The Amber Room Page 0,98

stood, the velvet draping down to the stone floor enough to protect them from sight. A small wooden staircase rose at the far end, ascending to what was most likely the choir. He concluded the curtained passage was probably used by acolytes who served Mass. They tiptoed forward. Another slit allowed him a view. He cautiously peered out, standing perfectly rigid before the velvet. Grumer and the woman stood near a forward people's altar. He'd read about this addition made to many European churches. The baroque Catholic of the Middle Ages sat far from the high altar, only passively experiencing God's closeness. Contemporary worshipers, thanks to liturgical reforms, demanded more active participation. So people's altars were added to ancient churches, the walnut of the podium and altar matching the rows of empty pews beyond.

He and Rachel were now about twenty meters from Grumer and the woman, whose whispers were difficult to hear in the hushed emptiness.

Suzanne glared at Alfred Grumer, who was taking a surprisingly gruff attitude with her.

"What happened today at the excavation site?" Grumer asked in English.

"One of my colleagues appeared and became impatient."

"You are drawing a lot of attention to the situation."

She disliked the German's tone. "It was not my choosing. I had to deal with the matter, as it presented itself."

"Do you have my money?"

"You have my information?"

"Herr Cutler found a wallet at the site. It dates from 1951. The chamber was breached

postwar. Is that not what you wanted?"

"Where is this wallet?"

"I could not retrieve it. Perhaps tomorrow."

"And Borya's letters?"

"There is no way I could secure them. After what happened this afternoon, everyone is on edge."

"Two failures and you want five million euros?"

"You wanted information on the site and the dating. I supplied that. I also eliminated the evidence in the sand."

"That was your own concoction. A way to up the price of your services. The reality is that I have no proof of anything you've said."

"Let's talk reality, Margarethe. And that reality is the Amber Room, correct?" She said nothing.

"Three German heavy transports, empty. A sealed underground chamber. Five bodies, all shot in the head. A 1951 to 1955 dating. This is the chamber where Hitler hid the room, and somebody robbed it. I would guess that somebody was your employer. Otherwise, why all the concern?"

"Speculation, Herr Doktor."

"You did not blink at my insistence on five million euros." Grumer's voice carried a smug tone she was liking less and less.

"Is there more?" she asked.

"If I recall correctly, a pervasive story circulated during the 1960s concerning Josef Loring being a Nazi collaborator. But, after the war, he managed to become well connected with the Czechoslovakian Communists. Quite a trick, actually. His factories and foundries, I assume, were powerful inducements for lasting friendships. The talk, I believe, was that Loring found Hitler's hiding place for the Amber Room. The locals in this area swore Loring came several times with crews and quietly excavated the mines before the government took control. In one, I would imagine, he found the amber panels and Florentine mosaics. Was it our chamber, Margarethe?" "Herr Doktor,I neither admit nor deny any of what you are saying, though the history lesson does carry some fascination. What of Wayland McKoy? Is this current venture over?"

"He intends to excavate the other opening, but there will be nothing to find. Something you already know, correct? I would say the dig is over. Now, did you bring the payment we discussed?"

She was tired of Grumer. Loring was right. He was a greedy bastard. Another loose end. One that needed immediate attention.

"I have your money, Herr Grumer."

She reached into her jacket pocket and wrapped her right hand around the Sauer's checkered stock, a sound suppressor already screwed to the short barrel. Something suddenly swept past her left shoulder and thudded into Grumer's chest. The German gasped, heaved back, and then crumpled to the floor. In the dim altar light she immediately noticed the lavender-jade handle with an amethyst set in the pommel. Christian Knoll leaped from the choir to the nave's stone floor, a gun in hand. She withdrew her own weapon and dived behind the podium, hoping the walnut was more wood than veneer.

She risked a quick look.

Knoll fired a muffled shot, the bullet ricocheting off the podium centimeters from her face. She reeled back and scrunched tight behind the podium.

"Very inventive in that mine, Suzanne," Knoll said.

Her heart raced. "Just doing my job, Christian."

"Why was it necessary to kill Chapaev?"

"Sorry, my friend, can't go into it."

"That is