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This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
"Do you think Gudhoff and his assistant parted company because of the Amber Chamber?" Lauren finally asked Carlos the next morning at breakfast. More accurately, brunch. It had been impossible to find a real breakfast without going another twenty minutes farther into the city, so they had decided to wait the hour for the coffeehouse near their hotel to serve an early brunch.
Carlos took a long drink of his strong, grainy tea and made a distasteful face. "Not their best."
"The coffee is excellent. Try one, Carlos."
"I may have to." He pushed the teacup away. "No, I think Gudhoff was honest when citing creative differences."
When the waitress came near, he requested a mild melange and another scone for Lauren.
She shook her head and took a long drink of her strong coffee. "You were curious about Gudhoff's assistant."
"Our next contact is in Salzburg. Danke sehr," he said as the waitress brought his coffee and left again. "Of all the agents dealing in the chamber, possibilities of Gudhoff and Fredericks knowing each other are very good."
"That was his assistant?" She hadn't heard all of the discussion with Gudhoff. Carlos had let her leave early to make a few needed phone calls.
"Yes. And Fredericks is the Salzburg contact Gustalav gave us."
For a moment they each entertained similar thoughts, until she finally said what was going through both their minds. "You think Gudhoff's assistant trucked off the wall."
"It's very possible. He had two months with it." He attempted the coffee and found it acceptable.
"But Gudhoff has been giving samples," she began.
"True. The one he gave us looks genuine, but it smells nothing like the piece Elden sent."
She nodded. "I noticed that."
"I'm convinced this assistant had the carved amber replaced in those months."
She stopped chewing, frowning at him.
"Do you remember five years ago . . . ? Of course not," he said hastily. "You were still in high school."
She leaned closer. "What happened?"
He sipped the coffee slowly. "When the recreation of the Amber Room was initiated by the Council of Ministers of The Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic in the early Eighties, the craftsmen discovered a load of false amber blanks in the shipment of true resin. Some of the pieces had already been carved before the mistake was realized. There was a bit of blame laid all around as to whether it was a conspiratorial effort of the amber supplier or merely a genuine blunder. It set progress back months."
She washed her bite of scone down with a drink of coffee. "Why would Fredericks go through the trouble of replacing the amber at all? Why not just whisk the real chamber away?"
He scowled. "This assistant, Fredericks, may not have the connections to move a treasure of this size, even a short wall, and he had to set up shop somewhere. The Amber Room is not an easy treasure to hide safely. He wouldn't want to raise his former employer's suspicions."
She blinked in disbelief, promising herself to read every back issue of the museum's newsletters for the past ten years when she got back to Pennsylvania.
"As assistant," he continued, "Fredericks' clients would largely be Gudhoff's also. The chamber is a once in a lifetime acquisition and sale. Trading even a partial wall could do much to establish a name in the business."
"If Gudhoff tries to pass off a fake wall it would ruin him," she observed.
"He'd be a fool to attempt it. However, it would add to his assistant's client list." He sighed. "I doubt Gudhoff knows his is a fake."
"If it is."
He nodded.
She frowned. "What else do you know that you haven't told me? You're almost convinced he has a fake."
"Mere circumstances, Lauren," he said with a smile. "Gudhoff doesn't seem to suspect anything, so perhaps he trusted this assistant. Perhaps we should trust his word."
Her mind was already furthering Carlos' reservations. "Or maybe he does know and he's trying to unload a dud."
Even with the speed of a local museum's laboratory, Carlos and Lauren still had an overnight wait for the results of the sample. The lab at the Vienna Museum had agreed to Agnes Breach's hasty appeal to accommodate the testing despite the stunted information she shared with them.
Carlos accompanied Lauren to the local museum the next day, but declined her invitation to explore the city's antique shops in the warming afternoon. She left him after returning to the small hotel and then took the bus uptown.
She wasn't sure how to go about what she wanted to get done. Elden was better equipped to deal with the matter. He had access to dozens of top porcelain factories; maybe more. If Madame Varlette hadn't found an edition of the stolen plates on the secondary markets, Lauren had little faith in her search that day.
She stepped into an antique shop nestled between a rare bookstore and a florist. A brass bell sounded as the door shut behind her. She was immediately surrounded by the dusty, darkened interior, a sharp contrast to the sunny day outside. With a quick glance at the post-war oddities crammed on the shelves around her, she turned to leave. It looked like no more than someone's personal flea market.
"Willkommen," a male voice said cheerily from behind a shelf counter. "Come in."
She looked around at the sound. Finally she saw him amid the dust swirling in the afternoon sunlight. He was short, even standing, which he was not now doing, and thin to the point of brittle frailty. He smiled as she stepped nearer to the counter.
"May I help you today, Fraulein? A memory perhaps?"
She shook her head, returning his aged smile. "I don't think so. It's—"
"You don't see it." He shook his head and a finger. "Does not mean I do not have," he said in halting English."
Her smile turned indulgent. "I'm looking for a set of collector's plates." She expected him to hobble off and drag back a current issue from the local potter, but he didn't. When he remained silent, she continued. "It was an Alsace porcelain factory. Full lead crystal. In the Thirties or early Forties. The artist was Andre Cartier."
"No. I have none." He brightened, hands shuffling through a nearby drawer as his balding head faced her. He took out a pencil and paper and without looking at her began writing in jerky English. "I do have a name. Richter. He will know, or know someone who knows."
She watched him write the address. His left hand was missing a thumb and forefinger, making it nearly useless. She averted her eyes as he held out the paper to her.
"Not far."
She thanked him and left. On the sidewalk outside the shop she looked at the address he'd written. It was close, only a short walk, and a beautiful day for a stroll.
She stopped long enough to find a phone box and make a call to the museum lab—no, not yet, the technician replied to her inquiry—and then called Carlos at the hotel. She wished their museum cell phones could find coverage in the redeveloping country. She hadn't seen a cell phone tower since they had landed, which reminded her she owed Carlos on their $10 bet. Her phone had spent their trip tucked away in her purse, slowly draining away battery life. After her call, she then headed across the street and down the busy sidewalk to find the next shop.
The man's eyes caught hers only momentarily in a bakery window reflection. Above the three-tiered wedding cake on display, she saw the strange man behind her. When she returned his gaze, he looked away, and then his stare dropped to the back of her pants. Actually, only half of his attention dropped. One eye remained fixed straight ahead.
Lauren abruptly turned into the shop. The man outside walked past, and in that instant she gave him a hasty, return scrutiny. She unclenched the slip of paper balled in her hand.
He was broad-shouldered, lean but not gaunt, and something about his gait made him appear self-assured as he moved on. She'd felt more than saw his attention on her before their gazes met. She fought down a chill that laced up her spine.
He hadn't been following her despite his pointed study, she determined, feeling her pulse jump in her wrist. He was acting like most men, bad eye or not, taking advantage of the wide window to see if she was wearing anything under her casual tank top. It was a warm day and many young women were wearing far less. She was lucky not to get a swat on her derrière as he passed. Some of Europe was more lenient to the new correct behavior sweeping the US.
Unconsciously, she tucked a bra strap back under her shirt at one shoulder as her other hand went to her purse, feeling inside for her mace spray, wishing again she had the safety of cell phone service at hand. Calmed once she found the mace, she waved to the bakery shop attendant who was crossing the floor to greet her.
On second thought, maybe she could get out of owing Carlos on their bet. She asked, "Excuse me, do you get mobile service here?"
The attendant stopped, wiping her hands on her pink striped apron. "No, no. No mobile phone work here," she offered haltingly. "Two years, my nephew said. Not much now."
"Thanks," Lauren said, turning back to the shop door.
"Nice day."
"Good day." With forced resolve, Lauren went back out onto the sidewalk, warily glancing around for the dark-haired man.
He wasn't in sight.
She made her feet slow to a moderate walk when she realized she was practically skipping. As she thought back, she recalled the man had been at the phone box when she had called the lab and Carlos. In recalling, she re-imagined him—the mustache, his build, hair color—but few other details. She'd been preoccupied with thoughts of cell service. He had been smoking a cigarette by a store entrance, not looking at her. She assumed he was waiting to use the phone. She made herself believe that now, too.
She found the next antique shop easily and went in, putting her nervousness aside. The first room of the shop was bright, lined with glass shelves and wrought iron etageres. She went immediately to the counter and returned the smile of the woman behind it.
"Guten tag. May I help?" the woman asked.
Lauren described the plate collection.
When she finished, the woman simply said, "Ah, yes," and disappeared into the back room behind a shelf of Depression Era plates. She materialized a moment later with a box full of tissue wrapped-items.
"I have them all," she said almost proudly. "From deux oiseaux to coquillage to eagle. All are here. Factory condition. Not numbered, without certificate, as from factory. See?"
Lauren carefully turned over the first plate the woman unwrapped. It was Gazelle Fantaisie, 1968. In the center was engraved Lalique-France. Marie-Claude Lalique was signed in ink below. She sighed. "This isn't it." Her finger traced the feathery outlined gazelle design. "The set I'm looking for was from a factory was in Alsace. The artist was Andre Cartier."
She spent another ten minutes explaining the plate collection, but the woman only shook her head. Lauren left, empty-handed.
The disappointment wasn't enough to make her forget the man in the window earlier despite her efforts. She avoided the convenient U-Bahn completely and caught the more public tram farther in town.
Maybe Carlos had news.
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