McAdams was already on his iPhone looking up a condensed piece of history. “Operation Barbarossa was the code name of the Soviet invasion by Hitler. Huge invasion . . . successful at first. And . . . eventually it was an utter failure.”

“As far as a war tactic, yes, it was a failure,” Merritt said. “And it was the turning point of the war. But the big picture doesn’t tell the whole story. St. Petersburg—Leningrad back then—was under siege for two and a half years. The Germans didn’t occupy the city because they didn’t want to feed the residents in times of shortage. So with the Finns, the Germans closed all the access roads in and out of the city, hoping to starve the population before they’d take over the land. But the city wasn’t impenetrable. German soldiers went in and looted. And some lucky individuals got out mostly through Lake Ladoga, which was how the Red Cross got its meager supplies into a starving population.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “So you’re telling me that Nazis crossed enemy lines to loot Russian art while the city was under siege?”

“To that statement I say to you that someone dismantled the original Amber Room before Catherine’s Palace was bombed to smithereens.”

Decker turned to McAdams. “Want to look up the Amber Room for me?”

“Already on it.”

Merritt said, “You don’t know about the Amber Room?”

“It rings a very faint bell,” Decker said. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was a room with a lot of amber in it.”

“The original room was covered in amber with twenty-four-carat gold mirrors and precious and semiprecious stone inserts,” McAdams said. “The repro is still in the Catherine Palace. I saw it. I remember it in detail because I’ve never seen anything like it before. There was an intimacy about it even though it was over the top. The history of how it came to exist eludes me at the moment. . . . Hold on, let’s see what I have. Okay, originally constructed in Prussia, but Friedrich Wilhelm I of Prussia gave it to Peter the Great in order to secure the Prussian-Russian alliance against Sweden.”

Merritt sniffed. “Even the repro is magnificent in its craftsmanship. One can only imagine what the original was like. It must have been unworldly remarkable.”

McAdams said, “What’s unworldly remarkable is that two major countries had to form a pact against Sweden.”

The art dealer managed to crack a smile. He said, “Everyone knows the room was dismantled by the Nazis. Twenty-seven crates were moved to East Berlin and then the crates went underground in Konigsberg, supposedly destroyed in a fire.”

“You have doubts?” Decker asked.

“I do. If for no other reason, it’s a romantic notion.”

McAdams was still pulling up information. “This article says that the original cartons may now be located in the bunker in Auerswalde near Chemnitz, Germany.”

“Perhaps the boxes will magically surface. You should go to St. Petersburg, Detective. See it for yourself.”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that within twenty-four hours.”

“It’s a fascinating city, specifically in its scope of grandeur.”

McAdams said, “The whole city is like Park Avenue on steroids.”

Decker said, “I was told that most of the great artworks of the Hermitage were stored in the basement of St. Isaac’s and remained there until the end of the war.”

“That’s true,” Merritt said. “Most of the great pieces survived, specifically the two Da Vinci masterpieces, but there was looting. The Hermitage did get its ounce of revenge, however.” He smiled. “Inside the museum, there are several out-of-the-way rooms entitled the Hidden Treasures. You have to look for the rooms to find them. They display marvelous works of impressionism and postimpressionism. So why aren’t the works with the Hermitage’s spectacular permanent collection?”

Decker thought a moment. “Stolen art?”

“The Russians would call it disputed art.”

“Depends whose ox is being gored.”

“You’re correct about that. It is clear that the paintings were looted from Germany. For fifty years, they sat in the basement of the Hermitage until the museum decided to do the audacious and display the pieces. Whenever the German government starts making waves about the ownership, the Russians come back with the Amber Room.

“There are quite a few people out there whose full-time occupation is recovering looted art. Most of the time, the art is hiding in plain sight. Look at the Gurlitt collection in Munich. Everyone around knew about Hildebrand Gurlitt for years, including the German government. But no one said a word. What is really needed is for violating countries to start fessing up.”

“That’s not going to happen,” McAdams said.

“I agree with you,” Merritt said. “The Vichy government looted thousands of pieces. Most of the paintings never made it back to their rightful owners. It’s rumored that billions of dollars of art is languishing in the basement of the Louvre. The museum can’t display it for obvious reasons. They won’t even admit they have it. And France was an Allied country. You’d think it would rush to do the proper thing. But where money is concerned, ethics fly out the window.”

“Politics and art,” McAdams said. “In the case of Soviet art, they’re one and the same.”

Decker nodded. “Does the name John Jeffrey Latham mean anything to you, Mr. Merritt?”

The dealer appeared to give the questions some thought. “No, I don’t think it does. Who is he?”

“How about Angeline Moreau?”

“Neither name is familiar. Who are they?”

“Could either one be a client?”

“Spell them for me, please?” When Decker complied, Merritt sat down at his computer and typed on the keyboard. “Not on my current list. What do they have to do with your case?”

“Supposedly, Latham was an expert on Soviet art,” McAdams said.

A long silence. “You used the past tense,” Merritt said.

“Our case has branched out from stolen Tiffany.” Decker gave him a brief and startling recap. “We know the theft isn’t big enough to warrant two bestial murders.”

“That’s . . .” His face was white. “Just horrible.”

“That’s why we need any help we can get.”

“I can’t help you at all. Nor do I think that I want to get involved.”

“A few more questions then we’re out of your hair,” Decker said. “Just give us some direction. What would be worth murdering over?”

“Murder is not my area of expertise, Detective.”

“But art is. What, in your opinion, what art is worth murdering over?”

“That question is obscene.”

“So is homicide. Help me out.”

Merritt sighed. “There are tens of thousands of priceless masterpieces out there.”

“I’ll narrow it down for you. What kind of Russian art work could lead to murder?”

“Oh dear . . .” He sighed. “Since we’ve been talking about Nazi looting . . . I suppose if you had the crates that contained the original Amber Room . . . well, it’s something that would be very near and dear to many a Russian heart.”

CHAPTER 21

AFTER NUMEROUS CALLS, neither Decker nor McAdams could find a connection between Angeline Moreau and any of the New York galleries. The same was true with John Jeffrey Latham. No disappointment because Decker didn’t expect anything, but it was a procedural step that had to be done. He and Rina spent Shabbat with the kids in Brooklyn, sleeping on a pull-out sofa, while McAdams luxuriated at his grandmother’s apartment on Park. The trio left the Big Apple on Sunday evening at nine, arriving in Greenbury a little before midnight. He and Harvard had switched off driving while Rina slept in the backseat.

The colleges were beacons of light in a little dark town. As Decker drove past the campuses, he heard the punctuation of drunken shouts as party-hard students wended their ways back to the dorms. A light flurry of snow was falling, enough to use the windshield wipers. As soon as Decker pulled up in front of Tyler’s house, Rina woke up and took a quick intake of air. “How long was I out?”