If you’re just joining this story, you may want to start from the beginning.
This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
Reuben stepped off the train during the seventeen-minute layover in Krakow. He made use of the food vendors, having avoided the food on the train, and decided against waiting for an empty phone box. His next contact was one to be made in person and with some surprise. One had to watch Padolski's face to judge the truth in his words.
He wondered why Rybak hadn't killed him on the roadside in the field south of Schärding. It was unlike the Polish mercenary to not finish a job. Perhaps another car drove by. Rybak wouldn't want any witnesses, and it wasn't his method to slaughter promiscuously. He disliked a needlessly high body count. It was less professional.
So was leaving a coherent rival alive.
It was no mistake or humanity. There was a reason, and because of that Reuben watched the crowds about him with a wary eye.
It would be Rybak himself, not that worm who occasionally worked with him. He felt the knot at the back of his neck. It had scabbed over neatly, drawing no attention so long as it didn't break open again.
He tried to recall the man's name. Mertz. Meriz. Something of that sort. Rybak never let the worm actually call a shot, but he was a handy flunky. Like Geil.
Reuben took the last few minutes to change his shirts and shoes in the station men's room. He frowned, picking through his bag of clothes, until he remembered the shirt wasn't there.
Lauren had it. He smiled briefly, choosing another shirt. He had gotten past the paranoid theory he had developed in the truck on the way to Germany.
She and Dr. Sheldon were in no way connected to the Amber Chamber. She had been in the vault, yes, the crypt, perhaps, and nearly buried in an avalanche when she followed the tunnel, but he doubted she would recognize the chunks of dusty amber for what they were. Like Marta, Lauren was too young.
He shook his head, pulling on his shoes. Most of the newer, trendier antique dealers in Europe would be unable to identify the pungent amber pieces. It was half hopefulness, half dismay that made him create the connection earlier.
Coupled with a lethal dose of suspicion, he added. Recalling the meeting with Carlos Sheldon from previous years had heaped a load of watchfulness into his view of Lauren. This realization was both a relief and a disappointment. In Rybak's game, competition for an acquisition wasn't limited to bidding highest. His was a rough game Lauren would not like to play.
On the other hand, Reuben admitted to himself as he exited the facilities, it would have been nice to see her again.
Roman Padolski was waiting when Carlos and Lauren reached the restaurant in Stare Miasto, the Old Town section of Warsaw. He stood as they approached. His large form was overdressed for even the expensive establishment, but he took no notice and thrust an eager hand at Carlos.
"Herr Doctor? Frau Doctor—"
"Fraulein Gates," Carlos corrected as they sat down.
Padolski's eyes lit. "German is good?"
"Yes. Fine." Carlos turned to Lauren. "Herr Padolski, my associate—"
"Roman. Roman," the burly man demanded. "I am Roman to all. Except the Italians."
He laughed heartily at his little joke, summoning images of a used-car salesman into Lauren's mind.
"Except the Italians," Carlos agreed.
"This is a good place to eat. Not for Poles; only rich tourists."
"Then we'd best move our meal elsewhere," Carlos said.
Padolski stopped smiling, and then Carlos laughed as best he could at the poor joke and Padolski joined in.
They took their seats at the table Padolski had claimed and a waitress hurriedly brought a bottle of white wine and menus. Lauren looked over the selections featuring predominately Russian and Polish choices and sighed in relief to see that it was printed in German also. If she got through this trip, she vowed to herself to increase her vocabulary by two languages. When the waitress returned to their table, they placed their orders, and Lauren learned she was going to learn to drink vodka that afternoon.
"You come far to ask questions," Padolski said after a long drink of the strong alcohol when it arrived.
Carlos nodded slowly. "Does your shop specialize?"
Padolski's smile was ingratiating. "I have no store. They get in the way. Physical structures—hindrances. I am a mobile man."
Lauren read a different reason for the man's reluctance for a permanent establishment, but said nothing of it.
Carlos nodded. "In what do you deal, if not the physical objects?"
"I am a contact. Source. An agent." Padolski smiled more fully. "I am a compilation of directory."
The waitress brought plates of caviar and accompaniments to the table with bowls of uszka in broth with rye bread. For a moment the conversation lagged as Padolski sampled the decidedly inexpensive red and pinkish caviars ordered. Carlos spread a toasted bread slice with the black variety as Lauren concentrated on her soup. The thin slices of fish, lime, and dill topped the plump mushroom-filled dumplings, giving the clear broth both color and a fresh aroma.
After Padolski had chosen his favorite caviar and eaten nearly all of it, he resumed the topic. "What are you seeking, Herr Doctor? A vase? An artwork? A missing piece to your priceless collection at university?"
Carlos didn't succumb to this invitation to offer more information. If Padolski wanted to think they represented a university, he would let him. It was far safer than the truth. "We haven't discussed price."
Padolski spread his large arms. "I have a flat rate," he said, and then named that rate.
When Lauren heard his price in zlotys, she silently translated it into dollar amounts. Not bad, she decided, if his information led to an acquisition.
"Without a guarantee," Carlos began, pausing to drink of his vodka for affect only, "I don't know. I have a board of directors to answer—"
"I am a negotiable man," Padolski said hastily. The smile grew feeble on his hard face. "I understand your situation. A twenty percent subtraction." He made a slicing gesture. "That is acceptable?"
The waitress brought the rest of the meal and arranged it on their table and cleared a few of the empty dishes. Carlos took the time to consider Padolski's price. When the server left, he turned his plate of stuffed grape leaves, and then looked to the other man's roast duck, feet still intact. Lauren saw him glimpse her skewered lamb and then glance to her face.
She read his expression and shrugged. "It sounds acceptable to me," she said in English.
Carlos nodded.
Padolski was eyeing them both hopefully, his English less than rudimentary.
"Your price is fair," Carlos admitted to him in German.
Padolski's shoulders fell in relief. "How may I be of service to you?"
Carlos told him what they sought, leaving out all the details except the referral by Ian Fredericks.
Padolski sat as if in shock, the duck growing cold before him, his gaze fastened on the curator. The used-car salesman demeanor dropped from his face and mannerisms as he listened intently.
"You know all the old stories about the chamber's disappearance," he stated more than asked them. "I will be honest for you. There have been rumors of it moving since the Weimar investigations. Like that descent into the bunkers, nothing came of the rumors. They were just that. Fredericks recently sold a portion of the walls, you say?"
Carlos nodded. "We were prepared to bid on it ourselves. He gave us your name and told us if you didn't have possession of the amber, you could direct us to someone who may."
Lauren frowned as she watched the man nod. She studied his hands. No amber rings or marks of a ring recently removed. He caught her stare, but she didn't curb her attention immediately.
He looked at Carlos. "I will tell you what I know."
Lauren supplied a pen and paper when he asked for them.
He wrote a name. "Movitch. Small time, small shop in Krakow. He will not have a treasure of this magnitude," he admitted with no regret, "but he keeps an eye to what remains of the black market like no one else. Only a little dangerous. Make him your last choice."
Carlos nodded, leaning closer.
Padolski circled this name.
"Yuri Straczynskie," he continued, writing the name and circling it. "If he has it, he stole it. Watch your step here. He'll deny it at first, if he has it, but tell him you know he has it. If he gets angry—bad temper—he has it." He laughed. "If he pales and starts blubbering and giving you every dealer name in Prague, he does not have it. He is a child like that."
Carlos looked to Lauren as Padolski wrote another name. She shrugged, shaking her head slightly.
"Sid Lewkowicz. Tarnow. A gentleman dealer. He always manages to place the rarest of lost treasures. Nothing for his own country," the Polish man noted with an edge, "but your best choice of these three. I have wondered of his contacts more than once. I would like to know myself if he has the chamber. His establishment is a revolving museum-shop. He displays much; would sell most of it for enough money and few questions."
He circled this name, too.
Carlos took the paper and sat back.
Padolski drank his vodka, watching Lauren's eyes scan the paper. The man he was to meet tomorrow would be pleased to know of this weakness.
Watch your inbox for more chapters as Dr. Sheldon and Lauren try to stay ahead of competitors and mercenaries as they crisscross Europe following rumors of the lost Amber Chamber.
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