The Amber Room Page 0,112

knock came from inside.

She reentered her bedchamber and answered the door. One of the house stewards said, "Pan Loring si p•reje v谩s vid锚t. Ve studovn锚. "

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 withPanFellner, face-to-face."

Loring pushed himself up from the couch. "This is so difficult,drah谩.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,drah谩, 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