The Amber Room (3 page)

“Our freedom.” Kurt had obeyed the Ferret's frantic midnight call and left town with a second van loaded to the hilt with stolen Stasi files. “How did it go last night?”

“You see the creep at the end of the bar, no, don't turn around. The blue suit with ice for eyes. He'll be over in about three seconds for his touch.”

“The cops saw you?”

“Not me.” She punched her cigarette into ashes. “Your buyers didn't have a clue.”

“They're not mine.” Kurt swung one arm over the back of his chair, risked a casual glance toward the bar, waved at somebody who wasn't there. “The one with the rug on his head?”

“He's been my contact,” Erika replied. “Until yesterday it all ran smoothly. But he's got a lever now, and he's going to use it.”

The police who frequented the tavern were those who valued the universal language and pocketed a percentage of every deal cut on the tavern's far side. For them a regular visit to its crowded depths was necessary—they had to keep a careful eye on their egg-laying taxi-driving geese.

The routine was well known. Truckers brought the black-market wares in from all over the globe, but mostly from the faltering East. Taxi drivers found the local buyers. In the
tumultuous days since the nation of East Germany foundered off the maps and into history, cities like Schwerin had taken on the smell and feel of the Wild West. This left a lot of room for policemen unsure of future paychecks to increase their pocket change.

Contact with the undercurrent of gray goods was far from difficult, especially since most of the newer taxi drivers were former comrades in one guise or another. These days, each new face behind the wheel of a cab brought a new story—one entire table in the taxi drivers' corner this evening was made up of former army colonels, another of air force pilots. Communist Party henchmen formed a good solid block, most of them from the innumerable middle levels—the paper pushers and wheel greasers and slogan shouters who had neither the clout nor the foreknowledge to protect themselves when their house of cards came crashing down.

Another contingent of new nighttime taxi drivers, as well as street sweepers and bricklayers and every other job where identification papers were not too carefully inspected, were former Stasi mid-level spies. Stasi was the popular nickname given to the MFS, or
Ministerium für Staats Sicherheit
, the Ministry for State Security. The East German secret police had provided a model for numerous smaller nations around the world, wherever money was tight and security was deemed of far greater importance than human rights.

And now it was gone.

The police who huddled by the counter and kept a moneylender's eye on the nighttime traffic had seen what happened to the Stasi—four hundred thousand jobs gone in the blink of an eye. They knew the prevailing opinion of cops; since the Wall's collapse they were universally known as Honecker's Henchmen. They saw the West German police flash by in their Mercedes patrol cars, and sneering contempt for Ossie cops—Ossie was slang for a citizen of former East Germany, Wessie for those from the West. They heard about the Bonn government's refusal to upgrade either their salaries or their
equipment. Ossie coppers who were willing to stop living on false hopes and face up to Western reality knew it was only a matter of time.

The straight-edged fools in police uniforms who had crossed over to Bonn's side could say what they wanted—
nobody
could do away with forty-six years of Communist laws overnight and understand what the West Germans wanted to put in its place. Not the police, not the lawyers, and not the people. The uncertainty of life under a new system nobody comprehended or, if truth be known, really cared much for, was enormous. The chance for gain was even greater.

Kurt swiveled back around and murmured, “Here he comes.”

The cop's joviality only touched the bottom half of his face. He pulled over a chair and sat down. “Any reason for sitting next to the window?”

“It keeps away the flies,” Kurt replied. “Most of them, anyway.”

“It's so cold over here it burns. Ferret here must have a frozen back.” He twisted his head around. “What's that you're working on, Ferret?”

The Ferret raised his head, squinted in confusion through bottle-bottom glasses, murmured, “Oh, hello, Inspector.” The head dropped back to an inch or so from the page.

“Not inspector anymore,” the man replied. “Just policeman now. And how long at this job is anyone's guess.”

“Tough,” Erika replied.

The dead smile returned. “You probably heard, they brought in your colleagues from the Zoo this morning.” The Zoo was the name neighbors had given the central prison in East Berlin. It was named for the sounds that rose from its confines, particularly at night.

“I heard.”

“Yes, thought you had. Well, in times like this it certainly is nice to have friends who can cover for you, yes?” He leaned forward. “Since when did you work with the Viets, Kurt?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, of course not. And you don't have any connections to the vodka trade out of Poland, either, I'm sure.”

“I wish I did.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Did I mention that they've raised the bounty on nailing Eastern bootleggers? Five thousand marks it is now, with vodka top of the list. Five thousand marks. Almost enough to make a man go legal.”

Unification had brought a flood of West German marks into the defunct East German economy. Traders from the poorer Eastern lands flocked over the border by thousands of ill-defined paths, bringing anything they could buy cheaply and sell for more—Chinese T-shirts available in Cracow for fifty cents, Pakistani sweaters, prime Polish vodka that went for two dollars a liter in Poland and five times that in Germany.

The worst of the illegal traders were Vietnamese, invited over to study or work or simply visit as friends of the former Communist regime, and now refusing to go home. The new Wessie bureaucrats were denying them residency visas; they lived with the constant threat of deportation and a growing hatred of the new authorities. Their tightly knit community slid daily toward overt violence and blatantly illegal activities.

The policeman rose to his feet and nodded to the group. “I'll be on my rounds tomorrow if you need to see me.”

Kurt watched him move away, asked, “How much does he want?”

“Half,” Erika replied.

“Too much.”

“He saw the buyers unload the van, Kurt. Chaing told me. Stood and watched them.”

“That's impossible.”

“Not if they did it behind the all-night gas station.”

Kurt scoffed. “Nobody's that stupid.”

“Your traders are.”

“I told you, they're not my anything.”

“They're going to be our noose if we don't pay the man.”

Ferret chose that moment to raise his head. “I don't think we will,” he said. “Pay him, I mean.”

Kurt turned his way. “Why not?”

“We'll need that money.”

“You've found it?”

The bulbous head dropped once more. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps isn't good enough.”

“More than perhaps.” Ferret lifted his gaze. “My freedom is resting on this as well, you know.”

“What are you two going on about,” Erika demanded.

“Ferret's been hunting for something,” Kurt replied, his eyes remaining on the strange-shaped man. “Something big.”

Erika twisted her head to examine Ferret's folder and saw handwriting on a yellowed sheet. “How old is that?”

“Old,” Ferret replied, placing a possessive hand across the page.

“Forty-seven years, to be exact,” Kurt replied. “Ferret and I have been talking. We need a third.”

“A third for what?”

His eyes still on Ferret, Kurt asked, “Do you have any contacts left in the Dresden archives?”

Erika showed the world her best poker face. “I might. What's in it for me?”

“Freedom,” Kurt replied. “Papers. Money. Lots of money.”

“So what is it you're looking for?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Erika snorted. “I should. I've had a lifetime of practice.”

“A treasure, then,” Kurt replied. “One called the Amber Room.”

Erika thought it over. “What do I have to do?”

The Ferret raised his watery eyes and said quietly, “We are looking for a certain man.”

CHAPTER 3

Jeffrey stepped farther back into the Cafe Royale's entrance hall as the front doors admitted several well-dressed patrons and a blast of freezing wind. “Meeting Dr. Rokovski the day after my return from Zurich is a little too much coincidence for me.”

Located just half a block off Piccadilly Circus, the Cafe Royale had been a hub of the London social whirl for over a century. It was one of the few public haunts of Victorian England that had managed to remain financially afloat since World War II. The bars and restaurants displayed typically Victorian proportions—an almost endless series of overdone rooms set on seven floors.

“You know full well that I absolutely must speak with Pavel now,” Alexander replied. “I need his blessing on this gala business. I should have already requested it, if truth be known, but it was something I wished to do in person.”

“It'd be a lot nicer if we could have this meeting after the check is cleared and the Rubens deal over and done with.”

“Don't be so nervous,” Alexander replied. “Rokovski is not in London on our account, of that I am sure. He is here for a conference and is meeting us because I invited him.”

“I still don't like it. What if he's upset because the sale took so long to go through?”

Alexander shook his head, his own calm unruffled. “The gentleman is a professional, and a professional will understand that in a sale requiring absolute discretion, patience is of the utmost importance.”

“You're sure?”

“See for yourself.” Alexander pointed through the glass portals to the street, where a taxi was depositing the Dr. Pavel Rokovski, director of the Polish Ministry of Culture's Cracow division and Alexander's primary contact for his
export of Polish antiques. “Does that look like the face of a worried man?”

“Alexander. Mr. Sinclair,” Dr. Rokovski effused, striding forward with an outstretched hand. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“Please call me Jeffrey.”

“Of course, thank you. I am so sorry to be late. I decided to take the tube because I was warned that traffic is terrible here in London, and I found the right line, but I am afraid that I took it in the wrong direction. The next thing I knew, I was in Hendon Central.”

“That's quite all right,” replied Alexander. “It was nice to have a moment to catch our breaths at the end of the day.” He gestured them forward. “Come, gentlemen. Our table awaits.”

They were led to a table in the front bar, where paintings in elaborate gilt frames fought for space on richly brocaded walls. Rokovski settled into a French settee upholstered in red velvet, took in the ornate high ceiling, heavy drapes, and rich carpeting. “Some of our castle's royal chambers are not as fine as this.”

“I quite enjoy the ambience,” Alexander agreed. “And its location makes the cafe an excellent rendezvous point.”

“I'm sorry that my schedule is so tight,” Rokovski said,

“but the conference planners do have us on a treadmill.”

“I quite understand,” Alexander replied.

“I would love to stay and explore London by night,” Rokovski continued, “but instead I must be back at the South Bank Center for a reception by seven. You know I am here to make contacts for a variety of traveling exhibits we hope to lure to Cracow in the coming months.”

“It is wonderful that you would take time for us at all,” Alexander said. “I am delighted that we could meet even briefly, as I have some very good news for you. We can now confirm that the Rubens has been sold. The price, even in this difficult market, was at the high end of our preliminary estimate.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Rokovski said, his eyes dancing from one to the other. “Would it be indelicate to ask the figure?”

Alexander nodded to his assistant. Jeffrey replied, “One point one five.”

Rokovski showed momentary confusion. “One point one five what?”

“Million,” Jeffrey said. “Dollars.”

“So much,” Rokovski breathed.

“The transfer will go through tomorrow, less our commissions and the payment for the initial information,” Alexander said. “In accordance with our arrangements.”

“This is wonderful. Just wonderful. It will mean so much for the preservation and expansion of our religious art collection.”

“This service has brought me great satisfaction,” Alexander assured him. “I am indeed grateful for the opportunity to be a part of this transaction.”

“When may I use these funds?”

“Immediately,” Alexander replied. “That is, as soon as the bank has finished with its paperwork.”

“Excellent.” Rokovski showed great relief. “You see, in anticipation of the sale's being a success, I have already committed our museum to urgent repair and restoration work for which we do not have the money. I can't thank either of you enough. I am only sorry that others cannot know of your extraordinary contribution.”

Alexander nodded his formal thanks. “Speaking of contributions, Pavel, it has occurred to me that your project to house the nation's collection of religious art requires both more funding and wider public support. I have therefore taken it upon myself to lay the groundwork for a fund-raising gala to promote your efforts.”

Rokovski was baffled. “What means this, gala?”

“It is a quite well-known event in Western circles,” Alexander replied. “Various charities organize deluxe receptions
or dinner parties, charge an outrageous amount per plate, and invite hundreds of people.”