The Amber Room Page 0,53

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 Phaëthon 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 "Phaëthon 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 Phaëthon, a bibliography noting the account was from Ovid's Metamorphoses. He read the story. It was colorful and prophetic.

Phaëthon, 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, Phaëthon 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 Phaëthon. 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. Phaëthon'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'sMetamorphoseshe'd seen on Borya's

bookshelves. Karol was trying to warn Rachel, but she wouldn't listen. Like Phaëthon, 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. 1:50P.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 10P.M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1A.M. She'd managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn