Room of Fire

Room of Fire

Jenn Rekka

Published in 2013 by Echo Press

Copyright © 1996 Jenn Rekka

First Edition

Digital Edition License Notes

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Acknowledgments

Thank you greatly to the German Information Center in New York, and especially to Hannelore Köhler.

Thank you to L. and E. Gandreh, and also to Davis Bunn.

Editing and additional material: WWO

Books in the Rediscovered Series:

Last Assault on Oak Island

Room of Fire

Author’s Note

Although this book is fiction, the Amber Chamber did exist. It occupied a room in the Catherine Palace in Russia until the Nazi seize of 1941. It was reassembled in a Königsberg castle, after which it disappeared in the British bombing of 1944. To the time of this writing, no trace has been found of the original Amber Chamber. This book is based on research and rumor, and does not reflect any effort to locate the Amber Chamber.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter One

Lauren Gates climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor of the Carnegie Museum of Antiquities, returning hellos to the few members of staff she passed. Beth York’s surely features topped the mound of books Lauren carried as the fellow student paused for a smug smile of silent one-upmanship. For a few moments, she thought Beth would speak, and no doubt needle her with being selected as Dr. Carlos Sheldon’s student assistant when he had gone to Cairo last month. It wasn’t the way Lauren wanted to start another summer away from classes.

Beth didn’t have to speak; the cocky tilt of her lips was enough, something overtly dismissive in the turn of her smile.

Lauren hurried up the walnut staircase. At least Beth had the decency to come back with a scathing sunburn. Lauren knew it wasn’t necessarily favoritism that made the curator choose Beth over herself. After all, Beth did speak Arabic, and the trip was only to document a manuscript, not to acquire anything.

Still, it promised to make any of their future classes together interesting.

Go on in, Lauren, the secretary said as Lauren stepped into the small office just outside Dr. Sheldon’s office a moment later.

Thanks, Lauren said, shifting her load of books.

She went into the rear office quietly as Carlos looked up from a phone conversation. He was seated at his desk, buried behind a small mountain of research. She quietly closed the door behind her. For a long moment, she watched the man’s balding head nod in silent agreement to the caller, wondering exactly how old the curator actually was. Her guess was in the early seventies, unless he was excited about a medieval manuscript, in which case he could act like a sugar-driven toddler. Paleography subjects were his specialty, but she had learned he held expertise in several fields.

What have you brought today, dear? he asked. He set the earpiece in the general direction of the phone. Mail?

That and more, Dr. Sheldon.

He gave her a spike of one eyebrow at her use of his formal title. He’d made it clear he preferred otherwise.

She knew it, but had a difficult time adhering to that casualness at the museum or during some trips.

She unloaded the thick volumes she had carried up from the basement of the Penn State Media and Resource Center two blocks away and the assorted pieces of mail onto his desk.

He took the square box bearing Italian stamps first. His faded blue eyes lit up at the return address. Ah, Marlon.

She discreetly moved the phone earpiece so it was properly cradled in the phone base on what she had heard was one of the largest desks in the museum, second only to that of Agnes Breach.

Anything else foreign?

She smoothed her blouse and sifted through the envelopes. Belgium. France. Maine.

He turned the parcel over in his hands and adjusted his glasses, smiling. Wouldn’t the Exchange be irritated if they knew I always got Vistoli House of Porcelain’s first casting? He opened the box, careful not to tear the porcelain factory’s gold embossed emblem of a V topped by a crowned rampant lion.

She stood nearby, her blue-nearly-green eyes raised to the top row of collector’s plates lining the grainy oak bookcase where there was no concern of the strong afternoon sun draining their kiln-fired colors. Over the years, Carlos had accumulated plates of various shapes and materials. Among her favorite were the terracotta plates that gave the impression of ornate mosaic tiling arranged to form profiles and animals.

She frowned at one plate. I didn’t much like the Prodigal Son edition he sent you, but the Virtuous Woman series was nice. She looked back to Carlos. He was studying a short note accompanying the plate.

She leaned over the desk to see the plate front, pulling her brunette waves of hair out of her face. The circle of ivory alabaster he held was decorated with a bas-relief of the same, depicting Madonna and the Christ-child as they gazed heavenward in the manger.

She frowned at the design, eyes resting on the very fat-looking donkey. He set the plate on the desk.

I don’t think that’s Vistoli’s most promising artist. She was about to say more, when he reached for a metal implement and held it to the plate. Carlos!

The curator stuck the miniature sword-shaped letter opener at the bottom of the plate’s donkey. He hit the end with a pewter paperweight. The alabaster belly of the animal popped off, revealing a large cabochon of darker color inside.

She moved around the desk to get a better look as he cracked the whitewash off the small item.

Read the letter, he said simply.

She picked up the paper, her interest still on the oval he tapped with the letter opener until he looked to her expectantly.

‘Dearest Friend,’ she read. ‘Not much of a casting, I agree, but Mary is not the only creature with child. Travels in France brought us this piece. Is this what it looks like? Will arrange your invitation. God Speed. Marlon.’

Beneath Carlos’ fingers, the oval was beginning to take a shine as he softly rubbed it. She recognized it for what it was after a moment. The resin exuding a sunset glow was unmistakable. Her Aunt Helen had given her a pair of earrings of similar color and substance.

He turned the piece, catching the late afternoon sun as it absorbed a deep cognac luster.

He didn’t fire the plate, he said needlessly, sniffing the oval. But it smells . . . acidic. He looked to her, smiling at her fascination held by the large cap of contained brilliance. What do you know about amber? As she started to speak, he added, And don’t bring up dinosaurs and DNA.

She shrugged, surprised he was so familiar with the blockbuster dinosaur movie that had been out a few years ago. She looked back to the amber. It’s a fossilized tree resin. I’ve never seen a piece that large so clear before, Carlos.

No, but I’d wager this piece is worth far more than any containing bits of ants and gnats.

Why did Marlon Vistoli have to smuggle it–?

We don’t use the term smuggle, my dear, he said without edge.

Right.

Let me see that letter from France.

She handed him the piece of mail, her mind a flurry of detached thoughts. Carlos was elusive in his descriptions, at best, but she couldn’t think of any connection between amber and Italy. Or France. Even ancient Europe’s Amber Route was farther north toward the Baltic countries. As her reasoning came to a halt, he sat back in his chair, examining the amber methodically and glancing at the letter.

Have you any training in illuminations specifically, Lauren?

She felt the weight of disappointment sink in her as it had other times when she knew he was going to choose an assistant other than herself. Only what we covered in extant autographs, and what I’ve learned with you, she admitted. Her junior year of museology and conservator classes were a smattering of the essential studies the museum insisted made for a well-rounded curator-in-training. The rest of her study-load was history, archaeology, languages, and organization heavies.

But you speak French.

Passing fair, but not well. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for extreme honesty. Patricia is fluent in–

Patricia is out of the program, he finished curtly, not looking at her. She exhibits characteristics unbecoming an assistant. Her scholarship is being revoked.

She nodded, feeling her chances inch up a notch. Drew Canton knows illuminations better–

She’s on loan to the Smithsonian for the de Ross tapestries. He stood up, rereading the letter. Vistoli advises me to take a look at some medieval illuminations at an auction outside Ribeauville, but I believe there is more there than old manuscripts. He handed her the amber. "Take this down to Gallop and tell him I want the chemical results back by early Monday.

And, he said as her finger traced the oval’s satiny smoothness, cancel your plans for the next three weeks.

* * *

His dark eyes moved over the chateau vault’s floor as far as the track of gouges led. He touched the deep scratches, learned fingers estimating the depth.

Three millimeters at least, he decided. He stood and followed the gouges around the corner, glancing back at the track leading deeper into the dark belly of the chateau. Unlike many of the other guests attending the weekend auction, the Duke would have no reason to bring him into the dark confines of the estate.

It wasn’t entirely professional interest that prompted him now to move along the dimly lit maze of subterranean corridors. If the Duke wanted to part out his family estate, he could help, and it was his experience that some of the best treasures didn’t make it to the auction block, silent or otherwise.

He stopped short at the sound of voices ahead. He took to a shadowed corner. Two workmen exited an old crypt, utility belts clanking as they broke for lunch.

When they disappeared completely, he followed the track of gouges again and found himself at the crypt. He paused before stepping into the stuffy chamber, detecting a chemical smell. Searching the stone walls, he found the security camera in the left corner, crippled, its wires dangling. He didn’t switch on the freestanding floor lights the workmen had left, but instead retrieved his own small flashlight.

He smiled. Gustalav must have something worth guarding. A new addition, too, judging from the incomplete security. He looked back out the doorway, seeing no one, and stepped into the crypt. He gave the Italian credenza and sideboard against one wall a casual glance, intent on the track of gouges that dissolved at the tarp-covered mass at the end of the room. He knelt there and lifted an edge of the vinyl tarp, switching on the flashlight.

An acidic pungency wafted out. Beneath the cover were large, stacked wooden crates, metal ribbed, and extremely immobile for one man, he realized, grunting as he tried to shift one. He didn’t remove the tarp; a broken corner of one rusty bottom crate caught his eye. It left the deepest gouge.

He worked his fingers into the small opening, hoping it wasn’t mummified remains or a rat nest. He pulled out a small object, turning it in his fingers.

The oval measured about as big as a bantam hen’s egg and easily took a shine when he rubbed off the yellowed powder coating it. He blew on it, watching the fiery cognac resin catch the light of the flashlight beam. A single delicate rose was etched into the center from the reverse side, its engraved petals sharp and clear even after 300 years.

"Yantar, he murmured, suddenly oblivious to the room around him. Yekaterinensky Dvorets komnata."

Chapter Two

After landing in Paris and taking a train to Colmar, Carlos and Lauren found someone waiting for them in the busy station. It wasn’t Vistoli’s representative as they had expected. When the Duke of Anjou promised Carlos their train would be met, the curator presumed it would be by Elden Grant of Vistoli’s porcelain house.

Lauren noted Carlos’ disappointment and a certain skepticism as introductions were made to the man meeting their train. It didn’t escape her attention that Carlos stuck a suitcase in the hand Reuben Tolchov offered in greeting to her. Reuben seemed to notice it, too, but said nothing of it as he put their bags in the small waiting car.

Small talk as he loaded the car was strained and generic. Carlos reached for the back door for Lauren before Reuben could, raising her suspicions yet another notch. She got into the car and sat back in the seat as the men took the front seat. Reuben pulled the car onto the street.

It’s only a short ride, Reuben said into the back to her. He turned to Carlos in the seat beside him. I believe you were expecting Elden Grant.

Actually we were, Lauren heard Carlos say. She kept her eyes on the Colmar traffic as the car gained speed through the French city. There was a veiled discomfort in the curator’s tone. He’s still at the hall?

Yes. He’s much occupied with the plates.

She glanced to Reuben when she felt his heavy stare leave her from the rearview mirror. She took a moment to study him, trying to see what had spurred the curator’s alert mode. Reuben’s features weren’t French, leaning toward an eastern European descent. His dark hair and eyes were personable, whatever his nationality, she decided, guessing he had nearly a decade on her. He didn’t seem to notice her study. He looked to Carlos with a quick grin.

But I trust you don’t call them plates in the antique trade. Something more eloquent must be used, he added with a chuckle.

I haven’t kept up with the terms circulating in the porcelain world, Carlos admitted. He pulled his glasses from his jacket pocket, a movement that struck Lauren as odd. When he gave a bespectacled glance at the driver, swiftly appraising the man, she wondered why he cared to examine Reuben Tolchov more closely. Personally, Carlos said, I’ve always referred to them as plates.

She shifted her gaze back to the thinning traffic at the edge of town as Reuben’s attention turned back to her in the mirror.

Grant is a very thorough fellow, he said. Very deliberate. I can see why Monsieur Vistoli entrusts him with the house’s business. Have you met him? His dark eyes were on Lauren still, but she knew the question was directed at Carlos.

No, but I anticipate his acquaintance. Marlon speaks highly of him.

The car no sooner reached the city limits and headed north and east of Ribeauville than signs for Selestat and Strasbourg popped up. Lauren watched the town fade away, and then looked up at the cloudless sky.

I understand you’re interested in the manuscripts, Reuben said.

Her focus returned to the car interior, watching Carlos’ profile as he nodded.

Predominately. What is your specialty, Monsieur Tolchov?

Reuben smiled at the older man’s stiff question. Herr Doctor, I am not competing with your field. I prefer you call me Reuben. Please. I represent buyers in Stuttgart and Munchen, and their primary interest is medieval weaponry. I will not be bidding against you on the manuscripts.

Carlos committed an insincere smile, but left his glasses in place. I appreciate your honesty, Reuben.

Lauren saw his posture relax only minutely as he changed the subject to a topic concerning neither the illuminations nor weapons.

She had accompanied the curator on enough acquisitions to know he was disturbed by Reuben Tolchov, but she couldn’t imagine why. He wasn’t French, or not completely. He spoke with an accent that reflected both heavy German and Russian influences, but read the road signs with ease.

She didn’t necessarily believe Reuben wouldn’t be competing against them for the manuscripts, but that wasn’t their exclusive purpose for the visit.

It could be, she thought with a subtle frown, that he, too, knew about the amber Vistoli had sent to Carlos. She wondered how that would affect any possible bidding. She glanced at Reuben as he spoke of a Madame Chatillier who was also presently at the hall. Perhaps Vistoli and Elden Grant were not alone in their knowledge of the Amber Chamber’s proximity.

If it was really there.

The Chateau de Rappoltsweiler had retained the old German name for Ribeauville through the Alsace border discrepancies of 200 years. It was perched on a slope that graduated slowly to the Rhine River half a mile east near the German border. Closely clumped trees kept the mammoth hall from clear view until Reuben let the car climb the cobble drive that wove deep into the thick forest. As this cleared, ornamental trees lined the stone roadway within the manicured lawns. Their leaves were full and heavy with a summer array of late blooming lilacs and orchid-colored flowers.

Lauren was vaguely aware of the scented breeze that rode into the car as the hall held her attention. The slate blocks raised almost five stories, although accommodating only four levels inside with extended ceilings. The masonry had withstood its share of siege and assault, and had seen the ruin of its east wing during the last century—ruination to the patient, persistent enemy of Time. The wing had been repaired, but not as originally structured. Where the old gray stone had crumbled now stood a newly completed solarium and extensive patio of copper, glass, and polychrome marble.

Lauren only caught a short glimpse of this last attachment as the car circled before the white stone entrance. For a moment, she sat in awe of the whole estate. The balanced octagonal towers were capped by conical roofs and cobalt banners, enclosing a menagerie of architectural tastes from the fifteenth century. Where styles blended, a machicolation ran the length of the lowest roof line, topping narrow slot-like windows. Higher up the openings were larger and given to more detail, framed by ivy laden trellises and modern balconies.

A valet met the car as it stopped before the chateau entrance. Lauren stepped from it and followed Carlos up the wide steps, containing the urge to gape as the hall seemed to grow before her very eyes as they entered with Reuben.

Ah, Dr. Sheldon? Yes. I am pleased you accept our invitation, a tall, burly man said loudly as he appeared at Carlos’ side in the entryway. The curator took the Duke of Anjou’s outstretched hand heartily. I am Barclay Gustalav. We will do nicely without the formalities until the auction, yes? Your protégé?

Carlos smiled genuinely. Lauren Gates.

Welcome to the Chateau de Rappoltsweiler, Gustalav said with a curt nod to her, his smile quick. He turned back to Carlos before Lauren could speak. At least, for the present. Once it is in Edmund’s possession, I cringe to learn what he will call it. He spoke quickly in French to a houseboy who had appeared and the young man hurried away with their luggage. Gustalav turned to Reuben. I thank you for meeting the Doctor. Herr Langstraudt has left messages for you, I believe.

Reuben nodded before taking his leave. Doctor. Mademoiselle.

Carlos and Lauren followed their host down the slate stone entry that hung with fringed banners, a few bearing faded heraldry.

Edmund is your nephew, Carlos recalled.

I will admit that, Gustalav said begrudgingly, his large frame expanding in a sigh, filling his sports coat to the seams. It is no secret, my disapproval of him. You may have heard of his extreme dalliances. He looked to Lauren, but her attention was on the chandelier of Austrian crystal under which they passed.

Carlos smiled, shaking his head and pocketing his glasses. Lauren doesn’t keep up with the tabloids.

One of few. Even the Duke’s lower tone seemed to echo off the tall walls and ceiling.

A woman’s contemptuous voice could be heard from a distant parlor and Gustalav abruptly changed direction into a second hallway. They passed through another anteroom and a smaller hall before their host entered a parlor overlooking a southern garden.

You will excuse me if I avoid Madame Chatillier for the moment, the Duke said with a nod to the woman’s muted voice several rooms behind them. You will meet her soon enough. At dinner tonight. Please, be seated.

Lauren sat beside Carlos on the tapestry-covered sofa. He and Gustalav accepted a glass of sherry from a maid who appeared immediately from seemingly nowhere. Lauren declined when the silver charger bearing several sherry drinks was presented to her and the maid left the room with a wave of the Duke’s hand.

I know your interest is in the illuminations, he said to Carlos, but there are a great many other valuables to be considered. I am open to offers on nearly every item on the estate. I want nothing of great value to fall into Edmund’s possession.

Lauren was surprised at the Duke’s bluntness. She expected some sort of lead up to discussion of the auction’s potential.

I don’t understand your passion to part with such a rare and varied collection, Carlos said. My friend Marlon Vistoli conveyed your eagerness, but I found it difficult to believe–

I am very eager, indeed, Gustalav broke in heatedly, suddenly irate, face darkening. "My fool nephew inherits the hall on his twenty-fifth birthday. Less than two months. He is a spendthrift and a child of the ego, with no eye for beauty – or breeding – as his last scandal too well proved. I have spent the last three years fighting the court to keep the chateau out of his hands, but I’ve only detained the inevitable.

As his guardian I postponed his inheritance when he was of age. I thought he would spend a year, two, of the high life, then see the hall as I do. His gaze went to the seaport painting on the opposite wall when he noticed Carlos glance at it. Claude Lorraine, 1639. You think it should be on the west wall, I know, he said with a sigh. My decorators tell me every year. But I like it here.

Carlos nodded in agreement. The natural lighting serves it well.

My view also. Gustalav shook his head. Edmund has no appreciation for history or beauty—of any kind. I cannot keep the hall from him. I know that. But I will not allow such treasures to be damned with it. He’ll probably sell it. Another hotel, or novelty for a bored, wealthy American celebrity. He nearly spat the last, and then remembered his