The Amber Room Page 0,132

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,PanMcKoy, 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 theHerr 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,PanLoring, 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. "PanMcKoy, you are a man after my own heart."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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