The Amber Room Page 0,27

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