The Amber Room Page 0,1

and planted to the height of a man in the main grounds. But the stakes had remained bare the past couple of days. Now two armed guards watched them. Arc lights burned overhead and fogged the bitterly dry air. "Wait here," Humer said.

The sergeant pounded up a short set of stairs and entered the jail. Light spilled out in a yellow rectangle from the open door. A moment later four naked men were led outside. Their blond heads were not shaved like the rest of the Russians, Poles, and Jews who constituted the vast majority of the camp's prisoners. No weak muscles or slow movements, either. No apathetic looks, or eyes sunk deep in their sockets, or edema swelling emaciated frames. These men were stocky. Soldiers. Germans. He'd seen their look before. Granite faces, no emotion. Stone cold, like the night. The four walked straight and defiant, arms at their sides, none evidencing the unbearable cold their milky skin must have been experiencing. Humer followed them out of the jail and motioned to the stakes. "Over there."

The four naked Germans marched where directed.

Humer approached and tossed four coils of rope in the snow. "Tie them to the stakes."

Borya's three companions looked at him. He bent down and retrieved all four coils, handing them to the other three and telling them what to do. They each approached a naked German, the men standing at attention before the rough aspen logs. What violation had provoked such madness? He draped the rough hemp around his man's chest and strapped the body to the wood.

"Tight," Humer yelled.

He knotted a loop and pulled the coarse fiber hard across the German's bare chest. The man never winced. Humer looked away at the other three. He took the opportunity to

whisper in German, "What did you do?"

No reply.

He pulled the rope tight. "They don't even do this to us."

"It is an honor to defy your captor," the German whispered.

Yes, he thought. It was.

Humer turned back. Borya knotted the last loop. "Over there," Humer said. He and the other three Russians trudged across fresh snow, out of the way. To keep the cold at bay he stuffed his hands into his armpits and shifted from foot to foot. The coat felt wonderful. It was the first warmth he'd known since being brought to the camp. It was then that his identity had been completely stripped away, replaced by a number10901-tattooed onto his right forearm. A triangle was stitched to the left breast of his tattered shirt. AnRin his signified that he was Russian. Color was important, too. Red for political prisoners. Green for criminals. Yellow Star of David for Jews. Black and brown for prisoners of war.

Humer seemed to be waiting for something.

Borya glanced to his left.

More arc lights illuminated the parade ground all the way to the main gate. The road outside, leading to the quarry, faded into darkness. The command headquarters building just beyond the fence stood unlit. He watched as the main gate swung open and a solitary figure entered the camp. The man wore a greatcoat to his knees. Light trousers extended out the bottom to tan jackboots. A light-colored officer's hat covered his head. Outsize thighs hitched bowlegged in a determined gait, the man's portly belly leading the way. The lights revealed a sharp nose and clear eyes, the features not unpleasant.

And instantly recognizable.

Last commander of the Richthofen Squadron, Commander of the German Air Force, Speaker of the German Parliament, Prime Minister of Prussia, President of the Prussian State Council, Reichmaster of Forestry and Game, Chairman of the Reich Defense Council, Reichsmarschall of the Greater German Reich. The Führer's chosen successor.

Hermann Goring.

Borya had seen Goring once before. In 1939. Rome. Goring appeared then wearing a flashy gray suit, his fleshy neck wrapped in a scarlet cravat. Rubies had adorned his bulbous fingers, and a Nazi eagle studded with diamonds was pinned to the left lapel. He'd delivered a restrained speech urging Germany's place in the sun, asking,Would you rather have guns or butter? Should you import lard or metal ore? Preparedness makes us powerful. Butter merely makes us fat.Goring had finished that oratory in a flurry, promising Germany and Italy would march shoulder to shoulder in the coming struggle. He remembered listening intently and not being impressed. "Gentlemen, I trust you are comfortable," Goring said in a calm voice to the four bound prisoners.

No one replied.

"What did he say, `Yxo," whispered one of the Russians.

"He's ridiculing them."

"Shut up," Humer muttered. "Give your attention or