They had passed the first sign for Halberstadt when the truck started rebelling. It began with a sudden lurching, a downshift accompanied by a strained mechanical grind. Reuben had slowed the truck and manually shifter into a lower gear. After a few moments the truck gained speed and he returned to the highest gear again.

The transmission had other plans. Within half an hour the last gear was impossible and Reuben was forced to remain in a gear of the transmission's choice. Locked at this speed, the truck crawled into the night at forty miles an hour.

Lauren understood about half of Reuben's imprecations. She glanced at her watch. Just past midnight. She was tempted to taunt him again about not taking she had rented, but restrained herself when she saw the grim look on his face.

Rather than leave the truck stranded, unguarded, or wake the occupants of one of the small farms they passed, Rueben opted to drive the crippled truck to less than an hour from the Halberstadt limits. Here he found a wooded drive that ended at a burned out cottage.

In the moonlight Lauren could see the weeds overrunning the charred remains of the house. A couple cats slunk into the thicker shadows as the truck lights crossed the yard.

"You bring all your women here?"

"Don't be ridiculous." The engine stopped, headlights blinking out. "We can get another truck in town tomorrow. We'll stay here tonight."

Lauren sighed and settled into her corner. "How much father do we have to go?"

"We're about halfway."

She nodded. "You're going to Berlin."

"Not quite."

"Potsdam?"

"Does it matter?"

She stretched her legs out as much as possible. The credit card tucked into her sock was irritating. Its raised numbers were imbedded in the skin above her ankle. It had been Carlos' idea of a precaution when Rybak first started following them. There was a comfort in knowing Reuben had not completely disarmed her.

If she could get to a phone without his knowledge, she could call the authorities. No. Better to call Dr. Karen. He would be wondering where they were tomorrow morning. He and Paul would have a better chance of confiscating Carlos from Geil than the police. They could save a lot of needless international red tape.

And if the card was still functioning after being submerged for two hours? If she did get the call through? She was still lost with Reuben. Once he contacted Geil and discovered Carlos' escape it would be a new game.

She relinquished the lip she had bitten. She would find a way out of this. She glanced over to see Reuben studying her. He wore the same blank expression he had when she found him in Carlos' hotel room.

She looked back out the dark window, disillusioned.

The sun rose over the wet weedy yard, stretching shadows to the silent truck. The early sounds of the mossy pond beyond did not reach inside the truck cab.

Lauren awoke to a welcome warmth on her cheek. It spread to her eyelids and she finally squinted in the growing brightness. In the yard a squirrel's fuzzy form skirted the cobblestone path overgrown with tufts of scraggly grass.

She wiped the fogged door window. In the light she could see the cottage was merely a corner wall and collapsed roof. Stone and mounds of concrete rubble were strewn around the remains of a fireplace.

She pulled the jacket closer, mixed emotions chasing through her head. She decided not to separate them. The turn of circumstances brought a rush of natural and unacceptable responses. Some of these were enhanced when she caught herself thinking that the jacket smelled like Reuben.

She slowly sat up, dropping the jacket to the seat. If he had given her a chance to grab her own bag she would have been spared a bit of sentimental turmoil.

He was still sleeping, temple against the window. A small cloud had fogged on it. She held her breath and inched closer on the bench seat. With tentative fingers she lifted one side of his vest. The gun was gone. So was the holster.

She glanced up to find him still sleeping. She cautiously looked under the other side of the vest. Nothing.

She sat back. It had to be on him. She watched him sleep, then frowned at the thin trickle of blood at the back of his neck. She touched it to find it dry.

"What are you doing?"

Her eyes shot to his and she moved away. "I thought you may be dead."

"Wishful thinking."

She sat back. "You're bleeding."

Reuben straightened and put a hand to the spot she had touched. "It keeps cracking open." He rubbed the dried blood off.

"A souvenir from Rybak?"

"And company."

She wiggled her feet to restore circulation. He started the truck after several attempts and the wipers smeared the windshield

"We'll find something to eat in town."

Lauren wanted more than something to eat. A shower and a change of clothes. Two more hours of sleep.

And Carlos, the crates in the back of the truck and her passport, but not necessarily in that order. At the moment she had to settle for the brush in her purse.

It took another hour to reach Halberstadt and contact the rental agency. Reuben was enraged when he spike on the phone at the street corner. From the truck Lauren could not hear everything he said, but his facial contortions translated enough and German proved a good language for cursing. He had taken the keys and the gun with him, and the truck was half a dozen steps from the phone box, disadvantageous enough to keep her from trying to run. When he briefly looked away she glanced beneath his seat to locate her phone. She snatched it, only to find the battery dead. She sat up slowly as Reuben's attention turned back to her. A few more choice words and he abandoned the phone.

"No trucks to dispatch," he bit out at he got back behind the wheel. "It's the closet agency with trucks." He glared at the address he had written on an envelope. "If we take it to this place, the agency will pay for repairs.”

It took fifteen minutes to find the auto shop and another fifteen of calls to Kassel to verify what the rental agency had promised Reuben. The whole episode, coupled with a six hour wait, left him in an especially foul mood.

Before stopping for an early lunch, Reuben allowed Lauren to use the phone at a street corner. He dialed the number for her hotel in Göttingen and handed her the phone.

"Four more days," he told her. "Both rooms."

Lauren reserved her and Carlos' rooms for the additional days. She asked for any messages as Reuben instructed her, jotting down a few numbers on a small pad of paper. Reuben had her repeat the request and this time he listened to the messages. He nodded, hanging up the phone.

"Who are Karen and Paul?"

Lauren could see no alternative but to tell him the truth. The museum's policy manual had been vague on hostage situations. The guidelines were simply to eat when you could, sleep if you were able, and try to make any information you imparted add to your advantage. She had

actually been surprised the manual had even addressed the issue. She was not sure how to apply it to her predicament.

Reuben thought for a moment, scratching the day's growth of stubble at his chin. "You're not contacting Grant." He frowned at the number. "Where is he? Not in Germany."

She concluded Elden was far enough away to be sage from Reuben's schemes. "Norway. Listen, if I don't call Dr. Karen, he'll get suspicious. Carlos and I were to meet him in two hours."

He frowned, studying the messages. "You're to tell him the deal fell through. Waldheimer backed out at --”

"Waldheimer has already been paid."

"You call this Dr. Karen and tell him that anyway, but that's it. Nothing clever, Lauren," he said. "No leading hotel numbers, street names -- Nothing."

She snatched the paper and two coins. "Russian," she said through gritted teeth. Presently she could not think of a worse insult.

She did her best to convince Paul of the failed mine deal story when he answered the phone. Dr. Karen was seeing to details about their air transportation back to the museum. The Amber Room just was not something one could take through an airport and Germany presented problems Hungary had not. By his voice, Lauren could tell Paul was not going to swallow it.

"Are you in trouble? Lauren, where are you?"

The last thing she wanted was to drag more people into this. It would make control increasingly difficult for Reuben and Geil, which may lead to fatally disposing for the excess baggage.

"Carlos can fill you in on the details," she said, steadying her voice. Reuben was getting impatient. "We still plan to acquire the France item."

"I see." Paul sounded odd now. Too quiet. "We'll wait to hear from Dr. Sheldon. You're still in Göttingen?"

"No."

"Hang up," Reuben said lowly.

"Is Dr. Sheldon with you?"

Lauren tried to smile and said into the phone, "No."

"Now," Reuben growled.

"He'll call later. Good-bye, Paul." She hung up the phone as Reuben reached for it.

"Well?"

“He’s not entirely convinced,” she said levelly. “If Carlos doesn’t call and talk to him, Paul is going to make trouble. He’ll listen to Carlos.”

Reuben’s eyes narrowed warily. “How helpful you are suddenly.”

“You’ve won this round.” She sighed shakily. “Call Carlos. Please.”

He put the call through to Kassel and spoke briefly to Geil. When Carlos took the phone Reuben witnessed a change in Lauren’s face. It was more malleable now, a soft hopefulness replacing the contained resentment she had worn of late. When he hung up the phone without letting her talk to the curator, her annoyance snapped back.

“I wanted to talk to him.”

“Later.” He saw her hand ball into a fist. “You want to take that swing now?”

“Yes, but it’s a bit public.” She crossed her arms tightly.

“You can speak to him later, Lauren. He didn’t call the Duke yet.”

She clutched his arm. “Is he all right?”

Reuben could not deny the question. Her face was still hard, hostile, but the concern was clear in her eyes. “Yes,” he said gently. His hand covered hers that gripped his arm. “He’s fine. Worried about you, as you are about him, but he is fine.”

Lauren snatched her hand away. “For what it’s worth, do you promise I can talk to him later?”

“I promise.”

The phone calls had replaced Lauren’s hunger with other thoughts. Her appetite returned when she sat with Reuben in the Gaststätte fifteen minutes later. Most of the sausage she had eaten in the last few days had been with a bun or kraut so she was surprised to see the form Reuben ordered at the nearby cafe.

“It’s sweetened ginger sauce,” he explained when she viewed the plate dubiously. “You’ll like it.”

She sampled the keil basa, begrudgingly admitting it was good. He had given her five minutes in the ladies room while he sat at the bar close by, watching the door, and the quick break was enough to make her feel more presentable.

She also did some thinking along the line she had abandoned the night before. After all, honey caught more flies than vinegar.

She could not bring herself to do honey. Not quite. “It is good,” she admitted. “Different.”

“It’s not typically German. Polish, I believe.”

She found the beer especially bitter after the sweetness of the ginger sauce. “Rybak doesn’t seem to be hanging around.”

“You lost him, but he’ll make an appearance soon. He always does.”

She watched him eat for a moment, wishing she could remember more of Drew’s hints at ingratiating femininity. “Reuben,” she said slowly, “do you ever operate legally? No hostages, or Geil or -- “

“Now wait a minute,” he said abruptly, lowering his voice when two older men at the counter looked their way. “It’s not my habit to take hostages. I never have before. As for Geil, we’ve worked together two or three times. He has a punk attitude I despise. He’s a little too vicious.”

This alarmed her, but he interrupted before she could speak. “I haven’t had that problem with him myself, Lauren,” he said gravely. “He usually runs with the Hamburg and Berlin crowds. A harder group. Senseless. But he can follow orders, and his orders are not to harm Carlos Sheldon unless I tell him to.”

“Is that a comfort?” This honey business was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. Vinegar would be better.

“It should be.” He sighed. “I don’t know how else to say it, Lauren.”

For an unexplainable reason she wanted to ask a million questions. She also wanted to believe his answers. “What about Salzburg? Were you legal with Fredericks?”

He shrugged as the waitress brought more bread and curly boodles to their table and left. “As legal as your and Carlos. I offered him money for the amber, and he took it.”

Lauren could not fault the account. “What about after this is all over?” She refused to bite her lip.

He frowned. “You’re not talking about lunch.”

“Dammit, no, Reuben.” She took a deep breath. “After we deliver the mine crates and have possession of Gustalav’s. What then?”

“We all go home.”

“I mean you and Carlos go back to the States, or on to wherever you prefer, Geil goes back to wild Hamburg, and I deliver the amber to my client.”

She took a shaky drink of the beer. “I’d like to believe that.”

“You can. It’s true.” He sat back, considering her uneasiness. “Unless you know of another partial.”

She finished the glass. “Only the copal blanks in Vienna.” She shook her head when he waved to the waitress for a refill.

“Gudhoff.”

She nodded.

“This was my last resort, Lauren.” The desperation in his tone held her attention. “When I couldn’t deliver the acquisition from Fredericks, my client threatened to remove a few of my primary body parts. I’d rather not see that happen.” He paused, undecided. When he continued some of the defeat was absent. “You had Lewkowicz’s panels and were on your way to investigate another possible lea. Gustalav refused to negotiate with me. I’m not happy about this course, either.”

Lauren had watched his eyes as he spoke. Dark, deep, clear. Earnest. Unlike a liar. No the masked eyes she had seen on him at other times. “You’ve got the mine amber, Reuben,” she said quietly. “Leave us the Duke’s.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“Why not? You’ll satisfy the agreement with your client and --“

“That’s not the way it’s going to happen.” Reuben abruptly stood and put the four bills on the table. “Are you finished?”

Carlos’ second phone call to Gustalav went well, by Geil’s standards. After a long sleepless night and considerable mental agony Carlos knew there was only one course for him.

He spent the morning watching Geil flick cards on the table and burn the brown cigarettes while they waited for an open long distance line. He loathed that he had even entertained thoughts of refusing to cooperate with Tolchov’s plans. Yes, the chamber was priceless, and Tolchov might even spare them if he could not obtain the Duke’s panels, bit there were no guarantees.

Even with Gustalav’s amber Tolchov may decide to tie up all the loose ends with fatal consequences. Geil was thick-headed enough to comply with those messy details and even enjoy the chore.

Carlos came away from the second story window. The bright day seemed to laugh at his dire circumstances. He glanced at the wall clock.

He and Lauren were supposed to meet Bill Karen in ten minutes. He sighed. At least Bill and Paul were not waiting for the delivery. Tolchov had contacted Geil with orders for Carlos -- explicit directions for calling Dr. Karen.

Carlos took out the pipe. Geil glared at him. Carlos deliberately prolonged lighting it. The cards slapped the table harder.

Bill had been out. Paul took the message. In one swift statement he had detailed what Carlos already knew.

“Yes,” he had said. “Lauren is correct. There will be no mine deal, but I’m making arrangements for the France acquisition.”

Paul had been worried, Carlos recalled. Lauren had not told him much. Only that she was not in Göttingen and Carlos was not with her. Carlos could not console him with what he knew of the situation. Instead he gave instructions to have Agnes Breach make preparations for a large bank transaction.

“Agnes Breach? But procurement --”

“Agnes Breach,” Carlos had repeated as Geil watched closely. “She can conduct this matter with the necessary expediency.”

Paul had agreed. The highlight of Carlos’s earlier conversation with Tolchov had been Lauren’s brief hello into the phone. She had tried to say more, but Tolchov came back on the line. It was good to hear even her muted curses at the Russian.

Geil’s sharp tone jolted Carlos’ thoughts back to the small hotel room. “Try again.”

The curator focused on him leaning the chair to the wall. A precarious balance. He still had the speed to cross the room and knock the chair out from under Geil. The younger man would go down in a heap of legs, tattoos, bad breath, and cursing.

And come up with the gun and an attitude that Tolchov’s orders may not completely harness. Carlos reached for the phone. “Operateur. Chateau de Rappoltsweiler. Oui.”