The Amber Secret Read online

  ALSO BY DAVID LEADBEATER

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by David Leadbeater

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542017251

  ISBN-10: 1542017254

  Cover design by Dominic Forbes

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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 TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Early 1945

  Strident thunder sought to challenge the very heavens. It was not the thunder of a glorious storm or a magnificent railroad carriage. It was the dreadful sound of Russian guns, battering and pounding the city of Königsberg. The shocking sound of war.

  Ivan trudged through the wet and dirty streets, a heavy rain streaming from the skies, bouncing off his thick coat and pouring from the rim of his six-millimeter-thick field-gray steel helmet. He was a German sniper, a man who should have been in the vanguard, but today he had been called back to the city for a special mission.

  Ivan didn’t like it. His friends were facing the enemy even now, while he trudged these dirty pavements. They needed him. They needed the help and confidence his weapon and his skill lent to the offensive.

  Except that it’s fast becoming a defensive, he thought. The Russians were growing in number and onslaughts every day. They had already cut off the landward side, splitting the road down the Samland Peninsula to the Pillau port. They had trapped around two hundred thousand civilians inside the city in addition to the Third Panzer Army. As a consequence the civilians were dying, starving or riddled with disease. But it wasn’t Ivan’s place to question decisions made higher up the chain. It was Ivan’s job to be the good soldier that he knew he was.

  Hence tonight, stalking these streets with a wary eye. Civilians or not, anyone who saw him wouldn’t balk at jumping him to see what possessions he might carry. With rations set at mere grams of bread, even his clothing was a prize to them.

  It wasn’t all bad news, he thought as he approached his destination. The Third Panzer and the Fourth Army had opened a route to Pillau. It was after this news had filtered down that Ivan had received his new orders. And here he was, removed from the front, turned from a man who knew his job to a man milling on a sidewalk, wet and hungry, wondering if he might yet get pounced upon by desperate locals.

  Königsberg was a grim place, made darker and gloomier by the incessant rain. High brick walls stood on both sides. The black streets ran deep with water that pooled in the drains. A shadow moved, and Ivan almost raised his rifle.

  But then Ivan saw the man was wearing the same uniform as he was. Ivan relaxed, and the man beckoned him to come forward.

  Ivan moved swiftly and bent his head as he approached. “Leutnant,” he said, recognizing a superior officer.

  “Come with me.”

  Together, they marched through the pouring dark. From memory Ivan knew he was bypassing Königsberg Castle. The walls were to his right, with the great spire up ahead. To his left the great river wound, and he wondered briefly what, tonight, might be the parameters of his special mission.

  There were trucks parked at the side of the road and dozens of other men dressed like he was. Dark and nondescript. They didn’t speak, nor did they move much as more men struggled down a set of steps to the right. The steps led right up to the castle. The men carried many boxes, all sealed shut, and shoved them into the back of one of the trucks. As he watched, Ivan saw many more boxes, rolled-up paintings, and other treasures removed from the castle.

  “You will never speak of this,” the man at his side whispered. “If you do, both you and whatever family you have will be killed.”

  Ivan frowned. He was a loyal soldier, always following orders. What right did this man have to threaten him?

  He opened his mouth to find out, but then one of the men carrying the treasures stumbled under the weight of a large crate and went flying down the steps. Crying out, he landed askew. The crate topple
d and fell, splitting apart. For a moment, Ivan stared, wondering if he should help.

  One of the officers came forward, grabbed the man’s forehead, and raised it up, baring his neck to the sky. Without warning, he cut the man’s throat and pushed him to the ground, letting him gurgle and cry into the gutter, blood mixing with pouring rain.

  “Now,” the lieutenant beside him said, “do you have something to say?”

  “No.”

  The lieutenant stopped all work and gathered everyone together, and there in the pouring rain, in the darkest of dark nights, surrounded by running water and muck and disease and death, he gave them a speech that finally made Ivan think he was about to be part of something tremendous, something noteworthy.

  Perhaps, if Ivan did everything they asked and shone like a star, he would receive great recognition for it.

  “This operation is sanctioned by the Generalfeldmarschall. We cannot fail. Failure will bring death not only to all of us but to our families. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Leutnant.”

  “Then go help. And men?”

  Everyone looked expectant.

  “Do not drop the crates. Do not look inside the crates. Be good soldiers and do as you are told.”

  Ivan nodded, taking the place of the murdered soldier, hefting the crate that had split. Some of its contents shifted inside, and from the corner of his eye, Ivan saw panels several inches thick and oblong, deeply colored, reflecting even the most meager light. Maybe gold. But Ivan had seen gold before and knew that these were different. Perhaps even more precious.

  So much wealth in that single crate. Enough to feed a family for years, an army for months. He found it hard to conceive of the man greedy enough to want it all to himself.

  And he went on to help carry eighteen crates.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Demons danced in the hearth.

  Dante Caruso gazed into the fireplace, wondering if it might be the reflected image of what roiled inside his head. The people he knew called him half-crazy. “Look, the mad Italian’s here,” they would say, laughing and joking, when he approached. To them, his rhetoric was a confused stream of words, barely intelligible. Still, they often bought the items he brought back from his travels—ancient artifacts, old statues, and pottery.

  The income from these sales barely kept his family clothed. Caruso knew, at some level, that he could do better for them. But his obsession was too strong. He was certain that the great prize waited for him over the horizon.

  Caruso nursed a pint of beer, drawing the glass close into his chest. Its amber glow, enhanced by the firelight, brought into sharp focus everything that had taken place during the last few days.

  It had finally happened. Years of failure and drudgery had paid off. He’d followed some obscure Second World War trail to look for an infamous treasure. And—he could scarcely believe it even now—he had found it.

  I found it. Yes, me!

  The words felt alien to his brain. Caruso wasn’t used to major success. Only once before could he remember a winning day—a day when he’d felt he’d beaten everything that life could throw at him—and that had been over eight years ago now. It was the day his son, Marco, had been born. Caruso had experienced clarity for a brief span of time as he’d realized a true treasure had come into existence, but obsession was insatiable, always chipping away at the corners of his mind.

  I am an explorer. A treasure hunter. I must . . . go on.

  Caruso lifted the glass and swallowed a mouthful of beer. The passion inside remained strong, but it was riddled with frustration. Angrily, he replayed the first conversation he’d had with his wife, Anna, on returning from his quest.

  “I have succeeded. Finally. It is everything I ever knew that I could find.”

  “You stink.” Anna had refused to come across their small kitchen to stand near him. “Always, it is the same. You vanish for entire weeks and then come back with some insane story. And you find a goblet. A knife. A broken shield. When will it end, Dante? When?”

  “I am not a good father?” he had asked. “A good husband?”

  Anna bowed her head and did not answer.

  Caruso took a moment to sit down at the kitchen table. “I am trying to provide in the only way I know how.”

  “Yes.” Anna came over to him then and took his head in her arms. “I know. But since the onset of . . . of your . . . memory loss . . .”

  “Do you want me to tell you what I found?” His question was muffled by her sleeve.

  Anna flicked her eyes around the room. “Why not show me? You usually do that.”

  Caruso frowned as the jumbled thoughts inside his head focused for a brief few minutes. This tended to happen whenever he thought about his beloved treasure-hunting adventures. “I found a cave full of treasures,” he said. “Each one beyond anything I have found before. Rows upon rows. But one—the one—could not be transported. It is too heavy.”

  He felt Anna become tense. “So . . . you have come home . . . with nothing?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Caruso couldn’t form the words. Reality hit him, and the brief moment of clarity faded.

  Anna pulled away, moving to the old, stained sink and leaning over it with her head in her hands. “We have nothing left,” she whispered.

  Caruso immediately wanted to reassure her that this latest find would set them up for life. But again, confusion riddled his brain, and he found that his tongue was tied.

  Finally, he rose.

  “I will begin now,” he said.

  Her head lifted slightly. “Begin?”

  “To put the word out. To describe my find to friends and colleagues. To customers. I will gather together a trusted group who will return with me to unearth the greatest find in history.”

  Anna’s shoulders began to shake as she cried. “They won’t believe you,” he heard her whisper. “They know about the dementia, and they just won’t believe you.”

  He walked out, determined to restore her faith in him.

  The barkeep brought him another glass of beer, requesting the money first. Caruso dug it out of a small, dirt-encrusted wallet, loath to spend the cash but knowing it would only take one influential, wealthy man realizing the magnitude of his discovery to change everything. The fire demons still berated him, muddying his thought process. He recalled that the great treasure couldn’t be moved by one man—but why hadn’t he picked up something smaller? Something to pay the bills or even an item that might prove his claims?

  Because that was who he was, and to be anything different would look wrong to the people of Siena, who he called friends and customers.

  Chaos was all he remembered—the chaos of the journey, the chaos of the discovery. The disease he had came with memory loss and lapses in both focus and concentration. The doctors told him he was in stage three, which, while not totally debilitating, remained incredibly challenging.

  It had taken a long time to return home from his last hunt along a necessary yet ingenious route. But he did recall a poignant moment—in his elation, all else had dwindled to nothing. The discovery of his life had stood right before him, endorsing him, saving him. Nothing else mattered now but bringing back a team—his team—to start the excavation.

  After walking out on Anna earlier, he had remained true to his word. The people he always bartered with were his first stop. He classed them as friends. Some truth hidden far back in the recesses of his mind told him they were swindlers and charlatans. That they ridiculed him behind his back, poked fun even to his face. He imagined that he came across as a desperate man.

  Not anymore.

  He’d found redemption.

  He spotted two of his best customers at the bar. When they had asked where he wanted them to go, Caruso had only nodded vaguely north. “That way.”

  “And you’re talking about the real Amber Room, the treasure crafted in the eighteenth century and looted by the Nazis in World War Two?”

  “It is considered the eighth wonde
r of the world,” Caruso added eagerly.

  He saw only stony disbelief in the eyes of the men he thought of as friends. One of them spoke. “We’re having trouble believing, that’s all, Dante. The Amber Room is one of the most notable lost treasures in history. Thousands have searched for it or attempted to document its travels, and thousands have failed. Experts from every race . . .” He took a breath. “How did you . . . ?”

  Caruso met their harsh stares. “I said I’d found it, didn’t I? My brain might be mushy, but I’m sure I said that. Didn’t I?”

  They drank their beer and laughed, as if thinking it a fine joke. “Yes, you did, but why won’t you reveal any more about your incredible discovery?” one asked. “Why?”

  It was incredibly clear to him, but perhaps they had already drunk too much. “Because,” he said. “Because . . . others will try to steal it.”

  “Ahh.” The second one grinned. “And tell me, Dante, are you requiring money up front for this venture?”

  Again, a ridiculous question. “Of course,” he said. “How else could we bring it home?”

  “And why should we believe you?”

  Caruso wasn’t sure how to reply. He was sure that they were mocking him, but his ability to focus was deteriorating as they continued to challenge him. To keep his thoughts clear, he tried to concentrate on the treasure. “It is damaged,” he said. “But it is still priceless.”

  “Damaged?” One turned his nose up. “Come on, Dante. We are your friends. Tell us more. Where is this treasure?”

  “Poland,” Caruso replied instantly. “No, in the mountains between . . .” And then he stopped himself, seeing clearly their smirking faces and hearing their mocking tones.

  Quickly, he walked away from his friends and tried not to listen as they sniggered. Who else could he try? He reached out again, to less reliable customers this time, but nobody would part with their money. By late morning, almost everyone he knew in this part of Siena had heard the tale. Some retold it slightly differently, deprecatingly. If he’d revealed any more details, then they must have been passed on too. He worried that the local unsavory characters may have heard, but what could they really do? Most treated him as a laughingstock. Caruso paused in the afternoon and wondered where the next few steps would lead him on life’s journey.