I am thinking in French and Russian. I do hope that my [German] lines are comprehensible to you. George Stein: I do not know whether you are aware of my close cooperation with Stein. We were introduced ten years ago by Julian Semyonov in Bonn. As a five-year-old I saw the Amber Room and I was enthusiastic about its splendour. As a Russian I set myself an aim to help both of them wherever I could. I am sure you are aware that I spent a lot of money on Stein's trips and researches.

The same old story the Baron told us. Everyone connected to the Amber Room was regrouping and the Baron continued:

Archive Stein: I used to help Stein's children bridge the economic emergency they found themselves in and that is why I received [Stein's archive] after his death. It is now in the Sovetskaya Kulturnaya Obschestvo [Soviet Culture Fund]. The last information I have received was that the people engaged in translation have found many positive and interesting matters relevant to their researches. Paul Enke: a huge loss for us researchers. Julian Semyonov has given up on our work and taken off to Yalta.

In the absence of Enke, Semyonov or Stein, the Baron had a proposal:

International Commission. Such weekend hobby enthusiasts as we are, without experts like Stein and Enke, we cannot be totally successful. Official help is required otherwise the case is finished. My dear Mr Wermusch, as a Russian I thank you for the great help you have accorded to Mr Enke and that you as a German wish to restitute that which your countrymen destroyed and that brought shame on your culture. Your hobby collaborator, Eduard.12

The Stasi barely had time to consider the Baron's proposal, as two weeks later its attention was drawn elsewhere. News arrived that the Soviets had begun digging for the Amber Room again, in Kaliningrad, even though they had told the Stasi two years before that they had given up the search. 'The Scent Leads to Ponarth,' declared Izvestiya.13 Vlad Lapsky, its Berlin correspondent, wrote: 'Another version of a hiding place of the Amber Room emerges. There will be confirmation of this new scenario soon.' Then a report from TASS, dated 2 August 1988, read: 'Amber Room found in Kaliningrad?' And twelve days later Aktiillen Kamera (the GDR state TV news programme) reported: 19.30 hours.

14 August 1988. Kaliningrad. Population 400,000. City on the Soviet Baltic coast. An unusual search started this weekend here at the [Ponarth] brewery, which took us back to the last months of the war. A group of experts, students and workers, led by operation director Colonel Avenir Ovsianov, are hoping to find the world-famous Amber Room.'14 By the second week of August 1988 there was so much publicity surrounding this new Soviet dig that Erich Mielke, the Minster for State Security, felt compelled to write to Viktor Chebrikov, the chairman of the KGB:

Dear Comrade Tschebrikow! The TASS report about the location of the Amber Room has finally brought about my writing of this letter. The alleged facts of the case emanated from a female citizen of the GDR. You are aware that the GDR and especially the [Stasi] have been pursuing the traces of the Amber Room since 1945 in order to return this work of art to its legal owner, the Soviet Union.

These activities reveal our continued interest in the fate of this work of art. I would therefore be grateful to you if you could let me know the results of your search in Kaliningrad. In the event that you have achieved success, we would call off our searches.15

Translation: the trials and tribulations of the Amber Room were as much a part of the GDR as they were of the USSR. But the most feared man in the GDR, someone who had risen to power by forging the closest possible ties with Moscow, suspected that he was so far out of the Soviet loop that even if the Amber Room was found, he might learn of it only from the newspapers.

While he was on the subject, there were other matters of concern. Mielke continued:

I also believe it could serve our joint purpose if we could have sight of the archive accumulated by the FRG citizen and hobby-Historiker George Stein, which has been passed to the Soviet Culture Fund. The same also applies to certain fascist files that are held in Soviet archives. It could prove useful if an exchange of information between the experts in the search after missing works of art could be set up.

I wish to ensure you the GDR and her MfS will not rest or relax in their search for the whereabouts of the Amber Room and other treasures of world culture.

Erich Mielke promised to give the Soviets his all, even though he surely now realized there was only one possibility, that all the German versions of the Amber Room story were spent and the answers if there were any, lay with the Soviets, who were not going to share their findings with anyone.

There are no more files in the Ministry of Truth for us to decrypt and it is as we feared. Mielke must have felt trapped by the Amber Room saga, or at the very least misled by Moscow. Perhaps the Soviets were using their German comrades to distract attention from the one direction in which answers lay.

We too feel that the German version was a snare, serving to bog us down and distract us from the real work in Russia.

12

The cherry-lipped Pulkova Airlines stewardess has had years of experience shuttling passengers from St Petersburg to Kaliningrad, and before the Tupolev takes off she emerges from the galley with a tray laden with vodka and beer.

'A can for you, sir.' 'A shot for you.' Eight fishermen on their way back to a fleet of rusting hulks that plunder the cod banks of the Baltic rise like a swell in the rows behind us. The sour stench of Baltika beer fills the cabin.

Through the fatigued plastic portholes we watch a snowstorm whip us along the runway. It is early March 2003, ten months after our last trip to Russia, and we are heading towards the source of the mystery of the Amber Room: the former East Prussian city of Konigsberg, which fell to the Red Army on 9 April 1945.

Professor Alexander Brusov went there in May 1945, only to conclude that the Amber Room had been destroyed. Anatoly Kuchumov and his friend Stanislav Tronchinsky followed in March 1946 and argued that Brusov was mistaken. Kuchumov returned in December 1949 to interrogate Dr Gerhard Strauss, who claimed to know where the Amber Room was but then forgot. A decade later it was the local newspaper, Kaliningradskaya Pravda, which broke the story that the Amber Room had been concealed in a secret bunker and was being hunted for, setting Europe abuzz with excitement about lost treasure. Within weeks GDR citizen 'Rudi Ringel' had emerged and was brought to Kaliningrad to be interrogated by Anatoly Kuchumov as the Soviets struggled to locate SS Sturmbannfiihrer 'Ringel's' hiding place, codenamed BSCH.

After 1959 an untold number of secret Soviet investigations dug for the Amber Room in the province, but their findings were never published. If it is true what they say about Kaliningrad, that tens of thousands of Soviet citizens were brought here by force after the war and none of them ever left, then some of those involved in these investigations should still be around.

Once airborne, the fishermen all light up cigarettes and pound the backs of our seats as they regale one another with holiday tales of losing their hearts to girls on the Gulf of Finland. 'No-smoking flight,' the stewardess barks across the PA. Half a dozen figures stagger off to the toilet cubicle.

By the time we descend into Kaliningrad International Airport, the beer and vodka have gone and the fishermen are agitated. As the Tupolev makes its final approach, one of them picks up his kitbag and staggers down the aisle. When the plane touches down and the engines flick into reverse thrust, he collides with the galley. A loud cheer resounds as the stewardess steps over his prone body to open the cabin door.

A wrought-iron hammer and sickle spins like a weather vane on top of a hangar containing a single metal desk. Although opened up to the world in 199 L, hardly anybody visits Kaliningrad. The immigration officer lazily stamps our paperwork and we emerge into the forecourt to face a wall of leather-coated taxi drivers.

We pick the man whose car seats are covered with fake Siberian tiger fur. 'It was a shock when I first arrived too,' Valery, the taxi driver says, grinning at us in the rear-view mirror. 'Got sent here from Minsk in the 1960S. It was like a lottery. And I lost. I had to leave everything behind for our new frontier.'

News footage from after the war showed garlanded Soviet farmers and their families jiggling into the new Kaliningrad on party-issue tractors. And then the province sealed itself off from the outside world: the ancient amber pits of Palmnicken becoming the Yantarny Mining Combine No. 9, while the Teutonic town of Pillau was levelled to become Baltiysk, new home to the Baltic Fleet. Hundreds of thousands of troops converged on Kaliningrad to transform it into one of the Soviet Union's most secure military bases. Only party officials would come and go, holidaying in exclusive spas that popped up along the seashore.

'Now everyone is trying to leave,' Valery murmurs. Disconnected from Moscow by 1,000 miles, the amber capital of the world is plagued by poverty and a trigger-happy mafia, and is best known as Europe's epicentre of gun-running, drugs and AIDS.

We bump along a raised road to where the city begins and the potholes open up, patches of cobble poking through the meagre Soviet crust of asphalt. East Prussia refuses to die. Old photographs show Konigsberg as a bustling medieval town hunched over canals and rivers, dominated by God and the rule of law, the forbidding cathedral and the dark turrets of the castle.

Now the signs of Kaliningrad's Teutonic antecedence are more subtle: the battered iron tramlines, the manhole cover embossed with a Prussian eagle, the avenues of linden trees, antiques shops stuffed with white crockery stamped with a crimson swastika and the logo of the Blutgericht, the Nazi's Blood Court restaurant, which once occupied the cellars of Konigsberg Castle.

Pre-war Konigsberg

The 'Monster'

Where Leninsky Prospekt (the road once called Steindamm Strasse) merges with Ulitsa Shevchenko, Valery the driver points to a giant concrete tower-block, the windows of which have all been blown out. It is a building so eye-blindingly hideous that it provides the dour residents of Kaliningrad with a moment of levity every time they sit here in the traffic and contemplate it. 'Monster,' Valery declares, telling us how the city council spent years building it upon the ruins of Konigsberg Castle without having surveyed the flooded cellars, into which their 'Monster' immediately began to sink. It was on this junction that Kuchumov and Tronchinsky must have posed for one of their photographs taken in 1946, trouser bottoms stuffed into socks, a pork-pie hat and a black beret.

We have an appointment with the Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics, an organization whose name suggests that it can tell us something about the state investigations into missing art works. We pull up outside a pebbledash 193os-style villa. We ring and hear a scraping as a key is inserted in a lock. We follow a silent woman upstairs.

'The Colonel isn't here,' she announces, as we enter a darkened office, lined with maps and locked cupboards. 'But he knows you have arrived.'

Who is she talking about, we ask?

'Colonel Avenir Ovsianov. He runs the centre. He'll be back tomorrow.'

The last time we had seen Colonel Ovsianov's name was in a news report from August 1988 that revealed he was heading a dig in the suburbs of Kaliningrad city for the Amber Room (the same report that drove Erich Mielke to write in haste to the chairman of the KGB).

At the Kaliningrad Hotel a receptionist offers us a view for a few dollars extra. We reach the third-floor room and pull back the curtains to see an expanse of concrete and, rising from it, the 'Monster'.

We close the curtains. We were in St Petersburg's airport just long enough to catch up with Our Friend the Professor. She thrust a large envelope into our hands as she waved us off. All the papers come from the literature archive and concern Kaliningrad, she said. Our reader's tickets have expired but she has gutted the Kuchumov files and will post on the rest of the documents when she has translated them.

We open a file. The first page is stamped 'For Official Use Only'. In the top left-hand corner is written: 'Approval of the chairman of the Committee on Searching for Museum Treasures, Deputy Minister of Culture for the Russian Federation, Comrade Vasily Mikhailovich Striganov, 1969.'1

As with all the papers from the Kuchumov archive, the readers' slip confirms that we are the first to study this file and we expectantly turn the page. Here is the material that the Stasi was never permitted to see, a table of Soviet officials who searched for the Amber Room in Kaliningrad from December 1949 to January 1984. It is also material that previous Amber Room researchers have been prevented from reading, since the original copies of all documentation connected with Kaliningrad search committees remain classified in the State Archive of the Russian Federation in Moscow.2

Vasily Striganov's report fills twenty pages. It lists search sites covering the entire province, teams sponsored by almost every organ of the Soviet state, a secret exercise in discovery that was extensive and frenetic (churches surveyed, thirty-five; former Nazi offices visited, forty-seven; major excavations conducted, sixteen).

Striganov's report confirms what the Stasi long suspected: that the Anatoly Kuchumov-Gerhard Strauss mission of December 1949 was the beginning of intensive Soviet investigations in Kaliningrad, not the end.

Even while Kuchumov was interrogating Gerhard Strauss in the freezing Hotel Moscow about the location of the Amber Room, a powerful provincial search committee was already being formed. It was led by Comrade Veniamin Krolevsky, the Secretary of Kaliningrad ObKom (the oblast or provincial committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union) and slotted between the technical experts were agents of the security apparatus including the provincial KGB chairman and the director of Kaliningrad UVD, its Department of Internal Affairs or security police.

While it was standard practice for intelligence agents to be attached to every civil organization, office, factory and college, the fact that such high-ranking officials sat on Krolevsky's committee suggested that its work was being closely observed.

We see that against Comrade Krolevsky's name Kuchumov has written in pencil 'a.k.a. Vladimir Dmetriev'. This is a vitally important piece of information.3 We immediately recall the July 1958 Kaliningradskaya Pravda articles written by Vladimir Dmetriev of July 1958, in which he claimed: I was really involved and excited. I had never done anything so interesting before. We reported every day to ObKom our measurements of the castle and during the evening analysed results, as if it was a difficult crossword... This was vital work...'

We could find no record of a journalist called Vladimir Dmetriev and had assumed (incorrectly) it was a pseudonym for Anatoly Kuchumov. But here we see that Vladimir Dmetriev was a nom de plume for the Secretary of the Kaliningrad Communist Party, one of the most powerful men in the province, Veniamin Krolevsky. This means that the articles Kaliningradskaya Pravda published and Freie Welt regurgitated had emanated from the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. This puts the claims made in them in a different light.

It was the party, then, that had revealed that the Amber Room had survived and was being secretly hunted for. It was the party that publicly humiliated and defamed Professor Alexander Brusov, who, the Party claimed, had incorrectly concluded that the Amber Room had been destroyed. And it was the party that decided to keep Kuchumov's name out of print, shielding his role in the Amber Room investigation for some reason.

It is beginning to look as if Brusov was sacrificed for some greater purpose. So eager was the party to keep the Amber Room alive, while punishing the man who had killed it off, that it begins to feel as if the Soviet authorities were covering something up.

Striganov's report continued. It revealed that on 9 September 1959 Party Secretary Krolevsky's committee was subsumed by another, more powerful one led by his superior, Comrade G. I. Harkov, the vice-director of OballsPolKom (the Kaliningrad Executive Committee of the People's Deputies).

Harkov enlisted a twelve-man team, pooled from practically every Soviet security, party and defence organization: the vice-director of the Cultural Department, two vice-directors of the Kaliningrad Department of Internal Affairs [UVD], a vice-commander of the Baltic Fleet DKBF (building committee) and the provincial KGB deputy. A column marked 'Findings' stated: 'No archive documents available.' Perhaps they had found nothing and wanted no one to know, or perhaps they had found something that they wished to keep a secret.

On 11 March 1967 Comrade Harkov's search was also taken over. An executive directive issued by the Council of Ministers of the Russian Federation, the highest executive body of state, ordered a new search team be formed.4 We have before us the minutes of its first meeting, on 25 March 1967:

Comrade Yermoliev [director of the Central Museum Committee of the Russian Federation] opened the meeting of the newly named Working Group on the Search for the Amber Room.

COMRADE YERMOLIEV: 'Let me start [by saying] there have been many attempts to search for the Amber Room and the Kaliningrad authorities have played an important part. However, not enough has been done and the work has not been systematic, the analysis unscientific.

A stinging attack on the Kaliningrad authorities and evidence that Moscow was intent on taking over the search.

COMRADE JAKOBOVICH [chief of Kaliningrad air-raid defences]: How much time do we have for finding the Amber Room? Do we have to do it by the fiftieth jubilee of the Soviet Union [the founding of the Bolshevik state was only seven months away] ?

COMRADE YERMOLIEV: Well, that would be very good, to make a gift to the Motherland for the jubilee. However, it would be very difficult to set a time limit.

COMRADE GLUSHKOV [director of the Kaliningrad Cultural Department]: One of the most important questions we should put to Soviet ministries of the Russian Federation is about financing.

MAJOR v. v. BOGDANCHIKOV [vice-chairman of the Kaliningrad Communist Party]: Our group should have its own car and we are bound to have a lot of material. So we need someone who can type up everything.

COMRADE VASHNA [a senior official from Moscow]: I want to ask a question of Comrade Maximov. What hindered the previous searches and have there been any significant findings to date that need our attention? And if things have been found, where are they now?

COMRADE MAXIMOV [civil engineer and a member of the old Krolevsky team]: There were no valuable findings.

COMRADE JAKOBOVICH: Well, all valuable findings were sent to the KGB.

Maximov and Jakobovich were tripping over each other. Here the minutes abruptly move on to a discussion about the previous search commissions' lack of equipment. We wonder what was found and spirited away by the KGB.

COMRADE MAXIMOV: For example, we went into dark basements and we had no torches so we could see nothing.

It seems almost unbelievable that the Kaliningrad KGB and MVD, which backed the searches, were not able to provide their teams with even the most basic equipment like torches. Unless, of course, there was nothing worth illuminating.

Before the issue could be discussed further there was a suggestion from the floor. Why not round up everyone living in the oblast who had been a resident since 1945 and interrogate them about the Amber Room?

According to Comrade Yermoliev: 'It is not a good idea. The bigger the circle of people knowing the problem the greater the problem. We need secrecy. Well comrades, today's meeting was a very useful one because we have all expressed our concerns and suggestions.' Secrecy was a strange notion to introduce after millions of newspaper readers of Pravda and Freie Welt had been alerted nine years earlier to the existence of a secret search for the Amber Room in Kaliningrad.

Then, in March 1969, seventeen months after the fiftieth jubilee of the Soviet Union, with the search for the Amber Room still ongoing, Moscow took over completely. A telegram dated 15 April 1969 arrived for the investigation's new chairman, Comrade Jakobovich.5 In it the Deputy Minister of Culture of the Russian Federation, Comrade Vasily Striganov, instructed him on the theory he was to follow:

Since the end of the war our stolen art collections that were stored in East Prussia haven't turned up. You might think that somebody is still hiding them. That seems unlikely, as not one jot of information over fifteen years has emerged...If the Germans had taken out the treasures, they were bound to turn up in Germany and yet nothing has. So what can we see from this?

One can come to a conclusion that the Amber Room is still in Kaliningrad. I think that the Germans never thought East Prussia would remain within the USSR. They thought they would return to the province and we would leave.6

This summary dismissal of the Stasi's theory, which held that the Amber Room had been taken to Germany, was written as Paul Enke was beginning his monumental trawl of archives in Potsdam. It seems bizarre that the KGB would let the Stasi run with this theory for so many years when even at this early stage no one in the Soviet Union believed it. Unless, of course, the entire Stasi investigation into the Amber Room was a lure of some sort, to distract public attention away from Kaliningrad. Or perhaps it was simply an elaborate ruse to weed out old Nazis.

For Striganov, secrecy was a critical issue:

Four days ago in Western Germany people were interested once again with a question of the Amber Room, trying to find out through our embassy whether there is progress, what is new. We should not give them a straight answer. [As Germany was the country that stole it,] they have too big an interest in this matter... The question is: how will our work continue to be secretive? What is going to be done to make sure of this?

He offered some patrician advice: 'One has to think of a cover story, for example the examination of the soil, and this cover story we give to the press so all our real conclusions from the expedition can remain top secret.'

Comrade Jakobovich, the mission chairman, worked on Striganov's idea. Why not say the investigation team was digging for oil and call it the Kaliningrad Geological Archaeological Expedition of the State Historical Museum for the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation (KGA), Comrade Jakobovich suggested?

Striganov liked the title but in his subsequent reply pointed out an obvious flaw: 'There is no oil in Kaliningrad.'

Within three months Jakobovich was replaced by his deputy and the KGA began its secret work. There are no reports here about what the KGA found in its early years, but there is something else, something unexpected, written many years later, that brings Anatoly Kuchumov, the Leningrad curator, back into the frame.

It is a twenty-page statement dated 19 July 1986, by Comrade Jelena Storozhenko, a linguistics scholar and someone whose name we have read before. We go through an index of our characters and see that Storozhenko was one of those who regularly sent greetings cards to Kuchumov. Here we read that Storozhenko took over the chair of the KGA in 1974 and led it until it folded ten years later. Attached to Storozhenko's statement is a covering letter addressed to Anatoly Kuchumov, a person she evidently knew well and trusted. She wrote:

Dear Anatoly Mikhailovich, I am giving you these notes in the hope that they would be printed for the world to see in memory of everyone who to the last of their days devoted their lives to searching for the Amber Room.7

This is surprising. Storozhenko was attempting to publicize the sensitive findings of her mission, whatever they were. When the Russian authorities closed the KGA in 1984, no public statements were made. We already know that even the Stasi was kept in the dark for another two years about the closure of the mission. The KGA's findings were boxed up by the KGB and classified, locked away in the State Archive of the Russian Federation in Moscow, where they remain to this day. And yet this bureaucrat wanted everything she knew out in the public domain.8

Storozhenko explained her motivation to Kuchumov: 'On 1 January 1984 [the KGA] was wound up and we were asked to hand over all documents.' Her next statement comes as a great disappointment to us. 'We did not find the Amber Room.'

Having concluded that the German episode was a red herring, we have come back to Russia only to discover that here too investigators failed to make any progress on the Amber Room. But Storozhenko was not happy. She wrote in her covering letter to Kuchumov:

No one could doubt that the search should continue and we could offer proposals on how to conduct that search. However, for successful searches it is necessary to have the highest levels of control and organization, otherwise further searches are not worth conducting. It is in the stated interests of the Soviet people that the Amber Room should be found and given back. My heartfelt regards to your wife, be healthy, good luck and success, and I dream of seeing you again. My son, who is standing beside me, says, 'Send my best regards.' We embrace you, always yours, Jelena and Zhenik.

The letter was very carefully worded but the message was clear. Storozhenko's search had failed because she had not been given 'the highest levels of control and organization' and she could see no reason for winding up the KGA. We wonder who was holding her back and turn to the twenty-page statement itself in which Storozhenko gave Kuchumov a frank and detailed explanation of her failed ten-year inquiry.

She confirmed that her team was financed by Moscow and that she was required to make quarterly reports back to Deputy Culture Minister Striganov. However, it was the Culture Ministry's KGB chief, G. S. Fors, who supervised the day-to-day running of the KGA operation.

Storozhenko wrote that her remit was to 're-examine all material connected directly or indirectly with the mystery of the Amber Room ...' as she had discovered that all previous searches 'have been unscientific and uncoordinated and that no digs were conducted at a depth greater than eight feet'. Storozhenko's statement reveals something significant. For fifteen years, Soviet Amber Room searchers had been sifting around only in the topsoil. If Storozhenko's predecessors had been genuinely looking for hidden cellars and bunkers, they would have had to dig far deeper. But the KGA chairman did not say whether she believed the decision not to was premeditated or simply incompetent.

Storozhenko explained that 'it was important to have a scientific foundation to our work'. Her team was ordered to 'check and analyse all previous statements of citizens of the USSR, East and West Germany and Poland. These statements were filtered and those meriting further investigation set aside... and copied to Moscow.' Everything was submitted to the KGB and vetted by Fors.

Witness accounts were checked against old maps and wartime literature, tested against other eyewitnesses and archive material. While we read in the Ministry of Truth in Berlin that the Stasi was repeatedly denied access to archive material in the Soviet Union, Storozhenko listed here more than twenty archives used by her team in Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev and provincial cities from the Ukraine to Estonia.

But it is the section entitled 'Findings' that tells the real story of the KGA. Storozhenko revealed to Kuchumov that her ten-year expedition had discovered:

Forty pieces of artillery, cannonballs, bullets and aerial bombs in the former Teutonic castle of Lochstadt, a private collection of amber (weighing nine pounds) in a blocked-up cellar. And under the floor of a private house in the centre of the city we found dead bodies, a coffin and a red flag on which was the hammer and sickle. Perhaps this flag dates from the Revolution period of 1918, when Soviet workers rose up for the first time against East Prussia. Maybe then this workers' flag flew over Konigsberg.

Cannonballs and skeletons were not much to show for a scientific expedition and Storozhenko drew Kuchumov's attention to some critical factors:

The expedition had some difficulties. We worked at a time when the city was being rebuilt very quickly and it was impossible to get admission to sites having no documents. We also had no opportunity to organize invitations for those people who had made previous statements to come over here. We also suffered from a lack of technical devices.

Kuchumov had been permitted to fly witnesses to Kaliningrad and was empowered to search wherever he wanted. He even had a mechanical digger. Storozhenko advised him that a Kaliningrad Party directive supposedly backed the KGA. Issued in 1969, it ordered every administrative, military and utility office in the province to support the activities of the search.9 But the directive had not been adhered to. Something had gone wrong. Storozhenko thought she had been prevented from looking too hard for the Amber Room. The authorities must have feared what she would find.

I am giving you these notes in the hope that they would be printed for the world to see,' Storozhenko had written to her friend Anatoly Kuchumov. She was relying on the famous curator to publicize her predicament, perhaps in the hope that a new and unfettered investigation into the Amber Room would find it. We wonder if Kuchumov, aged seventy-four when he received this statement, still had the energy to help.

'238340 Svetly, Kaliningrad Region, Ulitsa Sovetskaya, House EL, Apartment Six, tel: 2-22-80': we copied Jelena Storozhenko's details from her letter but her telephone has been disconnected.

Valery the taxi driver volunteers to take us to Svetly via a circuitous route. I want you to see our amber coast and then you can attend to your business,' he says.

The city ends abruptly and Kaliningrad province sprawls across end-less marshy, wind-whipped fields, left lifeless and infertile by spray from the Baltic. Past the military listening station and abandoned fighter-jet hangars is Yantarny, the amber capital of the world. Boys sledge on gunnysacks down the blue-clay hillsides. Listless men in army coats and tracksuit bottoms drink silently on collapsing Prussian-built verandas. Enormous overground pipes carrying seawater, which is used to blast the mud and amber apart at the impoverished Yantarny Mining Combine No. 9, strangle the village.

The amber coastline of the Samland Peninsula

'Beautiful, isn't it?' Valery says.

We follow the coastline of the Samland Peninsula south, towards the closed military city of Baltiysk (where security permits are still required), before turning sharply into Svetly. House 11, Apartment Six is boarded up, but from a neighbouring building that also looks abandoned emerges a babushka.

'Storozhenko?' we ask. 'Jelena.'

'Dead,' she snaps. 'Gone in 1994. Strange. There was a stepson. Zhenik. He's disappeared.' She scuttles back into the ruin.

Valery is anxious to get home before dark and we clatter through yet more mournful villages that are slowly slipping into the Baltic.

The next morning Colonel Avenir Ovsianov, director of the Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics, is waiting for us at the care-worn 193 os-style villa. 'Dobry,' he says, offering us a large, hard hand that feels as if it has spent a lifetime wielding the pick we can see propped behind his desk. 'Kaliningrad welcomes you.' He solemnly pours into our cupped hands lemony grains of amber fished from the beaches of Yantarny and we notice a picture on the wall of him as a younger man, with Red Army comrades in military uniform and armed with metal detectors.

Today, the colonel looks every inch the grand old Soviet commissar: thick waves of silvery hair, gold teeth, unsmiling wintry face, piercing eyes peeping over Politburo glasses.

Why was the Storozhenko inquiry shut down in 1984, we ask?

The colonel draws breath. 'Everything here was secret. This was a secret place. You are only here on the invitation of our government. I report to the FSB [the successor to the KGB].' Surely the colonel isn't threatening us?

Avenir Ovsianov (centre), digging for the Amber Room in Kaliningrad Province, 1970s

'We are here on state salaries. Will you be paying?' the colonel asks, walking over to a cabinet and flashing us a view of hundreds of files, neatly stacked in rows. I managed to get these. From my military sources.'

What are they, we ask?

I have some of Jelena Storozhenko's papers in here.'

We thought everything was locked up in Moscow.

'There are always ways of getting information,' the colonel says. He is as hard to hook as a wily old pike, but when we hand over dollars he begins to open up.

The colonel tells us that, as a military engineer in the Red Army, he had specialist knowledge of the subterranean infrastructure of Kaliningrad and in 1971 was called to assist the search for the Amber Room. 'That was the first time I met Jelena. And at that meeting I contracted an illness, searching for treasure. Jelena told me to keep absolutely silent about my involvement in the KGA and anything I learned. She told me her organization was secret. I said, "I am a soldier and not a journalist."'

We try to speed things along. We need to know why Jelena Storozhenko's investigation was closed down. We show the colonel her report to Kuchumov of 1986. Perhaps it might jog his memory. Was Jelena Storozhenko correct in believing that her investigation had been hijacked, we ask?

The colonel slips on his heavy glasses. He thumbs through our twenty-page statement. He makes appreciative grunts. 'It's interesting,' he says. 'But you do not have the full story.'

Hel unlocks a cupboard and takes from it a small black-and-white photograph that shows ten people huddled in a group, standing inside an anonymous hall. Six men in black lace-up shoes. Four women in high-heeled leather boots. Smart shapkas on everyone's head and fur-trimmed coats wrapped tight against the Kaliningrad chill. The woman at the centre clutches a plastic bag that is stuffed with paperwork and a bunch of flowers.

'Chairman Storozhenko,' the colonel says.

Kaliningrad Geological Archaelogical Expedition team photograph with chairman Jelena Storozhenko at centre

We look closer. Jelena Storozhenko is almost smiling, her lips parted as if she is joking with the photographer. How innocuous her KGA looks, like middle-aged teachers preparing for a union conference, not a top-secret investigation ordered by the Kremlin.

The colonel leans over the desk. 'They operated out of the Church of the Holy Family, near the railway station. Called themselves "the Choral Society" to prevent any unwelcome inquiries.

'After the KGA was closed down in 1984, the state too wanted to inhibit unwelcome inquiries and for several years denied it had any papers belonging to the KGA. But I knew Jelena had amassed a vast archive and I told the authorities I had seen it in her office. Eventually I got hold of some of her things, including this, her personal ready-reckoner, which she carried with her every day of her investigation. Would you like to see it?'

We try not to grab at the small exercise book with a hard cover that the colonel has taken from his grey briefcase. A label on it states: 'Not to be removed from the State Archive of the Russian Federation, Moscow.'

We scan the contents page. A list of possible locations and witnesses. Transcripts of statements by Ernst Schaumann (friend of Alfred Rohde), Paul Feyerabend (director of the Blood Court restaurant at Konigsberg Castle) and Otto Smakka (another contemporary of Rohde's). Nothing new here. We have seen all of this before in Kuchumov's private papers.

There follows a short history of previous Amber Room searches and an essay, 'On Hunting for Cultural Treasures', by Comrade Jakobovich, the first head of the KGA. There is a translation of Alfred Rohde's Pantheon article, the piece in which he announced the public display of the treasure in Konigsberg Castle in 1942, then a review of Soviet searches 1945-67 and a plan of work for the future.

We see that Storozhenko has a copy of Kuchumov's conclusion of 1946, in which the curator stated that the room survived the war and remained concealed in the city. It was obviously a critical document for her too. Finally there are three statements from Professor Alexander Brusov: his original findings of 12 June 1945, a statement made in December 1949 and another on 29 July 1954. This is interesting. We have only ever seen the statements made by Brusov in 1945 ajfter his trip to Konigsberg and in 1946, when Kuchumov and Tronchinsky quizzed him in Moscow. We turn to look at the 1949 and 19 54 statements, but see that both have been cut out of the binding.

'State censors. They went through everything before I saw it,' the colonel says, watching us.

A long pause. He fiddles with some Nazi dog-tags that he found in a local ruin, then says: 'There was very strong centralization in Jelena's day and without permission from Moscow nothing could happen. It would take months for a request from the KGA to be answered. Can we dig? Can we have some shovels? But the problem she faced went beyond bureaucracy and inefficiency. I think that Storozhenko's expedition was deliberately hampered. The Ministry of Defence intervened.'

He looks down the pages of our Storozhenko statement and taps on the line where she complained that she was hindered by the rebuilding of the city. 'She was being euphemistic. It was worse than that. In 1947 the Council of Ministers of the Russian Federation passed an order handing over all areas of the oblast that were in any way connected to the amber industry to the Ministry of Defence.10 Amber was a lucrative asset, after all. Beaches, villages, forests, marshes and factories all went under the control of the military. Anywhere Jelena wished to dig, she had to seek permission from them. And they seldom gave her that permission. Why would they do that when they were also supposed to have been part of the effort to find the Amber Room?'

We have no idea. Maybe the Ministry of Defence was simply trying to protect its assets, we suggest. The Baltic coast was a strategic area.

The colonel sips from a glass of water. 'You misunderstand the Soviet Union. Obstacles were placed in Jelena's way. Let me give you another example. In your document Jelena writes of the twenty archives she visited, but she does not mention the others that were out-of-bounds. Brezhnev once declared: "We should make access to special military archives more restrictive to make sure that filthy people will not use them for their own dirty purposes." And they did.'11 He drains his glass.

But for what reason, we ask? What was there to hide?

'Jelena was pursuing her own theory. Something that Professor Brusov had subtly alluded to in 1945. Our Red Army was heroic and long-suffering. But this was not the only truth. There was also theft and terrible destruction of treasures by our side.'

Is the colonel suggesting that the Red Army stole or destroyed the Amber Room, we ask, our hearts in our mouths?

He ignores the question and carries on: 'Jelena had stumbled over a few Ministry of Defence papers that had been misfiled. One from 15 June 1945 referred to a [Soviet] trophy brigade opening and emptying a safe in the Konigsberg Volksbank. I have the document.' He reads aloud from it: '"What we recovered: eighty kilos of cultural treasures, including a huge amount of platinum, gold and silver, among them one kilo of gold chains, rings, medallions and watches, silver coins, medals and 353 silver soup spoons, 244 forks, 107 knives. Report of Major Germani of the 5th Trophy Department [sic], assisted by Major Makarov, head of the travelling department of the State Bank 168, and Lt Suzlova, representative of Konigsberg Military HQ."'12 The colonel looks up: 'Later this Volksbank haul disappeared. And this was just one example. When Jelena attempted to trace what had happened to these treasures and the people who found them, Moscow informed her that there was no surviving archive material. Why would they do that? Why cover up the disappearances and the work of these so-called trophy brigades? Unless they wanted to preserve intact the image of the heroic Red Army fighting the Great Patriotic War.'

The colonel launches into a crisp lesson in Soviet military history.

In 1942 reports about the Nazi pillaging of the Leningrad palaces in 1941 and 1942 prompted officials in Moscow to propose that the Soviet Union was entitled to compensation, he says. An Extraordinary Soviet State Commission to investigate German war crimes was established in November that year and sanctioned the idea of taking 'Replacement Treasures', art works gathered from German territory to replace those that had been lost in the USSR.

On 25 February 1945, two weeks after Stalin returned from the Yalta conference (where compensation for Soviet losses had been set by the Allies at LO billion dollars), a new body was established in Moscow to realize the sum. The Special Committee on Germany was staffed by Nikolai Bulganin, the deputy head of defence, Georgy Malenkov, a member of Stalin's war cabinet, and Nikolai Voznesensky, the powerful head of Gosplan, the organization responsible for implementing the planned economy. The colonel says that the Special Committee sanctioned the gathering of L,745 specific works of art chosen from German museum catalogues.13

Soldiers could not do such a specialized job and so conscription orders were sent to industrialists, artists, curators, writers and scientists. They were invested with military ranks and uniforms so that the Red Army would respect them. Armed with lists, targets and Baedeker guides to Germany, they would be known as the 'trophy brigades' and dispatched to the front.

The colonel looks at us over his glasses. I began to investigate the behaviour of these brigades and our regular troops in East Prussia. Among the Soviet forces storming Konigsberg in April 1945 were the LLth Guards Army, the 50th Army and the 43 rd Army. Each of these armies had trophy brigades attached to them and these experts hit the ground running as soon as the city fell on 9 April. When the 50th and 43rd armies were dispatched to the Far East, the i Lth Army under General Galitsky was left behind and its trophy brigades carried on with their work.'

We know that Professor Alexander Brusov, who led the first official search for the Amber Room, only reached Konigsberg sixty-one days after the city fell. According to Colonel Ovsianov's research, this meant that there were sixty-one days during which the city was crawling with regular troops and trophy brigades whose actions were not always coordinated or accountable.

'Even after Brusov arrived, his was not the only team in town,' the colonel says. 'Several units of the trophy brigades were still operating. Colonel D. D. Ivanyenko, the man who found the Castle Gift Book, recording the arrival of the Amber Room in December 1941, was not a real army officer. He was conscripted from Moscow State University to a trophy brigade and remained in the city until August, accompanied by political commissar Major Krolic and translator Lieutenant Malakov.

'In June 1945, the Brigade of the Committee of Arts Affairs, led by N. U. Sergeiyevskaya, Secretary of Moscow's Purchasing Committee of the Commission of Cultural Affairs, arrived with First Lieutenant 1.1. Tsirlin from the Pushkin Museum. The same month, another brigade, headed by Comrade S. D. Skazkin and Comrade Turok of the Academy of Science in Moscow, arrived. And then a fourth search team came from the Voronezh Museum, under the chairmanship of Professor I. A. Petrusov. All of these teams had overlapping responsibilities for recovering loot and all of their findings came under the Ministry of Defence.

'No one was to supposed to know of the existence of these brigades. Certainly not the Allies. Secrecy was understandable at that time. And during the Cold War, when you and I were enemies. But now we are at peace, I cannot understand the behaviour of our officials, who still block access to the trophy brigade archives.'

Is the colonel saying that the Gauleiter of East Prussia, Erich Koch, was right, we ask? He had told Gerhard Strauss at the special interrogation in the GDR's embassy in Warsaw in 1959 that he believed the Red Army had stolen the Amber Room.

I am not saying that,' the colonel replies. I am saying that by keeping the trophy brigade files closed, the Ministry of Defence is obstructing investigators and creating suspicion. It cannot sanction a probe into the Amber Room and then remove from it one of the most vital sources of reference material.'

He bangs his fist on the desk. 'For thirty years I served in the military and even I cannot get certain files out of the Central Archive of the Ministry of Defence that relate to the trophy brigades. I have come up against very thick walls of Soviet bureaucracy.'

In June 1996 Colonel Ovsianov learned from a colleague in Moscow that files concerning the activities of the trophy brigades attached to the LLth, 50th and 43rd armies of the Third Belorussian front (those active in East Prussia) did exist and were kept in a closed section of the Central Archive of the Ministry of Defence (TsAMO). He applied for a permit to the repository, which is tucked away in Podolsk, a hard-nosed industrial city south-west of Moscow.

'On 17 July 1996 I received a reply from Colonel Vimuchkin. "In your letter you petitioned to get various documents. After our analysis we have ascertained that the material that is interesting to you is not to be found anywhere in our archive. There is no reason for you to research this any further." I wrote back, this time with names and titles of documents, to the chief of the unit.'14 The colonel pulls another letter from his grey case. 'Then I received this. "At the moment in the Central Archive of the Ministry of Defence we have special works which are connected to a new law about restoration of art treasures and due to this reason the access to these documents is restricted."'

In May 1997 the law was passed and on 16 October the colonel reapplied to Podolsk for the papers. 'This time an answer came from a Colonel Dorothiayev.' Another letter emerges from the grey case. '"We have received your petition... and we are trying to extract the following documents and will let you know in due course."

I am still waiting to hear from the archive,' the colonel says. 'Is the truth still so powerful and strange that no one can be allowed to see it?'

13

Colonel Ovsianov is a watchful man. He believes that there was some kind of Soviet cover-up concerning the Amber Room. But he won't be drawn until he gets into the military archive in Podolsk.

He might be waiting a long time. However, there are strong indications about what this cover-up involves: the Red Army doing the unthinkable, destroying the Soviet treasure or stealing it in the last days of the battle for East Prussia. This is the last thing we expected to discover when we began our search. But now Ovsianov has raised it, the story begins to make sense for the first time.

Professor Alexander Brusov voiced similar concerns in 1945, killing off all hope about the Amber Room just weeks after he had been sent to Konigsberg to find it, concluding that it was burned in the Knights' Hall by troops as the city fell.

The point at which the Amber Room story changed forever was when the Soviets ordered a reinvestigation in 1946. Then Anatoly Kuchumov returned to the scene of the crime and forensically analysed the castle ruins, finding new evidence that led him to conclude that Brusov was wrong, febrile and misinformed. And since then there have been many searches for the Amber Room - in the GDR and Soviet Union - based on Kuchumov's hypothesis. Ridiculous amounts of money have been thrown at recovering the missing treasure from its Nazi hiding place. Politicians and security officials from both countries have urged on the investigations. Yet nothing has been found and the possibility that the culprits might have been Soviet was never even considered.

At the Kaliningrad Hotel reception, squeezed between counters selling garish amber jewellery and German posters advertising nostalgia tours for old East Prussians, a package is waiting. A parting gift from the literature archive in St Petersburg, a miscellany of biographical and research information connected to Anatoly Kuchumov. This will be our last foray into the curator's private papers.

Anatoly Mikhailovich Kuchumov, the man who had panicked and left the Amber Room in the Catherine Palace in 1941, had leapt at the chance of reinvestigating its fate in Konigsberg in 1946. Having knocked out Brusov's evidence, he had pursued his own theory to Berlin in 1947 and the new Kaliningrad in 1949 and again to that city in 1959. The story keeps coming back to the man who resurrected the Amber Room.

We take the file up to the third floor and close the curtains in our room. We cannot bear looking at the 'Monster'. In the packet is a small hard-backed volume with a grey and beige cover, The Amber Room by Anatoly Kuchumov and M. G. Voronov.

The book was published in 1989, as the Soviet Union staggered to its end, forty-eight years after Kuchumov had begun to research in frozen Novosibirsk. The Amber Room came out when Kuchumov was seventy-seven years old, twelve years after he officially retired from the Leningrad palaces with a serious heart complaint.1

It began with Kuchumov in a reflective mood: the court of the tsars; Peter the Great's dreams of owning the Amber Room; Peter's frustration at his experts' inability to reconstruct it in his Summer Palace; the triumph of empresses Elizabeth and Catherine in resurrecting the treasure in the Catherine Palace; its emergence as the 'Eighth Wonder of the World'.

But when Kuchumov addressed the fate of the Amber Room in the final pages, his tone changed:

The failure of the searches for the Amber Room should not be an embarrassment for the Soviet people, particularly museum workers. The Amber Room did not die. This masterpiece could not have been deliberately destroyed. There are many secret places that we still have not discovered left by the Nazis in the territories of Germany, Austria and other countries. It is only a question of time before it is found, by chance or the continuation of searching. Lovers of beauty, you must not reject the continuation of the search.

We are struck by Kuchumov's choice of words, 'embarrassment', 'the Amber Room did not die', 'deliberately destroyed'. It is as if he was defending himself, and yet as far as we know, he faced no accusers in 1989.

What is also striking is that Kuchumov's book failed to reveal any of the sentiments expressed by Jelena Storozhenko in her twenty-page statement to Kuchumov in 1986. The Amber Room made no mention of Storozhenko's paltry finds or her fears of official obfuscation. For some reason, Kuchumov decided that, even though the Soviet Union had embraced glasnost and perestroika, Storozhenko's allegations were not 'for the world to see'.

We close his book and turn to a file of papers from the literature archive with a growing feeling that Kuchumov was struggling at the end of his life to deal with the consequences of his actions in 1941. Perhaps he was trying to keep something alive that he knew had in reality died.

The documents are in reverse order, the most contemporaneous, a newspaper cutting from 1986, at the top. Leningradskaya Pravda reported on 22 April 1986: 'Mikhail Gorbachev, Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, and Nikolai Richkov, Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR, announce... recipients of the Lenin Prize.'2

Among the handful of those chosen to receive the Soviet Union's highest civilian honour in 1986 we spot the name 'A. M. Kuchumov (art historian)', awarded in recognition of 'outstanding achievements' and 'the solution of tasks vital to the state'.

A telegram sent to Kuchumov from Minister of Culture Comrade Dermichev read: 'Honoured Anatoly Mikhailovich! Heartfelt congratulations. your many years and creative labours have returned to life that destroyed by the Hitlerite occupants...'

We recall the man in the photographs: Kuchumov portly in his tatty suit, a provincial curator who rolled up his shirtsleeves to help track down and recover art stolen by the Nazis. Self-taught, as blind as a mole, Kuchumov appeared to live a commonplace existence with his wife, Anna Mikhailovna, in their threadbare Pavlovsk apartment. But here, we see that the party's Central Committee and the chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR had plucked Kuchumov out as an exemplary comrade. Many curators we met at the St Petersburg House of Scientists had also struggled with virtually no resources to rebuild Russia's cultural heritage, yet who among them had been recognized? Kuchumov must have done something special, and yet in his book, the epitaph on his career, he was regretful.

Anatoly Kuchumov reading in the mauve boudoir of Empress Alexandra, Alexander Palace, Pushkin, 1940

Dozens of telegrams arrived after news of the 19 8 6 award was published. From First Secretary Comrade Solavyiov of the Leningrad Communist Party. From the Supreme Architect of Leningrad, Comrade Bulkdakov ('we are proud'). From Dushanbe in Tajikistan ('your old friend Vsevolod...I heard it on the radio!').

And lastly, from unprepossessing Svetly in Kaliningrad Province: 'Dear Anatoly Mikhailovich, heartfelt congratulations. So glad to hear your success. Kiss you always. Jelena Storozhenko.'

So glad. However, according to the correspondence that comes next, the man Storozhenko perceived as a friend and a servant of the state was already its agent.

The file goes back to the 1970S. A bundle of letters, all of them penned by a comrade, G. S. Fors, and sent to Kuchumov's home address. We recognize the name: G. S. Fors. He was the KGB chief at the Ministry of Culture in Moscow to whom Jelena Storozhenko was required to report her findings about the Amber Room.

The earliest letter is dated 5 July 1970, one year after the Kaliningrad Geological-Archaeological Expedition (KGA) was established:

Dorogoy Anatoly Mikhailovich. In Kaliningrad our affairs are multiplying and becoming more interesting. The investigation has developed its own technique and we are digging without any help. I write to you with the intention of knowing confidentially when you are coming to Kaliningrad. The affair demands your presence and it would be good if you could come for ten days in August. G. S. Fors.3

The KGB was reporting to Kuchumov about the new Amber Room investigation, although it is not clear who was in charge.

The next letter Kuchumov kept was sent eighteen months later, on 27 December 1971:

Dorogoy Anatoly Mikhailovich! Heartfelt congratulations to you and your respected wife on the occasion of New Year's Eve. Long years of heart-beating to come, as there are many affairs to be done. I ask you to come to Kaliningrad at the start of 1972 for eight to ten days. We must discuss the state of affairs and manage the researches. We would like to scale down the digging... With a bow, I leave you, G. S. Fors.

They had only been excavating for two years and already the KGB was keen to curtail the work. Perhaps Moscow was concerned that too much money was being spent in Kaliningrad. Maybe the KGA was getting dangerously close to that which the Ministry of Defence wanted to keep secret. Since there are no replies here, we do not know whether Kuchumov agreed.

There is gap of three and a half years before the next letter:

2 May 1975, Dorogoy Anatoly Mikhailovich! I am passing you letters (attached) that have been registered with my department. They might help your work [on the Amber Room]. But I must ask you, remember these are confidential documents. Keep them safe! Anything you glean from them must be held as a separate affair. And all of these letters must be returned to me before 1 July personally or via a trusted person. G. S. Fors.

The documents Fors sent are no longer attached but what this letter tells us is that the KGB man trusted Kuchumov sufficiently to quietly share intelligence with him. We wonder if the letters concerned the activities of the Soviet trophy brigades or witness statements that Kuchumov was being asked to vet.

The final letter Kuchumov kept was sent on 29 August 1978:

Dorogoy Anatoly Mikhailovich! The Lord is my witness. I have received your letter and I am immediately answering. Our affair continues... in meetings with eyewitnesses from different periods of time... I feel uncomfortable because we are wasting state funds... I am on holiday until 4 October and after that we must think of a very good reason for calling you to Moscow. Think of a reason. I embrace you heartily. G. S. Fors.

Whatever they were doing in the province, the KGB was conscious that it was not cost-efficient. One thing we can think of that would not be cost-efficient would be digging pointlessly for something that the KGB knew did not exist. But the letters do not confirm this.

We have only a fragment of the correspondence, but from the tone and language of these letters Fors and Kuchumov enjoyed a close relationship at a time when most citizens lived in fear of the security services. 'Dorogoy Anatoly Mikhailovich!' each letter began - my dear Anatoly Mikhailovich. Kuchumov was always addressed with a warm-hearted greeting by the KGB official. Our Friend the Professor notes in the margin that she is surprised to see anything from the KGB in which the phraseology used was familiar rather than formal, the Russian equivalent to the French tu rather than vous.

We have never even considered that Kuchumov might have had KGB connections until now, other than having to deal with the local KGB officials at the Pavlovsk and Catherine palaces, as every other curator did as a matter of course. There must have been a significant political dimension to the Amber Room search for the KGB to have become so closely involved, and whatever it was, Kuchumov was evidently up to his neck in it.

Beneath the KGB letters are komandirovat passes, similar to the ones we have seen before that authorized a worker to be transferred to another town or city.4 They show that, while corresponding with the KGB, Kuchumov bobbed back and forth, at its behest, between Leningrad, Moscow and Kaliningrad throughout the 1970S, always telling his colleagues that he was on holiday - keeping in touch with KGB chief Fors about the failings of the Kaliningrad search team, sharing intelligence about the Amber Room that appears not to have been shown to chairman Jelena Storozhenko. It is beginning to look as if Kuchumov's loyalties lay more with the KGB than his fellow academics on the dig team in Kaliningrad. If there was a cover-up of any kind involving the Amber Room, Kuchumov must have been in on it, maybe while those physically searching were kept in the dark.

The file goes back to the 1960S, a page ripped from a school exercise book, a diary jotted down by Kuchumov over three days in 1969:

26 May: I came by plane to Kaliningrad at 9.40 a.m, settled in my hotel, got very comfortable and quiet suite No. 182. Meeting with G. S. Fors (KGB chief) and people from State Historical Museum, Moscow... Preparing documents and papers for the meeting of the State Commission that will take place tomorrow.

27 May: LO a.m. meeting with Major Bogdanchikov. Also here are... military regiments and some from geophysics, some from local museums, some from Moscow. Evening: my birthday.

28 May: went with specialists to see bunker. Looking at area near Steindamm Strasse. Trip to garden of Alfred Rohde's house on Bickstrasse and former estate of Erich Koch at Gross Friedrichsberg...5

We recall a previous document stating that in May 1969 Deputy Culture Minister Vasily Striganov had ordered a major revamp of the Amber Room investigation, Moscow seizing control of the provincial search. And here was Kuchumov in Kaliningrad at that time advising, leading, coaching and preparing, guiding a string of dignitaries and security officials through the stage set of the last days of the Amber Room (and into a bunker).

But frustratingly the information here provides only snapshots in time. The file flips back to 1967. A succession of orders and telegrams show how Kuchumov had come to Striganov's attention two years earlier.6 On 11 March 1967 Striganov called Kuchumov to address a committee in Moscow, comprising a phalanx of security and military officials: Comrade Z. V. Nordman, vice-director of the KGB; Comrade T. M. Shukayev, vice-directors of the MVD; M. G. Kokornikov, the chief of engineering regiments of the Red Army; Major Bogdanchikov of the Kaliningrad Communist Party. The committee asked Kuchumov to prepare a briefing for the Executive Committee of the Council of Ministers, the highest administrative organ of the Russian Federation.7

Kuchumov presented his briefing on 21 March 1967 at 4 p.m. He was asked back two weeks later, on 5 April. The minutes of these meetings are not here. But the title of the topic of discussion is: 'A plan of practical affairs to organize the search [for the Amber Room]'. So the Soviet authorities were absolutely serious about the Amber Room and Kuchumov, the son of a carpenter, had become a driving force behind national policy on the matter.

We rifle through the file. We find a letter that explains how Kuchumov's Amber Room plan came to the attention of the authorities in Moscow. In October 1963 he wrote to Mrs L. S. Karpekina, vice-director of the Committee of Culture of the Executive Committee of LenGorSoviet: I treat it as my debt to say to you the following. 1. The searching for the Amber Room in which I took part in 1946 and 1949 had mostly the character of observation or scouting, a preparation exercise for a wider-scale search with modern techniques.' Kuchumov confessed there were no special funds and that the investigations he conducted with Tronchinsky in 1946 and then Gerhard Strauss in 1949 were superficial.

This is bizarre. Superficial? A scouting exercise? The 1946 mission was a watershed, the investigation that overturned Brusov's findings. We can only presume that Kuchumov was downplaying his success in 1946 and 1949 to appeal for more resources.

Kuchumov continued: '2. Having analysed the documents and witness statements, one can suppose that the Amber Room was not transferred from Kaliningrad and was hidden in a special bunker.'8

Kuchumov appeared to have compelling new evidence. He claimed to have identified a specific bunker in which the Amber Room might have been concealed, a reason to resume the search.

The file goes back to the winter 1949, revealing where the bunker story came from. We already know that in 1949 Kuchumov had quizzed GDR art historian Gerhard Strauss in the Hotel Moscow in Kaliningrad about the location of a bunker. But we did not realize how critical this bunker would be. In the report before us, Kuchumov revealed that when he failed to get results from Strauss, he summoned Professor Brusov from Moscow - someone we had assumed had dropped out of the picture in 1946.

According to the file, Professor Brusov was sixty-four years old in 1949 and had been retired from his job at the State Historical Museum. He gave a new witness statement to Kuchumov, the one that had been cut out of Jelena Storozhenko's ready-reckoner. But it is here in the file from St Petersburg and it makes for startling reading. In it Brusov completely contradicted his conclusions of 194 5. Originally Brusov had written that the Amber Room had been destroyed. In 1949 he claimed: I think that the Amber Room exists because in the Knights' Hall, the place where Alfred Rohde said he had stored it, we found only the remains of burned doors. We did not find pieces of bronze or any other anti-inflammables [glass, mirrors, stone mosaics].'9

It was an incredible about-face, and Kuchumov must have presented Brusov with incontrovertible new evidence to jog his memory but it has not been detailed here. What has been noted in this file was that once the professor had reviewed his main conclusion, he revisited all of his 1945 findings. On 29 December 1949 Brusov stated:

When I was [in Kaliningrad] in 1945, Rohde suggested to me that I search a cellar on Steindamm Strasse. Rohde, who had a key to this cellar, went three floors underground and I found several museum items there. I was not looking for the Amber Room since I thought it had been burned. I only searched the rooms that Rohde showed me and did not pay attention to several others in this large bunker.

Here was the root of Kuchumov's bunker theory. There were rooms in a bunker that had never been searched. It was the same bunker that Brusov had talked to Kuchumov about in L946. It was not a new story. But in L949, when Kuchumov asked to be taken to the bunker, Brusov was unable to find it again. 'My memory is not good,' he conceded. I could remember the street, Steindamm Strasse, but I could not exactly point out the building [beneath which the bunker lay].'

Our file from St Petersburg shows that after Brusov was sent back to Moscow in 1949, Kuchumov sat as a special adviser to a Kaliningrad-based team that searched for this bunker from that year until 1960 and it was shortly after this date, having failed to find it, that Kuchumov contacted Mrs L. S. Karpekina in Leningrad, appealing for more backing.

As we scan the members of the 1949-60 search team that hunted for the bunker, a piece of the puzzle slips into place. We see that the chairman was Comrade Veniamin Krolevsky, secretary of the Kaliningrad Communist Party, the man who wrote (under an alias) the Kaliningradskaya Pravda articles of 1958.10 This was the series which first revealed to the Soviet public that Professor Brusov's original findings were wrong, his powers of deduction at fault, and that the Amber Room had in fact survived the war and was being concealed in a secret bunker.

So the Leningrad curator Kuchumov, Krolevsky's special adviser, had not stopped at disproving Brusov's 1945 findings. He had brought Brusov back to Kaliningrad in 1949 and made him recant. And then in 1958 a close colleague of Kuchumov's had launched a broadside against Professor Brusov in Kaliningradskaya Pravda, ridiculing his findings and his powers of recall. We can only conclude that Kuchumov had a hand in these articles. With the professor out of the way, Kuchumov was free to promote his bunker theory to Leningrad, pushing it ever higher until he and his plan reached the Executive Committee of the Council of Ministers of the Russian Federation. But what was it that made everyone so sure that Brusov had got it wrong in 1945?

The file from the literature archive goes back to the 1940S. One year before Kuchumov's second visit to Kaliningrad, he joined the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, his card number 0874033 L.11 Kuchumov was now among the 7 per cent of Soviet citizens who chose to embrace the system.12 He began to write propaganda. Among the papers we have here is a draft of an article by him, entitled 'The Wonderful Palaces of Pushkin and Pavlovsk Rise out of the Ash and Rubble'.13 In it he praised the actions of the Red Army in Konigsberg during the summer of 1945:

The Soviet army preserved cultural treasures, even those that belonged to the enemy. The soldiers of the Konigsberg regiments, when they learned that under the rubble was hidden the famous Amber Room, took part in the searching, within the ruins, cellars and bunkers... with an enthusiasm that never waned.

Some were so industrious that Kuchumov gave them a special mention:

A feat was achieved by Guard Major Rakitsin, who found gilded furniture stolen from the Catherine Palace in the rubble of Konigsberg. With the help of his men, he carried forty pieces through the city to an empty apartment where he was staying. They were damaged. The silk was ripped. The legs were broken and during the evenings, after serving his duty, the major glued back together every broken part.

Kuchumov described:

a Red Army recruit from Potava, Misha Kulot, who wrote to me in February 1947. '... I worked in the rubble and I found roog piece of beautiful amber. If you need it I can send it to you. This piece was with me everywhere. Even in Sakhalin Island. Now I have brought it home.' Kulot was an ordinary Russian soldier who carefully took with him an amber detail, believing it was part of the Amber Room that he wanted to give back to us. What a contrast to the behaviour of the Nazis in our Motherland.

He concluded:

At the end of the war it was impossible to say 'my story', only 'our story', about the preserving and returning of treasures from the palace museums. I have enough examples to prove to you [the reader]... the high-spirit and culture of all Soviet soldiers and officers who carefully guarded the peaceful works of our nation built on Communism.

Colonel Avenir Ovsianov, director of the Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics, had told us a strikingly different version of events, one that raised questions about the discipline and motives of the Red Army in Konigsberg. If Ovsianov was right, then Kuchumov was blinkered by his patriotism. We will have to read everything else Kuchumov wrote with this in mind.

The last report in the file was compiled by Kuchumov and takes us back to the critical year of 1946. 'Destiny of the Amber Room' is its title.14 There are no official stamps. It is full of crossings-out. As we begin to read, we see that in it Kuchumov rehearsed his argument for Moscow, preparing the conclusions that would eventually topple Professor Brusov and reinstate the search for the Amber Room. The document is vital. It should explain what evidence Kuchumov amassed, illuminating the critical new facts that the Leningrad curator had discovered, evidence that eventually persuaded Professor Brusov himself to reconsider his conclusions.

Kuchumov began this draft (as he began his final report to Moscow) with his most important discovery of 1946: the remains of three stone mosaics in the Knights' Hall of Konigsberg Castle. '22 March 1946. Near the entrance to the Knights' Hall, beneath a staircase we found three totally burned and discoloured mosaic pictures from the Amber Room...only when touching them did they disintegrate into tiny pieces.' These stone mosaics had once hung from hooks on the large amber panels of the Amber Room and had been commissioned by Catherine the Great in the eighteenth century.

In his final report to Moscow, Kuchumov would argue: 'This [discovery of the stone mosaics] cannot serve as evidence that the Amber Room was lost in a fire.' He pointed out that only three out of four stone mosaics were to be found in the Knights' Hall. This suggested that the Amber Room had been broken up and, wherever the fourth mosaic had been hidden, the amber panels would be there too.

Kuchumov told Moscow that he was convinced of this theory because he had found no other charred pieces of the Amber Room in the Knights' Hall (amber and wooden backing boards). He advised Moscow that the space where the stone mosaics had been discovered, under the stairs beside the door, was far too small to have also accommodated the constituent parts of the Amber Room - a dozen large panels twelve feet high made of amber, ten amber panels just over three feet high and twenty-four sections of amber skirting board. 'This forces us to reject the loss of the amber panels in this room,' he concluded to Moscow.

We had found this argument slightly difficult to follow the first time we had read it in papers from the literature archive. We could not understand why Kuchumov's discovery in the Knights' Hall of the charred stone mosaics in 1946 did not simply reinforce the evidence found by Professor Brusov in the Knights' Hall in 1945. The logical conclusion should have been that, as everyone was finding burned pieces of the Amber Room in the Knights' Hall, it had been incinerated there. But Kuchumov concluded the opposite and Moscow accepted his findings. Until now we had given Kuchumov the benefit of the doubt, presuming that he must have gathered additional evidence, complex technical details that he had decided not to burden the senior bureaucrats with. But where were they? Not in this report.

This report is bereft of any new evidence. It reveals how Kuchumov failed to explore the most obvious possibilities. Although he was at pains to describe the cavity where he found the stone mosaics as too small to house the amber panels, he did not even consider that the crates containing other sections of the Amber Room could have been stored elsewhere in the Knights' Hall (which was vast and still half empty by April 1945).

Kuchumov made much of the fact that he could not find a single charred remnant of amber in the Knights' Hall, but in his analysis he ignored a fact he must, as an amber expert, have known: the melting point for amber (between 2oo°C and 38o°C) was far lower than that needed to incinerate the kind of stone used by Florentine carvers like Dzokki. If three stone and glass mosaics were reduced to a fine powder, including pieces of malachite that burns at L,O84°C and pieces of glass that burns at L,4OO°C, then there would have been nothing left of the amber panels themselves.

Kuchumov highlighted his failure to find in the Knights' Hall other elements of the Amber Room (bronze candelabras, glass mirrors, glass and crystal pilasters). But he failed to consider that Soviet troops and trophy brigades had occupied the castle site for sixty-one days prior to Brusov's arrival in May 1945. The crime scene had never been secured. Almost a year passed before Kuchumov came to the Knights' Hall (in March 1946), plenty of time for the hall to have been swept clean of souvenirs of value by Soviet troops.

Kuchumov would write in his 1948 propaganda articles that some soldiers had come forward with amber trophies, such as Misha Kulot, who admitted to carrying a nugget that he believed had come from the Amber Room all the way to Sakhalin Island and back again. And yet Kuchumov never mentioned the possibility that Soviet soldiers had looted as he drafted this report, one that is for us beginning to resemble a 'cheat sheet' in which the curator assembled the argument that the Amber Room had survived.

Kuchumov assured Moscow that he had conducted a 'very scrupulous search'. But we now know that there was no more evidence. No great discoveries. Nothing. There were no additional technical data. The truth was that Kuchumov's investigation had been superficial and prejudiced.

We can see nothing in this report that would have convinced Professor Brusov he was wrong. He must have been coerced into abandoning his findings by other means.

We turn to the next page and find a collection of interrogation reports. Across the top Kuchumov wrote: 'Statements of citizens of Kaliningrad, collected by myself. 1946. Original papers in German'.

The first interrogation was of Paul Feyerabend, the director of the Blutgericht restaurant, which occupied the cellars beneath the Knights' Hall. We already know that Kuchumov questioned Feyerabend on 2 April 1946, but here is a statement made by Feyerabend that we have never read before. The restaurant director told Kuchumov:

At the beginning of April 1945 the packed Amber Room stood in the Knights' Hall. Several days later the city's resistance began. I was located in the cloakroom and the Knights' Hall and during the [Soviet] attack [of 7 April onwards] Alfred Rohde was nowhere to be seen. On the afternoon of 9 April... I was in the wine cellar with several servants. Later, with their agreement, I hung from the north wing of the castle a white flag as a sign of surrender.

At 11.30 p.m. that night [9 April] a Russian colonel came. When I told him everything and gave statements, he ordered the evacuation of the castle. At 12.30 a.m. [LO April], when I left, my restaurant was occupied by artillery regiments of the Red Army. The cellar and Knights' Hall were not damaged at all. After I came back from Elbing, where I had been hospitalized, I heard from Alfred Rohde that the Knights' Hall and the restaurant [beneath it] had been burned down.

This is extraordinary. According to Paul Feyerabend, the fire that incinerated the Knights' Hall had begun after the Red Army occupied Konigsberg Castle. The Amber Room was, according to Feyerabend, packed into crates in the hall when he surrendered to a Russian colonel. This can only mean one of two things: the Amber Room was removed by Soviet troops from the Knights' Hall after the German surrender or it was destroyed in a fire started by the Red Army.

Kuchumov dismissed Paul Feyerabend as an unreliable witness who 'mixed up facts and dates'. He chose not to attach any importance to the restaurant director's statement. In fact he ignored it all together, making no mention of it in the reports to Moscow we have seen. The great curator was intent on providing only one view of history. Our view of him is changing.

If Feyerabend was telling the truth, then Kuchumov knew as early as 1946 that the Amber Room had been stolen or burned by the Red Army. Yet he chose to promulgate a line that would lead to a search across the Soviet Union and Germany in pursuit of Nazi thieves and their hiding place.

If Feyerabend had recalled correctly, then George Stein, the West German hobby-Historiker, had been remarkably close to the truth when he threatened to go public in 1975, accusing the Soviet and GDR government archives of sitting on data that would solve the mystery of the Amber Room.

If Feyerabend was right, then so was Colonel Avenir Ovsianov, and it is more than likely that the Ministry of Defence archives in Podolsk contain documents that would corroborate the story that units of the Red Army or trophy brigades inadvertantly destroyed the Amber Room and stole any pieces that survived the fire.

Tucked at the back of Kuchumov's report, 'Destiny of the Amber Room', are a few loose documents written on graph paper that take the story back to the beginning. The summer of 194 5.

We have before us 'Extracts from report notes of Professor A. Brusov to Special Committee of Cultural and Educational Institutions. Note: It concerns the fate of the Amber Room, which was gifted to Peter I and located in the Tsarskoye Selo and moved by the Germans from there.'15

We have previously seen only an extract from Professor Alexander Brusov's diary of his mission in 1945, sent to us from the Leninka, the Lenin Library in Moscow.

This document might hold the key. In this report, Brusov wrote:

I was lucky to learn the following. Packed into cases, the Amber Room was placed in the Knights' Hall of Konigsberg Castle beside another collection, the furniture of the Countess Keyserlingk. In the spring of 1945 ltwas decided to evacuate the Amber Room to Saxony (document attached) and for this reason Rohde visited Saxony...

Brusov described how, after returning from Saxony, Alfred Rohde prepared the room for evacuation but then fell ill: 'For some weeks he did not appear in the museum, according to witness Paul Feyerabend, who ran the Blutgericht...' By the time Rohde had recovered, there were no train carriages available to take the room to Saxony, a story that Brusov verified with local people, who told him that the last chance to evacuate anything to central Germany by train had been at the end of January.

Brusov reported: 'The same Paul Feyerabend was in the castle up until the capture and says the Amber Room was in cases at the moment of surrender and burned there later during a fire that destroyed the north wing of the edifice.' When Brusov inspected this area he found 'traces of fire, ash heaps and ash covering the entire floor' and also 'small pieces of burned wooden strips and parts of cases and some parts of mouldings and copper hinges from the doors, which were taken by Germans from the Tsarskoye Selo and moved to Konigsberg along with the Amber Room'.

He drew a clear conclusion: 'Summarizing all the facts, we can say that the Amber Room was destroyed between 9 and 11 April 1945 since some officers of the Red Army who inspected the castle on 21 April could find no cases in the Knights' Hall.'

Kuchumov had kept this crucial report that repeated Feyerabend's evidence and yet when Feyerabend told Kuchumov exactly the same story one year later, the curator chose to dismiss it.

Kuchumov also transcribed, on this graph-paper addendum, extracts from Brusov's diary that extend beyond the entries we have read in the photocopies from the Lenin Library.

On 25 June 1945 Brusov wrote: I can't get anything out of Alfred Rohde. He barely talks. I would like [the NKVD] to interrogate Rohde.

I would like them to talk to him seriously rather than treating him with kid gloves. I believe that Rohde will not say anything when you are nice to him as he is a committed fascist.'16 So when Kuchumov told Moscow in 1946 that 'the mistake of Professor Brusov was that he believed easily the words of Rohde... forgetting that he was dealing with a Nazi fanatic', he had already read this entry in Brusov's diary and knew his accusation to be false.

In another extract, dated 2 July 1945, Brusov wrote:

We asked General Pronin, commander of Konigsberg, for a car to collect the archive of Castle Wildenhoff. He refused, saying there was not enough petrol. But around us everyone is using cars. For want of twenty-five litres of petrol the archive is going to die. rst Moscow Division is using [Wildenhoff] Castle as barracks. Storerooms are never locked. What can I do? I must try and persuade the military to go to the archive, but I am not confident.

Even in 1945 Professor Brusov was worried about the behaviour of the Red Army, believing that treasures were at risk.

According to these extracts from Brusov's diary, he was not the only one concerned at the melee. On 8 July 1945 Brusov wrote: 'General Galitsky of the LLth Guards Army arrived and gathered a meeting of trophy brigades, treasure hunters and komandirovochnya [people on komandirovat trips] and in very rough speech called everyone "free-marketeers". Galitsky said: "I will not allow anything else to be taken from the city. I will cancel the guards in all the store places."'

Trophy brigades and komandirovochnya, treasure hunters part-time and professional, exactly the scene in Konigsberg described by Colonel Avenir Ovsianov. Even General Galitsky had become concerned at the level of looting, threatening to throw all the thieves out of Konigsberg. The Soviets would have to stamp on the story.

Brusov continued in his diary:

We are still working in the castle. We have found very interesting Chinese, Meissen and Berlin porcelain and two marble busts given by Mussolini. What is going to happen to all these things? My mood is spoilt. Why should we continue working? Should I go back to Moscow?'

This was a very different Konigsberg from that conjured by Kuchumov in his propaganda articles of 1948. Brusov's city was occupied by thieves and nothing in it was safe, as all of them were wearing the uniform of the Red Army. Kuchumov's Konigsberg was a crime-free zone where the Soviet troops struggled to piece together the shattered legacy of the tsars.

Brusov's last diary entry was dated 13 July 1945. He wrote:

I found four boxes with very good porcelain that fell down from the [castle's] third floor to the second. Lots of things were broken but forty pieces survived. I have packed them into five boxes for Moscow. I have stopped searching. Everything is packed into sixty boxes. I will give things to the archive where they have special security.

We know from reading previous extracts from Brusov's diary that among the items in these crates were thousands of pieces from the Konigsberg Albertus-University amber collection. Brusov told Kuchumov that he had handed these sixty crates to a Red Army guard, and they had subsequently vanished. It was another incident that Comrade Krolevsky (a.k.a. Dmetriev) would distort in Kaliningradskaya Pravda in 1958, accusing 'Barsov' of the theft.

Kuchumov kept something else we had never seen before, a 'fourteen-page defence', written by Brusov after Kaliningradskaya Pravda published its assault on him. Professor Brusov was incandescent: 'This story is portrayed in the most fantastic way. So many facts are distorted and of course as I appear in the story, thinly disguised as "Barsov", I am strongly against this rubbish.'17 Brusov repeated his concerns about indiscriminate Red Army looting and added that, far from not thoroughly investigating the bunker on Steindamm Strasse (which Kuchumov would develop into his major theory of the 1960S and 1970S), he had visited it in 1945 and discovered that 'Some people had got there before me and taken all the important things.'

The 'people' were undoubtedly Soviet troops or trophy brigades and their reports are probably in the closed section of the Podolsk archive.

Kuchumov wrapped distorted evidence around his theory of 1946 to make it fly. He joined the Communist Party in 1948 and wrote stories about the Red Army that he knew not to be true. He rail-roaded Brusov in 1949, forcing him to recant, and was closely connected with the Kaliningradskaya Pravda articles of 19 5 8 that destroyed Brusov's character and conclusions. Kuchumov steered all subsequent Amber Room searches to follow his reasoning. In the early 1970S, he forged a conspiratorial relationship with the KGB, reporting to it far more intimately than he did to his colleagues in Kaliningrad. While Brusov sank, it was Kuchumov who would be embraced by the Motherland, feted by Gorbachev with the Lenin Prize. And then of course there were the regrets of an old man, the embarrassment and shame hinted at in his book, The Amber Room.

Anatoly Kuchumov had lied. His die was cast on 30 June 1941 when seventeen train carriages pulled out of Leningrad bound for a secret location in Siberia without the panels from the Amber Room. At this moment the life of the inexperienced curator, who had concealed the Soviet's unique treasure rather than evacuate it, changed for ever. We know from his book that Anatoly Mikhailovich Kuchumov was haunted by his decision, realizing that, had the panels from the Amber Room been evacuated to Siberia, they would have been returned to Leningrad in 1944, with all the other saved treasures, and reinstalled in the Catherine Palace when it was restored.

By the time Kuchumov was sent to reinvestigate the fate of the Amber Room in March 1946, he had good reason to be worried about his error of judgement. The literature archive files show that Kuchumov was monitoring the fate of a colleague, Ivan Mikryukov, the former director of Pavlovsk Palace, who had been exiled to Kazakhstan, accused of having packed his palace treasures too early and being 'defeatist'. It would soon be well publicized in the Soviet Union that a team of Nazis had taken only thirty-six hours to dismantle and carry off the Amber Room. Working in a climate of spiteful recriminations, Kuchumov must have felt extremely vulnerable.

He had no choice other than to dedicate the rest of his career to bringing back to life that which he had lost, spending thirty-nine years looking for it and forty-eight years writing about it in a book that concluded with the words 'the Amber Room did not die'. It could not have been 'deliberately destroyed'.

But the reason why the Soviet authorities were so ready to dismiss Brusov's conclusions of 194 5 in favour of Kuchumov's ramshackle theory of 194 6 is less obvious and has to be prised from the history of the Cold War.

We know that in April 1945 the US Army broke its agreement with the Soviet Union, stalking into the Soviet Zone of Germany to take the Reichsbank gold and priceless caches of German art. But we also read in the files of the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) in Washington and in war-time papers kept at the Public Records Office in London that when Berlin fell in May 1945, Allied intelligence immediately began picking up reports that the Soviets were plundering the British, French and US sectors in retribution.

By 18 October 1945, when the International Military Tribunal opened at Nuremberg, emotions were running high. A favourite story doing the rounds among British and American prosecutors was that the Soviet Union only erected fences around its military camps to give the animals in the woods some peace. The Soviets countered with a saying of their own (reminding all that it was the USA that had first broken international compensation agreements by seizing the Nazi gold): 'While we were taking the Reichstag,' the Soviet slogan went, 'who was taking the Reichsbank?'18

However, soon there were so many priceless things missing from German collections in regions swarmed over by the Red Army that allegations of wanton behaviour by Soviet trophy brigades and regular troops would not go away. Where was the 'Pergamum Altar', American journalists asked, referring to the ancient Hellenistic altar of Zeus that had been on display in Berlin until it was evacuated to an anti-aircraft tower in the capital? Where was the 'Trojan Gold', excavated by Heinrich Schliemann and bequeathed in 1881 to the Pre and Early History Museum in Berlin as 'a gift to the German people for ever to be shown in the German capital'.19 It was last seen on i May 1945 in three crates that were also stored in a Berlin anti-aircraft tower. Where was the Bremen Kunsthalle collection? The L,715 drawings, 3,000 prints and fifty paintings by Diirer, Goya, Titian, Rembrandt and Cezanne had been evacuated to Karnzow Castle, a country estate north of Berlin. And the list went on and on: a Gutenberg Bible (one of only forty still in existence); the stained glass from St Mary's Church in Frankfurt an der Oder; the entire Dresden State Art Collections (including works by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Velazquez, as well as Raphael's Sistine Madonna). The Red Army was implicated in all of these disappearances.

In 1946 Dr Hermann Voss, director of the Dresden State Art Collections, had told American interrogators, preparing evidence for Nuremberg: 'Immediately the Russians occupied Dresden, a commission called the Trophy Organization [sic] appeared to make a choice of the best works of art belonging to the Saxon state... Almost all... were selected by the Russians and disappeared.'

The Soviets denied any responsibility but, to assure the Allies, Stalin ordered an investigation into the behaviour of his trophy brigades, appointing Alexander Porivayev, a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, as inquiry chairman.20

In February 1946 the USSR opened its case at Nuremberg, calling to the stand Joseph Orbeli, then director of the State Hermitage museum in Leningrad, who drew the world's attention to German looting and the destruction of Leningrad's cultural trophies as acts that encompassed all Soviet suffering. Orbeli talked of 'intentional wrecking', the burning down of great halls, the stealing of parquet floors, priceless treasures ripped from the walls. These palaces were not military installations, Orbeli said. They were ambassadors of Russian culture that spoke on behalf of the Motherland. They should have been accorded the privileges due to them under international law.

One month after Orbeli spoke Anatoly Kuchumov was put on a train to Konigsberg, with orders to staunch another allegation about wilful destruction by the Red Army. Only this one was far more dangerous, as it involved one of the Soviet Union's own treasures. Professor Brusov had already given an interview to TASS revealing that the Amber Room had been destroyed or looted, implicating Soviet troops in its demise. Moscow had to prevent this potentially explosive news from spreading before it could be manipulated by the Allies. Kuchumov would quickly turn the Amber Room story on its head, delivering a different (and more useful) conclusion that enabled the authorities in Moscow to point to a 'still-missing' Amber Room as evidence of how the Motherland had suffered at the hands of the Nazis.

Stalin's inquiry into the actions of the trophy brigades dragged on in secret but claimed some high-profile scalps. Marshal Zhukov, who had led the fight-back against the Nazi invasion and the battle for Berlin, was exiled to Odessa, accused of filling his Moscow dacha with German art works. General Ivan Serov, head of the NKVD in Germany, was accused of looting by MGB director Viktor Abakumov. In the furore, Serov turned the tables on his rival, and in 1951 it was the MGB chief who was arrested, and three years later tried for treason and executed. Stories of Abakumov's fate spread panic throughout the Red Army and security services. Any Soviet citizen who had stolen art works would never talk about them again. The chances of finding the Amber Room, if pieces from it had been looted or rescued from the fire in the Knights' Hall, were remote.21

Then history was edited again.

On 31 March 1955 the Council of Ministers of the USSR announced that 'in the course of the Great Patriotic War, during battles on German territory, the Soviet Army saved and removed to the Soviet Union masterpieces of classical painting from the collection of the Dresden Gallery'.22 This was a revelation. The treasures from Dresden had not been seen since April 1945, when the Nazis concealed them in a salt mine, twelve miles east of the city. As well as confirming that the art works had been 'rescued' from this mine by the Red Army, the Council of Ministers also announced in Pravda that they were to be returned to the GDR 'for the purpose of further strengthening and developing friendly relations between Soviet and German people'. The news provided a fraternal backdrop to critical negotiations in the Eastern bloc, the revelation coming just six weeks before Moscow signed the Warsaw Pact.

In the Soviet capital a million citizens queued outside the Pushkin Museum for a glimpse of the 'rescued' German collection that went on display before it was given back. Exhibition catalogues and posters of Raphael's Sistine Madonna sold out. Soviet magazines published interviews with members of the trophy brigades, who were presented as Red Army heroes who had rescued German art from the firing line.

Then in January 1957 another exchange was proposed. Soviet tanks had rolled into Budapest the previous November to crush a nationalist uprising. Poland too was in a state of unrest. On 8 January, Pravda reported that the USSR's First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev and Otto Grotewohl, the GDR premier, had signed a protocol reaffirming fraternal ties. At the bottom of the statement was a pledge: 'Both sides affirmed their readiness to discuss questions connected with the return on a mutual basis of cultural valuables'.23

Two lists would be drawn up, one of art works 'that are in the Soviet Union for temporary storage' and another of Soviet art that was in East Germany. When the Soviet list was approved on 30 July 1958, it consisted of an incredible 1,990,000 art works that had been 'rescued' from Germany. Here was the altar of Zeus from Pergamum and many other items that had vanished at the end of the war and been secreted in Soviet stores. The Soviet trophy brigades had been far more industrious than even the Allies had suspected.

The East German list was delayed until 19 October 1958 and when it arrived the Soviet authorities realized why. 'No cultural valuables from the USSR [had been found] in the GDR.' Nothing. Not a stick of furniture could be returned to Moscow, as the Americans had already given back to the Soviet Union half a million valuables at the end of the war.

Moscow had a serious problem. The forthcoming exchanges had been publicized around the world. But now the Soviets would have to hand back nearly 2 million German art works and get nothing back. They would appear to be voracious thieves while the Germans, convicted at Nuremberg for the decimation of Soviet culture, would be portrayed as victims.

The Soviets launched a damage limitation exercise. In July 1958 the Pushkin Museum in Moscow and the State Hermitage in Leningrad announced that they were to stage joint gala exhibitions of 'saved treasures'.24

Newspaper editors were called in and briefed on what stories to run. It was now that Kaliningradskaya Pravda (and then practically every other paper in the Motherland) published their dubious stories about the Amber Room. The articles revealed how 'the most valuable international art trophy in the world' had not been destroyed by fire in April 1945 but concealed by Nazis in a secret location known only to a handful of Germans. The story of the Amber Room helped to divert attention away from the embarrassing questions being asked in the Western media about why Moscow had lied for so long about looting German treasures? What else was concealed in its archives and stores?

Anatoly Kuchumov had revived the Amber Room story to save his career. Moscow had snapped his report up to ward off American allegations of Soviet impropriety. Now in 1958 revelations about the secret search for the world's most valuable missing art treasure would grab the headlines once again and save Soviet face.

Six months later East Germans joined the clamour for news about the Amber Room, having read the sensational articles in Freie Welt. It was fate that the Freie Welt articles appeared as would-be Stasi agent Paul Enke graduated from the Walter Ulbricht Academy in Potsdam-Babelsberg. This was his cue to begin searching for the Amber Room in the GDR, forming the embryonic Amber Room study group that would play into Soviet hands by generating yet more rumours about the 'still-missing' Amber Room (while ascertaining what the Germans really knew about the truth).

And once Moscow had launched the story, they had to keep looking for it in the Soviet Union too. As the mystery of its hiding place gathered momentum, ever-higher figures in the Soviet establishment became attached to what was now a patriotic mission. Perhaps, as time went by, the Soviets forgot the real story, believing instead the dogma, until 1984, when Moscow tired of paying out in pursuit of nothing and secretly called it a day, shutting down all Amber Room inquiries after thirty-eight exhausting years.

But Colonel Avenir Ovsianov, the director of the Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics, told us that this was not the end of the Amber Room story. When Communism began to teeter in the late 1980S, several high-profile art collections looted during the Second World War emerged in the Soviet Union. All of these long-concealed treasures materialized through the mediation of a quietly spoken academic from Bremen University, a man able to play all sides: trusted by Soviet apparatchiks; tolerated by former Nazi looters; courted by politicians in the Bundestag.

And after these missing art works floated to the surface in Moscow, pieces of the Amber Room emerged in Germany.

14

'So you want me to tell you about the recovered pieces of the Amber Room?' Professor Wolfgang Eichwede says, raising his eyebrows, when we meet in his study at Bremen University in April 2003. He pushes a box of Russian chocolates across the table and we see that the Catherine Palace in St Petersburg is pictured on the lid. 'Take one,' he says, popping a soft centre into his mouth. 'They're really very good.'

He settles back in his chair. 'A few months before the Berlin Wall came down in November 1989,' he recalls. I received a phone call from a man in Moscow. His name was Viktor Baldin and he was the director of the Shchusev Museum of Architecture. He told me he had a secret.'

Baldin confessed to Eichwede, director of Bremen University's Research Centre for Eastern Europe, that his institution had, locked away in its stores, 364 pictures and drawings that belonged to the Bremen Kunsthalle.

Not parts of the Amber Room, we ask?

'No, they appeared much later. Viktor Baldin told me that he had known about these pictures since in July 1945, while serving as a captain with the Soviet's 38th Field Engineers Brigade, he and other soldiers had found them in the cellars of Karnzow Castle, forty miles north of Berlin. They all bore markings of the Bremen Kunsthalle. Several comrades, including Baldin, brought art works back to Moscow.'

Viktor Baldin said that after the war, when Stalin ordered an investigation into looting, he panicked and gave his cache of 364 pictures to the Shchusev Museum of Architecture, where he worked. In 1989, with the Cold War coming to an end, Baldin, who had risen to become the museum's director, wanted to return the Bremen drawings as a sign of friendship. However, the authorities in Moscow had found out and were trying to block him.

Eichwede says: 'His phone call began a chain reaction. Just days after he rang me, Russian Culture Minister Nikolai Gubenko and the KGB raided the Shchusev Museum in Moscow, confiscating the 364 Bremen Kunsthalle works, sending them to the closed stores of the State Hermitage in Leningrad.' He glances up at an exhibition poster on the wall from the State Hermitage. I began ringing Gubenko's deputy. I made no demands. Said I simply wanted to see the Bremen items.'

A graduate of the radical student movements of 1968, Eichwede was familiar with the Soviet mindset and already had connections in Moscow. In the early 1970S he had helped initiate the first post-war public discussions about Soviet-West German relations. In 1992 the professor finally won an invitation to see the Bremen drawings.

'When I arrived at the State Hermitage, director Mikhail Piotrovsky had laid them out on the table in his office beside the Neva. We looked at them together as the snow fell outside. I was the first German to see the Bremen drawings in forty-seven years. I would not leave with them on that day but strong friendships were struck.'

On 1 March 1993, after negotiations stage-managed by Eichwede, Russia agreed to give back the Bremen works in exchange for a collection of German-owned drawings and funding from the German Bundestag to restore churches in Novgorod that had been damaged by the Nazis.

Eichwede says: 'Having agreed to the deal, my government got cold feet and blew the arrangement out of the water, saying that Germany could not be seen to reward looting. A ridiculous point of view given that we had betrayed and ransacked the Soviet Union. But our politicians said: "What else do the Russians have? We want everything back and not just the Bremen pictures." I had to go to Moscow and tell them the deal was off.'

Weeks later, more of the missing Bremen Kunsthalle collection surfaced in Moscow, when another Red Army veteran came forward after reading about Viktor Baldin in the Russian papers. The veteran had 101 drawings that he said a friend had found in Karnzow Castle in 1945. He took them in a suitcase to the German Embassy. When the Soviets found out they issued an immediate export ban. Now two parts of the missing Bremen Kunsthalle collection were stranded: one in St Petersburg, the other in Moscow.1

What was the connection between the Bremen drawings and the Amber Room, we ask?

'Be patient,' Eichwede says, 'The negotiations were labyrinthine. Then another missing German treasure emerged in Russia. Gregory Koslov, a curator from the Pushkin Museum in Moscow, a man who had helped to negotiate the handing over of the 101 Bremen drawings to the German Embassy, found a pile of documents in his museum that were about to be shredded. In these documents were references to German art works taken to Russia at the end of the war. There were pages of lists naming priceless exhibits we Germans all thought had been destroyed, including the so-called "Trojan Gold". What a discovery!'

The 'Trojan Gold', a hoard of ancient diadems, necklaces and earrings, a highlight of Berlin's pre-war art collections, had been among the things the Allies had accused the Soviets of stealing in 194 5. The Soviets had categorically denied any responsibility, but the documents that Koslov found proved that the gold had arrived in Moscow, had been secretly taken to the Pushkin Museum and was inventoried there on 28 June 1945.

Koslov went public with the story. The German government was furious. So was Irina Antonova, Koslov's boss and the director of the Pushkin Museum. She had begun her career by helping to compile the inventory for the gold, a secret she had kept for almost fifty years.

Antonova called Koslov to her office. He later recalled: I told her I wanted to tell the truth. She retorted, "There are different truths... there are foolish truths and wise truth and your truth is foolish. There is also justice... You are young and inexperienced. You didn't see Peterhof burn down, but I did..."'2 The Soviet deception over the 'Trojan Gold' was entirely excusable, nothing compared to the scale of the Nazi destruction in Leningrad, she argued.

Eichwede rolls his eyes. 'In October 1994 a German delegation arrived in Moscow to see the "Trojan Gold".3 When they left, Irina Antonova said that although the Russians would not give it back they would display it soon. But one year later, she wrote an article in Nezavisimaya Gazeta, headlined: "We Don't Owe Anybody Anything."'4 Now there were three German treasures revealed as stranded in Russia: 364 Bremen drawings in St Petersburg; 101 more in the German Embassy in Moscow; and the 'Trojan Gold' locked in the Pushkin Museum stores.

Eichwede says: I had to break the impasse. To bring the sides together. I organized a conference in 1994, "The Spoils of War", to get the Germans and the Soviets to talk. I suggested they make a unique kind of exchange that didn't involve giving anything back.'

We look perplexed. He signals us to be patient and says: 'Why not help re-create the Amber Room, I asked the Germans? Prussian King Frederick William I gave the original Amber Room to the Russian Tsar Peter the Great as a diplomatic gift. Why couldn't the Chancellor of the new Germany build for the President of the new Russia another Amber Room and soothe old wounds?'5

Initially no one took up Eichwede's idea and criticism of Russia intensified when, in January 1996, it was admitted to the Council of Europe.6 The action should have resolved arguments over looted art works as Russia was now bound by international restitution law that forced it to cooperate with Germany over returns. All looted archives and art works belonging to member states were to be given back.

But Culture Minister Nikolai Gubenko, who had thwarted Baldin's attempts at returning the 364 drawings to Bremen in 1989, was still determined that nothing from Russia would go to a nation that had wrought destruction on the Soviet Union. He convinced the Duma to set in passage a bill to nationalize all cultural properties seized by the Red Army during the war so that German treasures would be redefined as 'reparations for damages incurred'.

Eichwede pops a Russian chocolate into his mouth. 'What a nightmare. Then, in the summer of 1997, I got another phone call. In the middle of the night. Half an hour later I was sitting in a dubious restaurant in a Bremen backstreet with a man who, quite frankly, was mentally destroyed. Now I come to your topic. This man told me that his father, a Wehrmacht veteran, had fought outside Leningrad in 1941 and had stolen part of the Amber Room and that he still had it.'

We look aghast.

Eichwede stifles our attempt to ask another question. 'It sounds ridiculous but it was true. This man, Hans Achterman, had a Florentine stone mosaic depicting the senses "Touch and Smell" in his bedroom.'

A stone mosaic from the Amber Room. Anatoly Kuchumov had found only three of the Amber Room's four Florentine stone mosaics in Konigsberg in 1946. One had been missing and Kuchumov had reasoned, wherever that was, so were the panels of the Amber Room.

Eichwede continues: 'Achterman told me that while watching a television documentary about the Amber Room in 1978 featuring hobby-Historiker George Stein, he recognized a picture of the missing mosaic when it flashed up on the screen. It was identical to the one that lay in his parents' attic. At the time he did nothing. He was frightened. However, eight years later, with his father dead and local newspapers carrying stories about priceless German artefacts stuck in Russia, Achterman thought he could make some money. By 4 a.m. we were talking cash for the mosaic.

'Achterman dithered. Eventually as the sun rose, the restaurant manager came over and said, "Hans, you're discussing with a professor who understands these issues. This is your one chance. For God's sake, tell him how much you want for the stone mosaic." We started at 400,000 DMs and got down to 250,000. I wrote the agreement on the back of a beer mat and then, with the pen in his hand, Hans Achterman changed his mind and left me there. With the cigarette butts.'

Although Achterman went to ground, news of the reappearance of the missing stone mosaic from the Amber Room travelled fast when the German police announced they would arrest him for theft. The Daily Telegraph reported: 'One of the greatest art mysteries of the century, the whereabouts of the sumptuous Amber Room, took a new twist yesterday after the discovery in Germany of a mosaic, believed to have been part of the priceless palace treasure.'7

US News reported: 'Missing: Priceless Room Last Seen in World War. Bits of Tsarist Treasure Mysteriously Resurface.'

Having endured eight years of vilification over the Bremen pictures and the 'Trojan Gold', Russia leapt on the PR opportunity. Russian Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin called for the mosaic's return. It was evidence that the Germans were still clinging on to his country's most precious treasure. There was hysterical speculation in the Russian press that the Amber Room was about to be found - in Germany. All of the hoary old stories about its disappearance - an elite unit of Nazis evacuating the room from Konigsberg to a secret location codenamed BSCH - were regurgitated. But of course the Amber Room failed to materialize.

Eichwede says: 'It was the break that Russia needed. All eyes were on the Amber Room and memories were jogged about Soviet loss. Germany was now on the defensive.'

The German Foreign Office appealed for calm, while further inquiries into the provenance of the stone mosaic were carried out. And then a wealthy housewife from West Berlin came forward, saying that she owned a chest of drawers that had come from the Amber Room, too.

The housewife had seen an article about Hans Achterman's stone mosaic that was illustrated with a picture of the original Amber Room. Among the furnishings she had spotted a delicate, intricately inlaid eighteenth-century chest that was now in her living room, filled with tablecloths and napkins.

Then newspapers picked up on a sale at Christie's in London. Two years earlier the auction house had sold for 15,000 dollars a palm-sized centurion's head carved from amber. Eichwede says: 'It was an old piece. Mature. Honeyed. Christie's speculated that it was connected to the Amber Room.'

However, what the Russians made no mention of in the ensuing publicity was that the stone mosaic, the centurion's head and the chest of drawers proved nothing about the fate of the Amber Room itself, since all of these pieces had become separated before the Amber Room reached Konigsberg in December 1941, and therefore could not have been transported to the supposed secret Nazi hiding place in which the Amber Room was allegedly stashed.

We traced the centurion's head to Munich, where an art dealer acting for the collector who bought it (a German with a passion for old amber) revealed that there was an auction label stuck to the back of the head that dated from the 1920S. It probably left Russia after the Revolution.

The chest of drawers. There was no mention of it in the Konigsberg Castle Gift Book, which carefully listed each item that Alfred Rohde received in December 1941. The chest must have been stolen from the Catherine Palace before the Amber Room was transferred to Konigsberg.

And finally the stone mosaic. Hans Achterman maintained up until his death that his father had taken the mosaic as a souvenir when he and five other soldiers had dismantled the Amber Room in the Catherine Palace in 1941. If what he claimed was true then he was a member of the squad that packed up in just thirty-six hours that which Anotoly Kuchumov failed to save. The fact that the fourth stone mosaic also never reached Konigsberg is confirmed by studying the photographs taken to illustrate the Pantheon article written by Alfred Rohde in 1942. In one photograph of the room reassembled in Konigsberg Castle, the reflection in a mirror revealed an empty space in the opposite wall where the fourth mosaic would have hung.

Rather than proving that German thieves were still concealing the Amber Room, the discovery of the fourth mosaic undermined the central plank of the Soviet case that the Amber Room had survived the fall of Konigsberg. In Anatoly Kuchumov's private papers he argued that the absence of the fourth mosaic from the pile of ash he found in the Knights' Hall was proof that the fourth mosaic was concealed elsewhere, together with the amber panels. But of course the mosaic did not reappear until after Kuchumov's death and so he would not live to see his theory undermined.

These details did not matter in Russia, where former Culture Minister Nikolai Gubenko, now a deputy in the Duma, claimed that his nation's greatest missing treasure was buried in Germany. The Amber Room was being hawked bit by bit by German thieves, Gubenko and Russian newspapers speculated. The fate of the Amber Room was once again manipulated, this time to justify Russia's decision never to return to Berlin anything taken by the Red Army during the war. In April 1998 the Russian constitutional court ordered an unwilling President Yeltsin to authorize the law nationalizing wartime loot.

In Germany some would benefit from the renewed interest in the Amber Room too. Ruhrgas AG, a German energy provider with considerable assets in Russia, agreed to sponsor the building of a new Amber Room in St Petersburg, taking up Eichwede's idea.

Dr Ivan Sautov (left), director of the Catherine Palace, signing the deal with German energy provider Ruhrgas AG executives to sponsor the reconstruction of the Amber Room

The Russians had already begun this huge project but had run out of money. On 6 September 1999, Ruhrgas AG representatives met Dr Ivan Sautov, director of the Catherine Palace, and the Russian Minister of Culture to sign with amber fountain pens a sponsorship deal worth 3.5 million dollars. The German government was peeved, sending its ambassador from Moscow to witness the occasion rather than its Minister of Culture from Berlin.

Eichwede smiles. 'Ruhrgas wanted a high-profile cultural project to buy into. Their first and only interest was a commercial one. The Amber Room was worth a fortune for Russian politicians and German businessmen.'

He stifles a yawn. 'It was exhausting. And then things got really complicated. Achterman and his stone mosaic reappeared. He wanted to reconsider the deal we had worked out on the back of the beer mat and eventually agreed to sell me the stone mosaic at 210,000 DMs. It was all incredibly secret. No one could know until the mosaic was back in Russia. The money was to come from Bremen businessmen. The German government could not be seen to pay.'

Eichwede called the Russian Deputy Minister of Culture in Moscow. '"I've got your missing mosaic," I told P. V Khoroshilov. He was shocked and said, "Maybe we can come to terms."' Khoroshilov secretly flew into Bremen and struck a deal: Hans Achterman's stone mosaic would be returned to St Petersburg and the 101 Bremen pictures stranded in the German Embassy in Moscow would be released to travel to Berlin. 'We said, "We get the drawings first and then you get the stone mosaic." Khoroshilov signed the deal.'

All Eichwede needed was Berlin's approval. He flings his arms into the air. 'They said no.' Having promised to return the stone mosaic to Russia, the German government now advised that it too had changed laws governing art and reparations. The Amber Room's stone mosaic had been put on a list of items banned from export. Eichwede says: I was on the verge of giving up when the Mayor of Bremen rang me and said, "Look, this is ridiculous. I'm flying tomorrow to Moscow anyway, with the mosaic."' Fearing a scandal, the German government capitulated, and on 30 April 2000 the Mayor of Bremen, the president of the city's Chamber of Commerce and the German Minister of Culture presented the mosaic to President Putin and brought home 101 Bremen drawings. (However, Viktor Baldin's collection of 364 Bremen drawings would remain in the St Petersburg Hermitage and the 'Trojan Gold' would stay locked in the Moscow's Pushkin Museum stores.)

Once the story of the Amber Room had popped out of its box again, it was impossible to force it back in. Treasure hunters returned to the Erzgebirge nature park in western Saxony with metal detectors and picks. Der Spiegel magazine announced it was funding digs in Kaliningrad, beneath the 'Monster' and on the junction of Steindamm Strasse and Lange Reihe. Baron von Falz-Fein began writing to all his old friends, asking them to renew their efforts to find the room. A Second World War veteran in Weimar claimed to have found evidence that the Amber Room was concealed in the tunnels that ran beneath the city. And a book dealer in Gottingen announced that he had discovered files that proved the Amber Room was buried in the Volpriehausen mine (where hobby-Historiker George Stein had tried to make the German story work, armed with documents suppied by the Stasi).

In St Petersburg, Dr Ivan Sautov announced that the new Amber Room would be opened on 31 May 2003 to mark the three-hundredth anniversary of the founding of that city.

Wolfgang Eichwede's telephone rings. He talks rapidly into the handset for ten minutes and then, after finishing the call, turns to us: 'The dealing is still going on. That was our Minister of Culture. He's been in St Petersburg recently to receive back the missing stained-glass windows from St Mary's in Frankfurt an der Oder. The windows vanished in the war, but now that Germany has offered to restore the organ of the Leningrad Philharmonic and the churches of Novgorod, the windows have reappeared. He took them to St Petersburg airport in the back of a taxi.' Eichwede beams.

What of the endlessly recycled Amber Room story? Does Eichwede believe that it will ever be buried?

The professor sighs, slinging his green-and-black tartan jacket over his shoulder like a hunting cape and looks us directly in the eyes. 'What can I say? Some people have princesses and fairies. Others have the Amber Room.'

In January 2003 the presses in St Petersburg were working double time. Before the new Amber Room could be unveiled to an international audience of VIPs, hundreds of copies of a special catalogue had to be printed.

Each guest arriving in St Petersburg on 31 May 2003 for the three-hundredth anniversary celebrations of the city would be able to read the Summary Catalogue of the Cultural Valuables Stolen and Lost During the Second World War. Volume 1. The Tsarkoye Selo State Museum Zone. The Catherine Palace. Book L.8 Out of a possible 100,000 lost items, the Russian government chose to illustrate the catalogue cover with a large hand-tinted photograph of the Amber Room.

In a foreword, the Deputy Minister of Culture P. V. Khoroshilov declared:

The West and especially Germany prefers to keep silent about Russia's cultural losses. Nevertheless everybody is interested in finding out how many German paintings, drawings, engravings, sculptures and objects of decorative art, archaeological finds and collections of books, still remain in Russia and what museums house them.

The Amber Room was once again listed as officially missing, the lead item in a 300-page inventory of works stolen by the Nazis from the Catherine Palace.

The Deputy Minister of Culture concluded with praise for only one West German: 'Of great help was the archive of the German scholar George Stein, who dedicated many years of his life to the search for the Amber Room... Unfortunately the work was interrupted by this scholar's tragic death.' We are sure that Stein would have been delighted to know he had made the final edit of the Soviet's Amber Room story.

Dr Sautov, director of the Catherine Palace, wrote an introduction. The Amber Room was a 'symbol of Russian cultural and art losses' and he and his staff 'are convinced that it has not perished and will be found as a result of properly organized searches'.

Director Sautov continued: 'The aim of this [catalogue] is . . . a concrete wish of real men to [publicize] which unique pieces of art were lost during the occupation, the Amber Room among them.' No mention here of the fire set by the Red Army that destroyed everything in the Knights' Hall of Konigsberg Castle.

There followed a ten-page summary of the Amber Room story written by Larissa Bardovskaya, the head curator of the Catherine Palace, who freely lifted material from Paul Enke's book and from the untrustworthy George Stein. She concluded poignantly: 'The artistic valuables of the Catherine Palace museum are still waiting for the return to their home. The problem concerning the cultural trophies of the Great Patriotic War demands the most thorough attention from the representatives of the international community.' And these representatives were set to arrive in St Petersburg on 31 May 2003, to celebrate the city's tercentenary.

But in February 2003 another row had threatened to overshadow the unveiling ceremony. Culture Minister Mikhail Shvydkoi announced that Russia was at last to return to the Bremen Kunsthalle the 364 works taken by Red Army veteran Viktor Baldin. However, Nikolai Gubenko, now head of the Dumas Culture and Tourism Committee, appealed directly to President Putin to prevent the collection from leaving. First Deputy Prosecutor General Yury Biryukov summoned Shvydkoi to his office and warned that if he went ahead with the return he would face criminal charges.9

On 17 March Valentina Matviyenko, Putin's plenipotentiary in St Petersburg, waded into the row by rounding on German newspapers that had described the theft of the Bremen collection by the Red Army in 1945 as immoral. 'Destroying Peterhof was immoral,' Matviyenko said. 'It was immoral to steal the Amber Room, besiege Leningrad, destroy thousands of Soviet cities and kill millions of Russians... We have every right to make terms on the returns for it is us who paid the highest price for the Great Patriotic War.' Matviyenko concluded by accusing German private collectors of continuing to secrete Russian masterpieces in attics and cellars.10

On 8 April 2003, the eve of a Russian presidential visit to Germany, Putin raised the issue too. When asked about the repayment of Russian debts, run up during GDR times, a subject that was to be discussed in Berlin, Putin replied: 'The debt problem is very painful for Russia and Germany as well, not only because it is often said that Russian culture and arts were seriously damaged during the Second World War. It is also because a part of the art works removed from Russia during the war are now in private collections.'11

On 8 May more than 400 decorated heroes of the Great Patriotic War were invited to examine the reconstructed Amber Room as part of the commemorations for Victory Day, which is still regarded by the majority of Russians as the most important event in the political calendar. We will not forget or forgive, the veterans told Russian reporters, recalling how the original room had been 'ripped from the Motherland' as the 'Hitlerite evil-doers' pulled the siege noose tight around Leningrad in the winter of 1941.12

And then 31 May finally arrived. Although the VIPs had officially come to St Petersburg to attend a Russian-EU summit (whose symbolic backdrop was the three hundredth anniversary of the founding of the host city), the first major event on the itinerary was the unveiling of the new Amber Room.

Pravda online monitored the day's events.

15.30 hours. Russian President Vladimir Putin and German Chancellor Gerhard Schroder ascended the Monighetti staircase, an elaborate Italian marble flight draped with heavy crimson curtains. Above their heads was the recently restored plafond (Tercentenary Media Pack, Russian Federation Summary Catalogue: 'the staircase was ruined during the war and most of its [ceiling] decorations were lost').

Damaged Monighetti staircase, Catherine Palace, 1945

Following them were first ladies Doris Schroder and Lyudmila Putina, and then Tony Blair, Silvio Berlusconi, Jacques Chirac, Kofi Annan, Romano Prodi, Atal Bihari Vajapyee, Hu Jintao and thirty more heads of state and government from across the continents, the former Soviet Union and its allies.

Pravda reported: 'Russia's pride: leaders of foreign countries visit an exquisite monument of the Catherine Palace.'

Beside Brodzsky's marble Sleeping Cupid, the procession filed into the Formal White Dining Room and on through the gilded double-doors into the Crimson and Green Pilaster Dining Rooms (Tercentenary Media Pack, Russian Federation Summary Catalogue: 'having been completely damaged during the war the rooms acquired a new life in 1980').

Shepherded past cabinets displaying broken cherubs, crystal teardrops and fragments of Sevres, past black-and-white photographs of Soviet craftsmen in overalls piecing back together the Leningrad palaces, the entourage entered the Portrait Hall (Tercentenary Media Pack, Russian Federation Summary Catalogue: 'the furniture set was re-created in 1970 using samples that were saved by evacuation during the war').

Having walked down corridors lined with evidence of Nazi barbarism, the world leaders and first ladies were finally led across a floor inlaid with rare hard woods, rose and amarantus, into a curtained chamber of light for the climax of the tour.

15.35 hours. Pravda reported: 'Russia's fabled [Amber] Room dazzles again. Twenty years of work by Russian craftsmen has returned what was called the Eighth Wonder of the World to its place in the Catherine Palace. The fate of the original is not known to this day and the long search for it proved futile.'

On an easel was displayed a delicate eighteenth-century stone mosaic ('Touch and Smell', the one that Wolfgang Eichwede had bought from Hans Achterman in a deal struck on a beer mat). Against a wall stood a chest of drawers that had once belonged to a housewife from West Berlin.

15.40 hours: Pooled footage from the VGTRK Rossiya (All-Russia State Television and Radio Company) showed a large man in a glossy Italian suit with a plump salt-and-pepper moustache glad-handing the guests. Tatiana Kosobokova, reporting for Pravda, wrote: 'Ivan Sautov, the head of the museum, assumed responsibilities as private tour guide to Vladimir Putin.'

A day that had begun with performances by Luciano Pavarotti, Demis Roussos and 'the famous German hard-rock group Scorpions' (who sang 'Anthem to a Great City') ended with an evening of candlelight, fountains and music. All of St Petersburg, from the acquisitive former palace deputy director Valeria Bilanina in Pushkin to the thrifty journalist Vladimir Telemakov in Ozerki, and from furniture expert Malinki Albina in Pavlovsk to Our Friend the Professor in the northern suburbs, sat back with thimbles of Pertsovka vodka and slivers of herring to watch great volleys of fireworks cascade over Putin's 'Window on the West' (restored at a cost of L.5 billion dollars).

Nothing had been allowed to get in the way of this Great Day. The smarting Culture Minister Mikhail Shvydkoi, the vengeful Duma deputy Nikolai Gubenko and the patriotic plenipotentiary Valentina Matviyenko were all present and smiling (as was Professor Wolfgang Eichwede of Bremen University). And the sun too had been made to shine. Russian air force jets, armed with freezing agents, had been mobilized on missions to 'influence the rain clouds', banishing them from the skies above St Petersburg (at a cost of twenty-nine million roubles).13

As for the story of the Amber Room, it had been sealed forever, like an insect trapped in resin, a facsimile of the original room now served as a constant reminder of Russia's greatest loss to anyone who walked through it.

Epilogue

In the summer of 2003, we were sent more extracts of a report from the Hamburg-Eppendorf Psychiatric Hospital to the Ingolstadt coroner. Dated 25 August 1987, it stated that there was 'mutual hatred within George Stein's family'. It revealed that Elisabeth, Stein's wife, was not murdered in 1983 but committed suicide, in fear of her husband.

The report noted: 'Exactly fifteen years ago on Good Friday [1972], [George Stein] had encouraged his wife to make sacrificial cuts in his abdominal wall, using a dissecting scalpel. On Good Friday in 1982 he asked her to do it again.' On both occasions George Stein had called the police, claiming to have been attacked by knife-wielding masked raiders who warned him off the Amber Room mystery. But he had invented the stories, after forcing his wife to perform sadomasochistic acts.

When Stein was admitted to hospital for the first time in 1987, having been found in a wood outside Hamburg with stab wounds, it was on Good Friday. When he was discovered three months later, bleeding in woods outside Starnberg, his injuries were similar. And when his corpse was recovered on 20 August 1987 from a clearing in Titting Wald, the wounds from which George Stein bled to death were in the same position on his abdomen. They were all masochistic mutilations.

Stein was compulsive, convincing and manipulative. Brilliant at first, he located the missing Pskov icons. Then he became careless and clumsy. Even Stasi agent Paul Enke warned of Stein's unreliability, his propensity to tamper with Nazi documents. One of the many doctors who treated Stein realized these qualities too late, writing to a colleague, just five days before Stein died: I have involved myself in this case perhaps excessively and certainly in a somewhat amateurish manner.'1

George Stein took his own life in such a dramatic fashion, bleeding to death in an amphitheatre of beech trees, that he ensured his name would forever be associated with the Amber Room riddle he had failed to solve. In choosing ritual suicide by disembowelment (a formal act known to Japanese warriors as seppuku), Stein had also found a respectable alternative to dishonour and defeat.

But these truths, like so many surrounding the Amber Room, have been suppressed and deceit has been allowed to fill the resulting vacuum. The Russian government and museum authorities continue to promote the 'German scholar' George Stein whose laudable attempts to find the Amber Room were 'interrupted' by his 'tragic death'. Russian and German newspapers still suggest that Stein was murdered and speculate about fascist assassins or Cold War hit-men. All of this keeps alive the unsupportable and yet widely held view that the Amber Room was stolen and conceded as part of a Nazi conspiracy that has destroyed so many of those who have attempted to uncover it.

Some of the same newspapers that publish these claims continue to fund costly searches for the Amber Room. In summer 2003, teams from Hamburg excavated the tail end of the 'Rudi Ringel' story in Kaliningrad, looking for the secret hiding place known as BSCH. Others were scouring the old fortifications of Konigsberg and the castle cellars beneath the 'Monster'. In Saxony, as we write, two competing expeditions are approaching one tunnel in the Nicolai Stollen silver mine from opposite directions. Heinz-Peter Haustein, Mayor of Deutschneudorf, burrows on the German side. Helmut Gansel, a mining entrepreneur from Miami, digs from the Czech village of Stechovice. And in the virtual tunnels and castles of Internet chatrooms, website editors continue to spin the Amber Room story. An e-mail sent to us in December 2003, from a website we had contacted that sponsors digs for the Amber Room in the German state of Thuringia, concluded: 'Please send some donations now. Give us what you can. We have made some major, ground-breaking discoveries and within a month, or two, will reveal the burial location of the Amber Room.'

However, the evidence, when we examined it, is clear. Soviet news footage shot inside Konigsberg Castle shortly after the city fell on 9 April 1945 shows that some rooms in the castle remained intact. German eyewitnesses hiding inside the castle told Soviet interrogators that it was not burned to the ground when they surrendered on the evening of 9 April, or in the early hours of LO April. Yet when the first official Soviet investigators arrived in Konigsberg, on 31 May 1945, they reported that the castle was a charred ruin and the city's storage facilities in disarray. Professor Alexander Brusov wrote in his diary in June 1945 that many of the hiding places carefully selected by Alfred Rohde, the director of the Konigsberg Castle Museum, were flooded, on fire and empty, having been opened, torched or vandalized after the German surrender by the Red Army.

We know the Soviet authorities were presented with these facts and advised by Brusov that, alongside many other treasures, the Amber Room had been destroyed between 9 and 11 April 1945. His findings were classified and buried for more than five decades, and in their place Leningrad curator Anatoly Kuchumov, who directed the campaign to discredit Brusov, fostered a fragile theory that depended for its success on no one examining it too closely.

The great curator feared that his failure to dismantle the room in the summer of 1941 would be judged as negligent. His guilty response fitted the needs of the Motherland: its Red Army stood accused by the Allies of wanton destruction and its museum storerooms were revealed to be brimming with looted German treasures. A great untruth was born and it enabled the Soviet people and their sympathizers in Europe and America to continue to believe that the East was the victim of the worst excesses of the West. The real story portrayed the Soviets as rapacious liars, something the leadership feared, given the instability across the bloc in the tumultuous decades after the war when Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia all threatened to break loose.

The story that the Nazis had concealed the Amber Room was given the backing of the Executive Committee of the Council of Ministers, the highest administrative organ of the Soviet Union. Who would be foolish enough to contradict it? The agony of the Soviet people was now enshrined in the missing Amber Room and it was enduring.

The world should remember Stalingrad, the 900 Days, the obliteration of so many Soviet cities, towns and villages, and the sacrifices made by the Red Army during the Second World War. But history is untidy, and as well as being the victim of unbridled German aggression, the Soviet state was a manipulative victor. Having seen their country burned, raped and robbed, Soviet soldiers became vengeful and careless.

There are only a handful of tangible truths in the saga of the Amber Room and they are enshrined in twenty-eight small pieces that fell off the walls, long before the Second World War. Today these broken amber nuggets are locked away in the Catherine Palace stores, having been glued on to a cardboard mount. They are all that is left of a Russian dream.

Last surviving pieces of the Amber Room

Notes

EPIGRAPH

1. Konstantin Akinsha and Gregory Koslov, Stolen Treasure, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, London, 1995, p. 233.

INTRODUCTION

1. Susanne Massie has researched an account of the evacuations of the Leningrad palaces. See Susanne Massie, Pavlovsk, Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1990.
2. See Theophile Gautier, Voyage en Russie, Paris, 1866.
3. The Catherine Palace had some of its rooms transformed into a museum as early as 1918.
4. Hans Hundsdorfer, who served with the 6th Panzer Division, quoted in Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtschaft, East Berlin, 1986, pp. 15-16.
5. See footnotes in Chapter 2 for a list of files to access in the National Archives, Kew, Surrey.

CHAPTER 1

1. Vera Lemus, Pushkin Palaces and Parks, Aurora Art Publishers, Leningrad, 1984.
2. Ibid.
3. Alexei Tolstoy began his The Road to Calvary trilogy in 1922 and an English translation appeared in 1946, published by Alfred Knopf, New York.
4. We later found a report critical of the 1936 evacuation plan written by Communist Party Secretary Stanislav Tronchinsky: see Kuchumov archive, Central State Archive of Literature and Art - Tsentralny Gosudarstvenny Arkhiv Literatury i Iskusstva (TGALI) 468, Opus 1, File 108.
5. Anna Podorozhnik Akhmatova, Plantain, Petropolis, Petrograd, 1921. Nikolai Gumilev, Akhmatova's husband, was arrested and shot that year.
6. Geraldine Norman, The Hermitage, Jonathan Cape, London, 1997.
7. Ibid, for the best version of the culling of museum staff.
8. We found an original version of this document in the Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 108.
9. We later found a version of this report written by Communist Party Secretary Stanislav Tronchinsky: see Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 108.
10. Not much is known about Schliiter's family or his early years, but the best account is carried in Heinz Ladendorf, Der Bildhauer und Baumeister Andreas Schliiter, Deutscher Verein fiir Kunstwissenschaft, Berlin, 1935.
11. Ibid.
12. Winfried and Use Baer, Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, Fondation Paribas, Paris, 1995. Letter written on 12 November 1701.
13. J. M. de Navarro, 'Prehistoric Routes Between Northern Europe and Italy Defined by the Amber Trade', Geographical Journal, Vol. LXVI, No. 6, London, December 1925.
14. A. M. Kuchumov and M. G. Voronov, The Amber Room, Khudozhnik RSFSR, Leningrad, 1989.
15. Arnolds Spekke, The Ancient Amber Routes and the Geographical Discovery of the Baltic, M. Goppers, Stockholm, 1957.
16. Helen Fraquet, Amber, Butterworth, London, 1987.
17. Baer, Charlottenburg Palace.
18. Fraquet, Amber. Also see George and Roberta Poinar, The Quest for Life in the Amber, Addison & Wesley Publishing, New York, 1994.
19. Kuchumov and Voronov, The Amber Room.
20. Benson Mates, The Philosophy of Leibniz, OUP, New York, 1986, pp. 26-7.
21. Heinz Ladendorf, Der Bildhauer und Baumeister Andreas Schliiter.
22. Kuchumov and Voronov, The Amber Room.
23. Ibid.
24. Diary of Peter the Great, second part, Hermitage Library, St Petersburg, 1772.
25. Kuchumov and Voronov, The Amber Room. One taler was equivalent to just under an ounce (23.4 g) of silver.
26. Ibid.
27. 'The Amber Room of the Tsarskoye Selo Palace', Ruskii Vestnik, November 1877, Vol. 132, p. 391.
28. The Letters of the Russian Tsars, Hermitage Library, Moscow, 1861, p. 5.
29. M. P. Putzillo, 'The Beginning of Friendship between Russia and Prussia: Russian Giants in Prussian Service, 1711-1746', Ruskii Vestnik, March 1878, Vol. 134, pp. 376-92.
30. Ibid., p. 391.
31. Ibid.
32. Russian State Archive for Ancient Documents - Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Drevnikh Aktov (RGADA): Collection 11, Inventory 53, File 1, p. 9.
33. RGADA: Collection 9, Inventory 33, File 103.
34. RGADA: Collection 2, Inventory 34, File 417, p. 404.
35. O. N. Kuznetsova, The Summer Garden and Summer Palace of Peter I, Lenizdat, Leningrad, 1988, pp. 22-4.
36. Pravda means 'truth' and Izvestiya means 'news', literally the 'News of the Councils of Working People's Deputies of the USSR'.

CHAPTER 2

1. Author interviews with professor from Leningrad University.
2. Personalities of St Petersburg, www.ceo.spb.ru.
3. V. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures', unpublished manuscript, 1986.
4. National Archives (NA): HW/5/29, Commander Saunders, 9 September, 1941.
5. PRO: CX/MSS/237, Commander Saunders, 13 September 1941.
6. Kuchumov Archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 108, contains a similar account by Curator Popova.
7. Antony Beevor, Berlin: The Downfall 1945, Viking, London, 2002.
8. W. Bruce Lincoln, Sunlight at Midnight, Basic Books, New York, 2000.
9. Anna Podorozhnik Akhmatova, Plantain, Petropolis, Petrograd, 1921.
10. Telemakov, Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures.
11. Helen Dunmore, The Siege, Penguin, London, 2001.
12. Lincoln, Sunlight at Midnight.
13. RGADA: Collection 467, Inventory 2 (73/87), File 87b, pp. 523-4.
14. Ibid.
15. Approximately 100 lb of silver.
16. RGADA: Collection 470, Inventory 6, File 30, pp. 18,19 and 32.
17. RGADA: Collection 470, Inventory 1 (82/516), File 9, p. 1 (1746).
18. Henri Troyat, Catherine the Great, Phoenix Press, London, 2000.
19. Ibid, and Laurence Kelly, St Petersburg: a Travellers' Companion, Constable, London, 1998.
20. A. M. Kuchumov, and M.G. Voronov, The Amber Room, Khudozhnik RFSSR, Leningrad, 1989.
21. Theophile Gautier, Voyage en Russie, Paris, 1866.
22. Dr Norman Paul Forster's testimony, given at Nuremberg, 14 February 1946.
23. Author archive.
24. Unpublished letters from Anatoly Kuchumov, author archive. For more letters, see Susanne Massie, Pavlovsk, Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1990.

CHAPTER 3

1. Kuchumov archive: TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123.
2. A selection of Gorky's letters, including this one and several others to Stalin, is in the Library of Congress's Soviet Archive. A facsimile of this one can also be found on www.ibiblio.org/pjones/russian/outline.html.
3. W. Derham, The Philosphical Experiments and Observations of the Late Eminent Dr Robert Hooke, London, 1726, p. 315.
4. Adam of Bremen, quoted in A. Spekke, The Ancient Amber Routes and the Geographical Discovery of the Baltic, Stockholm, 1957.
5. J. M. de Navarro, 'Prehistoric Routes Between Northern Europe and Italy Defined by the Amber Trade', Geographical Journal, Vol. LXVI, No. 6, London, December 1925.
6. Olaus Magnus, Carta Marina, Venice, 1539. See also Olaus Magnus, De Gentibus Septentrionalibus, Rome, 1555
7. P. J. Hartmann, Succini Prussici, physica et civilis historia, Frankfurt, 1677, appendix 1, translation into German of Simonis Grunovii's 1521 account, entitled Amber and Its Sources.
8. Gotthard Treitschke, Origins of Prussianism: The Teutonic Knights, G. Allen and Unwin, London, 1942.
9. Central State Archive of Moscow: Collection 8, Opus 659, File 2.
10. Antony Beevor, Berlin, The Downfall 194s, Viking, London, 2002.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
14. Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtschaft, East Berlin, 1986.
15. Files of the National Archive in Washington: OSS Art, US Assets. XX 8775-6.

CHAPTER 4

1. Henri Troyat, Catherine the Great, Phoenix Press, London, 2000.
2. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 119.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Russian translations of all letters by Alfred Rohde contained in Kuchumov archive, TGALI, Collection 468, Opus 1, File 119, pp. 39-47.
6. The letter carried a reference: '323 I-5'.
7. V. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures', unpublished manuscript, 1986.
8. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 122.
9. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures'.
10. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48.
11. Ibid.
12. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures'.
13. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48.
14. Heinrich Himmler planned to raise an army of Werwolf s that was to fight a guerrilla war from secret bases in the Bavarian and Austrian Alps.
15. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48.
16. Alfred Rohde, Bernstein ein Deutscher Werkstoff, Denkmaler Deutscher Kunst, Berlin, 1937.
17. Alfred Rohde, 'Monatsschrift fiir Freunde und Sammler der Kunst', Pantheon, Vol. XXIX, F. Bruckmann, Munich, July-December 1942.
18. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures'.
19. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48.

CHAPTER 5

1. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 253.
2. Edvard Radzinsky, Stalin, Anchor Books, New York, 1996.
3. Ibid.
4. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 108.
5. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 119.
6. Ibid.
7. V. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures', unpublished manuscript, 1986.
8. Konstantin Akinsha, and Gregory Koslov, Stolen Treasure, Weidenfeld &: Nicolson, London, 1995.
9. Ibid.
10. Telemakov, 'Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures'.
11. Ibid.
12. Radzinsky, Stalin.
13. Story told to authors by professor at St Petersburg University.
14. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 121.
15. Author archive.

CHAPTER 6

1. Quoted by J. O. Koehler, Stasi, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1999.
2. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 119, pp. 15-23.
3. Edvard Radzinsky, Stalin, Anchor Books, New York, 1996.
4. See also Helmut Miiller-Enbergs, Wer war Wer in der DDR?, Christopher Links Verlag, Berlin, 2000.
5. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 119, pp. 15-23.
6. Ibid.
7. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48.
8. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 48, p. 1.
9. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 120, pp. 22-3.

CHAPTER 7

1. Alexandra Hildebrandt, The Wall, Verlag Haus am Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin, 2002.
2. Data supplied by Forschungs und Gedenkstatte Normannenstrasse, Berlin.
3. For the history and administration of the Stasi, see J. O. Koehler, Stasi, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1999, and Timothy Garton Ash, The File, Flamingo, London, 1997.
4. BBC News reports, March 2002.
5. The Federal Authority for the Records of the State Security Sevice of the former GDR - Die Bundesbeauftragte fiir die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik (BStU) AV14/79.
6. Helmut Miiller-Enbergs, Wer war Wer in der DDR} Christopher Links Verlag, Berlin, 2000.
7. Ibid. See also Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtschaft, East Berlin, 1986, for an account of Strauss's archival and Saxony investigations.
8. Grafe interview, 'Spasennie shedevri' (Saved Masterpieces), Sovetski Khudozhnik, Moscow, 1977.
9. Also quoted in Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
10. Ibid.
11. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 45.
12. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123.
13. Sefton Delmar, Trial Sinister and Black Boomerang, Viking, New York, 1961 and 1962.

CHAPTER 8

1. BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 1-17, dated 1 October 1964.
2. Schmalfuss was the director of Stasi Department z.
3. BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 1-17.
4. BStU, KSII404/82, p. 23, report from 23 October 1950.
5. BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 26-7, report by Oberrat Gustin.
6. Ibid.
7. BStU, AV 14/79, and quoted in Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtschaft, East Berlin, 1986.
8. BStU, 915 MfS Sekretariat d. Ministers.
9. Dated 24 June 1941.
10. Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, p. 52.
11. See BStU, AV 14/79; Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report; and J. Petropoulos, Art as Politics in the Third Reich, University of North Carolina Press, 1996.
12. Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, pp. 55-7.
13.Ibid.
14. BStU, 915 MfS Sekretariat d. Ministers.
15. For background on Rosenberg and art, see J. Petropoulos, Art as Politics in the Third Reich, and NA files, 'Dossier of Alfred Rosenberg', WO 208/44 94? 16 October 1946.
16. Ibid.
17. BStU, 915 MfS Sekretariat d. Ministers, and Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report p. 139.
18. Ibid., p. 82.
19. The letter was dated 22 September 1962.
20. BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 146-9. Schliep served within HA VII.
21. BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 35-6.
22. See Forschungs und Gedenkstatte Normannenstrasse, Berlin, for detailed wording.
23. Enke then served within Department HA VII.
24. BStU, KSII404/82, p. 285.
25. Ibid., pp. 66-70.
26. Alfred Rohde, 'Monatsschrift fiir Freunde und Sammler der Kunst,' Pantheon, Vol. XXIX, F. Bruckmann, Munich, July-December 1942.
27. Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, pp. 114-16.
28. For details about Konigsberg evacuations, see Bernsteinzimmer Report and Antony Beevor, Berlin: The Downfall 1945, Viking, London, 2002.
29. For a summary of Enke's research into troop and civilian movements and the removal of the von Hindenburg corpses see his Bernsteinzimmer Report, pp. 109-115.
30. BStU, AV14/79.
31. J. O. Koehler, Stasi, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1999.
32. D. Lewis, The Lexicon of the Stasi: Language in the Service of the State, University of Exeter, Europa Magazine, Vol. III , No. 1, 1999.
33. BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 1-18.

CHAPTER 9

1. J. O. Koehler, Stasi, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1999.
2. Seufert told this to Giinter Wermusch when they worked together.
3. The appeal was sent to Sir Brian Robertson, High Commissioner of the British Sector in Berlin. This, together with other information on the Koch arrest operation and prosecution, comes from NA, FO 371.
4. The Soviets submitted their brief letter on 11 June 1949.
5. Bobidanosov was chairman of the Leningrad Committee for State Inspection of Landmark Preservation. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, and see also Avenir Ovsianov archive, Kaliningrad.
6. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 28.
7. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 119.
8. Ibid., pp. 4-9.
9. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123, interview conducted by Vladimir Orlovsky for Zszysze Warschawy.
10. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123, cutting dated 20 October 1961.
11. Koch's prison was near the village of Barcikowo, outside the northern Polish city of Olsztyn.
12. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123.
13. Ibid.
14. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 365-70.
15. For a summary of the findings of this trip, see Paul Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtschaft, East Berlin, 1986, pp. 179-92.
16. Ibid.
17. Ibid. See also BStU AV 14/79, Vol. 1.
18. BStU, AV 14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 362-3.
19. Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
20. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 121, pp. 6-7.
21. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 29, pp. 322-89.
22. Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report, and BStU, AV 14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 365-70.
23. Ibid., pp. 360-4.
24. Ibid., p.356.
25. Ibid., pp. 357-8.
26. Ibid., pp. 360-4.
27. Ibid., pp. 322-89.

CHAPTER 10

1. Coburger was director of HA VIII (observation and investigation) and Biichner was director of HA VII (defence in the Ministry of the Interior, Volkspolizei).
2. Documents concerning this review of Enke's career are all from BStU, KSII404/82, and AV 14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 7-11.
3. Written by Volkspolizei Oberrat Gustin: see BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 26-7.
4. Written by Major Schmalfuss: see BStU, KSII404/82, pp. 1-17.
5. BStU, AV14/79 Vol. 1, pp. 7-8.
6. Ibid., p. 7.
7. All the above are taken from ibid., pp. 5-12.
8. Ibid.
9. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 28, p. 92.
10. BStU, KSII404/82 p. 285 and Neiber file 386, p. 180.
11. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 40-7.
12. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 360-4.
13. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 40-7.
14. Generalmajor Fister, director of HA IX (investigative body), was writing to the director of HA XX (counter-dissidence, culture, church, underground): see BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 1, pp. 335-6.
15. Ibid., pp. 132-4.
16. The deputy director of Main Department Investigations wrote to Comrade Volkov, Director of the KGB Investigations Department, Moscow: see BStU, AV 14/79, Vol.1, pp. 90-113.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid., pp. 114-29.
19. Ibid., pp. 132-4.
20. Ibid., pp. 130-31.
21. Oberstleutnant Bauer wrote to Magdeburg in 1983, see: ibid., pp. 185-6.
22. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 28, p. 34, written by Hauptmann Rudolph.
23. The information about Stein derives from author interview with Robert Stein, Paul Enke's Bernsteinzimmer Report, Die Wirtshaft, East Berlin, 1986, and BStU, AV14/79.
24. J. A. Bustered, 'The Treasure in the Salt Mine', Army Magazine, USA, March 1997-
25. Letter dated 5 March 1949, quoted by Patricia Grimsted, 'Spoils of War Returned' Prologue, Vol. 34, No. 3, Washington DC, Fall 2002.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid. The recipient of the letter was the director, Thomas Grochowniak. See also Giinter Wermusch archive, Berlin.
28. Ibid., letter dated 2 May 1955.
29. See Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
30. Ibid.
31. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 28, p. 37.
32. Ibid.
33-Ibid.
34. See Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
35. Tete Bottger archive, Gottingen.
36. Ibid.
37. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 40-7.
38. See Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
39. Ibid.
40. BStU, Neiber file 409, pp. 56-9.
41. BStU, AV14/79, Vol. 3, pp. 281-9.
42. For a short biography of Semyonov, see www.sovlit.com.
43. BStU, Neiber file 409, pp. 10-12.
44. Ibid., pp. 100-104.
45. Mielke wrote this on his German Communist Party questionnaire in July 1945. See J. O. Koehler, Stasi, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1999.
46. Ibid.
47. Ibid., p. 75.
48. The letter was written in 1988: BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 49-51.
49. Ibid., pp. 45-8.
50. Ibid.
51. BStU, Neiber file 409, pp. 129-30.
52. See Enke, Bernsteinzimmer Report.
53. BStU,AVi4/79,Vol. 30.
54. BStU, Neiber file 409, pp. 120-1.
55. BStU, Neiber file 381, p. 61.
56. E. Wiedemann, 'New Traces in the Search for the Amber Room', Der Spiegel, 2001.
57. BStU, Neiber file 409.
58. The Soviet communique was entitled 'To the measures adopted for the search after the Amber Room': see BStU, Neiber file 381, p. 72.

CHAPTER 11

1. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 40-7.
2. All the following documents were taken from the archive of Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein or from the private archive of Giinter Wermusch.
3. See Kriminalhauptkommissar Wermuth's report in Ingolstadt No. K1-1380-1230-7/8.
4. BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 65-9.
5. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 142-52.
6. Izvestiya, 15 May 1988. See also BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 65-9.
7. BStU, Neiber file 386, pp. 40-7.
8. See the ground-breaking documentary Bernsteinzimmer, MPR Film and Fernseh Produktion, produced and directed by Maurice Philip Remy, Munich, 1987.
9. Letter from Herbert Muller to Enke, via Wochenpost, which ran the article, 2 January 1988: Wermusch private archive.
10. Gerhard Schroter, letter to Wolfgang Mertin and Giinter Wermusch, 1 November 1988. See Wermusch private archive.
11. BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 45-8.
12. BStU, Neiber file 381. See also Giinter Wermusch's private archive for copies of the correspondence.
13. 28 May 1988. See BStU, Neiber file 381, p. 74.
14. BStU, Neiber file 381, p. 73.
15. BStU, Neiber file 381, pp. 49-51.

CHAPTER 12

1. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 121.
2. Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF).
3. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123.
4. The directive was 526-R. See Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1; Avenir Ovsianov, private archive, Kaliningrad; and Avenir Ovsianov, Mine Anna, Yantarny Skaz, Kaliningrad, 2001.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 123.
8. GARF.
9. The directive was 181-R and was passed on 13 May 1969.
10. Order No.2599.
11. D. A. Volkaganov, Seven Leaders, Vol. II, M. Novosky, Moscow, 1997.
12. Avenir Ovsianov private archive, Kaliningrad.
13. The best description of the action of the trophy brigades, their formation and activity, is in Konstantin Akinsha and Gregory Koslov, Stolen Treasure, Weidenfeld &Nicolson, London, 1995.
14. Act 241, Op. 2618, d 67, 193 n 107-111; Op. 2621, d 16, 160; Op. 2656, d 207, 122. See also Ovsianov, Mine Anna.

CHAPTER 13

1. A. M. Kuchumov and M. G. Voronov, The Amber Room, Khudozhnik RSFSR, Leningrad, 1989.
2. This and telegrams concerning Kuchumov's Lenin Prize can be found in Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 257.
3. All of the Fors letters can be found in the Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 121, pp. 13, 24, 29 and 34.
4. All of these passes can be found in the Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, Opus 1, File 120, pp. 3, 6, 9, 10, 13 and 14.
5. Ibid., p. 11.
6. A komandirovat for 9 March, signed by Striganov, orders Kuchumov down to Moscow and on to Kaliningrad for ten days: 'ref. order number 145-k. Participation in the function of forming a State Committee on the question of the Amber Room of the Catherine Palace' following order 526-R of the Russian Federation and 161 of the Ministry of Culture.
7. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 120, pp. 14-19.
8. Ibid., p. 20.
9. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 119, p. 37.
10. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 121, pp. 7-11.
11. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 248.
12. The Library of Congress Country Studies carries a profile of the Soviet Union and its administrative and political structure. This estimates party membership and USSR census information. See http://lcweb2.loc.g0v/frd/cs/sutoc.html.
13. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 61.
14. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 48, pp. 1-38.
15. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 119, p. 35.
16. Kuchumov archive, TGALI 468, File 119. See also Avenir Ovsianov, Mine Anna, Yantarny Skaz, Kaliningrad, 2001.
17. Ibid. See also Ovsianov, Mine Anna.
18. Patricia Grimsted, 'Spoils of War Returned', Prologue, Vol. 34, No. 3, Washington, DC, Fall 2002.
19. Klaus Goldmann, 'The Treasure of the Berlin State Museums and its Allied Capture', International journal of Cultural Property, Vol. VII, No. 2, 1988.
20. Konstantin Akinsha and Gregory Koslov, Stolen Treasure, Weidenfeld &C Nicolson, London, 1995.
21. Ibid., pp. 172-80.
22. Leningradskaya Pravda, 31 March 1955.
23. Akinsha and Koslov, Stolen Treasure, pp. 189-215.
24. The exhibitions officially opened on 7 August 1958.

CHAPTER 14

1. See account of Baldin story in Konstantin Akinsha and Gregory Koslov, Stolen Treasure, Weidenfeld 6e Nicolson, London, 1995.
2. Ibid., pp. 233-5.
3. See Klaus Goldmann, 'The Trojan Treasures in Berlin', in Elizabeth Simpson (ed.), The Spoils of War, Harry N. Abrams, New York, 1997.
4. The article was published on 5 March 1995.
5. For a full version see Wolfgang Eichwede, 'Models of Restitution', in Simpson (ed.), The Spoils of War.
6. For full account of negotiations see Patricia Grimsted, 'Spoils of War Returned', Prologue, Vol. 34, No.3, Washington, DC, Fall 2002.
7. Article published on 16 May 1997.
8. Russian Federation Summary Catalogue of the Cultural Valuables Stolen and Lost During the Second World War, the Tsarskoye Selo State Museum Zone, the Catherine Palace, Book I, Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, Department of Cultural Heritage, ICAR inc., St Petersburg, Russia, 1999.
9. See the report 'Russian minister wants booty art back in Bremen', carried by www.Gazetta.ru, 14 March 2003 and also article by Andrei Zolotov Jr., St Petersburg Times, 14 March 2003.
10. See 'Vladimir Putin's representative is against returning Baldin collection to Germany', Pravda, 17 March 2003.
11. See 'Never read a book written about me', Pravda, 8 April 2003.
12. See 'Amber Room reconstruction in Catherine Palace of Tsarskoye Selo is completed', Pravda, 13 May 2003.
13. See Pravda, 31 May 2003.

EPILOGUE

1. The letter is dated 15 August 1987 and was sent to a Hamburg ward registrar who was to have supervised Stein when he was discharged and returned home.

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ARCHIVES
Die Bundesbeauftragte fiir die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik, Berlin (BStU) [The Federal Authority for the Records of the State Security Service of the former GDR]
Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Rossiikoi Federatsii (GARF) [State Archive of the Russian Federation, Moscow]
Kaliningrad Centre for Coordinating the Search for Cultural Relics, Kaliningrad
Konigsberg Documentation Centre at the Museum Stadt Konigsberg, Duisburg
National Archives, London: HW i series, GC and CS Churchill files; HW 3 series, GC and CS official histories and personal memoirs; HW 14 series GC and CS correspondence files; WO 208 series, War Office intelligence files, and 44/94 for Alfred Rosenberg dossier; HW 5 series; FO 1019/16 Alfred Rosenberg's Nuremburg defence; FO 1019/40 final application for witnesses and documents, Alfred Rosenberg; T 209 series for War Office field reports on looting and preservation of monuments; FO 139, 371, 937, 1023, 1038, 1060 and also WO 354-24 series for capture and extradition of Erich Koch
National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, DC, for Holocaust assets files and for documentation on restitution issues during and after the Second World War compiled for and by Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Section (MFAA) (see also: http://www.archives.gov/research_room/holocaust_era_assets/ art_provenance_and_claims/ descriptive_list_of_key_records.html)
Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Drevnikh Aktov (RGADA) [Russian State Archive for Ancient Documents, Moscow]
George Stein Private Archive, Kaliningrad
Tsentralny Gosudarstvenny Arkhiv Literatury i Iskusstva (TGALI) [Central State Archive for Literature and Arts, St Petersburg]
Tsentralny Gosudarstvenny Arkhiv Kinofotofonodokumentov Sankt-Peterburga (TsGAKFFD SPb) [Central State Archive of Documentary Films, Photographs and Sound Recordings of St Petersburg]

MANUSCRIPTS AND PRIVATE PAPERS
Telemakov, Vladimir, 'The Secrets of Saving Museum Treasures', unpublished manuscript, St Petersburg, 1986
Valeria Bilanina private papers, Tsarskoye Selo Tete Bottger private papers, Gottingen Baron Eduard von Falz-Fein private papers, Liechtenstein Vica Plauda private papers, St Petersburg Maurice Philip Remy private papers, MPR Films, Munich Giinter Wermusch private papers, Berlin

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