The Black Sun (30 page)

“It is a burden to last for life,” Paris said softly. “It is my burden.”

“No longer,” Vienna replied. “It is the unanimous decision of this group that it is time for another to carry the flame. Alone.”

Paris’s eyes widened in sudden realization.

At a signal from Vienna, Berlin reached into his pocket and drew out a small pad and a white pill. Walking around to Paris, he laid the pad on the table’s polished oak surface and then set the pill next to it, sliding a glass of water within easy reach. This done, he stepped back.

Paris looked down at the items in front of him. When he lifted his gaze to the men across

the

table,

there

were

tears

in

his

eyes.

the black sun 257

“This is wrong. All wrong.”

“You have served the cause well,” Vienna said gently. “Your time here is over.”

Fighting back the tears, Paris took out his pen and wrote on the pad. He then tore out the page, folded it in two, and handed it to Berlin, who walked it around to Vienna. Solemnly Vienna unfolded the note, read the contents, then touched the paper to a candle flame. The paper flared into life, then died almost as quickly.

Eleven pairs of eyes returned to focus on Paris. Shoulders shaking, he removed his ring and placed it on the table in front of him. Then he reached for the white pill, placed it on his tongue, and washed it down with a mouthful of water.

Two

minutes

later

he

was

dead.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

TUNNEL NIGHTCLUB, PETROGRAD ISLAND,

ST. PETERSBURG

January 10—1:13 a.m.

Their driver, Igor, confessed to being a schoolteacher by day. At night, however, he moonlighted as a
chastnik
, cruising through the city’s tattered streets offering unlicensed taxi rides to anyone who didn’t care about insurance, heating, or the windows going up all the way.

Licensed or not, he had not required any directions to the place where Archie had arranged to meet Viktor. Instead he had taken the opportunity to practice his English by complaining about the cold, the soccer results, and the corruption of local government officials as they had crossed the Neva to the Petrograd side.

From the outside, the Tunnel nightclub was an unprepossessing sight, a concrete shed set into a narrow, muddy plot between two cancerous apartment blocks. The entrance was patrolled by three hulking security guards in black berets and paramilitary uniforms, with a wolflike German shepherd in tow. The door, a solid piece of steel almost eight inches thick, had been wedged open with a decommissioned AK–47. Through the gap they could

see

a

steep

concrete

staircase

lit

by

red

emergency

lighting.

the black sun 259

“It’s an old nuclear bunker,” Archie explained as Tom and Dominique looked questioningly at the entrance. “Viktor owns it. Don’t worry, we’ll be looked after.”

The security guards checked their names against the guest list and waved them past a queue of miserable-looking people shivering in the cold.

A blast of warm air, stale with the smell of aftershave and alcohol, hit them as soon as they began to descend the rough stairs, the rhythmic thump-thumping of the music growing stronger with every step, like the muffled beat of a massive heart. At the bottom was another thick steel door, and as it swung open a wall of bass slapped them in the chest like a heavy wave, the noise pressing against their eyes and ears. Two more guards in paramilitary gear and long-out-of-fashion sunglasses, with batons and CS gas canisters dangling from their belts, waved them to an opening in the wall. A beautiful dark-haired woman wearing little more than her underwear took their money and their coats, then tapped the sign behind her with a varnished nail, chewing gum indifferently. It was printed in Russian, but underneath was a handwritten translation:

No guns or knives. Please to leave at entrance.

Pistols and knives of all shapes and sizes filled the metal basket below the sign. Each weapon had been labeled with a bright pink coatroom number.

“How well do you know this Viktor?” Tom asked Archie.

“We’ve done business for years. Big collector. Eclectic, though—Picassos and military memorabilia, mostly.”

“Yeah, well, nice place he’s got here,” he said sarcastically.

“I’d rather they made people leave the weapons out here than let them carry the damn things inside,” Archie retorted.

His voice was drowned out by a loud beeping. Someone had triggered the walkthrough metal detector positioned at the threshold. One of the guards approached the culprit,

260 james twining

who casually opened his jacket to reveal a shiny silver Magnum in his underarm holster. The guard turned uncertainly to the hostess, who looked the man up and down and then gave a nod. The man was ushered in, his gun untouched.

“So much for that theory,” Dominique said with a grin.

They stepped through the metal detector and entered the club. The bunker extended some fifty feet under a barreled roof that amplified the music and the shouted conversations around them into a deafening roar. At the far end was a cage with a DJ

installed at its center and two curvaceous women writhing around brass poles at either side.

Flashing lights and lasers illuminated the dance floor, where bodies writhed to the music’s dull pulse. A few nests of tables and chairs hugged the walls, but most people were loitering near the bar, their faces wreathed in a thick haze of cigarette smoke.

“I’ll get us a drink,” Tom shouted over the noise. He fought his way through the crowd, brushing up against a beautiful woman in a red dress, a huge ruby nestling in her bronzed cleavage. She smiled and seemed about to say something, when she was ushered away by her fearsome-looking escort. A prostitute, Tom assumed; there seemed to be a lot of them pouting invitingly at him as he made his way to the bar.

The bar consisted of two trestle tables staffed by three girls wearing tube tops and miniskirts of camouflage material. One table was stacked with shot glasses and bottles of Stolichnaya, the other with champagne flutes and bottles of Cristal. Payment was strictly in U.S. dollars only.

Tom ordered champagne, secured three glasses, and fought his way back to the others.

“Didn’t they have a beer or something?” Archie complained when he saw the bottle.

“It was this or vodka. I’ve just paid three hundred bucks, so you’d better enjoy it.”

“Three hundred!” Archie exclaimed. “Jesus, they might as well mug you on the way in.”

“That’s loose change to these people,” said Dominique.

Tom had to agree. The women were dripping with gold and expensive jewelery. Most wore

high

stilettos

and

tight

the black sun 261

fitting clothes that exposed their tanned, toned midriffs. They were almost all blond, some more improbably so than others.

The men wore suits, probably Italian, definitely designer; gold jewelery glinted on their fingers and wrists. Every so often, Tom caught sight of a gun handle tucked into a waistband or holster.

“Table, sir?” A waiter had appeared at his elbow and was pointing to a small table in the corner of the room.

“How much is it?” Archie eyed the man with suspicion. The waiter frowned, as if he had misheard the question.

“How much? Nothing. You are Viktor’s guests.”

“Oh, right.” Archie turned to Tom with a smile. “You see, I told you we’d be looked after.”

“What about that one?” Tom pointed to an empty table farther away from the stage.

“Oh, no”—the waiter looked momentarily panicked— “Viktor says that table. Please to sit.”

Tom shrugged. With a look of relief, the waiter showed them over and refreshed their ice bucket as they sat down.

Dominique took a sip from her glass. “So what now?” she asked.

“I

guess

we

wait,”

said

Archie.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

1:51 a.m.

Tom was getting restless. Thirty minutes had gone by, and there was still no sign of Viktor. Even the pole dancers in the cage, who had started out with seemingly limitless energy and the ability to bend their bodies into the most unlikely positions, appeared to be flagging.

He was about to ask one of the waiters where Viktor had got to when a man, no older than twenty, flanked by a blonde who looked even younger, approached their table and shouted something in Russian.

“What?” said Tom.

“He says this is his table,” the blonde translated in a thick accent.

“Like hell it is,” Archie countered. “He wants to sit here,” she insisted. “Well, that’s going to be difficult because, as you can see, we’re sitting here. But he’s welcome to try the floor.”

The girl translated and the man’s face broke into an unsmiling grin. He said something and the girl translated again.

“He says he’s happy to sit on floor, if he can rest his feet on your head.” Archie leaped to his feet and the man stepped back. In a

the black sun 263

flash a bodyguard jumped between them, his right hand already reaching inside his jacket, his left hand braced against Archie’s chest.

“Okay, okay . . .” Tom stood up with a conciliatory smile, his palms raised in defeat.

“Our mistake. Here—it’s all yours. Leave it, Archie.”

Muttering angrily, Archie followed Tom and Dominique to the other side of the room.

“It’s the fucking Wild West out here,” he complained, flicking his cigarette butt to the floor.

“You need to stay out of trouble,” Tom reminded him. “It’s not worth getting shot over a table.”

“Okay, okay,” Archie conceded, throwing an angry glance back at their former table. The man and his blond companion were laughing at something as the bodyguard busied himself by pouring champagne.

Tom took a sip of his drink and scanned the room, wishing this Viktor would show up soon. Tom hated waiting at the best of times, and right now the traveling, the cold, and the afternoon’s confrontation with Renwick were catching up with him. Two men near the entrance suddenly caught Tom’s eye. For a moment, he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why they stood out. Then it struck him: despite the heat, they were both still wearing their thick outdoor coats.

The crowd seemed to part in front of them as they strode to the table where the man and the blonde, closely monitored by their bodyguard, were clinking glasses. Then, without warning, they opened their coats and each swung an Uzi from under his arm in one fluid movement. Before any of the table’s occupants could react, they started firing in precise, controlled bursts at point-blank range.

At the first sound of gunfire, people dived to the floor screaming. Those nearest the door scrambled toward it, falling over each other in their desperate struggle to escape. The music stopped, the palpitation of the bass replaced by the mechanical thud of gunshots echoing off the ceiling like a succession of thunderclaps, the spent cartridges plinking off the floor as if someone had dropped a handful of change. 264 james twining

Incongruously, the strobe lights continued to flash, the killers’ movements intermittently registering on Tom’s retina as if caught in slow-motion replay.

His clip empty, one of the men drew a handgun and calmly fired a bullet into the temple of each of his victims’ heads. Satisfied with their handiwork, they retreated across the room, nonchalantly stepping over the people cowering there, and disappeared up the staircase.

As soon as they had gone, real panic set in. Women screamed hysterically, men began shouting. There was a stampede for the exit, shards of glass flying across the room as the bar was upended.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tom shouted above the noise, hauling Archie and Dominique to their feet, “before they realize they got the wrong people and come back.”

“You think—?” Disbelief and shock spread across Domi-nique’s face.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “I think that waiter was a bit too insistent we sit at that particular table. Three minutes earlier, we’d have been there instead of them.”

1:56 a.m.

People surged toward the stairs, only to be swept back into the club as flashing blue lights heralded the arrival of the police. Women screamed, men shouted, and guns clattered to the floor. Small white envelopes fizzed through the air as people tried to rid themselves of incriminating evidence, some bursting open midflight so that the white powder they contained danced through the still-pulsing disco lights and settled on the floor like a dusting of fresh snow.

“That way,” yelled Tom, pointing at a group of people who were heading through a door by the cage. “There must be another exit.”

They found themselves in a narrow corridor; a door on the left led to the men’s toilets and a door on the right to the women’s. At the end was a small janitor’s closet with mops, brooms, and industrial-sized bottles of detergent propped up against the concrete walls. Set into the far wall was a ladder formed of narrow iron hoops that led up to ground level. A chaotic, writhing stream of bodies was scrambling up the ladder’s rungs.

“Come on,” Tom shouted, fighting his way through to the base of the ladder and holding

people

off

so

that

Dominique

266 james twining

and Archie could climb up ahead of him, before clambering up himself. A woman’s shoe, presumably dropped by someone above, flashed past his face, and he felt the sickening crunch of someone’s fingers underfoot as he stepped on their hand. After about twenty feet, the ladder emerged through a submarine-type hatch onto a narrow strip of wasteland. People streamed up the ladder behind them, the women flinch-ing as the cold night air bit into their bare flesh. Tom slipped his jacket around Dominique’s shoulders.