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and a television crew are already waiting in Germany. He plans to head there over the weekend. The nearly $1 million cost is being borne by private investors hoping to cash in on the bonanza.
    McKoy says, “There’s stuff in the ground over there. I’m sure of it. Somebody’s going to find all that treasure. Why not me?”
    He looked up from the newspaper. Mother of Almighty God. Was this it? If so, what could be done about it? He was an old man. Realistically, there was little left he could do.
    The back door opened and Paul strolled into the den. He tossed the paper on the coffee table.
    “You still interested in all that art stuff?” Paul asked.
    “Habit of lifetime.”
    “Would be kind of exciting to dig in those mountains. The Germans used them like vaults. No telling what’s still there.”
    “This McKoy mentions Amber Room.” He shook his head. “Another man looking for lost panels.”
    Paul grinned. “The lure of treasure. Makes for great television specials.”
    “I saw the amber panels once,” he said, giving in to an urge to talk. “Took train from Minsk to Leningrad. Communists had turned Catherine Palace into a museum. I saw the room in its glory.” He motioned with his hands. “Ten meters square. Walls of amber. Like a giant puzzle. All the wood carved beautifully and gilded gold. Amazing.”
    “I’ve read about it. A lot of folks regarded it as the eighth wonder of the world.”
    “Like stepping into fairy tale. The amber was hard and shiny like stone, but not cold like marble. More like wood. Lemon, whiskey brown, cherry. Warm colors. Like being in the sun. Amazing what ancient masters could do. Carved figurines, flowers, seashells. The scrollwork so intricate. Tons of amber, all handcrafted. No one ever do that before.”
    “The Nazis stole the panels in 1941?”
    He nodded. “Bastard criminals. Strip room clean. Never seen again since 1944.” He was getting angry thinking about it and knew he’d said too much already, so he changed the subject. “You said my Rachel put lawyer in jail?”
    Paul sat back in the chair and crossed his ankles on an ottoman. “The Ice Queen strikes again. That’s what they call her around the courthouse.” He sighed. “Everybody thinks because we’re divorced I don’t mind.”
    “It bothers?”
    “I’m afraid it does.”
    “You love my Rachel?”
    “And my kids. The apartment gets pretty quiet. I miss all three of ’em, Karl. Or should I say, Karol. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
    “Us both.”
    “Sorry about not being there today. My hearing got postponed. It was with the lawyer Rachel jailed.”
    “I appreciate help with petition.”
    “Any time.”
    “You know,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “she’s seen no man since divorce. Maybe why she’s so cranky?” Paul noticeably perked up. He thought he’d read him right. “Claims too busy. But I wonder.”
    His former son-in-law did not take the bait, and simply sat in silence. He returned his attention to the map. After a few moments, he said, “Braves on TBS.”
    Paul reached for the remote and punched on the television.
    He didn’t mention Rachel again, but all through the game he kept glancing at the map. A light green delineated the Harz Mountains, rolling north to south then turning east, the old border between the two Germanies gone. The towns were noted in black. Göttingen. Münden. Osterdode. Warthberg. Stod. The caves and tunnels were unmarked, but he knew they were there. Hundreds of them.
    Where was the right cave?
    Hard to say anymore.
    Was Wayland McKoy on the right track?

The Amber Room

 SIX
    10:25 p.m.
    Paul cradled Marla and gently carried her into the house. Brent followed, yawning. A strange feeling always accompanied him when he entered. He and Rachel had bought the two-story brick colonial just after they married, ten years ago. When the divorce came, seven years later, he’d voluntarily moved out. Title remained in both their names