The Black Sun (35 page)

He

was

really

going

to

do

this.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

DECEMBRIST’S SQUARE, ST. PETERSBURG

January 10—9:56 p.m.

Even on a cold January evening, the area around the base of the Bronze Horseman was thronged with tourists and locals taking pictures. Peter the Great and his rearing horse seemed frozen in the glare of the sodium lighting, a gleaming shadow thrown up into the clear night sky.

Tom was talking to Archie on the two-way radio, the microphone clipped to his collar, the clear plastic earpiece invisible against his skin. It felt slightly ridiculous, considering that they were only a few hundred feet apart, but Turnbull had insisted. Kristenko, already jittery, might be spooked completely if he thought that Tom had brought company.

“You feeling any better?” Archie asked.

“Yeah,” Tom lied. Although the painkillers and the vodka were helping, just buttoning up his coat had made his shoulder throb and his eyes screw up with pain.

“It’s brass monkeys out here, isn’t it.” Tom could hear Archie’s teeth chattering with the cold.

“Well, hopefully he’ll be here soon. Where is everyone?”

“I’m on the north side of the square. Turnbull and the others are over on the south side.”

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Tom glanced around and located him, then looked away.

“I see you. What about Viktor’s men?”

“Standing by, in case we need them. Which could be very soon—I’ve just spotted Kristenko.”

“Okay, let’s switch to the main frequency.” Tom pressed one of the preset buttons on the radio in his pocket. “Viktor, Dom—Kristenko’s on his way.”

“He’s just walking past the Admiralty,” Archie confirmed. “Should be coming round the corner soon.”

“Any sign of the painting?” Tom asked.

“He’s not carrying anything. He must have left it inside, like he said he would.”

“Turned into quite the operator, has old Kristenko,” Tom observed.

“Maybe I’ll offer him a job.” Viktor chuckled.

“Okay, you should see him any second now,” whispered Archie.

On cue, Kristenko turned the corner of the Admiralty and began to make his way cautiously across the square. Every few steps he threw a furtive glance over his shoulder.

“Christ, he couldn’t look more guilty if he tried,” Archie muttered, following behind. Catching sight of Tom, Kristenko gave a half wave, then snatched his arm back to his side as if he’d realized that he shouldn’t be drawing attention to himself. Tom gave a barely noticeable nod.

Under the rearing horse’s flashing hooves, the two men shook hands.

“Do you have my money?” Kristenko’s eyes were wide and scared.

“Show me the painting first,” Tom insisted.

Kristenko fumbled in his pocket and brought out the digital camera Tom had lent him. After rapidly scrolling through the images, Tom looked up with a nod.

“And my money?” said Kristenko eagerly.

Tom held out a frayed shoulder bag he’d borrowed from Viktor. Kristenko unzipped the top and peered inside. “I should count it,” he said uncertainly.

“It’s

all

there.”

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Kristenko’s face relaxed into an approximation of a grin. “Okay, okay. So now we make the exchange?”

“Where’s the painting?”

“Still inside. I’ll go back in and get it, then meet you back—”

With a shout, four men who had been taking pictures of each other suddenly ran toward Kristenko, guns materializing in their hands. Terrified, he raised his hands in immediate surrender, the bag tumbling to the ground and almost spilling open. But rather than grab him, the men ran straight past as if completely unaware of his presence. Instead, they piled into Archie, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there. With a squeal of tires, a white van swerved into the square and screeched to a halt alongside them.

“What the hell’s going on?” Tom screamed into the radio.

The side door of the van slid back and the four men bundled Archie inside, then jumped in after him. Before Tom could react, the van accelerated away, the side door slamming shut. The whole operation had lasted less than ten seconds. Tom turned to Kristenko. The curator stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the retreating van. Finally, with a despairing glance at Tom, he snatched the camera, turned on his heel, and walked briskly away, never once looking back, not even at the bag of money lying on the

ground.

10:34 p.m.

They looked well trained,” Dominique said, still breathless from having run the width of the square to reach him. “I agree,” said Tom. “Military, or some sort of police hostage rescue team.” “Maybe I can help,” Turnbull offered. “Use my connections here to make some inquiries.” “No, leave it to me,” Viktor said. “If it is the police, we’ve got some people on the inside. I’ll find out what’s going on. You two should concentrate on Kristenko.”

“You’re right,” Tom conceded. “We need someone to follow him. See where he’s going.” “Already done,” said Viktor. “One of my men will call us as soon as he gets to wherever he’s headed.”

“If he takes the painting back down to wherever he got it from, we’re right where we started—worse, even. We’ve got to get hold of it tonight, before he changes his mind.”

There was a crackle of static from Viktor’s radio. She turned it up and a disembodied Russian voice rose into the cold night air. “He’s arrived back at the museum and gone straight up to the Restoration Department.”

“How do you know that?” Turnbull asked.

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“Most people end up owing me a favor at some stage. Whether they know it or not.”

Tom’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and looked up in surprise. “It’s him—

Kristenko.” He answered the call with a confused look. “Yes?”

“What just happened down there?” Kristenko’s voice was

a strangled whisper. “I’ve no idea,” Tom said soothingly. “I thought . . . I thought for a moment they had come

for me.” “Don’t be stupid. How could they even know?” “This was a bad idea, a very bad idea,” Kristenko mut

tered. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking about fifty thousand dollars,” Tom reminded him gently. “You were thinking about paying Viktor off.”

“What’s the point, if I’m in prison?” “Don’t you want the money?” “Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know anymore.” “Fine. I’ll tell Viktor that you don’t want—” “No, no. But I’m not taking it outside.” “What?” “I’ll leave it for you. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll leave it for

you here in the museum. You can come in and get it your

self.” “That wasn’t the deal,” said Tom. “You said fifty thousand if I brought it to you, twenty

thousand if I found it. Well, I’ve found it. Twenty thousand will clear my debts. The rest, well, it’s not worth the risk. I’d rather take my chances. I won’t survive prison. I’d rather go to the director and tell him—”

“Okay, Boris, calm down. I’ll come and get it.” “Good.” Kristenko sighed with relief.

“I’ll leave it in the

Restoration Department. There’s a vault.” “What’s the combination?” “I’ll give you that when you give me the money.” Tom smiled. Kristenko was getting better at this game as

time went on. “Fine. I’ll call you when I’m in.” He punched the Off button and turned to Viktor.

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“Kristenko’s too scared to bring it out so I’ll have to go in.

Can you get me some tools and a floor plan?” “Done,” said Viktor. Tom turned to Turnbull. “How’s your Russian?” “Good enough.” “It’ll need to be.” “Why?” “Because you’re coming in with me.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

U.S. CONSULATE, FURSHTADSKAYA STREET,

ST. PETERSBURG

January 10—11:02 p.m.

Fuck off,” Archie snapped. The short, fat American who’d introduced himself as Cliff Cunningham just smiled. “You’ll have to do better than that, Blondi.”

“I’ve nothing to say. Not to you, or any other copper.”

Cunningham shook his head. “We’re FBI.”

“What, am I meant to be impressed?” Archie’s voice rang out clear and confident, but he had to admit he was confused. One moment he’d been trailing Kristenko, the next he was in the back of a van, surrounded by Yanks. What the hell did they want? Always sticking their bloody noses in where they weren’t wanted.

“We’ve got the big picture,” drawled the other Fed—Bailey, he’d said his name was.

“We just need the details.”

“Details of what?” snapped Archie.

“Let’s start with Lasche . . .”

Archie’s heart skipped a beat. “Lasche?”

“Don’t play dumb,” said Bailey. “We saw you go in there. We know that’s who you work for.” “Wolfgang Lasche?”

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“So you admit you know him,” Cunningham exclaimed triumphantly.

“ ’Course I know him. Everyone in the business knows him. What’s he got to do with anything?”

“Why kill all those people?” asked Bailey, suddenly angry. “What did they know that was so dangerous?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“We have proof that you were in the States, security footage from the airport—”

“So I went to Vegas—big deal. There was a poker thing on. Ask around. There’ll be plenty of witnesses.”

“And Lasche?” Bailey didn’t seem to be listening. “Why kill him? Covering your tracks again?”

“Lasche is dead?”

“Decapitated with a samurai sword,” Cunningham said, eyeing Archie coldly. “But I’d say he was lucky compared to what you did to the Lammers woman. The Austrian police just sent us the crime scene photos.”

“Lammers? Maria Lammers? She’s dead too?” Now Archie was totally lost. How could all these people be dead? “This is some sort of a joke, right?”

“Why did you steal it?” Bailey spoke up again, his voice calm and measured.

“Steal what?”

“The Enigma machine, of course.”

“Okay,” said Archie, deciding with this last, fanciful revelation that he’d heard quite enough, “if you’re going to charge me with something, do it. It doesn’t matter, anyway. My lawyer will have me out of here quicker than you can say extradition treaty.”

“Lawyer?” Cunningham gave a hollow laugh. “You think a lawyer’s going to help explain the twenty-six people you gassed to death in Idaho? You think a lawyer’s going to account for where the Enigma machine is? You think a law-yer’s going to stop us flying you back to the States in the diplomatic bag? You’re going nowhere, Blondi. Not till

you

tell

us

exactly

what

we

want

to

know.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

THE HERMITAGE, ST. PETERSBURG

January 10—11:27 p.m.

The queue snaked in front of them, the air thick with cigarette smoke—filterless Russian brands, mainly— and the humid vapor of restless breath. A few consulted their watches; others swapped blue jokes or chatted on their cell phones, final hurried conversations, half an eye on the gate as they waited for their shift to start. At eleven thirty exactly, the guards opened the doors.

Trying to blend in, Tom shuffled forward with the rest, ready to follow Turnbull’s cue if anyone spoke to them in Russian. For her part, Viktor had conjured up blue overalls and freshly laminated badges that identified them as working for the company employed to mop the marbled halls and dust the gilded galleries of the Hermitage each night. The atmosphere was jovial as the guards ushered everyone inside. Somebody made a comment and the line collapsed into fits of giggles, as did the guards. Tom joined in, wondering whether the red-faced youth manning the metal detector had been the butt of their humor.

The first guard gave Tom’s badge a cursory glance and waved him in. Turnbull followed.

Then

Tom

walked

through

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the metal detector. It remained silent. Turnbull stepped through after him, the alarm triggering noisily.

“Must be all the iron I’ve been pumping,” Turnbull joked in Russian to the guard who beckoned him over.

“From the size of you, I’d say it’s more like all the iron you’ve been eating,” quipped a voice from the crowd. Again, the other cleaners and guards broke into laughter.

“Raise your arms,” ordered the guard, a handheld metal detector at his side, the green LED display flickering. He was young, with blond hair shaved close to his head, and a nose that seemed slightly off center, as if it had been broken several times. Turnbull complied, and as the guard moved in with the detector, Tom noticed his thumb slide almost imperceptibly over the On/Off switch. The green LED faded.

“You’re clear,” said the guard, the LED flashing back on as soon as he had finished.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Turnbull whispered as they followed the other cleaners along a narrow corridor and down a flight of stairs into the basement.

“Viktor said she could get us in,” Tom reminded him, “but from here it’s down to us.”

The staircase gave onto a large room filled with mismatched chairs and crumbling sofas, the cushions riddled with cigarette burns. Tom and Turnbull took off their coats and hung them on one of the few coat hooks that hadn’t snapped off, pictures of topless women smiling down at them from where they’d been ripped out of old calendars and pinned to the walls. A few people had gathered around thermos flasks and were sharing out cups of coffee; others were changing their footwear from heavy boots to more comfortable shoes.

A man entered and, from the way he began calling out names, Tom guessed he was the shift manager. People came up to him in twos, took a piece of paper, disappeared into a small side room, and then reemerged wheeling a small cart bristling with brooms, mops, buckets, bin liners, and bottles of detergent and polish. Thus equipped, they made their way back upstairs via the elevator to wherever their piece of paper had directed them. 310 james twining