ROOM OF FIRE 35

Chapter 35

The Amber Room, 1715

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.

Onward with the search for the Amber Room. . .

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Reuben pulled the truck into the mine yard where two pickup trucks were waiting with a dozen workmen. He commented on the promptness of the laborers.

Lauren swore when she recognized the name painted on one of the truck's dusty doors as she looked around for the larger truck she had leased. It was nowhere in sight, and she assumed it had made its appearance and departed when she and Carlos had failed to show up three hours ago.

"Of course they're early," she scoffed as they exited the truck cab. "They've been here since one-thirty."

Reuben laughed, which fueled her chagrin. "This was your crew, too? Maybe we're more alike than you'd care to admit." He nodded to the workers climbing out of the trucks. "Stay close and don't speak to anyone."

She didn't look at him or the workers. So they had hired the same workers to retrieve the same treasure? It was too infuriating to think about. She eyed the yard, reluctantly following Reuben into the mine opening.

The mine had seen a lot of rainfall. Parts of the yard had turned soft, the pickup truck tires leaving ruts. The larger truck Reuben drove made trenches. Part of the river's flatter bank side had flooded, partly draining into the mine entrance. By now the water had receded to the soggy bank again, but the drainage in the mine settled in the deepest parts of the tunnels. The heavy acidic air had thinned with the wash of rain, proving less an irritant.

The center tunnel was lowest and had collected most of the water. Where it bowed to curve around to meet the right corridor, two feet of water remained. Lauren slipped on the submerged track rail as she trailed Reuben into the right tunnel. She eluded the steadying hand he offered.

She hadn't explored this tunnel as fully as the center the day before. A hasty glimpse had convinced her that the center tunnel shared the collapse where she had burrowed into the crates. Someone had done the same here, and recently. The dirt was piled to one side and a hollow yawned into the collapse side. Although higher ground than the center tunnel, water had reached the cave-in and washed out more dirt. The side of a crate could be seen.

"It'll be ruined," she murmured, wondering to herself how many times the crates had been exposed and reburied by decades of rainstorms.

"Not entirely," Reuben said from her side. "It can be restored."

She started to speak, then caught herself. It wasn't as if he didn't know the chamber's history. "The cigarette wrappings would be useless for reassembly now anyway."

"There are other sources."

She studied him with reluctant, genuine interest. "Who are you selling to?"

"No one you know."

The workmen behind them were erecting freestanding lights and the hum of a generator began outside the mine entry. Lauren frowned. "I may."

Reuben returned a reserved study for her rapt attention. "Perhaps you do. It doesn't matter. It'll probably end up in a museum anyway."

Her arm flinched from him when he tried to usher her back to the tunnel mouth. He asked, "Do you want to stay here or look into the other tunnels?"

She didn't like how strong her vein of curiosity really was. "What do you think?"

Carlos learned quickly that he could hold Geil's lifeless stare. Not that he cared to. The younger man had eyes like a shark. Dead. Seemingly unchanging, but fatally mindful.

He thrust the phone to Carlos across the stand. "Try again. In German, and don't try to call the police." He slapped a paper on the phone stand and jabbed at it with a hard finger. "This number."

Carlos looked at Gustalav's phone number and dialed again. He had no wait with the line and the call went through. A maid answered.

"Barclay Gustalav," he requested. He had never been in this position before; never compromised. Well, a few close calls, but never with these risks. In one hand was the acquisition of a lifetime, even the century—a room lost in time. In the other hand was Lauren, perhaps—most likely—her very life. And his.

"Carlos Sheldon," he said when the Duke answered the phone. As Gustalav began to speak, Carlos' fingers tightened on the earpiece. He cleared his throat to drown out the Duke's voice. "I'm sorry to hear that. Was anyone injured?"

Geil's black eyes bore into his.

"Yes," Carlos said. "Please tell him that Gudhoff had a forgery. Yes, and give him my regards. I'll ring back later."

Carlos hung up before Geil could stop him.

"Yes?"

Carlos shrugged. His voice belied his storm of worried indecision. "Gustalav is indisposed at the moment."

Geil's face screwed into a scowl. "You asked if anyone was hurt. What the hell's wrong?"

The lie stuck in Carlos' throat. "That was Gustalav's secretary. The Duke and his sister had a riding accident. Nothing serious."

Geil's posture eased and he lit a cigarette. "Why did you tell him Gudhoff had a fake?"

The curator's thoughts were drifting as he looked out the hotel window. In the distance he could see the turrets of the Löwenburg and wondered briefly if Tolchov had sold the weapons he acquired from the Duke's auction to the medieval fortress. "Gustalav recommended Gudhoff. I thought he should know he was dealing with a less than honest broker, for future reference. I'll call back tonight."

Geil twisted him brown cigarette and glanced at the clock. "I'll tell you when to call."