The Amber Room Page 0,73

the permit. We need progress, and fast. I've got a television crew waitin' in town that's costing me two thousand a day. And those fat-ass bureaucrats in Bonn don't have a bunch of investors flying here tomorrow, expectin' to see art."

"This cannot be rushed," Grumer said. "There is no telling what awaits behind the rock."

"There's supposed to be a huge chamber."

"There is. And it contains something."

He softened his tone. It wasn't Grumer's fault the dig was going slow. "Somethin' gave the ground radar multiple orgasms, huh?"

Grumer smiled. "A poetic way of putting it."

"You better damn well hope so or we're both screwed."

"The German word for 'cave' ishohle," Grumer said. "The word for 'hell' isholle. I

have always thought the similarity was not without significance."

"Fuckin' damn interesting, Grumer. But not the right sentiment at the moment, if you get my drift."

Grumer seemed unconcerned. As always. Another thing about this man that irritated the hell out of him.

"I came down to tell you we have visitors," Grumer said.

"Not another reporter?"

"An American lawyer and a judge."

"The lawsuits have started already?"

Grumer flashed one of his condescending grins. He wasn't in the mood. He should fire the irritating fool. But Grumer's contacts within the Ministry of Culture were too valuable to dispense with. "No lawsuits, Herr McKoy. These two speak of the Amber Room."

His face lit up.

"I thought you might be interested. They claim to have information." "Crackpots?"

"Don't appear to be."

"What do they want?"

"To talk."

He glanced back at the wall of rock and the whining drills. "Why not? Nothing the hell goin' on here."

Paul turned as the door to the tiny shed swung open. He watched a grizzly bear of a man with a bull neck, thick waist, and bushy black hair enter the whitewashed room. A bulging chest and arms swelled a cotton shirt that was embroidered with MCKOY EXCAVATIONS, and an intense gaze through dark eyes immediately assessed the situation. Alfred Grumer, whom he and Rachel had met a few minutes ago, followed the man inside.

"Herr Cutler, Frau Cutler, this is Wayland McKoy," Grumer said.

"I don't want to be rude," McKoy said, "but this is a critical time around here, and I don't have a lot of time to chitchat. So what can I do for you?"

Paul decided to get to the point. "We've had an interesting last few days-" "Which one of you is the judge?" McKoy asked.

"Me," Rachel said.

"What's a lawyer and judge from Georgia doin' in the middle of Germany bothering me?"

"Looking for the Amber Room," Rachel said.

McKoy chuckled. "Who the hell isn't?"

"You must think it's nearby, maybe even where you're digging," Rachel said. "I'm sure you two legal eagles know that I'm not about to discuss any of the particulars of this dig with you. I have investors that demand confidentiality." "We're not asking you to divulge anything," Paul said. "But you may find what's happened to us the past few days interesting." He told McKoy and Grumer everything that'd occurred since Karol Borya died and Rachel had been pulled from the mine.

Grumer settled down on one of the stools. "We heard about that explosion. Never found the man?"

"Nothing to find. Knoll was long gone." Paul explained what he and Pannik learned in Warthberg.

"You still haven't said what you want," McKoy said.

"You can start with some information. Who's Josef Loring?"

"A Czech industrialist," McKoy said. "He's been dead about thirty years. There was talk he found the Amber Room right after the war, but nothin' was ever verified. Another rumor for the books."

Grumer said, "Loring was noted for lavish obsessions. He owned a very extensive art collection. One of the largest private amber collections in the world. I understand his son still has it. How would your father know of him?"

Rachel explained about the Extraordinary Commission and her father's involvement. She also told them about Yancy and Marlene Cutler and her father's reservations about their deaths.

"What's Loring's son's name?" she asked.

"Ernst," Grumer said. "He must be eighty now. Still lives on the family estate in southern Czech. Not all that far from here."

There was something about Alfred Grumer that Paul simply did not like. The furrowed brow? The eyes that seemed to consider something else as the ears listened? For some reason, the German reminded him of the housepainter who two weeks ago tried to take the estate he represented for $12,300, easily settling for $1,250. No compunction about lying. More deception than truth in everything he said. Somebody not to be trusted.

"You have your father's correspondence?" Grumer asked Rachel.

Paul didn't