The Black Sun (12 page)

“Why? I’m not ashamed,” Hennessy said defiantly, before turning back to face Viggiano. “Yeah, I was one of them. Why the hell not? It’s like I said before, they’re patriots.”

He

100 james twining

locked eyes with Bailey. “True Americans. Not a bunch of lazy, drug-dealing immigrants.”

“Oh, they’re patriots, all right,” Bailey snapped angrily, his pen digging into the notebook and blotting the paper with a rapidly growing ink spot. “They’re patriots who more or less executed a security guard up in Maryland.”

“I didn’t know anything about that,” Hennessy said sullenly.

“Where was this Blondi from?” Viggiano continued.

“Europe.”

“That’s two hundred and fifty million people,” Bailey observed drily.

“I’m telling you what I know,” Hennessy hissed. “It’s not my fault you don’t like it.”

“What did he want?” Viggiano again.

“He said that he wanted an Enigma machine. That he would pay us to get him one.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand. Half up front, half on delivery.”

“And you agreed?”

“Who wouldn’t? That sort of money was big news for us. Besides, it wasn’t the first time.”

“Now, Bill,” Walton cautioned.

“Blondi worked for someone else,” Hennessy continued, ignoring the warning. “We never knew who and, to be honest, we didn’t care. When he needed to get hold of some-thing, we’d get it for him. He never asked how we’d got it or where it had come from, and he always paid in full and on time.”

“Then what?” Viggiano pressed.

“He had all the plans and blueprints and everything. Three guys volunteered and they hit the museum. From what I hear, the whole thing went pretty smooth.”

“Apart from the guard they lynched.”

“I guess he got in the way.” Hennessy shrugged. “Besides, one more or one less . . . Who gives a shit?”

“One more or one less what?” Bailey was on his feet, his pen spinning to the floor. “Go on,

say

it.

One

more

or

one

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less nigger, is that what you mean?” He clenched his fists so hard the tips of his fingernails went white. “Say the word. I dare you.”

Hennessy smirked but seemingly had the good sense to say nothing.

“And then what happened?” Viggiano intervened again, laying a hand on Bailey’s trembling shoulder and pressing him back down into his chair. “After they got the machine?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about that for a second.”

“Talk about what?”

“Talk about how come he managed to get everyone else into that room apart from you. Did you know what he was planning? Is that why you weren’t there? Did you cut a deal to help lure them there? Did you help kill them?”

“Back off, Agent Viggiano.” Walton sprang to Hennessy’s defense, his long, bony finger wagging at him angrily. “There is no way that my client knew—”

“No,” Hennessy’s vehement denial interrupted him. “I was meant to be there, but there was a snowstorm that night and I couldn’t get through.” Viggiano glanced at Bailey, who confirmed this piece of information with a reluctant nod. Three inches of snow had fallen in town, so it would easily have been double that up in the mountains. “All I knew was that it was meant to be a straight swap. The cash for the machine. The first I heard about there being a problem was when you guys showed up saying that you were going to raid the place.”

“So you’re saying it’s just dumb luck you’re the only person who’s met him who’s still alive?” Bailey’s tone was disbelieving.

“Hey, I never said I met him.”

“But you said—”

“We never met. I only ever saw him twice, and each time I was on the other side of the compound. The boys were careful to keep me away from outsiders in case word got out that

I

was

the

group.”

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“You’re lying,” Bailey snapped.

“I’m not. These people were my friends. Some of them were just kids, for Chrissake. If I knew the son-of-a-bitch who’d done this, I’d tell you. I want you to find him.”

“And how do you suggest we do that if everyone who has met him is dead?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE CAPTAIN KIDD, WAPPING HIGH STREET, LONDON

January 6—4:42 p.m.

Tom gazed through the window, his finger tapping absentmindedly against the table’s pitted and cigarette-charred surface. Outside, the Thames slid past, slate gray and viscous from the cold.

“How are you feeling?” Archie sat down opposite him and handed him a pint of Guinness. Tom went to take a mouthful but pushed it away, untouched.

“That poor woman,” he said, shaking his head.

“I know,” Archie agreed. “Jesus, I can still see—”

“It was our fault, Archie. We should have broken it to her more gently. We should have known she might do something like that.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Archie reassured him. “We didn’t tell her anything she hadn’t guessed already from seeing that photo. We had no way of knowing she’d do that.”

“At least Turnbull dealt with the cops.”

Turnbull had told them both to leave him to handle the police, perhaps not wanting to field too many awkward questions about why he’d brought two ex-criminals to a murder victim’s house. To be honest, they’d been more than happy to accept his of-fer—anything to

escape

the

Met’s

suspicious

embrace.

104 james twining

“What do you make of him—Turnbull?”

Tom shrugged.

“Well, he clearly knows more than he’s telling us. No surprise there. Spooks love their secrets. But, given that he’s in their antiterrorist unit, it’s clearly these Kristall Blade people he’s really after. Renwick . . . that was just the bait to get us on board.”

“Do you buy his story?” Archie reached for his cigarettes and lit one.

“About Weissman?” Tom pushed the ashtray across the table as a signal to Archie to keep the smoke away from him. “I guess so. A lot of people had secrets to hide at the end of the war. About things they’d done. About things they’d seen or heard. Posing as a concentration camp survivor would have been one way to escape and start a new life.”

“Bit extreme, isn’t it?”

“Depends what or whom he was escaping from. I’d say it was even more extreme to have to live the rest of your life as a lie. To fabricate an entire family history to back up your story. And all the while concealing the truth in that little room.”

“And the tattoo?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s just a botched attempt to fake a concentration camp serial code. Maybe there’s more to it than that. Somebody obviously thinks it was worth having. Hopefully Lasche will be able to explain some of this.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” Archie said with a smile. “Hand me the uniform, will you?”

“What for?” asked Tom, reaching down and opening the bag at his side, hoping that no one would notice.

“I found something else in that room. Something I thought you’d want to keep Turnbull well away from.” Archie took the jacket from Tom and reached into the inside pocket. His hand emerged clutching a faded brown envelope, from which he removed a dogeared photograph. “Recognize this?”

He handed the photograph to Tom, who looked up, eyes wide with surprise.

“It’s

the

Bellak

from

Prague—the

synagogue.

How

.

.

.

?”

the black sun 105

“That’s not all,” Archie continued triumphantly. “There are two more.” He flicked the faded black-and-white photographs down on the table one on top of the other, as if he was dealing a hand of poker. “A castle somewhere . . . and look at this one—”

“It’s the portrait.” Tom breathed heavily, taking it from him. “The one my father was looking for. It must be.”

“No oil painting, was she?” Archie grinned at his own joke.

“Is anything written on the back of them?” Tom asked, turning over the photograph he was holding.

“No, I already looked. But there is this . . .” On the reverse side of the envelope someone had written a return name and address in cramped italic script, the black ink now a dark brown, the white paper yellowed and frail. “Kitzbühel, Austria.”

“Until we know exactly what Renwick wants with these paintings, let’s keep this to ourselves. It’s got nothing to do with Turnbull.”

“Too bloody right,” Archie agreed, then paused as if he had been on the point of saying something else and had thought better of it.

“What is it?” Tom inquired.

“It’s just that, the more we find out, the uglier this gets. We should leave the whole mess for Turnbull to sort out. Stay out of it.”

There was a long pause as Tom returned the items to the bag. Then he took his key ring from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“Looks like a chess piece,” Archie said with a shrug. “A rook. Made from ivory.”

“It was a gift from my father, a few weeks before he died. It’s one of the only things he ever gave me. I know it sounds strange, but I think of him every time my fingers rub against it in my pocket. It’s like it’s a tiny piece of him.” He looked up and locked eyes with Archie. “Whatever Renwick’s doing, it involves something my father was 106 james twining

working on. Something that mattered to him. Another small piece of him. So I’m not going to just stand by and watch Renwick steal it like he’s taken everything else from me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m already involved. I’ve always been involved.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HOTEL VIER JAHRESZEITEN KEMPINSKI, MUNICH,

January 7—3:07 p.m.

Harry Renwick walked into the hotel and up to the main reception desk. The concierge, steel-rimmed pince-nez teetering on his nose, looked up with tired eyes. Renwick noticed that the golden crossed keys he wore pinned to the lapel of his black suit coat had twisted around, suggesting he was approaching the end of a long shift.

“Guten Abend, mein herr.”

“
Guten Abend
. I am here for Herr Hecht.”

“Ah, yes.” He switched seamlessly to English. “I believe he is

expecting you, Herr . . . ?” “Smith.” “Smith, yes.” He gave a

distracted smile as he searched

through the entries on the screen in front of him. “He is in the Bellevue Suite on the seventh floor. You’ll find the lifts on the other side of the lounge. I’ll ring ahead and let Herr Hecht know you are here.”

“Thank you.” The concierge, his hand shaking a little from what

Renwick guessed was tiredness, reached for the phone as

108 james twining

Renwick turned on his heel and walked toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby.

Places like this disquieted him. Not because of any increased security risk; if anything, hotels offered a multiplicity of escape routes and the comfort of civilian cover. Rather, the hotel offended him aesthetically. It was, in his view, a Frankenstein creation, the bastard child of a monstrous marriage between an idealized vision of a British colonial club and the uncompromising functionality and ugliness of an airport executive lounge. Although the lobby was luxurious, it was in an impersonal, mass-market sort of way. The dark wooden paneling was laminate, millimeters thin. The carpet was bland and soulless and industrial. Reproduction antiques had been “casually” scattered. The mahogany-effect furniture was squat and square, lacking any delicacy or subtlety, the chairs upholstered with a coordinated palette of indifferent reds and golds and browns. Its very inoffensiveness offended him. Even the elevator music, it seemed, had been sanitized, with complex orchestral pieces reduced to a syrupy flute solo. A sign on the seventh floor pointed him toward the Bellevue Suite. Renwick knocked, and a few moments later Hecht opened the door. Renwick stared at him, unable to tell whether his toothy grimace was a genuine smile or a by-product of his scar. Hecht held out his right hand, but Renwick offered his left instead, still not able to bring himself to let others feel his prosthetic hand’s unnatural hardness. Hecht swapped sides with an apologetic nod.

The suite, although large, replicated most of the lobby’s failings. The ceiling was low and oppressive, the furniture thick and ungainly, the curtains and cushions and carpets all in varying shades of brown, the walls red. Hecht led Renwick through to the sitting room and waved him to a beige sofa, then sat down heavily on the one opposite. This time he smiled, Renwick was sure of it.

“Drink?”

Renwick shook his head. “Where is Dmitri?”

“He

is

here.”

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Renwick got to his feet and looked around him. The room was empty. “We agreed—no games, Johann.”

“Calm yourself, Cassius.”

The voice came from a speakerphone that Renwick had not noticed until now. It had been placed in the middle of the white marble-effect table between the sofas. The accent was a mixture of American vowels and clipped German consonants, no doubt the product of some expensive East Coast postgrad program.

“Dmitri?” he asked uncertainly.

“I apologize for the rather melodramatic circumstances. Please do not blame Colonel Hecht. He was adamant that we should meet in person, but unfortunately it is very difficult for me to travel unobserved.”

“What is this? How do I even know it is you?” Renwick, suspicious, had remained standing.

“We are partners now. You must trust me.”

“Trusting people do not live long in my business.”