The Black Sun (29 page)

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it?”

“If he did, it’s because he had no idea who you were. That all you wanted to do was break it up.”

“You are so certain of that, aren’t you?” Renwick shook his head, suddenly angry. “So sure that he was in the dark?”

Tom’s heart jumped. “What do you mean?”

“Do not play games with me, Thomas.” Renwick gave a cruel laugh. “It does not suit you. You cannot deny that you have thought it, at least. Asked yourself the question.”

“Thought what?” Tom’s mouth was dry, his voice a whisper.

“How it was that, even though we were colleagues for twenty years, friends for longer, he never knew about me. How there must have been a chance, however slight, that he not only knew but helped me. Worked for me.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know—”

“You have no idea what I know,” Renwick said, cutting him off. “And even if you did, you would never believe it. Just as I know that you will fail to believe this . . .”

He pulled out his pocket watch and dangled it in front of Tom, the gold case winking as it caught the light. Tom recognized it instantly—a rare gold 1922 Patek Philippe chronometer. He even knew its case number: 409792. It was his father’s watch.

“Where did you get that?” Tom asked in a whisper. “You have no right—”

“Where do you think? He gave it to me. Do you not see, Thomas? We were partners. Right

until

the

end.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

PULKOVO 2 AIRPORT, ST. PETERSBURG

January 9—6:47 p.m.

Bailey was waiting under a red neon sign advertising a local strip club, politely fending off a succession of porters eager to scoop his bags into one of the waiting taxis. To his relief, a black shape glided to a halt outside, larger and cleaner than any of the vehicles around it. Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, Bailey stepped outside, the wind stinging his eyes. The trunk popped open as he drew close, and he lifted his bags in and then banged it shut before stepping to the passenger door and climbing inside.

“Man, it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out there!” The man extending a welcoming hand through the gap between the front seats was Laurel to the driver’s Hardy: tall and thin with neatly combed brown hair, while his colleague was stout with a circle of graying blond hair that hugged his shiny pate like a sweatband.

“Hey, sorry we’re late,” he continued. “I’m Bill Strange and this is Cliff Cunningham. Welcome to Russia.” “Traffic was a bitch,” said Cunningham, meeting Bailey’s eye in his mirror. “No problem.” Bailey shook Strange’s hand.

“Special Agent Byron Bailey. You guys Bureau or Agency?”

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“Bureau.” Strange smiled. “Carter figured you’d want to see a friendly face.”

“Carter was right,” Bailey said gratefully. Cody had been helpful enough, but he was happy to be back with his own people. “So, any sign of my guy yet?”

“Look familiar?” Strange handed a photo to Bailey.

“That’s him, yeah.” Bailey’s eyes flashed excitedly. “When did he come through?”

“An hour or so ago. Took the flight from Bonn, like you said. He’s just checked in at the Labirint.”

“That’s where Kirk’s staying too,” Cunningham added. “It’s a dump, but the owners never bother registering guest visas, which has its advantages if you don’t want to be found. Checked in with a young female. Separate rooms.”

“Looks like you made a smart call,” said Strange.

“I got lucky,” Bailey corrected him, although he said it with a smile. In a way Strange was right. Once they had lost track of Blondi it had been his idea to switch the focus to Kirk instead, in the hope that, wherever he turned up, Blondi wouldn’t be far behind. As soon as they realized that Kirk had booked a flight to St. Petersburg, it had been a simple matter of circulating a description of Blondi to all major European airports offering flights to Russia. Confirmation of Blondi’s booking had come through from an alert official at Bonn Airport, and Carter had immediately dispatched Bailey after him—albeit on a very tight leash. Not that Bailey was complaining. However tight the rein, it beat carrying Viggiano’s bags.

He settled back into the soft leather seat as Cunningham pulled out into the traffic and headed

for

the

city

center.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

HOTEL LABIRINT, ST. PETERSBURG

January 9—7:22 p.m.

The shower consisted of a yellowing curtain covered in small black spots of mold suspended from a sagging length of string over a chipped bath. The bath itself was surrounded by mismatched tiles and was slick with the dirt and grease of previous occupants. But the water was hot, and Tom soon forgot where he was as he stood under its powerful pulse, his mind flicking back to the Amber Room.

To Renwick.

To what he had said.

He was right, of course. At least, partly right. Since discovering what Renwick was really like, Tom had indeed questioned the nature of his father’s friendship with him, wondered whether he had suspected the truth. But he had never for a moment considered that his father had not merely known about Renwick but had somehow been directly involved in his murderously criminal activities. Tom would be the first one to admit that he hadn’t known his father as well as he would have liked, certainly as well as he should. But the little he did know had shown him to be honest almost to a fault, a man who never would have 252 james twining

harbored anything but the deepest contempt for Cassius and all he stood for. They were almost genetic opposites.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and got dressed. The phone rang but Tom ignored it, guessing that it was one of the local prostitutes tipped off by the receptionist whenever a single man checked in. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Archie’s head appeared. “Anyone home?”

“You made it!” Tom smiled with relief. “Any problems?”

“Long day,” said Archie, collapsing into a severe-looking armchair, yellow foam peeking through the jagged slash in its brown vinyl seat covering. “Where’s Dom?” He looked around as if half expecting her to jump out from behind the curtain.

“Getting changed. She’ll be down in ten.”

Archie stretched out his legs, visibly unwinding. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Nothing much . . .” Tom shrugged. “Took a stroll down Nevsky Prospekt; went for a look at the new Amber Room; bumped into Renwick.”

Archie nearly choked on his drink. “Cassius? He’s here?”

“Oh, he’s here all right. In fact, he’s been with us ever since London. Watching and waiting.”

“For what?”

“For us to do his legwork for him and locate the last Bellak painting.”

“So he knows?”

“He knows everything he managed to beat out of Raj.”

“What?”

Archie jumped up, concern etched into his face, but Tom held out a reassuring hand. “I tracked him down. Apparently they fished him out of the river last night. Shot twice but still alive. Just about.”

“Wait till I get my hands on that bastard.” Archie glowered. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“You’ll have to get past his newfound friends first. He’s got Hecht with him. Remember? The Kristall Blade guy Turnbull fingered as having murdered Weissman.”

the black sun 253

Archie slumped back into his chair and drained his glass. “So what did dear old Uncle Harry want exactly?”

Tom paused as if gathering his thoughts. For the moment, he preferred to keep what Renwick had said about his father to himself. Although he knew it was not in the spirit of openness and trust that he and Archie had tried so hard to bring to their new partnership, he needed time to digest Renwick’s insinuations before sharing them. Besides, it had nothing to do with the Gold Train or the Order.

“He wanted to find out what we know.”

“Meaning he’s no closer to finding the room than we are.”

“I’d say he’s further.” Tom smiled. “He still thinks the Bellak’s in a private collection somewhere.”

“Won’t take him long to figure out why we’re here, though, will it?”

“No,” Tom conceded. “So I hope you’ve got a plan.”

“Don’t worry. It’s sorted.”

Archie went to light a cigarette, but Tom warned him off. “Do you mind? I’ve got to sleep in here.”

“Oh,” said Archie, regretfully replacing the cigarette in its packet.

“So what exactly have you ‘sorted’? ”

“Well, it’s not exactly sorted yet. But it will be. There’s this client, or rather ex-client of mine. Of ours, really. This is his turf.”

“Which ex-client?” Tom asked skeptically.

Archie held his hands out, palms upturned. “Viktor, of course. Who else?”

“Viktor?” Tom arched his eyebrows. “Wasn’t that who you got me to steal those Fabergé eggs for last year? Only it turned out they were really for Cassius. I seem to remember that’s what nearly got us both killed.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not go digging up the past,” Archie said sheepishly. “That’s all ancient history, water under the bridge and all that. I’d never do that to you now. This time

it

really

is

Viktor.

And

no

one

is

going

to

get

killed.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, GERMANY

January 9—9 p.m.

There were twelve men in all. Each wore a gold ring engraved with a twelve-box grid, with a single diamond in one of the boxes. They had dispensed with names. It was safer that way. Nor were they given numbers, for that would have hinted at some hierarchy among them, some sense of numerical precedence that was at odds with their original conception as a brotherhood of equals. Instead, they were known by the names of cities. That way, at least, there could be no confusion.

“There is no cause for panic.” Paris, an elderly man sitting at the head of the table, raised his hand to calm the concerned babble that had followed the latest revelation.

“This means nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing?” Vienna, sitting opposite him, spluttered incredulously. “Did you not hear what I just told you? A crypt’s been found at Wewelsburg Castle. A secret crypt with twelve SS generals in it. Twelve! It’s all over the news. The caretaker went in and there the entrance was, all neatly dug out for him, right in the middle of the floor. A crypt we never even knew existed. It’s Kirk. He’s following the trail. If that’s not a cause for panic,

what

is?”

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A murmur of agreement bubbled up, the candles along the table flickering slightly in their agitated breath.

“He has been far cleverer than we gave him credit for, I’ll give you that. But we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that—”

“What if he found something down there?” Berlin interrupted. “How much closer do you want him to get before you start taking this seriously? What if he finds the Bellak?”

At this, Paris went a deathly white and the room around him exploded into argument as the other eleven tried to shout each other down.

“Brothers, brothers!” Vienna stood up, the room subsiding grudgingly into silence once more. “The time for talking has passed. I say it is time to act.”

“Hear, hear,” Krakow intoned.

“What are you suggesting?” asked Berlin.

“Two things. First, that we eliminate Tom Kirk without further delay. We lost him in Zurich, but I’ve just heard from one of our sources that he took a flight to St. Petersburg. If we can get a fix on him there, we must act.”

“I can take care of that,” said Berlin. “Just let me know where he is.”

“Second, that we move it.”

“Move it?” Paris spluttered. “Is that some sort of a joke?”

“The current location has served its purpose well. But dangerous times call for extreme measures. I say that we break the link. Eliminate all possibility that someone might stumble upon the painting and follow it back. Relocate it in a place where no one will ever find it. A place only we know.”

“But this is preposterous!” Paris pleaded. “We have a code—an oath we all swore to uphold. Our duty is to protect it but
never
to move it. To do so would risk alerting the whole world to its existence.”

“That code was for a different time,” Vienna insisted. “It is no longer appropriate. Just as your being the only person who knows its precise location is no longer appropriate. We need to adapt to survive.”

“This is madness,” said Paris.

“Is

it?

Or

is

it

madness

to

ignore

what

is

happening?

To

256 james twining

entrust ourselves to the whims of an old man? We must change before it is too late.”

“There’s only one person here who has consistently warned us against the danger that we are now facing, and that is Vienna,” Krakow urged. “He is the man to hold the secret and take whatever steps are necessary to protect it.”

“Only one man is ever to be entrusted with that secret,” Paris said firmly. “It is a burden that is to last the course of his natural life. Your predecessors decided that that man should be me, and it is not a duty that I am about to step away from.”

“Then I demand a ballot.” Berlin slammed his fist down on the table. “Either we vote for Paris and his ineffectual ways, or for Vienna and action.”

“This is not a democracy—” Paris began, but his protests were drowned out by the clamor in favor of Berlin’s plan.

“I am honored that you deem me worthy of consideration,” said Vienna, getting to his feet. “But the choice must be yours.”

The room echoed to the sound of chair legs screeching across flagstones as the table emptied. One by one, they lined up behind Vienna’s chair. Only three men hesitated, looking at Paris despairingly and then at the eight men on the other side of the table. Paris nodded slowly, and they reluctantly joined the others.