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others were gathered ten meters off to the left, their backs to them, cameras still whining, McKoy talking to the lens. Workers had erected a telescopic stand and hoisted a halogen light bar at the center, generating more than enough light to see Grumer searching the sand around the bones.

Paul retreated into the shadows behind one of the trucks and continued to watch. Grumer's flashlight traced the bones embedded in the sand. He wondered what carnage had raged through here. Grumer's light finished its survey at the end of an outstretched arm, the remains of finger bones clear. He focused hard. There were letters etched in the sand. Some gone from time, but three remained, spread across with irregular spaces in between.

O I C.

Grumer stood and snapped three pictures, his flash strobing the scene. Then the German bent down and lightly brushed all three letters from the sand. McKoy was impressed. The video should be spectacular. Three rusted World War II German transports found relatively intact deep inside an abandoned silver mine. Five bodies, all with holes in their heads. What a show it would make. His percentage of the residuals would be impressive.

"Got enough exterior shots?" he asked one of the cameramen.

"More than."

"Then let's see what the fuck's in these things." He grabbed a flashlight and moved toward the nearest transport. "Grumer, where are you?"

TheDoktorstepped up from behind.

"Ready?" McKoy asked.

Grumer nodded.

So was he.

The sight inside each bed should be of wooden crates hastily assembled and haphazardly packed, many using centuries-old draperies, costumes, and carpets as padding. He'd heard stories of how curators in the Hermitage used Nicholas II and Alexandra's royal garb to pack painting after painting shipped east, away from the Nazis. Priceless articles

of clothing indiscriminately stuffed in cheap wooden crates. Anything to protect the canvases and fragile ceramics. He hoped the Germans had been equally frivolous. If this was the right chamber, the one that contained the Berlin museum inventory, the find should be the cream of the collection. Perhaps Vermeer'sStreet of Delft, or da Vinci'sChrist's Head, or Monet'sThe Park. Each one would bring millions on the open market. Even if the German government insisted on retaining ownership-which was likely-the finder's fee would be millions of dollars.

He carefully parted the stiff canvas and shined the light inside.

The bed was empty. Nothing but rust and sand.

He darted to the next truck.

Empty.

To the third.

Empty, as well.

"Mother of fuckin' god," he said. "Shut those damn cameras off."

Grumer shined his light inside each bed. "I was afraid of this."

He was not in the mood.

"All the signs said this may not be the chamber," Grumer said.

The smug German seemed to almost enjoy his predicament. "Then why the hell didn't you tell me back in January?"

"I did not know then. The radar soundings indicated something large and metallic was here. Only in the past few days, as we got close, did I begin to suspect this may be a dry site."

Paul approached. "What's the problem?"

"The problem, Mr. Lawyer, is the goddamn beds are empty. Not one son-of-a-bitchin' thing in any of 'em. I just spent a million dollars to retrieve three rusted trucks. How the fuck do I explain that to the people flyin' here tomorrow expectin' to get rich from their investment?"

"They knew the risks when they invested," Paul said.

"Not a one of the bastards is goin' to admit that."

Rachel asked, "Were you honest with them about the risk?"

"About as honest as you can be when you're pannin' for money." He shook his head in disgust. "Jesus Christ Almighty damn."

Chapter Eighteen

THIRTY-SEVEN

Stod

12:45 p.m.

Knoll tossed his travel bag on the bed and surveyed the cramped hotel room. The

Christinenhof rose five stories, its exterior half timbered, its interior breathing history and hospitality. He'd intentionally chosen a room on the third floor, street side, passing on the more luxurious and expensive garden side. He wasn't interested in ambience, only location, since the Christinenhof sat directly across from the Hotel Garni, where Wayland McKoy and his party occupied the entire fourth floor. He'd learned from an eager attendant in the town's tourist office of McKoy's excavation. He'd also been told that tomorrow a group of investors was due in town-rooms in the Garni had been blocked off, two other hotels assisting with the overflow. "Good for business," the attendant had said. Good for him, too. Nothing better than a crowd for a distraction.

He unzipped the leather bag and removed an electric razor.

Yesterday had been a tough day. Danzer had bested him. Probably gloating right now to