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about it. Her job description was to oversee all the educational and archaeological projects funded by the Polish branch of the Salen Institute in return for a salary and package that had enabled her to continue working in the Historical Museum. He had offered Magdalena the job after Edmund had told him that the trustees of the museum had been forced to let her go. But that didn’t stop him from suffering the odd pang of conscience or the feeling that he was using her. Jobs in the artistic and cultural fields were scarce in cash-strapped Poland and, for all Magdalena’s undoubted talent, if it hadn’t been for his offer, she would be unemployed. A fact they were both aware of. If Magdalena Janca had one fault, it was a tendency to work too hard. He would have been happier if she’d complained to him once in a while about the workload he sent her way.
    Adam took his director’s position at the Institute more seriously than anything he’d worked at before, but he sensed that Edmund, for all his friendliness, considered him an amateur and wouldn’t have tolerated his presence in the building if he hadn’t held the Institute cheque book. On the other hand, Magdalena Janca kept everyone at a distance. If she had personal feelings about anybody or anything, he had never seen evidence of them.
    Occasionally, after a bad day when they’d failed to save a significant piece of Polish art from export, or discovered an entire collection of unique artefacts had been stolen and replaced by fakes during the Communist era, he wondered what he was doing in Poland. He had arrived in Gdansk a year ago after shamefully milking his family connections to get himself appointed head of a three month fact-finding tour for the Salen Institute.
    The facts he’d found hadn’t been good. The staff of practically every Polish museum, gallery and institute he’d visited were well-trained and well-intentioned, but neither their training nor intentions could compensate for lack of funding; nor could they stem the tide of corruption that was sending works of art and historical treasures westwards at an alarming rate. His three months had stretched to twelve and, as he’d become acclimatised to the slower, more civilised, cafe-orientated pace of life in Gdansk, he suddenly realised he was in no hurry to return to the States.
    He stared down at his desk. There was only one envelope left, the special delivery Edmund had brought up. It was heavy and, when he slit it open, photographs tumbled out, along with two folded sheets of paper.
    Adam picked up one of the prints. A dark background and slight blurring at the edges suggested it had been taken with a flash. An old man held a copy of
Time
magazine above what looked like a stone coffin filled with tarnished gold.
    He reached for the papers. One was a testimonial, short and to the point.
     
     
    I LUDWIG KREFTA, AMBER AND SILVER- SMITH, HEREBY AUTHENTICATE THE RELIC IN THESE PHOTOGRAPHS AS THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY AMBER ENCASED BODY OF HELMUT VON MAU, KNOWN AS THE AMBER KNIGHT.
     
     
    There was an indecipherable signature scrawled beneath the text. The second paper was a letter.
     
     
    FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE SALEN INSTITUTE.
    THE AMBER KNIGHT IS IN OUR POSSESSION. WE ARE PREPARED TO ACCEPT BIDS FOR IT IN EXCESS OF FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS. ALL BIDS TO BE PLACED IN THE PERSONAL COLUMN OF THE NEW YORK TIMES ONE WEEK FROM TODAY. IF SUCCESSFUL YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED TOGETHER WITH INSTRUCTIONS FOR PAYMENT.
     
CHAPTER THREE
     
    Adam buzzed Edmund as he laid the photographs out on his desk. There was a view of the side of the stone coffin, the head, the foot, the lid – cracked across the middle – and two close-ups taken with the lid off, one featuring the old man holding a copy of
Time International
. Picking up a magnifying glass he scrutinised the magazine’s cover and date. Unless the photographs had been faked, the pictures had been taken last week. A corner of the magazine was curled against the