The Amber Room Page 0,12

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 glass paneled 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 bibliothèques 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